Rabindranath Tagore

 
T H E TA G O R E O M N I B U S

Volume 1

CHOKHER BALI (A GRAIN OF SAND)

Translated by Sreejata Guha
GHARE BAIRE (HOME AND THE WORLD)
Translated by Sreejata Guha
CHATURANGA (QUARTET)
Translated by Kaiser Haq
YOGAYOG (NEXUS)
Translated by Hiten Bhaya
MALANCHA (THE GARDEN)
Translated by Malosree Sandel
 Contents

About the Contributors

Chokher Bali

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Ghare Baire

Bimala

Nikhilesh

Sandip

Bimala

Sandip

Nikhilesh

Bimala

Sandip

Nikhilesh

Bimala

Nikhilesh

Sandip
 Nikhilesh

Bimala

Nikhilesh

Bimala

Nikhilesh

Bimala

Chaturanga

Uncle

Sachish

Damini

Sribilash

Glossary

Yogayog

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Notes and Glossary

Malancha

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Glossary

Follow Penguin

Copyright
 About the Contributors

Sreejata Guha has an MA in Comparative Literature from State University

of NewYork at Stony Brook. Apart from Tagore, she has translated
Saradindu Bandyopadhyay’s Picture Imperfect and Band of
Soldiers,Taslima Nasrin’s French Lover, Saratchandra Chattopadhyay’s
Devdas and Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay’s Rajani for Penguin.

Kaiser Haq is a poet, translator and essayist who was educated at the
universities of Dhaka and Warwick. He has been a Commonwealth Scholar
in the UK and a Senior Fulbright Scholar and Vilas Fellow in the USA. He
is Professor of English at Dhaka University, where he has taught since
1975.

Hiten Bhaya, a former member of the Planning Commission, was also

Chairman, Hindustan Steel and Director, Indian Institute of Management.
Apart from Yogayog, he has translated Tagore’s writings on language and
linguistics into English.

Malosree Sandel completed her doctorate and has worked in a premier

college of Kolkata as a senior lecturer. She has translated Tagore for a
hospice in the USA and is currently based in Manchester.
CHOKHER BALI

 
(A G rain of Sand)
 1

BINODINI’S MOTHER, HARIMATI, CAME TO MAHENDRA’S

MOTHER, Rajlakshmi with an appeal. They were childhood friends from
the same village.
That same day, Rajlakshmi broached the topic with her son, Mahendra.
‘Mahin, we must do something for this poor girl. I’ ve heard she is very
beautiful and she’s even had lessons from a British woman—I’m sure she’ll
appeal to your modern tastes.’
Mahendra said, ‘Mother, there are plenty of other boys who have modern
tastes.’
‘Mahin, this is the problem with you: you always shy away from the
subject of marriage.’
‘Mother, we can talk about other things, can’t we? This unwillingness is
not really such a great flaw in my character.’
Mahendra had lost his father as a child. His relationship with his mother
was therefore rather unique. He was twenty-two; after completing his MA,
he was now studying medicine. Yet , not a day passed when he didn’t have
a playful tiff with his mother and then patched up ceremoniously.
Figuratively speaking, just as a kangaroo cub is most comfortable in its
mother’s pouch it was second nature for Mahendra to stay in his mother’s
sheltering shadow. He could not dream of eating, sleeping, or even lifting a
finger without his mother’s constant ministering.
When his mother began to bring up Binodini as part of every
conversation, he said, ‘Fine, I will go and see this girl.’
On the appointed day he grumbled, ‘What’s the point of seeing her! I
would only be marrying at your insistence; so it’s a waste of time trying to
figure out if I like her or not.’
 There was a trace of resentment in the words, but his mother was sure
that when he finally saw the girl at the time of the wedding, her son would
approve of her choice and his ruffled feathers would be smoothed.
Rajlakshmi began to prepare for the wedding with great enthusiasm. But
as the day drew nearer, Mahendra grew more and more restless. Eventually,
a few days before the wedding he blurted out, ‘No Mother, I cannot go
through with this.’
From the day he was born, Mahendra had been indulged by the gods and
men alike; hence his desires were uncontrolled. He was completely
incapable of respecting the desires of others. So, the fact that he was bound
by his mother’s request and his own promise to her made him very hostile
towards the whole proposition of marriage; he now refused point blank.
Behari was a very dear friend of Mahendra’s. He addressed Mahendra as
Dada and Rajlakshmi as Mother. The latter looked upon him as a mere
towboat trawling behind the ship that was Mahendra, a necessary
attachment for her son, and as such she felt quite kindly towards him. She
said to him, ‘Behari, you will have to marry her now; otherwise the
unfortunate girl—’
Behari folded his hands and said, ‘Mother, forgive me, but I cannot do
that. When Mahin da wastes a sweet because he doesn’t like the taste of it,
I’ve finished it off at your request often enough. But that’s not going to
work where a bride is concerned.’
Rajlakshmi thought, ‘Behari and marriage? He dotes on Mahin so much
that the thought of marriage probably never crosses his mind!’ This only
served to increase her compassionate regard for Behari.
Binodini’s father was not a wealthy man. But he had taken great pains to
get his only daughter educated and trained in domestic work by a British
missionary lady. It had not occurred to him that the girl was growing past
the marriageable age. After his death, his widow began to look for a match
desperately. They had no money and the girl was now in danger of
remaining a spinster.
Finally Rajlakshmi came to their aid and fixed Binodini’s marriage to the
son of someone she knew from her native village near Barasat. Soon after
her marriage, Binodini was widowed.
Mahendra laughed as he said, ‘Thank heavens I didn’t marry her. With a
widowed wife where would I be?’
Three years later, mother and son were having the following
conversation:
‘Son, people are talking, and I am the one they’re blaming.’
‘Why Mother, what harm have you done them?’
‘They say that I am not getting you married for fear that you’ll forget me
when your wife comes.’
Mahendra said, ‘Well, that fear is justified. If I were a mother I would
never dare get my son married. I would much rather take all the criticism
that people dish out without a murmur of protest.’
Rajlakshmi laughed. ‘Just listen to yourself.’
Mahendra said, ‘But it is a fact that when a wife comes in, she gets all of
the son’s sympathies. The mother who loved and nurtured him for so many
years suddenly grows distant. Even if you can take that, I cannot.’
Secretly thrilled, Rajlakshmi called out to her widowed sister-in-law,
Annapurna, who was passing by. ‘Just listen to my son, Mejo-bou. He
doesn’t want to marry for fear that his wife would oust me from his
affections. Have you ever heard such nonsense in your life?’
Annapurna said, ‘My son, that is going a little too far. There’s a time for
everything in life. This is the time for you to leave your mother’s lap and
build a life for yourself with your wife beside you. Such childish behaviour
at this age is unbecoming.’
These words did not please Rajlakshmi at all. The words she spoke in
response may have been forthright, but they certainly weren’t pleasant. She
said, ‘Mejo-bou, why does it distress you if my son loves his mother more
than most other sons? If you had a son you would know what it means to a
mother.’
Rajlakshmi felt that the empty womb was envious of the proud provider
of the male scion.
Annapurna said, ‘I said that only because you broached the subject of
Mahin’s marriage. Otherwise, what right do I have to speak?’
 Rajlakshmi said, ‘Why should it trouble you if my son refuses to bring
home a bride? Actually, if I have been able to bring up my son and care for
him all these years, I can carry on doing so for the rest of my life—I don’t
need anyone else.’
Annapurna shed some silent tears as she walked away. Mahendra felt
upset over this fallout; when he came back from his college he went straight
to his aunt’s room.
He knew that his aunt had only spoken out of affection for him. He was
also aware that his aunt had an orphaned niece and that the childless widow
would like to see her married to Mahendra so that she could have her close
at hand. Although Mahendra was opposed to marriage, he thought this little
wish of his aunt’s was a very natural one and he empathized with it.
When Mahendra walked into the room, the light was already failing.
Annapurna was resting her head on the bars of the window and staring out
despondently. Her lunch lay covered and untouched on a table.
Mahendra was given to tears easily. This vision of his aunt made his eyes
moist; he went closer and said, ‘Aunty.’
Annapurna tried to smile. ‘Mahin, come, sit.’
Mahendra said, ‘I am very hungry and I’d love to have some leftovers
from your lunch.’
Annapurna understood that he was trying to comfort her and checked her
tears with great difficulty. She ate her lunch and fed him at the same time.
Mahendra’s heart overflowed with pity and affection. At the end of his
meal, just to cheer up his aunt, he spoke on impulse, ‘Aunty, remember that
niece of yours you’d mentioned—won’t you show her to me?’ The minute
the words were out, he wished he hadn’t said them.
Annapurna laughed and said, ‘Are you thinking of marriage now?’
Mahendra spoke quickly, ‘No, no, not for me. I think I might get Behari
to agree. You must arrange for us to see her once.’
Annapurna said, ‘The poor girl, will fate be so kind to her? If only she is
lucky enough to have Behari for a husband.’
Mahendra turned to leave; at the door he bumped into his mother. ‘What
were you two discussing all this while?’ she asked.
 Mahendra said, ‘No discussion, I just came for a paan.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘But your paan is ready in my room.’
Mahendra went away without speaking. Rajlakshmi entered the room,
took one look at Annapurna’s tear-stained face and her imagination ran
wild. ‘Well, well, Mejo-bou, carrying tales to my son, were we?’ she hissed
as she turned and left without waiting for an answer.
 2

MAHENDRA HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN HIS PROMISE TO SEE

THE GIRL, BUT Annapurna hadn’t. She wrote to the girl’s relatives (on
her father’s side) in Shyambazar and arranged a date for her to be seen.
When Mahendra heard that a date was fixed he said, ‘Why did you rush
things so much, Aunty? I haven’t even spoken to Behari yet.’
Annapurna said, ‘But Mahin, now if you don’t go to see her, it won t look
good.’
Mahendra sent for Behari and explained everything. He said, ‘Let’s go
and see her at least; then if you don’t like her, no one will force you.’
Behari said, ‘I am not so sure of that. I won’t be able to reject a girl who
happens to be Aunty’s niece.’
Mahendra said, ‘Well, that settles it then.’
Behari said, ‘But this was a very rash thing to do, Mahin da.You cannot
go around putting loads on other people’s shoulders when you have kept
yours conveniently free. Now it will be very difficult for me to do anything
that’ll hurt Aunty.’
Mahendra looked a little shamefaced. Then he said somewhat irritatedly,
‘So what do you want to do now?’
Behari said, ‘Since you have raised her hopes in my name, I will marry
the girl—but all this show of going to see her is not necessary.’
To Behari, Annapurna was nothing less than divine. She sent for Behari
and said, ‘This is not right, son—you cannot get married without seeing her.
And promise me that you will say no if you do not like her.’
Behari had to agree.
On the appointed day Mahendra came back from college and said to
Rajlakshmi, ‘Mother, could I have that silk kurta and my Dhaka-cotton
dhoti?’
 Mother asked, ‘Why? Where are you going?’
Mahendra said, ‘Just give it now—I’ll explain later.’
Mahendra couldn’t resist dressing up a bit. Though he was going to see a
girl for someone else, the very occasion was cause enough for a youth to pat
his hair down and spray some essence.
The two friends set out for Shyambazar.
Anukulbabu was the girl’s paternal uncle. His three-storeyed house
surrounded by gardens, built with his own hard-earned money, towered
over the neighbourhood. When his indigent brother died, he had brought his
orphaned niece to stay with him. Her aunt, Annapurna, had offered to take
her in but although that would have relieved him of additional expenses, he
had refused for fear of compromising his reputation. In fact, he was so
fastidious about his status that he seldom ever sent the girl to meet her aunt.
Soon, it was time to look for a match for the girl. But where preparations
for the girl’s wedding were concerned, Anukulbabu was unable to keep up
his ostentatious ways. His intentions may have been grand, but the lack of
money prevented them from being executed. Whenever the question of
dowry came up, Anukulbabu said, ‘I have daughters of my own; how can I
pay for all this?’ Thus the days passed. It was at such a time that Mahendra
made his appearance with his friend, dressed to kill and reeking of essence.
It was early April; the sun was about to set. At one end of the first-floor
veranda, decorated with painted ceramic tiles, arrangements were made for
the two friends, with silver trays laden with fruits and sweets and icy liquids
that condensed into a latticework of glistening dew upon the silver glasses.
Mahendra and Behari sat down to partake of the offerings diffidently. Down
in the garden the gardener watered the plants. As the scent of wet earth
wafted on the cool April breeze, it also swayed and tugged at Mahendra’s
shawl. Through the doors and windows around them they could hear slight
murmurs, gentle sounds of laughter and the tinkling of bangles.
When they had finished eating, Anukulbabu glanced into the interior of
the house and called, ‘Chuni, please get us some paan here.’
A little later a door behind them opened hesitantly and a young girl,
shrouded in an invisible cloak of shyness, came and stood beside
Anukulbabu, holding a tray of paan in her hands.
Anukulbabu said, ‘Don’t be shy, my child. Keep the tray in front of
them.’
The girl bent low and placed the tray on the floor beside them with
shaking hands. The rays of the setting sun touched her blushing face.
Mahendra caught a quick glimpse of her tremulous expression. She made as
if to run away but Anukulbabu said, ‘Wait a minute, Chuni. Beharibabu,
this is my younger brother Apurva’s daughter. He is no more and I am all
she has in this world.’ He heaved a sigh.
Mahendra felt a bolt of pity strike through his heart. He glanced at the
orphan girl once more.
No one had mentioned her age clearly. Close relatives always said,
‘She’d be around twelve or thirteen,’ which meant that she was perhaps
closer to fourteen or fifteen. But her blossoming youth seemed caught up in
a faltering timidity, perhaps because she was aware of her obligations as a
dependent.
Mahendra’s heart overflowed with sympathy as he asked, ‘What is your
name?’
Anukulbabu gave her encouragement, ‘Tell him, child, tell him your
name.’
The girl answered in her habitually obedient manner, ‘My name is
Ashalata.’
Asha! Mahendra felt the very name was poignant and the voice very
mellow. Asha, the orphan! Asha, the hopeful!
The two friends came out on the streets, let the carriage go and started
walking. Mahendra said, ‘Behari, don’t let go of this girl.’
Behari avoided a direct answer and said, ‘The girl reminded me of her
aunt; perhaps she’d be just as charming and good-natured.’
Mahendra said, ‘So, perhaps now the load I placed on your shoulders
doesn’t seem quite so heavy?’
Behari said, ‘No, it seems bearable.’
Mahendra said, ‘But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Let me
relieve you of your burden—what do you say?’
 Behari cast a solemn glance at Mahendra and said, ‘Mahin da, are you
serious? There’s still time. If you marry her, Aunty will be the happiest. She
would then have the girl close to her all the time.’
Mahendra said, ‘Are you mad? If that were possible, it would have
happened long ago.’
Behari didn’t raise any further objections and went his way. Mahendra
took a long-winded route home and walked back slowly. Rajlakshmi was
busy frying puris and Annapurna had not yet returned from her niece’s.
Mahendra went up to the terrace all by himself and lay down on a mat.
The half moon was casting its own silent, unique spells upon the concrete
skyscape of Kolkata. When Rajlakshmi came to call him for dinner,
Mahendra replied lazily, ‘I don’t feel like getting up.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Let me send it up here then?’
Mahendra said, ‘I don’t want dinner tonight. I have already eaten.’
Rajlakshmi asked, ‘Where did you eat?’
Mahendra said, ‘That’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.’
Rajlakshmi was miffed at her son’s inexplicable behaviour and made as if
to leave. But Mahendra composed himself in a minute and spoke out
repentantly, ‘Mother, please send my meal up here.’
Mother answered, ‘What’s the point if you are not hungry?’
A small emotional scene ensued between mother and son following
which Mahendra had to sit down to eat again.
 3

THAT NIGHT MAHENDRA DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. EARLY THE

NEXT MORNING he landed up at Behari’s house and said, ‘Behari, I gave
it a lot of thought and finally came to the conclusion that Aunty wishes me
to marry her niece.’
Behari said, ‘She has made that wish known to you many times in many
ways—there was no need to give it fresh thought.’
Mahendra said, ‘Yes , well, that’s why I feel that if I don’t marry Asha
she will be a little hurt.’
Behari said, ‘It’s possible.’
Mahendra said, ‘I feel that would be very wrong of me.’
Behari spoke up with a trace of unnatural enthusiasm, ‘Great news, that
is wonderful—if you say yes, there’s nothing more to be said. It would have
been even better if you had woken up to your duty yesterday.’
Mahendra said, ‘Well, better late than never.’
The moment Mahendra let the thought of marriage take hold of his mind
it was difficult for him to show even the slightest patience. He felt that the
deed should be done without any further ado.
He went to Rajlakshmi and said, ‘Mother, I am agreeable to your wish—
I’m ready for marriage.’
Rajlakshmi said to herself, ‘Now I know why Mejo-bou rushed off to see
her niece the other day and why Mahendra dressed up and left too.’
She felt angry at the entire universe; in spite of her repeated requests, it
was Annapurna’s plan that had succeeded! She said, ‘Let me look for a
good match for you.’
Mahendra said, ‘Oh, that has been arranged.’ He told Rajlakshmi about
Asha.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Let me tell you, child, that girl will not do.’
 Mahendra controlled his feelings and spoke mildly, ‘Why Mother, isn’t
she a nice girl?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘She has no one to call her own. If I bring her in, I will
have no relatives and family to look to from her side.’
Mahendra said, ‘I wouldn’t mind that, but Mother, I rather liked the girl.’
Rajlakshmi’s heart grew harder at the sight of her son’s persistence. She
went to Annapurna and said, ‘You want to get that orphaned, unlucky girl
married to my only son so that you can control him, don’t you? What
audacity, what treachery!’
Annapurna wailed, ‘There’s no talk of Mahin marrying her; I do not
know what he has felt prompted to tell you.’
Rajlakshmi didn’t believe her one bit. Annapurna sent for Behari and
implored him with tears in her eyes, ‘Wasn’t everything arranged with you?
Why did you turn it all around? You will have to give your consent once
again. If you don’t help me, I will be greatly embarrassed. The girl is very
nice, she won’t be unworthy of you.’
Behari said, ‘Aunty, you don’t have to tell me that. Since she is your
niece, there is no question of my disapproval. But Mahin da . . .’
Annapurna said, ‘No, my child, there is no way she can marry Mahin. Let
me be very honest with you—I’ll be happiest if she marries you. I wouldn’t
consent to a match between her and Mahin.’
Behari said, ‘Aunty, if you don’t give your consent, the matter is settled.’
He went to Rajlakshmi and said, ‘Mother, Aunty’s niece’s wedding is fixed
with me. There are no women in my family and so I had to be shameless
enough to come and give you the news myself.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Really, Behari? This makes me very happy. She is a
very good girl. Don’t let her go.’
Behari said, ‘Why would I? Mahin da himself went and fixed this match
for me.’
All this got Mahendra well and truly worked up. He was so upset with his
mother and aunt that he left home and took up a room in a students’ hostel.
Rajlakshmi went to Annapurna in tears. ‘Mejo-bou, it looks like my son is
about to leave the house in misery. Please do something.’
 Annapurna said, ‘Didi, please be patient; his anger will evaporate in a
few days.’
Rajlakshmi said, You don’t know him. He can go to any extent if he
doesn’t get what he wants. You must do whatever you can and get him
married to your niece.’
Annapurna said, ‘Didi, how can I do that? I have given my word to
Behari.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘That word can be taken back.’ She sent for Behari and
said, ‘Son, I will find you a better match—you’ll have to let this girl go.
She isn’t worthy of you.’
Behari said, ‘No, Mother, that’s not possible. It is all fixed.’
So Rajlakshmi went to Annapurna again and said, ‘I beg of you,
Mejobou, please help me. If you tell Behari, he’ll do it.’
Annapurna said to Behari, ‘Son, I hate to say this to you and I don’t
know how to say it. I would have been happiest if Asha were to marry you.
But you know all that is happening—’
Behari said, ‘I understand, Aunty. I will do as you say. But never, ever
again will you request me to marry anyone.’
Behari left. Annapurna’s eyes filled with tears. But she brushed them
away for fear of bringing ill luck on Mahendra. She told herself again and
again that whatever happened was for the best.
Thus the day of the wedding drew close, even as a silent, cruel battle of
emotions raged between Rajlakshmi, Annapurna and Mahendra.The lights
came on, the music played loudly and there was feasting and merry-making
all around.
Asha stepped into her new home, decked in bridal finery, swathed in
fetching shyness. Her gentle, trembling heart did not envision even a single
thorn lining the fabric of her cosy haven. On the contrary, she was filled
with joy that she was coming home to her aunt Annapurna, the closest thing
to a mother that she had ever known.
After the wedding, Rajlakshmi called Mahendra and said, ‘I think Bouma
should go and stay with her uncle for a while now.’
Mahendra asked, ‘Why, Mother?’
 Rajlakshmi said, ‘Your exams are coming up and you may not be able to
concentrate.’
Mahendra said, ‘I am not a child. I know how to look after myself.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘May be. But it’s only a matter of another year.’
Mahendra said, ‘If she had her parents, I wouldn’t mind sending her to
them. But I refuse to send her away to her uncle’s house.’
Rajlakshmi muttered to herself, ‘My, my, we are devoted, aren’t we?
Mother-in-law has no say in the matter! Married for a day and already tied
to her apron strings. In our days when our husbands married us, such
shameless fawning was unheard of.’
Mahendra said confidently, ‘Don’t worry, Mother! My exams will be
fine.’
 4

RAJLAKSHMI BEGAN TO TEACH HER NEW DAUGHTER-IN-LAW

THE household duties with untold enthusiasm. Asha’s days were spent in
the store-room, kitchen and puja room. At night Rajlakshmi took her in to
sleep in her own room, so that the young girl wouldn’t miss her relatives
too much.
After much deliberation Annapurna decided to keep her distance from
her niece.
Mahendra’s state was like that of the greedy child who watches the adult
chewing the sugarcane stick dry, unable to do a thing about it. He could
barely tolerate the vision of his newly wedded young wife being crushed
under the wheels of household duties.
He went to Annapurna and said, ‘Aunty, I cannot stand the way mother is
working the new bride half to death.’
Annapurna knew that Rajlakshmi was overdoing things. But she said,
‘Why Mahin, it’s a good thing to teach the bride some household chores.
It’s better than her reading novels, sewing or sitting around doing nothing
like these modern girls.’
Mahendra got worked up and said, ‘A modern girl will be a modern girl,
be it good or bad. If my wife can read a novel and appreciate it like me, I
don’t see what’s wrong with it.’
Rajlakshmi heard her son in Annapurna’s room, dropped whatever she
was doing and rushed in. She asked sharply, ‘What are you two
discussing?’
Excited beyond words, Mahendra replied, ‘Nothing, Mother, I just can’t
stand by and watch my wife working like a slave.’
Rajlakshmi controlled the burning spikes that jabbed within and
answered in her most acerbic voice, ‘And what, pray, should her ladyship
do?’
Mahendra said, ‘I will teach her to read.’
Rajlakshmi left the room without a word and a moment later she
returned, pulling Asha by the hand. ‘Here, take your bride and teach her to
read.’
She then turned to Annapurna and bowed in mock obeisance, ‘Forgive
me, Mejo-bou, I didn’t realize the true worth of your niece. I have stained
her soft hands with turmeric in the kitchen; now you can wash them out
carefully and hand her over to Mahin—she can put her feet up and study. I
am always there to do the slave-work.’ Rajlakshmi stomped into her room,
slammed the door shut and bolted it noisily. Annapurna sank to the floor
under the weight of her misery. Asha failed to get the full implications of
this unexpected family spat; but she turned pale with shame, fear and
wretchedness. Mahendra felt very angry as he thought to himself, ‘Enough
is enough. I must take my wife’s life in my own hands, or it won’t be right.’
These newly emerged feelings of duty fanned the flames of desire like a
friendly breeze which bore away his college-work, exams, friends, social
sense and all else. Mahendra was fired by the enthusiasm to teach his wife
and he went into his room and shut the door, paying no heed to work or
people.
A piqued Rajlakshmi thought, ‘If Mahendra and his bride come and bang
on my door, I will not answer. Let me see how he manages without his
mother.’
Days passed and no repentant footfall sounded by the door.
Rajlakshmi decided that if he came to beg forgiveness, she’d forgive him,
or he would be too hurt. But there were no entreaties for mercy.
Then Rajlakshmi decided to go to Mahendra’s room and say that she had
forgiven him. Just because the son was upset, the mother didn’t have to be
the same way.
Mahendra had a small room all to himself on the second-floor terrace,
where he studied and slept. All these days Rajlakshmi had totally neglected
cleaning his room, making the bed, putting his clothes away. Her heart was
in turmoil since she had not performed her usual motherly duties. One
afternoon she decided to go upstairs and tidy up his room while he was
away in college; the minute he walked in, he’d know his mother had been
there.
Rajlakshmi mounted the stairs. The door to Mahendra’s room lay open
and when she stood before it, she felt shock ripple through her. Mahendra
was lying on the mattress on the floor, sleeping, and Asha sat with her back
to the door, caressing his feet. Rajlakshmi was revolted at this blatant
display of conjugal affections in broad daylight, with the door ajar. She
went downstairs silently.
 5

WHEN LONG-FAMISHED MUSTARD CROPS RECEIVE A SUDDEN

BURST OF rain, they make up for lost time and flourish in leaps and
bounds, laying spontaneous claims to the earth around them. That is how it
was with Asha. She had never truly felt that she belonged in the household
to which she was related by blood. But after she came into this unfamiliar
house, suddenly an intimate relationship, involving total trust, was hers for
the asking; when her husband crowned the hitherto neglected orphan with
his own hands, she didn’t hesitate to rise to the occasion and take what was
offered. She brushed aside the hesitant shyness of the new bride and took
her rightful place at her husband’s feet with artless pride and joy.
That afternoon, when Rajlakshmi spotted this newly arrived stranger-girl
occupying her pride of place with such unconscious, easy grace, she came
downstairs fuming and fretting indignantly. Since she was burning up with
wrath, she went to singe Annapurna too. She said, ‘Mejo-bou, just go and
have a look at the royal heritage, the kind of thing your ladyship has learnt
in her family. If only the elder men of this house were alive—’
Annapurna moaned in agonized distress, ‘Didi, she is your daughter-in-
law and you must scold her and teach her as you please. Why drag me into
it?’
Like a strung bow, Rajlakshmi shrilled, ‘My daughter-in-law? As long as
you are ministering to her, would she even heed me?’
Annapurna went up to the couple’s room, making a lot of noise, startling
the pair of them. She looked at Asha. ‘Is this how you are going to
humiliate me, you stupid girl? Have you no shame, no sense of time or day,
that you are resting here while your mother-in-law works herself to the
bone? Serves me right for bringing you into this house!’ The tears fell from
her eyes as she spoke. Asha stood shocked in a corner, picking at her sari,
tears streaming down her face.
Mahendra said, ‘Aunty, why do you scold her? I am the one who holds
her back.’
Annapurna said, ‘And is that a good thing you’re doing? She is young, an
orphan, she has never been trained by her mother in the ways of this world.
What are you teaching her?’
Mahendra said, ‘Look, I have bought a slate, books and pen-and-paper
for her. I am going to teach her to read, even if the world points fingers at
me or all of you get angry.’
Annapurna said, ‘But do you have to teach her all day long? An hour or
so in the evenings would be quite enough.’
Mahendra said, ‘It’s not so simple, Aunty. Education is time consuming.’
Irked, Annapurna left the room. Asha took slow and hesitant footsteps to
follow her. But Mahendra blocked her way, not heeding the pleading in her
sad, lustrous eyes. He said, ‘Wait , we have to make up for the time I lost
sleeping.’
There may be earnest fools who might presume that Mahendra had
indeed slept and wasted precious study-time; it is solely for their
information that one needs to mention that Mahendra’s educational methods
would not be endorsed by any school inspector.
Asha trusted her husband. She truly believed that learning did not come
easily to her and yet she must pursue it as a duty to her husband. For this
precise reason, she did her best to collect her thoughts which ran helter-
skelter.
She sat on a corner of the mattress on the floor, pored over her books
fervently and began to learn them by rote, swaying to the rhythm. At the
other end of the bedroom, her teacher sat at a small table with his medical
books open. Every once in a while he cast an oblique glance at his student,
apparently to measure her concentration. Suddenly, at some point, he would
slam his books shut and call Asha by her pet name, ‘Chuni!’ Startled, Asha
would look up. Mahendra would say, ‘Bring the book to me—let me see
what you are reading.’
 Asha was scared she’d be tested. There was little chance of her passing
the test. Her unruly mind was seldom equal to the task of acquiring
knowledge from the book of alphabets. The more she tried to learn about
the bumblebee, the more the letters swam before her eyes like a pile of
mustard seeds. At her teacher’s command Asha would guiltily bring the
book and stand beside Mahendra’s desk. One of his arms would snake
round her waist and imprison her to his side firmly; he would hold the book
in the other hand and ask, ‘How much have you read today?’
Asha would point to the lines she had read.
Mahendra would sound forlorn. ‘Ooh, that much? Want to see how much
I have read?’ He would point to the chapter heading in his medical text.
Asha would widen her eyes. ‘So what were you doing all this while?’
Mahendra would caress her chin and say, ‘I was lost in somebody s
thoughts—a heartless person who was in turn lost in the life and times of
the bumblebee.’ Asha could have responded to this unfair accusation. But
alas, modesty compelled her to accept this iniquitous defeat in the battle of
love.
This will be proof enough that Mahendra’s little school did not follow
any private or public schooling methods.
If on a certain day Asha tried to concentrate on her books while
Mahendra was away, he’d sneak up from behind her and cover her eyes.
Then he’d snatch away her books and say, ‘You are so cruel, you don’t
think of me when I am gone?’
Asha would say, ‘Do you want me to remain illiterate?’
Mahendra would reply, ‘Well, thanks to you I am not very literate myself
these days.’
The words sounded harsh to Asha. She would make as if to leave and
say, ‘How have I stopped you from studying?’
Mahendra would grab her hand and say, ‘How would you know that? I
can’t pore over books when you are gone as easily as you can in my
absence.’
A serious accusation! This would naturally be followed by a sudden burst
of tears, like an autumnal shower, and soon enough it would disappear to
reveal the sunshine of love, leaving behind a golden glow.
If the teacher is the greatest barrier in the path of knowledge, the helpless
student can scarcely make her way through the wilderness. Sometimes Asha
recollected her aunt’s scornful rebuke and felt ashamed. She was aware that
her studies were only an excuse for togetherness. Every time she met her
mother-in-law she felt mortified. But Rajlakshmi never asked her to do any
chores, never had a word of advice for her. If Asha volunteered to lend a
hand in the kitchen, she immediately restrained her saying, ‘Oh no, no, you
go to the bedroom—or your studies will suffer.’
Eventually, Annapurna said to Asha one day, ‘Your education, or the lack
thereof, is quite apparent to me. But are you going to let Mahin fail his
exams too?’
Asha hardened her mind with great resolve and said to Mahendra, ‘Your
exam preparations are suffering. From now on I shall stay in Aunty’s room
downstairs.’
Such severe penance at this tender age! Exiled from the bedroom all the
way to Aunty’s room! Even as she uttered these harsh words Asha’s eyes
grew heavy with tears, her truant lips trembled and her voice held a tremor.
Mahendra said, ‘Fine, let’s go to Aunty’s room. But then she’d have to
come upstairs and take our room.’
Asha felt angry when her solemn, magnanimous gesture was laughed at.
Mahendra said, ‘Better still, why don’t you guard me day and night and see
for yourself if I am studying for my exams or not?’
The matter was settled very easily that day. Details of the intimate
guarding that took place are needless. Suffice it to say that Mahendra failed
his exams that year and despite the elaborate descriptions in her book,
Asha’s knowledge of the habits of the bumblebee remained meagre.
But it would be wrong to say that such fascinating educational exchanges
were conducted uninterrupted. Sometimes Behari dropped in and caused a
major disturbance. He’d herald his arrival shouting, ‘Mahin da, Mahin da.’
He wouldn’t rest till he’d dragged Mahendra from his hibernating nest of
the bedroom. He chided Mahendra severely for neglecting his studies. To
Asha he’d say, ‘Bouthan, you can’t gulp your food and digest it; you have
to chew it. Now you are gulping down the rice greedily—later you’ll be
hunting for digestive tablets!’
Mahendra would reply, ‘Chuni, don’t listen to him. He’s jealous of our
happiness.’
Behari would say, ‘Since you hold your happiness in your own hands,
consume it in a way that doesn’t make others jealous.’
Mahendra would say, ‘But it’s fun to make others jealous. Chuni, you
know, the ass that I am, I had nearly handed you over to Behari.’
Behari would blush and mutter, ‘Enough, Mahin da.’
Such exchanges did not endear Behari to Asha. She felt quite hostile
towards him, perhaps because at one time her marriage had been fixed with
him. Behari knew this, and Mahendra liked to make fun at his expense.
Rajlakshmi often complained to Behari. He said, ‘Mother, the silkworm
weaving the thread isn’t as scary as the moth that cuts the bonds and flies
away. Who could tell he’d break away from you thus?’
When Rajlakshmi heard that Mahendra had failed his exams she went up
in flames like a forest fire in summer. But it was Annapurna who bore the
true consequences of his failure. She gave up food and sleep.
 6

ONE CLOUDY EVENING, WHEN THE LAND WAS FLOODED WITH

THE first shower of the season, Mahendra entered his bedroom cheerfully
with a perfume-sprayed shawl on his shoulder and a fragrant garland around
his neck. He tiptoed in, meaning to surprise Asha. But as he peeped in he
found the window on the eastern corner open wide, the rain lashing in
through it; the strong wind had snuffed out the lamp. Asha lay on the
mattress, weeping her heart out.
Mahendra took quick steps into the room and asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
The young girl wept afresh. Many minutes passed before Mahendra
finally got an answer: Annapurna couldn’t take it any more and had gone
away to her cousin’s house.
Mahendra thought irately, ‘If she had to go, why did she have to go today
and spoil this nice, rainy evening for me !’ But eventually all his wrath
turned towards his mother. She was at the root of this. Mahendra said, ‘Let
us go and stay with Aunty—I’ll see with whom Mother bickers.’
He kicked up a great fuss, began to pack his things and sent for bearers.
Rajlakshmi understood what was afoot. She came up to Mahendra slowly
and spoke to him calmly, ‘Where are you going?’
At first he didn’t answer. When she asked a few more times, he said, ‘I
am going to stay with Aunty.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘You don’t have to go anywhere. I will go and fetch
your aunt.’
She got into a palki and left for Annapurna’s new home. Once there, she
bowed low and said, ‘Please don’t be angry, Mejo-bou, and forgive me.’
Utterly embarrassed, Annapurna rushed to touch her feet as she wailed,
‘Didi , why do you put me in the wrong thus? I’ll do whatever you say.’
 Rajlakshmi said, ‘My son and daughter-in-law are leaving the house
because you went away.’ As she spoke, she burst into tears, tears of anger
and humiliation.
The two sisters-in-law came back home. It was still raining. Asha had
almost stopped weeping and Mahendra was doing his best to get her to
smile. It appeared as if the rainy evening could be salvaged still.
Annapurna said, ‘Chuni, you don’t let me stay in this house, and you
won’t let go if I go away ! Don’ t I deserve some peace?’
Asha looked up, startled like the wounded gazelle.
Mahendra was immensely irked as he said, ‘Why Aunty, what has Chuni
done to you?’
Annapurna said, ‘I went away because I couldn’t stand a new bride going
about so brazenly. Why, you wretched girl, did you have to make your
mother-in-law cry and fetch me back?’
Mahendra had not known that mothers and aunts were such a great
hindrance to the poetry of one’s life.
The next day Rajlakshmi sent for Behari. ‘Son, please tell Mahin that I
want to go to our ancestral home in Barasat—I haven’t gone there in ages.’
Behari said, ‘If you haven’t gone there in ages, you need not go now.
Anyway, I’ll tell Mahin da, but I don’t think he will agree to it.’
Mahendra said, ‘Well, one does wish to see one’s birthplace. But Mother
shouldn’t stay there for too long—the place gets uncomfortable when the
rains come.’
Behari was annoyed to see Mahendra agreeing so easily. But he smiled
and said, ‘If Mother goes alone, there’ll be no one to look after her. Why
don’t you send Bouthan with her?’
Mahendra sensed the covert criticism in Behari’s words and disconcerted,
he said, ‘Of course I could do that.’ But the matter didn’t go any further
than that. Behari only succeeded in alienating Asha’s sympathies once
again; the knowledge of that fact seemed to give him a wry pleasure.
Needless to say, Rajlakshmi wasn’t all that keen to see her birthplace in
Barasat. When the river runs dry in summer, the boatman drops the oar
every now and then to check how deep the water runs. At such times of
emotional rift between mother and son, Rajlakshmi too was plunging the
oar here and there from time to time, checking on the depth of the emotions.
She had not expected that her proposal of going away to Barasat would be
accepted so easily. She said to herself, ‘There’s a difference between
Annapurna leaving the house and my going away. She is a spell-casting
witch and I am just a mother. It’s better that I leave.’
Annapurna understood the workings of her mind and she said to
Mahendra, ‘If Didi leaves, I will go with her.’
Mahendra said, ‘Did you hear that, Mother? If you go, Aunty will go
with you and then how will our household run?’
Consumed with hatred, Rajlakshmi said, ‘You will come, Mejo-bou?
That’s impossible—without you the household cannot run. You have to
stay.’
Rajlakshmi couldn’t wait any longer. The following afternoon she was
ready to leave. Everyone including Behari had assumed that Mahendra
would escort her. But when the time came it turned out that Mahendra had
arranged for a bearer and a guard to accompany his mother.
Behari said, ‘Mahin da, you are not dressed yet?’
A little shamefaced, Mahendra said, ‘I have college—’
Behari said, ‘Fine, you stay. I’ll go with Mother.’
Mahendra was offended. When they were alone, he said to Asha, ‘Really,
Behari is going too far. He wants to prove that he is more concerned about
Mother than I am.’
Annapurna was forced to stay back. But she shrank into her shell from
shame, grief and exasperation. Mahendra was angry at this distant
behaviour from his aunt; Asha too, felt hurt.
 7

RAJLAKSHMI ARRIVED AT THE BARASAT HOUSE. BEHARI WAS

SUPPOSED TO drop her off there and return at once. But when he saw
how things were, he stayed back.
There were only a few very old widows living in Rajlakshmi’s ancestral
home. Thick forests of bamboo and foliage ran wild all around, the water in
the pond was a deep, mossy green and jackals howled nearby all day long.
Rajlakshmi was quite distressed.
Behari said, ‘Mother, it may be your motherland, but “more glorious than
all else” it is not. Let’s go back to Kolkata. It’d be a sin to leave you alone
here.’
Rajlakshmi was close to giving up and returning. But at this point
Binodini arrived, seeking shelter with Rajlakshmi and at the same time
providing her with loving care. Binodini needs no fresh introduction. At one
time her marriage had been fixed first to Mahendra and later to Behari. But
the husband that fate had ordained for her, had a spleen disorder that proved
fatal very soon. Ever since his death, Binodini had spent her days alone in
the cheerless household, like a lone flowering plant in the barren
wilderness. Today the orphaned girl came and bowed respectfully, touched
her aunt-in-law Rajlakshmi’s feet and placed herself at her service. And it
was service worthy of its name. There was not a moment’s rest for her.
Every chore was executed perfectly, meals were cooked to perfection and
there was such lovely, gracious conversation.
Rajlakshmi would say, ‘It’s late my child, why don’t you go and have
some lunch?’
Binodini wouldn’t hear of it. She didn’t leave before she fanned her aunt
to sleep.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘But you’ll fall ill, my child.’
 But Binodini showed the least concern for her own health and said,
‘Unfortunate souls like us don’t fall ill, Aunty. You have come to your
home after so many years—I have nothing here with which to care for you
properly.’
Behari, meanwhile, became the local expert in a couple of days. Some
came to consult him for their illnesses while others came to seek his advice
on legal matters. If someone sought him out to find a good job for his son,
someone else brought an application for him to fill out. He mingled with
everyone with his intuitive curiosity and concern, be it the geriatric band of
card players or the drinking group of the lower castes. No one resented him
and he was welcome everywhere.
Binodini did her best to lighten the burden on this city-bred youth who
was unfortunate enough to have landed in this godforsaken place. Every
time Behari came back from his rounds, he found his room cleaned up, a
bunch of flowers placed by his bed in a brass tumbler and Bankim and
Dinabandhu’s works neatly placed on his bedside table. On the inside
covers of the books Binodini’s name was inscribed in a feminine but firm
hand.
There was a distinction between this kind of solicitude and the kind one
normally encountered in a village. When Behari mentioned this to
Rajlakshmi she said, ‘And this is the girl both of you turned down.’
Behari laughed and said, ‘It wasn’t wise, Mother, we have been fools.
But it s better to be fooled by not marrying than to be fooled by marrying.’
The thought churning in Rajlakshmi’s mind was, ‘This girl could have
been my daughter-in-law. Why didn’t it happen?’
If Rajlakshmi so much as mentioned going back to Kolkata, Binodini’s
eyes brimmed with tears and she said, ‘Aunty, why did you have to come
for a couple of days? When I didn’t know you, my days passed somehow or
other. Now, how will I live without you?’
Overwhelmed with emotion, Rajlakshmi blurted out, ‘Child, why didn’t
you come into my house as a bride—I would have kept you so close to my
heart!’ These words made Binodini blush and run away.
 Rajlakshmi was waiting for a letter from Kolkata, begging her to return.
Her Mahin had never been away from his mother for so long in his entire
life. He must be missing her terribly by now. Rajlakshmi was waiting
eagerly for that letter from her son, bearing all his hurt feelings, tantrums
and yearning for her.
Instead, Behari got a letter from Mahendra: ‘Perhaps Mother is very
happy to be back in her birthplace after so many years.’
Rajlakshmi thought, ‘Dear me, Mahin must be very hurt. Happy! How
could his wretched mother be happy anywhere without her Mahin!’
‘O Behari, do read what more Mahin has written,’ she said.
Behari said, ‘There’s nothing after that, Mother.’ He crumpled up the
letter, stuffed it into a book and dumped it in a corner of the room.
Rajlakshmi could scarcely contain herself. Mahin must have written such
angry words that Behari couldn’t read them out to his mother! Sometimes
the calf butts against the cow’s udder and procures both milk and maternal
love. Rajlakshmi felt a similar surge of love for her son at the thought of his
wrath. She forgave Mahendra readily and said to herself, ‘If Mahin is happy
with his bride, let him be. At any cost, he must be happy. I’ll not trouble
him any more. Poor thing, how angry he must be when his mother, who has
never been away from him, has left him and come away. Her tears
overflowed at the very thought.
That day Rajlakshmi went again and again to Behari and hustled him,
‘Go and have your bath, son; it’s getting late.’
But Behari seemed to have lost interest in bathing or eating. He said,
‘Mother, a little indiscipline is good for a hopeless wretch like me.’
Rajlakshmi coaxed him firmly, ‘No, son, go and have your bath.’
After such continual badgering Behari went into the bathroom. The
minute he left the room, Rajlakshmi rescued the crumpled letter from
within the book, gave it to Binodini and said, ‘Child, read out to me what
Mahin has written to Behari.’
Binodini began to read. At first he had written about his mother, but that
was very little. Not much more than what Behari had read out to her earlier.
Then he had spoken of Asha. It was as if Mahendra was delirious with joy,
mirth and a strange intoxication. Binodini read a little bit, blushed and
stopped short, ‘Aunty, what do you want to hear all this for?’
Rajlakshmi’s yearning, loving face turned to stone in a moment. She was
silent for a while and then she said, ‘Stop.’ She walked away without taking
the letter back.
Binodini went into her room holding the letter. She bolted the door from
within, sat on her bed and began to read again. Only she could say what she
gleaned from that letter. But it certainly wasn’t amusement. As she read it
over and over again, her eyes began to burn like the desert sands at noon
and her breath became as fiery as the desert winds. Her mind was awhirl
with thoughts of Mahendra, Asha and their passionate romance. She held
the letter on her lap, leant against the wall, stretched her legs out in front
and sat still for a long time.
Behari couldn’t find Mahendra’s letter ever again.
That same afternoon, all of a sudden, Annapurna arrived in Barasat.
Rajlakshmi paled at the thought of some bad news. She didn’t dare ask
anything and just looked at Annapurna with an ashen face.
Annapurna said at once, ‘Didi, everything’s fine in Kolkata.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Then why are you here?’
Annapurna said, ‘Didi, please take over your household. I have lost
interest in these chores. I have set off to go to Kashi. I came here to take
your blessings before I go. I may have wronged you, with or without
intention, many a times. Please forgive me. And your daughter-in-law,’ her
eyes filled with tears, ‘she is a child, she is motherless. Whether she is
guilty or innocent, she is still yours.’ She could speak no further.
Rajlakshmi got busy arranging for her bath and meal. Behari came
running from Gadai Ghosh’s gathering when he heard the news. He touched
Annapurna’s feet and said, ‘Aunty, this is not possible; you cannot be so
heartless as to leave us.’
Annapurna checked her tears and said, ‘Don’ t try to hold me back,
Behari—all of you be happy; nothing will stop on my account.’
Behari was silent. Then he said, ‘Mahin da is very heartless to have bade
you goodbye.’
 Annapurna looked shaken. ‘Don’t say that—I am not angry with Mahin.
But no good will come to the family unless I leave.’
Behari looked into the distance and sat there in silence. Annapurna undid
the knot in her sari and took out a pair of gold bracelets. ‘Son, keep these
bracelets—give them to your wife with my blessings, when she comes.’
Behari touched them to his forehead and went into the next room to hide
his tears.
As she left, Annapurna said, ‘Behari, look after my Mahin and my Asha.’
She handed a piece of paper to Rajlakshmi and said, ‘This is a deed
whereby I give to Mahin my share in the ancestral property. Just send me
fifteen rupees every month.’
She bent to the ground and took Rajlakshmi’s blessings before she set off
on her pilgrimage.
 8

ASHA WAS VERY SCARED. WHAT ON EARTH WAS GOING ON!

RAJLAKSHMI HAD gone away, and Annapurna followed suit.
Mahendra’s and her pleasure seemed to drive everyone away. It would end
up driving her away. Their newly-wed love games struck her as a little
incongruous amidst the vacant, deserted household.
If the flower of romance is plucked from the tree of life, it cannot sustain
itself. Asha could also gradually see that there was a weariness, an ennui in
their never-ending romance. It seemed to wilt every now and then—it was
difficult sustaining it without the firm and liberal support of household life
surrounding it. If romance has no link with other activities, play alone
cannot bring out its true colours.
Mahendra tried to rebel against his family, lit all the lamps of his love-
life all at once and tried to play out his grand romance amidst the gloom of
his deserted household. He tried a dig at Asha, ‘Chuni, what’s the matter
with you these days? Why are you so upset over your aunt’s departure?
Isn’t our love enough to make up for all the loves in the world?’
Asha was miserable as she thought, ‘Then there must be a lack in my
love. I think of my aunt so often; I am so upset that Mother has left us.’ She
then tried her best to compensate for this lack in the extent of her love.
The household chores remained half done these days. The servants made
hay and work was neglected. One day the maid claimed to be sick and was
absent, the next day the cook was too drunk to come in to work. Mahendra
said to Asha, ‘That’s great. Today we shall cook our own meals.’
Mahendra drove down to New Market to shop. He had no idea of what to
buy and how much—he just picked up a lot of things and came home
happy. Asha didn’t have a clue either about what was to be done with the
horde that he had brought home. Trial and error drove the clock hands past
three o’clock and Mahendra was amused by the end result—a variety of
inedible dishes. Asha failed to join him in his mirth—her own ignorance
and incompetence shamed her.
Everything was scattered about so untidily in all the rooms that it was
difficult to find anything when it was needed. One day, Mahendra’s scalpel
was used to cut vegetables and it took permanent refuge in the pile of
debris. His notes were used to stoke the kitchen fire, whereupon they gave
up the ghost on the ashen bed of the stove.
These and many other disasters gave Mahendra much cause for mirth
while Asha continued to feel more and more upset. To the young girl such
abandoned drifting of the household on the waves of confusion and waste
was nothing less than a nightmare.
One evening the two were sitting on a bed they’d made on the covered
veranda. Before them stretched the open terrace. After a spurt of rain the
skyline of Kolkata was awash with moonlight on the horizon. Asha had
gathered rain-drenched bakul flowers from the garden; she now sat with her
head bent, weaving them into a garland. Mahendra was pulling at it,
hindering her, criticizing and generally trying to pick a mock squabble. If
Asha opened her mouth to chide him for such misdeeds, he immediately
silenced her by a contrived move and nipped the reproach in the bud.
At this point the neighbour’s koel called out from its cage. Immediately,
Asha and Mahendra looked up at the cage that hung over their heads. Their
koel never let the neighbour’s koel go unanswered.Why was it silent today?
Asha was worried. ‘What ‘s wrong with the bird?’
Mahendra said, ‘It’s heard your voice and is too shy to open its beak.’
Asha pleaded, ‘No, seriously, please have a look.’
Mahendra brought the cage off the hook. He opened its doors and found
the bird had died. After Annapurna left, the bearer had gone on leave. No
one had looked after the bird.
Asha’s face turned ashen. Her fingers stilled over the flowers piled on her
lap. Mahendra was saddened too; but he was more afraid of the mood being
spoilt and so he tried to laugh it off, ‘Actually it’s all for the best. When I go
to college the damned bird cried its heart out and disturbed you.’ Mahendra
reached for Asha and tried to hold her close.
Asha disentangled herself slowly and emptied her sari of the bakul
flowers. ‘No more,’ she said. ‘Shame on us! Please go quickly and bring
Mother back.’
 9

AT THAT VERY MOMENT THERE WAS A SHOUT OF ‘MAHIN DA,

Mahin da’ from below. Mahendra replied, ‘Hello there, come on up.’
Behari’s voice actually lifted Mahendra’s spirits. Since their marriage
Behari had often come between them as a barrier—but today that very
barrier seemed welcome and imperative. Asha too felt relieved at Behari’s
arrival. When she drew the sari over her head and made as if to rise,
Mahendra said, ‘Where are you off to? It’s only Behari.’
Asha said, ‘Let me arrange for Thakurpo’s tea.’
Asha’s dejection lifted a little at this opportunity to do something. She
wanted to hear about her mother-in-law and so she stood there awhile. She
still never addressed Behari directly.
As he walked in Behari said, ‘Oh no, I seem to have run headlong into
intense poesy. Don’t worry, Bouthan, you sit down and I’ll be on my way.’
Asha glanced at Mahendra, who asked, ‘Behari, how is Mother?’
Behari said, ‘Don’ t bring up Mother and Aunty today, my friend, there’s
time yet for all that. Such a night was not made for sleep, nor for mothers
and aunts.’
Behari was about to turn back when Mahendra dragged him back by
force and made him sit down. Behari said, ‘Look Bouthan, it’s not my fault
—he held me back by force—it’s Mahin da’s sin and the curse shouldn’t
come upon me!’ Such bantering always irked Asha because she could never
respond. Behari did this on purpose.
Behari said, ‘Well , the house is a sight. Isn’t it time yet for you to fetch
Mother?’
Mahendra said, ‘Certainly! In fact we are waiting for her.’
Behari said, ‘It won’t cost much of your time to write that to her and it’ll
give her immense joy. Bouthan, I appeal to you: please spare Mahin da for a
few minutes so that he can write the note.’
Asha stomped away in anger—she had tears in her eyes.
Mahendra said, ‘What a moment it was when you two set eyes upon one
another—your squabbles never seem to end.’
Behari said, ‘You have been spoilt by your mother and now your wife is
doing the same. I find it so appalling that I protest ever so often.’
Mahendra asked, ‘And what’s the upshot of all this?’
Behari replied, ‘None where you are concerned, but there is some for
me.’
 10

BEHARI MADE MAHENDRA WRITE THE LETTER TO

RAJLAKSHMI AND TOOK IT with him the next day, meaning to bring
her back. Rajlakshmi could tell the letter was written as a result of Behari’s
coercion, but she couldn’t stay away any longer. She brought Binodini
along with her.
When she returned and found the house in utter disarray and chaos,
Rajlakshmi felt even more hostile towards Asha. But what a change there
was in Asha! She followed Rajlakshmi around like a shadow now, trying to
lend a hand everywhere even without being told. Rajlakshmi exclaimed
anxiously, ‘Let it be, you’ll ruin it! Why do you try to do what you don’t
know anything about?’
She reached the conclusion that this change in Asha was brought about
by Annapurna’s departure. But she felt Mahendra should not think that
when Annapurna was around he could spend his days freely with Asha and
now under his mother’s regimen he had lost his wife. He would perceive his
aunt as his well-wisher and his mother as an enemy. What was the point?
These days, if Mahendra called her in the day, Asha hesitated to go up.
But Rajlakshmi reprimanded her, ‘Can’t you hear, Mahin is calling you?
Can’t you answer him? Too much love has gone to your head. Go on, you
don’t have to do the vegetables now.’
It was back to the mockery of the slate, pencil and the alphabets, blaming
each other for the alleged paucity of love, pointless squabbles over who
loved whom the most, turning gloomy days into nights and moonlit nights
into sunny days, staving off ennui and boredom by sheer force. It was a
kind of deadly grip on each other, where even when togetherness yielded no
great joy, there was morbid fear in letting go of one another for even a
single second—the pleasure of mating turned to ashes and yet, one couldn’t
move away from it, fearing a vacuum elsewhere. Such was the terrible
curse of over-indulgence that although the pleasure wasn’t long-standing,
the bonds were lethally binding.
Then one day, Binodini came and twined her arms about Asha’s neck and
said, ‘My friend, may your happiness last forever, but don’t you think you
could spare this hapless soul a mere glance sometimes?’
Asha had a natural reserve in front of strangers, having grown up in
another’s home. She feared rejection.When Binodini had arrived with her
arched brows and sharp glance, her flawless face and her pristine, youthful
beauty, Asha hadn’t dared approach her to make her acquaintance. She
noticed that Binodini was perfectly natural in Rajlakshmi’s presence.
Rajlakshmi also took pleasure in praising Binodini in Asha’s presence,
giving her more than her due share of importance. Asha perceived that
Binodini was adept at all the household chores and supervision came
naturally to her. She never hesitated to set the maids to work, scolding them
and ordering them about. All this made Asha feel very small beside
Binodini. But when that epitome of perfection, Binodini herself came to
seek Asha’s friendship, her pleasure drowned her hesitation and flooded her
heart with joy. As if a magician had waved his wand somewhere, their
friendship grew, blossomed and flourished in the space of a single day.
Asha said, ‘Come, let’s give our friendship a name—let’s be something
to each other.’
Binodini laughed. ‘Like what?’
Asha suggested many pretty names like flower and bee, Ganga and
Yamuna. But Binodini said, ‘All those are outdated; an affectionate name is
no longer worthy of love.’
Asha said, ‘What would you like us to be?’
Binodini laughed and said, ‘A grain of sand in the eye. Chokher Bali.’
Asha was more inclined towards the sweeter names, but she took
Binodini’s advice and settled for the affectionate invective of Chokher Bali
—a grain of sand in the eye that drew pearly tears. She hugged Binodini
and said, ‘Chokher Bali,’ and rolled to the floor, giggling.
 11

ASHA WAS BADLY IN NEED OF A COMPANION. EVEN A

ROMANCE IS INCOMPLETE if there are just two players—extra ears are
needed to spread the words of love around. A famished Binodini drank up
the details of the new bride’s new-found romance like a drunkard swigging
at a bottle. Her ears reddened as she listened and her blood fairly simmered
in her veins.
In the muted afternoons, when Rajlakshmi was asleep, the servants
disappeared into the rooms downstairs to rest and Mahendra went to college
after much cajoling from Behari, when the faint cries of the kite could be
heard from the far end of the blistering horizon, Asha lay flat on the bed
with her hair spread out on the pillow and Binodini pulled up another pillow
under her breast as she lay on her stomach; the two of them were lost in
whispered tales—Binodini’s face became flushed and her breath quickened.
She always asked eager questions and got the tiniest details, heard the same
stories over and over again and once they were told, she took recourse to
her imagination and asked, ‘What if things happened like this or like that?’
Asha too enjoyed dragging the discussions onto those uncharted paths of
what-if.
Binodini asked, ‘Tell me, Chokher Bali, what would you do if you’d been
married to Beharibabu instead?’
Asha said, ‘Oh no, don’t ever say that—oh God, I feel so embarrassed.
But you would have suited him well; there was some talk once, wasn’t
there?’
Binodini said, ‘Oh, there were talks about so many men for me. It’s good
it didn’t happen—I am fine the way I am.’
Asha protested. How could she accept Binodini was happier than she
was? ‘Just think for a moment, Bali, if you’d got married to my husband! It
nearly happened, too!’
Of course it had nearly happened. Why didn’t it? Once this bed of Asha’s
was waiting for her. Binodini glanced around at this well-decorated room
and simply couldn’t push the thought out of her mind. Today she was a
mere guest in this room, here today and gone tomorrow.
In the evening Binodini often took it upon herself to tie Asha’s hair in a
fancy hairdo and send her to greet her husband. Her imagination, veiled and
hidden, crept behind this bedecked bride and entered the isolated room for a
tryst with the spellbound young man. On some other days she refused to let
Asha go. ‘Oh come on, sit a little longer.Your husband won’t run away.
He’s not the fleet-footed buck of the woods, he’s the tame deer tethered at
your threshold.’ She would try to hold Asha back with such comments.
Mahendra got impatient and said, ‘Your friend never seems to want to
leave—when will she go back home?’
Asha rose to Binodini’s defence zealously. ‘No, you shan’t be angry at
my Chokher Bali.You’ll be surprised to know that she loves hearing about
you—she dresses me up so tenderly with her own hands and sends me to
meet you.’
Rajlakshmi didn’t let Asha do any household work. Binodini took Asha’s
side and let her in on some of the chores. Binodini was busy all day long
with a variety of housework and now she wanted Asha at her side as well.
She had woven a chain of household tasks so skillfully that it was
impossible for Asha to find even a few minutes to steal away to Mahendra.
Binodini laughed a cruel, jagged smile to herself when she thought of
Asha’s husband sitting in a corner of that lonely room on the terrace,
bursting with impatience and thwarted passion. Concerned and anxious,
Asha would remark, ‘I’ll be off now, Bali dear, or he’ll be very angry.’
Quickly Binodini would say, ‘Oh wait, just finish this bit and go—it
won’t take long.’
A little later Asha would grow restless again. ‘No my friend, he’ll be
really angry now—let me go.’
Binodini would say, ‘Oh dear, and I suppose that would be so terrible?
There’s no fun in romance if there isn’t a bit of provocation sprinkled on the
love—it’s like the spice in the curry, it brings the flavour out.’
Actually, only Binodini knew the taste of this spice, but in her life the
vegetables were missing from the curry. The blood flamed in her veins;
wherever she glanced, her eyes showered sparks of burning embers: ‘Such a
happy household, such a loving husband—I could have made it a home fit
for royalty and turned him into my devoted slave. This home then wouldn’t
be in this sorry state, and this man would have turned heads. But in my
place rules this child of a girl, this infantile doll!’ She hugged Asha and
said, ‘Dear Bali, please tell me what happened last night, won’t you? Did
you say all that I taught you to say? When I hear of your love, I lose both
sleep and hunger.’
 12

ONE DAY MAHENDRA GREW ANNOYED AND SAID TO

RAJLAKSHMI, ‘DO YOU think this is a good idea? Why do we have to
take on the responsibility of a young widow from another family? I am not
for this at all—you never know what troubles may lurk around the corner.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘But she is my Bipin’s wife—I think of her as family.’
Mahendra said, ‘No, Mother, this is not right. I would advice you to send
her back.’
Rajlakshmi was well aware that Mahendra’s wish couldn’t be ignored
easily. She sent for Behari and said, ‘Behari, why don’t you speak to
Mahin? I am able to get a bit of rest in this old age simply because Bipin’s
wife is here. Call her whatever you like, but I have never got such loyal
service from any of my own.’
Behari didn’t answer Rajlakshmi, but he did go to Mahendra and say,
‘Mahin da, have you thought about Binodini?’
Mahendra laughed and said, ‘I am losing sleep over her. Why don’t you
ask your bouthan—Binodini is all I think about these days.’
Asha chided him silently from behind her anchal raised over her head.
Behari said, ‘Well, well, we have a situation rivalling Bankim’s The
Poison Tree on our hands!’
Mahendra said, ‘Exactly. Now Chuni is hell-bent on sending her away.’
From behind the veil, Asha’s eyes seethed with silent rebuke.
Behari said, ‘But it won’t take long for her to come right back. I suggest
you marry off this widow—that’ll take care of her for good.’
Mahendra laughed. ‘Kunda in The Poison Tree was married off too.’
Behari said, ‘Fine, let that analogy be for now. I think of Binodini
sometimes. She cannot possibly stay here forever. But sending her back to
that godforsaken place is also a severe punishment.’
 Binodini had not come face to face with Mahendra yet. But Behari had
seen her and realized that she was worthy of more than the wilderness that
passed for a home in Barasat. However, he was also wary of the fact that the
flame that burned beautifully in an oil-lamp could as well set a house on
fire.
Mahendra teased Behari about Binodini in various ways and Behari stood
up to the test valiantly. But he stood firm in his belief that this woman
shouldn’t be toyed with and neither should she be ignored.
Rajlakshmi threw a word of caution at Binodini. ‘Be careful my child,
don’t cling to Asha like that.You are used to the usual customs of a village
household and know nothing of the modern ways.You are intelligent, you
will know what I mean; just watch what you do.’
Following this, Binodini began to keep Asha at arm’s length with great
ceremony. She said, ‘Oh, who am 1? People like me should know their
place and stay there or you never know what may happen.’
Asha wept and pleaded, but Binodini stood firm. Asha was fairly bursting
with confidences unuttered, but Binodini paid no heed.
Meanwhile, the fervour of Mahendra’s embraces slackened somewhat
and his fascinated gaze on Asha grew rather weary.The foibles and oddities
in Asha that had seemed amusing to him at first now irked him no end. He
was piqued every moment by Asha’s incompetence around the house, but
he never spoke his mind. Even so, Asha could sense that familiarity had
taken the sparkle out of the romance. Mahendra’s lovemaking struck the
wrong chords—some of it seemed excessive and some self-deceptive. At
such times, escape was the only route, separation the only remedy. In the
naturally intuitive fashion of women, Asha tried to leave Mahendra alone
more often these days. But she had nowhere to go, except to Binodini.
Coming back to earth from the dizzy clouds of romance, Mahendra
opened his eyes slowly and cast them at last on his studies, and other
household chores. He began to retrieve his medical textbooks from all kinds
of impossible places, wiped the dust off them and attempted to air out his
college clothes.
 13

WHEN BINODINI REFUSED TO ACQUIESCE, ASHA TRIED

ANOTHER PLOY. SHE said to Binodini, ‘Dear Bali, why don’t you ever
come before my husband? Why do you always run and hide?’
Binodini’s answer was brief and snappy, ‘Shame!’
Asha said, ‘Why? I have heard from Mother that you are related to us.’
Solemnly, Binodini replied, ‘In this world, there are no fixed rules for
telling who is a relative and who a stranger. Whoever you feel close to is
your relative; and whoever perceives you as an intruder, may well be a
relative, but is still a stranger.’
Asha felt this remark could not be countered. It was a fact that her
husband had wronged Binodini; he had thought of her as an intruder and
often felt quite irked by her presence.
That same evening Asha pleaded with Mahendra, ‘You must have a
meeting with my Chokher Bali.’
Mahendra laughed. ‘That’s a grave risk you’re taking.’
Asha said, ‘Why, what’s there to fear?’
Mahendra said, ‘The kind of beauty you have described your friend to be,
it’s no safe haven for a man to venture into.’
Asha said, ‘Oh, I can handle that. Please be serious—say you will meet
her?’
It wasn’t as though Mahendra wasn’t curious to see Binodini; in fact,
lately he’d even felt an urge to see her. But he felt this unwarranted
impatience was somehow unethical. In matters of the heart, Mahendra’s
beliefs on what was ethical and what wasn’t were a little more stringent
than most people’s. In the past he had not heeded the idea of marriage for
fear that after marriage his mother’s place wouldn’t stay the same. These
days he wanted to hold his relationship with Asha so sacred that he
wouldn’t let even the slightest curiosity about another woman tarry in his
heart. He prided himself on the fact that his love was fastidious and pure.
Similarly, he never wanted to acknowledge anyone else as his friend since
that position was already given to Behari. If anyone ever felt attached to
him and tried to further their acquaintance, Mahendra would go out of his
way to be rude to them; he took pleasure in deriding them to Behari, and
declaring himself absolutely indifferent to the average men around him. If
Behari protested, Mahendra said, ‘You can do that Behari—wherever you
go, you make plenty of friends. But I’m afraid I don’t feel like making
friends with every Tom, Dick and Harry.’
Thus, when Mahendra’s heart lurched with inevitable eagerness and
curiosity at the thought of meeting this unfamiliar woman, he felt he was
letting down his own ideals. Eventually, he had lost his patience and gone to
Rajlakshmi, requesting her to send Binodini away from their home.
He now said to Asha, ‘No, Chuni, I don’t have the time to meet your
friend. I have my studies to attend to and you are there: where is the space
for another friend?’
Asha said, ‘It’s all right, I won’t take up your study time; I’ll give my
share of the time to Bali.’
Mahendra said, ‘You may well want to give it, but why would I let you
do that?’
Mahendra claimed that Asha’s love for Binodini was eating into her love
for her husband.With great pride he would say, ‘Your love is not as constant
and steadfast as mine.’ This often caused the pair to squabble. Asha
wouldn’t accept it—she’d cry and fight but never was she able to win the
argument.
Mahendra grew to take pride in the fact that he was unwilling to let
Binodini have even a hair’s space between the two of them. Asha hated this
pride, but one day she bowed before it humbly and said, ‘All right then, will
you please meet my Bali for my sake? Just once?’
Mahendra, after establishing the supremacy of his love over Asha’s,
finally agreed to meet Binodini as a favour to his wife. But he made it clear,
‘That doesn’t mean she’ll be free to disturb me every now and then!’
 The following morning Asha went into Binodini’s room and woke her up
with a hug. Binodini said, ‘Wonder of wonders, the sunflower has left the
sun and turned to the clouds today!’
Asha said, ‘I’m no good at all that poetic stuff, my dear, so don’t waste
your breath. Why don’t you go and say all this to the one who’d appreciate
it most?’
Binodini said, ‘And who is this poetic genius?’
Asha said, ‘Your brother-in-law, my husband! No really, I’m not joking
—he’s very keen to meet you.’
Binodini said to herself, ‘Your wife has begged you to and so you’ve sent
for me—if you think I’ll come running, you couldn’t be more wrong.’
Binodini refused doggedly. Asha lost face before her husband.
Mahendra was also very angry. How dare she refuse to come before him!
Did she think he was like any other man? Others may have tried to find
some excuse in all these days to talk to Binodini, to see her face. The fact
that Mahendra never tried any such tricks should be enough for Binodini to
realize that he was different. If she ever came to know him well, she’d
surely see how extraordinary he was.
A couple of days ago Binodini had also felt quite upset. ‘I’ve been in this
house for so long and Mahendra has never once tried to catch a glimpse of
me. When I am in his mother’s room he never ever cooks up an excuse to
come and speak to his mother. Why all the indifference? I am not a piece of
furniture, I am a person, I’m a woman ! If he ever got to know me well,
he’d know the difference between me and his cherished Chuni!’
Asha came to her husband with an idea. ‘I’ll go and fetch my Chokher
Bali to our room saying you have gone to college. And then you’ll come in
suddenly and confound her totally.’
Mahendra asked, ‘What has she done to merit such a harsh sentence?’
Asha said, ‘No, really, I am very angry indeed. She has refused to meet
you! I’ll break her tenacity or my name is not Asha.’
Mahendra said, ‘I am not exactly dying to meet your bosom friend. I
refuse to meet her like that, by stealth.’
 Asha held his hand and begged, ‘Please do this for me, just this once? I
want to shatter her pride somehow, on this one occasion; thereafter you two
are free to do what you like.’
Mahendra did not reply. Asha pleaded, ‘Please dear, for my sake?’
Mahendra was actually getting more and more fired up—and so, with a
great show of indifference, he conceded.
It was a sheer, silent autumn afternoon. Binodini was seated in
Mahendra’s room, teaching Asha how to knit a woollen shoe. Asha was
restive, looking at the door every now and then, dropping stitches
frequently and revealing her own incompetence to Binodini.
Finally, Binodini lost her temper, snatched the knitting from her hands
and said, ‘Oh, you are no good at this; I have work to do—I’m going.’
Asha said, ‘Sit for a little longer; let me try again—I won’t go wrong this
time.’ She went back to the knitting diligently.
Meanwhile, Mahendra came up soundlessly and stood at the door behind
Binodini; Asha smiled without looking up from her knitting.
Binodini asked, ‘Now what is making you smile?’
Asha couldn’t check her laughter; she burst into giggles and flung the
knitting over Binodini’s head, saying, ‘You’re right my dear, this is not for
me.’ She threw her arms around her friend and went on giggling.
Binodini had understood everything right at the start. Asha’s restlessness
and gestures had revealed all. She was well aware that Mahendra had come
and stood at the door. But she let herself fall into Asha’s transparent trap,
like a simple, naïve fool.
Mahendra stepped into the room saying, ‘Pray share the joke with this
hapless soul?’
Startled, Binodini tried to raise her anchal over her head. Asha caught her
wrist.
Mahendra laughed. ‘Either you sit and I leave, or we both have a seat.’
Binodini didn’t go in for a great show of embarrassment, tugging her
hands away from Asha’s grip and clamouring to leave, like most women
would have. She spoke naturally and easily, ‘I shall sit because you’ve
asked me to. But please don’t curse me and speak ill of me when I am
gone.’
Mahendra said, ‘I’ll curse you so that you lose the power to move for a
long time.’
Binodini said, ‘Oh, I am not afraid of that curse because your “long time”
won’t be too long—it’s already over probably.’
She tried to get up again and Asha pressed her, ‘Please, please do sit a
little longer.’
 14

ASHA ASKED, ‘TELL ME HONESTLY, WHAT DID YOU THINK OF

MY CHOKHER bali?’
Mahendra said, ‘Not bad.’
Asha was a little hurt. ‘You never really like anyone.’
Mahendra said, ‘Except for one person.’
Asha said, ‘All right, I’ ll know if you’ve liked her or not once the two of
you get to know each other a little better.’
Mahendra said, ‘Better than this! So this will happen frequently from
now on?’
Asha said, ‘Even courtesy demands that you further your acquaintance
with some people. If you stop meeting her after just one conversation, what
would she think? You are so strange. Anyone else would have been dying to
meet such a girl as often as possible—but for you it seems like a great
burden.’
Mahendra was happy to have this difference with other people reiterated.
He said, ‘All right, don’t get upset. I have nowhere to run away and your
friend shows no signs of leaving—so we’ll certainly meet every now and
then. And never fear, when we do, your husband has the social graces to be
polite and cordial.’
Mahendra was under the impression that Binodini would find excuses
and keep running into him from now on. He was wrong. Binodini never
came anywhere near him and he never bumped into her accidentally, ever.
Mahendra couldn’t bring up the subject with Asha for fear of even a hint
of eagerness showing through. His efforts at suppressing the occasional
wish to meet and talk to Binodini only served to stoke his desire. And
Binodini’s seeming indifference turned it into a blazing fire.
 The day after he met Binodini, Mahendra asked Asha with carefully
arranged airiness and laughter, ‘How did your Chokher Bali like this
unworthy husband of yours?’
Mahendra had hoped he’d get a gurgling, detailed report from Asha on
this subject without his having to ask. But when he waited for it and it
didn’t come, he playfully brought up the question himself.
Asha felt very awkward. Binodini hadn’t said a word on the subject and
Asha was quite miffed with her because of this. She said to her husband,
‘Be patient, let her get to know you better; how can she say anything on the
basis of yesterday’s short conversation?’
Mahendra felt crestfallen at this response and it grew even more difficult
for him to feign indifference towards Binodini. But before he could ask any
more questions, Behari walked in and asked, ‘Mahin da, what are you two
arguing about today?’
Mahendra said, ‘Just listen to this: your bouthan has gone and become a
hair-band or fish-bone or something to a Kumudini or Promodini or
someone; good for her, I suppose. But now if I too have to be cigar’s ash or
match-stick to that lady, it’s really going too far!’
Behind her veil Asha showed signs of a storm gathering perilously.
Behari glanced at Mahendra and laughed silently; then he said, ‘Bouthan,
this is not a good sign. These are mere smokescreens. I have seen your
Chokher Bali and I can swear that if I see her more often I wouldn’t call it
my bad luck. But if Mahin da protests too much, I do see a cause for
concern.’
This was fresh proof to Asha that Mahendra was very different from
Behari.
All of a sudden Mahendra developed a desire for photography. Once long
ago he had started learning photography and then given it up. Now he got
his camera fixed, bought some film and began to take pictures of everything
and everybody. He didn’t even spare the servants and bearers of the house.
Asha was very keen that he take a picture of her friend.
Mahendra said brusquely, ‘Fine.’
But Binodini’s answer was even more brusque. ‘No.’
 Asha had to resort to another ruse and once again, it was obvious to
Binodini from the very start. The plan was that Asha would somehow get
Binodini to come up to her room in the afternoon and put her to sleep.
Mahendra would take her picture as she slept and that would serve her
adamant friend right indeed! The strange thing was that Binodini never took
a nap in the afternoon. But that day when she came into Asha’s room, for
some reason her eyes drooped at once. Draped in a red shawl and facing the
window, she rested her head on her arm and fell asleep in such a lovely
posture that Mahendra said, ‘She seems to have posed for a picture even in
her sleep.’
Mahendra tiptoed around and fetched his camera. In order to decide on
the best angle, he had to look at her from all sides. For art’s sake he even
had to brush away a few strands of hair from her forehead—and when he
didn’t like the effect, he had to correct it again. He whispered to Asha, ‘Just
move the shawl a little to the left near her feet.’
The inept Asha whispered back, ‘I can’t do it, she’ll surely wake up. You
do it.’
Mahendra did the needful.
Eventually, just when he had loaded the plate into the camera, Binodini
seemed to sense the sound, sighed, turned her head and woke up with a
start. Asha chortled in delight.
Binodini was extremely angry. Her sparkling eyes showered wrath upon
Mahendra as she exclaimed, ‘This isn’t right!’
Mahendra said, ‘I agree with you. But how can I bear it if after all my
stealth I’m not even able to bring home the loot? Pray let me finish my
crime and then punish me as you please.’
Asha begged and pleaded with Binodini. The picture was taken. But this
first picture was spoilt. So the photographer insisted on taking another one
the following day. Finally, Binodini couldn’t say no to the proposal of
taking one picture with both girls in it as a symbol of their everlasting
friendship. But she said, ‘This will be the last one.’
So Mahendra deliberately spoilt that one. And then, over pictures and
more pictures the acquaintance and camaraderie between them progressed
in leaps and bounds.
 15

DYING EMBERS GET A FRESH LEASE OF LIFE IF THE FIRE IS

STOKED FROM without. The slight breach that had come about in the
newly-weds’ romance soon healed itself and their passion burned afresh
after the introduction of a third party in their midst. Asha lacked the
capacity to laugh and make witty conversation. But Binodini could provide
that in abundance; and so Asha found a safe haven behind Binodini’s strong
persona. She no longer had to try so hard at keeping Mahendra entertained
and amused all the time.
Within the short span of a few months, Asha and Mahendra had almost
poured themselves out to each other—their song of love had started on the
highest possible note—it was as if they were intent on eating up the
principal instead of living off the interest. How were they to translate this
deluge of recklessness into the mundane simplicity of daily life? How could
Asha provide the fresh stimulation that Mahendra looked for every time
tedium gripped him after traversing the heights of intoxication? It was then
that Binodini brought in a colourful goblet filled with the fresh and the new
—and Asha was relieved to see her husband in good humour again.
Now she no longer tried so hard herself. When Mahendra and Binodini
laughed and joked, she simply laughed along joyfully. When Mahendra
tried to cheat her at card games, she appealed to Binodini for justice. If
Mahendra teased her or spoke out of turn, she expected Binodini to take her
side and protest. In this fashion the threesome got accustomed to one
another.
But this didn’t stop Binodini from tending to her household chores. She
only joined in the fun after she had finished cooking, cleaning, supervising
the servants and taken proper care of Rajlakshmi. Mahendra would get
impatient. ‘You’ re going to spoil the servants by doing everything
yourself.’ Binodini would answer, ‘That’s better than spoiling yourself by
not doing a thing. Go on, you had better go to college.’
Mahendra would say, ‘It’s a nice cloudy day—’
Binodini would reply, ‘Oh no, you don’t get away with that—the carriage
is ready—you must go to college.’
Mahendra would argue, ‘But I cancelled the carriage.’
Binodini would retort, ‘I called it back.’
She would bring his clothes for college and stand before him.
Mahendra would say, ‘You should have been born in a Rajput household
—you’d have had fun placing the armour on your loved one when he went
to war.’
Binodini did not like the idea of dropping out of classes or skipping
studies for fun. Under her strict regulation the practice of lounging about
and having fun at any time of the day became a thing of the past in the
household. And hence the evening sessions turned into an oasis of pleasure
for Mahendra. His days yearned for themselves to end.
Earlier, when his meals weren’t ready on time, Mahendra gladly used this
as a pretext to stay back home. These days Binodini took care to see that his
meal was ready first thing in the morning and the minute he finished it, he
was told that the carriage was waiting for him. Earlier, he seldom found his
clothes neatly folded and laid out for him: on the contrary, they usually
languished in a forgotten corner of some cupboard instead of going to the
laundry and turned up many days later when one was searching for
something quite different.
At first Binodini often chided Asha playfully in front of Mahendra, for
these and other muddles. Mahendra too smiled indulgently at Asha’s
helpless ineptitude. But soon, out of affection for her friend, Binodini
relieved Asha of her duties. Everything in the household had a changed
look since then. If a shirt button broke and Asha stood gazing at it
helplessly, Binodini snatched the garment from her nerveless fingers and
stitched it up in no time. One day a cat got to Mahendra’s plate of rice first
and had a few mouthfuls. Asha was worried sick; Binodini went into the
kitchen immediately, looked into various pots and pans and deftly rustled
up another plate of food. Asha was dumbfounded at her proficiency.
Mahendra felt Binodini’s caring touch in his clothing and food, at work
and leisure. The woollen shoes on his feet and the woollen scarf around his
neck—made by Binodini—felt like a tangible emotional contact. These
days Asha came to Mahendra, neat, tidy and all decked up by her friend:
she felt like she was partly herself and partly someone else; she and
Binodini seemed to have united like the Ganga and the Yamuna.
Behari was no longer as welcome as he was before—he was rarely sent
for. Once Behari wrote to Mahendra to say that he’d like to come the next
day at noon, a Sunday, and taste his mother’s cooking. Mahendra felt the
Sunday would go waste. So he quickly wrote back that the next day he had
some work and would have to go out. But Behari dropped by in any case to
look them up after lunch. The bearer informed him that Mahendra had not
left the house. Behari yelled out ‘Mahin da,’ as he bounded up the stairs and
went straight into Mahendra’s room. Caught unawares, Mahendra said he
had a headache and lay down facing the wall. Asha grew nervous when she
saw the complexion of Mahendra’s mood. She glanced at Binodini
hopefully. Binodini was well aware that it wasn’t a serious matter; but she
said anxiously, ‘You’ve been sitting up for too long, why don’t you lie
down. I’ll get some eau-de-cologne.’
Mahendra said, ‘It’s all right, don’t bother.’
Binodini paid no heed and quickly fetched some eau-de-cologne mixed
with cool water. She handed the wet towel to Asha and said, ‘Put this on
Mahendrababu’s temple.’
Mahendra went on saying, ‘It’s all right.’
Behari checked his laughter as he watched this performance. Mahendra
felt smug that Behari could witness how precious he was to the two women.
Shyness in Behari’s presence caused Asha’s fingers to tremble and she
wasn’t very deft with the towel; a few drops of eau-de-cologne sloshed into
Mahendra’s eyes. Binodini took the towel from her hands and applied it
skillfully; she then wet another piece of cloth with the liquid and wrung it
out over the towel. Asha veiled her head and fanned her husband quietly.
 Binodini asked in soothing tones, ‘Mahendrababu, do you feel better?’
Having spoken such honeyed words, Binodini shot an oblique glance at
Behari’s face. She found his eyes twinkling in merriment. The whole thing
was a farce to him. Binodini realized this man couldn’t be fooled easily—
nothing escaped him.
Behari laughed. ‘Binod-bouthan, with therapy like this the ailment is
likely to intensify rather than subside.’
Binodini said, ‘How would I know that, we are only ignorant women. Is
that what they say in your medical textbooks?’
Behari said, ‘Of course. This kind of treatment is making my own head
throb. But my head had better get all right on its own. Mahin da’s head
carries a far greater weight.’
Binodini dropped the wet cloth and said, ‘Forget it then; let the friend
treat his comrade.’
Behari was growing quite impatient with what he saw. He had been busy
with his books and wasn’t aware of just how complicated a relationship this
trio had cooked up in the meantime. Today he observed Binodini carefully
and she too took her measure of him.
Behari spoke a trifle harshly this time, ‘Fair enough. A friend must
indeed care for his friend. I brought on the headache and now I shall leave
with it. Don’t waste the eau-de-cologne.’ He glanced at Asha. ‘Bouthan,
prevention is better than cure.’
 16

BEHARI THOUGHT, ‘I CAN’T STAY AWAY ANY LONGER.

SOMEHOW, I MUST make my place among these people. None of them
will want it, but it must be done.’
So he began to infiltrate Mahendra’s circle without waiting to be invited.
He said to Binodini, ‘Binod-bouthan, this man has been spoilt by his
mother, by his friend and then by his wife; I beg of you, don’t spoil him
further; show him a different path instead.’
Mahendra said, ‘Meaning—’
Behari said, ‘Meaning that a man like me, whom nobody spares a second
glance—’
‘Should be spoilt instead?’ Mahendra quipped. ‘It’s not that easy; simply
putting in an application is not enough.’
Binodini laughed. ‘One has to have the capacity to be spoilt,
Beharibabu.’
Behari said, ‘That depends on who is doing the spoiling. Why don’t you
give it a try?’
Binodini said, ‘It doesn’t work if you are forewarned and forearmed;
unawares is how it has to catch you, isn’t it, dear Chokher Bali?Why don’t
you take on this brother-in-law of yours?’
Asha lifted two fingers and pushed her away. Behari also refrained from
joining in the joke. It had not escaped Binodini that Behari wouldn’t stand
any nonsense where Asha was concerned. It hurt her that Behari idolized
Asha but wanted to pull her down a peg or two. She looked at Asha again
and said, ‘This poor brother of yours is actually begging your love, though
he addresses me—so give him some, dear friend.’
Asha was very cross. Behari blushed for an instant and in the next he
laughed and said, ‘So when it’s my turn you pass the plea on to others but
when it’s Mahin da you take the matter in your own hands, do you, and deal
in cash?’
It was obvious to Binodini that Behari was intent on upsetting her
applecart; she’d have to be careful where he was concerned. Mahendra was
annoyed—all this straight talk rang a false note in the melody. He addressed
Behari a trifle harshly, ‘Behari, your Mahin da doesn’t need to go into any
deals; he’s happy with what he has.’
Behari said, ‘He may not need to go into it, but if fate ordains it, a
succession of such deals will come and crash on his doorstep like as many
waves.’
Binodini said, ‘You have nothing in hand at the moment; but where are
your waves crashing right now?’ She laughed at Asha and poked her in jest.
Incensed, Asha got up and walked away. Behari held his tongue in thwarted
rage; as he made to rise, Binodini said, ‘Don’ t go away unhappy,
Beharibabu. I’ll go and send my Chokher Bali to you right away.’
When Binodini left, Mahendra was displeased that the gathering had
broken up. His disgruntled face set Behari’s nerves on edge and he burst
forth, ‘Mahin da, you are free to court disaster for yourself—it’s something
you have always done. But please don’t ruin the simple, pious woman who
has sought refuge with you. I beg of you, don’t ruin her life.’ Behari choked
on the last words.
Mahendra shouted in righteous anger, ‘Behari, I don’t understand what
you are saying. Don’ t speak in riddles; clearly say what you want to.’
Behari said, ‘I’ll do that then. Binodini is leading you astray on purpose
and you are stepping on to the forbidden path like a fool.
Mahendra roared, ‘Lies! If you dare to make such false accusations about
a lady from a respected family, you should be barred from the inner
chambers.’
At this point Binodini walked in with a plate of sweets and smiling,
placed it before Behari. He said, ‘What’s all this? I am not hungry.’
Binodini said, ‘Well, that’s how it is. You cannot go without eating some
of this.’
 Behari laughed, ‘Does this mean that my application has been accepted
and my “spoiling” has begun?’
Binodini smiled coyly and said, ‘Since you are a younger brother-in-law,
you have a right; why beg where you can demand?You may choose to seize
affection if you wish, isn’t that so, Mahendrababu?’
Mahendra was lost for words.
Binodini said, ‘Beharibabu, is it modesty or anger that makes you refrain
from touching the sweets? Must I call someone else here?’
Behari said, ‘There’s no need for that; what I have here is more than
enough.’
Binodini said, ‘Mockery? You are incorrigible. Even sweets cannot
silence you.’
That night Asha condemned Behari to Mahendra and he supported her
unconditionally, unlike other days when he would laugh and brush aside her
complaints against his friend.
The next morning Mahendra visited Behari and said, ‘Behari, all said and
done, Binodini is not really a member of the family and in your presence
she seems to feel a bit uncomfortable.’
Behari said, ‘Is that so? That’s a pity. Well, if it bothers her I guess I
should stay away.’
Mahendra was relieved. He hadn’t expected this unpleasant task to be
accomplished so easily. He was a little scared of Behari.
The same day Behari strolled into Mahendra’s inner chambers and said,
‘Binod-bouthan, I beg your pardon.’
Binodini asked, ‘But why?’
Behari said, ‘I heard from Mahin da that my presence in the inner
chambers offends you. So I shall beg your pardon and take my leave.’
Binodini said, ‘Oh, that’s not right, Beharibabu; I am here today and gone
tomorrow. Why should you leave on my account? Had I known there would
be such trouble I would never have come here.’ Binodini’s face fell and she
looked as though she was holding back her tears as she walked away.
In that instant Behari felt, ‘My suspicions were wrong—I have wrongly
accused Binodini.’
 That evening Rajlakshmi came to Mahendra in despair and said, ‘Mahin,
Bipin’s wife is determined to leave us.’
Mahendra asked, ‘Why Mother, what’s troubling her here?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Nothing. But she says if a young widow like her stays
on in another’s house for too long, tongues will wag.’
Mahendra was angry. ‘This is not exactly “another’s house”, is it!’
Behari was sitting there and Mahendra threw him an incensed look.
Repentant, Behari mused silently, ‘Yesterday I was perhaps too critical of
Binodini and she’s upset about it.’
Both husband and wife felt offended with Binodini.
One said, ‘So you think we are “others”?’ and the other said, ‘After so
long you still don’t think of us as your own.’
Binodini said, ‘But really, did you think you could keep me here
forever?’
Mahendra said, ‘Oh no, we wouldn’t dare to presume any such thing!’
Asha said, ‘Why did you steal our hearts like this if you meant to go
away?’
That day nothing was decided. Binodini said to Asha, ‘No, my friend, let
me go. It’s best to leave before the tie grows stronger.’ She threw a poignant
look at Mahendra as she said this.
The next day Behari came and said, ‘Binod-bouthan, why do you speak
of going? Have we offended you—is this a penalty we have to pay?’
Binodini turned her face slightly and said, ‘Why would you offend me—
my own fate is at fault.’
Behari said, ‘But if you leave I can’t help feeling it would be my fault.’
Binodini raised her eyes full of pleading and asked of Behari, ‘You tell
me, is it right for me to stay?’
Behari was put in a spot. How could he answer in the affirmative? He
said, ‘Of course, you must leave at some point; but why don’t you stay a
while longer?’
Binodini lowered her eyes and said, ‘All of you are begging me to stay—
it is rather difficult for me to override the requests—but this is really very
wrong of you.’ As she spoke, the tears fell thick and fast through the dense
curtain of her long lashes.
Behari was unnerved by this silent, severe deluge of tears and exclaimed,
‘In the short while that you’ve been here, you have won the hearts of
everyone around you. And that is why no one wants to let you go. Please
don’t take it to heart Binod-bouthan, but who would want to be separated
from such grace and charm?’
Asha sat in a corner with her sari pulled over her head, and wiped her
eyes repeatedly. After this incident, Binodini never spoke of leaving again.
 17

IN AN EFFORT TO WIPE OUT THE MEMORY OF THIS

UNPLEASANTNESS, Mahendra proposed a picnic in the farmhouse at
Dumdum the following Sunday. Asha welcomed the idea but Binodini
refused. Both Mahendra and Asha were crestfallen at her refusal. They
thought, ‘Binodini is trying to distance herself from us these days.’
That evening, the minute Behari arrived, Binodini said, ‘Beharibabu,
listen to this, Mahinbabu wants to go to the farmhouse at Dumdum for a
picnic and because I refused to go, the two of them have been sulking all
day.’
Behari said, ‘I can’t blame them. If you don’t go, the bedlam that’ll pass
for a picnic can’t be wished upon one’s worst enemies, let alone on these
two.’
Binodini said, ‘Why don’t you come along, Beharibabu? If you come,
I’m willing to go.’
Behari said, ‘Brilliant suggestion. But it awaits the master’s approval—
what does the master say?’
Both the master and her ladyship were miffed at this predilection on
Binodini’s part towards Behari. Hearing the proposal, Mahendra’s
eagerness for the outing dwindled. He was keen on persuading Behari that
the latter’s presence was distasteful to Binodini at all times. But now it
would be difficult to hold him back.
Mahendra said, ‘That’s fine, sounds good. But Behari, you always kick
up a ruckus wherever you go—perhaps you’ll invite a whole bunch of local
children there or stir up a fight with a whiteskin, one never knows what to
expect with you.’
Behari understood why Mahendra was dragging his feet and he smiled
quietly to himself as he said, ‘But that’s the fun of life—one never knows
what’s to come, what will happen next. Binod-bouthan, we’ll have to leave
at the crack of dawn. I’ll be here on time.’
At the appointed time two carriages pulled up in front of the house: an
ordinary one for luggage and bearers and a deluxe carriage for the
gentlemen and ladies. Behari arrived early with a huge box. Mahendra said,
‘What is that? There’s no room in the servants’ carriage.’
Behari said, ‘Don’t worry, Mahin da, I’ll take care of everything.’
Binodini and Asha got into the carriage. Mahendra hesitated, wondering
what he should do about Behari. But Behari hauled the box on top of the
carriage and jumped into the coachbox beside the coachman.
Mahendra heaved a sigh of relief. He was afraid Behari would want to sit
inside the carriage and then there was no telling what he would do. Binodini
was concerned. ‘Beharibabu, isn’t that rather unsafe?’
Behari answered her, ‘Don’t worry, my role in the performance doesn’t
include “falls to the ground and bites the dust”.’
As soon as the carriage rolled away, Mahendra said, ‘Why don’t I go and
sit out there and send Behari inside?’
Asha didn’t like this. ‘No , you won’t sit there.’
Binodini said, ‘Please don’t. You are not used to it; you may fall.’
Mahendra got worked up. ‘Fall indeed! Not on your life!’ He made to
open the door and get off.
Binodini said, ‘You may well blame Beharibabu, but you take the cake in
kicking up a fuss.’
Mahendra was in a huff. ‘Fine then,’ he said, ‘let me hire a second
carriage and go in that and let Behari come in and sit here.’
Asha said, ‘if you do that, I’ll come with you.’
Binodini said, ‘And I suppose I should jump off the carriage?’ The
conversation ended amidst this hullabaloo. But all the way to Dumdum,
Mahendra sulked and frowned.
The carriage finally reached the farmhouse. The servants’ carriage had
left long before theirs, but there was still no sign of it.
Autumn mornings could be very pleasant. The sun had risen high by now
and dried up the dew; the trees glistened in the fresh morning light. The
compound walls were lined with shefali trees, the earth below them was
strewn with fallen flowers and the air redolent with fragrance.
Freed from the concrete jungle of Kolkata and let loose in a garden, Asha
ran about excitedly like a wild fawn. She dragged Binodini along, picked up
heaps of flowers, plucked ripe custard apples off the trees and ate them raw,
and then the two friends had a long and leisurely bath in the pond. Between
the two of them, they filled the shade of the trees, the light off the branches,
the water in the pond and the flowers in the garden with a sense of sheer
delight.
After their bath, the two friends came back to find that the servants’
carriage had still not turned up. Mahendra was sitting on a stool on the
veranda, looking quite forlorn and reading an advertisement of a foreign
store.
Binodini asked, ‘Where is Beharibabu?’
Mahendra answered curtly, ‘I don’t know.’
Binodini said, Come on, let’s look for him.’
Mahendra said, ‘I don’t think anyone will steal him away. He’ ll turn up
even without our looking.’
Binodini said, ‘But he may be worried sick about you, for fear that he
might lose his precious jewel. Let’s go and comfort him.’
Near the pond there was a mammoth banyan tree with a cemented bench
around its girth. At that spot Behari had opened up his box, taken out a
kerosene stove, lit it and started heating some water. The minute everyone
arrived, he welcomed them, made them sit on the bench and served them
cups of steaming tea and little plates laden with sweets and snacks. Binodini
repeated again and again, ‘Thank goodness Beharibabu came so well
prepared; or else I shudder to think what would have happened to
Mahendrababu without his cup of tea.’
Mahendra was greatly relieved to have his tea, but he still protested,
‘Behari takes things too far. It’s a picnic and it takes the fun out of it if one
comes so well prepared.’
Behari said, ‘Very well my friend, please hand back that cup of tea. You
are most welcome to stay unfed and enjoy the true spirit of the picnic.’
 The day wore on and there was still no sign of the servants. Behari’s box
now began to yield all the necessary food items: rice, dal, vegetables and
even tiny jars of ground spices. Binodini was stunned and said,
‘Beharibabu, you amaze me. Considering you do not have a wife at home,
how did you learn to be so methodical?’
Behari said, ‘Necessity has forced me to this—I have to look after
myself, you see.’
Behari spoke in jest but Binodini was solemn as she looked at him with
eyes full of sympathy.
Behari and Binodini went about setting things up for cooking lunch.
Asha offered to help, albeit very hesitantly, but Behari stopped her.
Mahendra, inept as he was, did not even proffer his services. He leaned
against the tree trunk, hoisted one leg over the other and immersed himself
in watching the play of light on the trembling leaves of the banyan tree.
When lunch was nearly ready, Binodini said, ‘Mahinbabu, you won’t
ever finish counting those leaves. Go and have your bath.’
By now the bunch of servants had arrived with their cargo. Their carriage
had broken down on the way.
After lunch a game of cards under the tree was proposed. Mahendra
refused to join in and by and by he drifted off to sleep in the shade. Asha
went indoors, shut the door and planned to have a lie-in.
Binodini raised her sari a little over her head and said, ‘In that case let me
go inside too.’
Behari said, ‘Where are you off to? Sit for a while and chat. Tell me
about your home.’
Every now and then the warm afternoon breeze shivered through the
leaves and branches, a koel twittered through the thick foliage of the berry
tree beside the pond. Binodini spoke of her childhood, her parents, her
playmates. As she spoke, the sari slipped off her head. The brightness of her
sharply etched beauty was softened by the shadows of childhood memories.
The mocking, knife-edge flash of her eyes, that had made Behari feel much
concern heretofore, settled into a calm and serene look as she spoke, and
Behari glimpsed a different person altogether. The tender heart that was at
the centre of her flashing radiance was still full of gentle affection and the
burning embers of unquenched desires and all her sharp banter had not yet
succeeded in withering the woman in her. Never before had Behari been
able to visualize Binodini tending to her husband as a shy, homely wife or
holding her child in her arms like a loving mother—but today, all of a
sudden, the performing stage that he always seemed to see her on, vanished
before his eyes, and he could envisage her in a happy home. He said to
himself, ‘Binodini may appear to be a teasing, coy temptress, but deep in
her heart a chaste woman rests in silent prayer.’ He heaved a sigh as he
thought, ‘One doesn’t know one’s own true self completely; that is only
known to God. The self that emerges circumstantially is the one that the
world takes for real.’ Behari didn’t let the conversation drift. He badgered
Binodini with questions and kept her talking; she had never before found a
listener like this and never had she so forgotten herself, spoken so much
about herself to a strange man. Today, the endless torrent of words spoken
so simply and from the heart made her entire self feel drenched, as though
cleansed by the first rain shower, tranquil and at peace.
Mahendra woke up at five, still tired from having woken up early that
morning. Quite irritated, he said, ‘Let’s start getting back now.’
Binodini said, ‘What’s the harm in staying a little while longer?’
Mahendra said, ‘Oh no, then we’d run into drunken white men on the
way back.’
By the time they finished packing and were ready to leave it was nearly
dark. At this point a servant came and informed them that the rented
carriage was nowhere to be seen. It had been left waiting outside the gates.
Two white men had bullied the coachman and taken it off to the station. The
servant was despatched to go and fetch another carriage. Mahendra was
thoroughly put out as he thought, ‘The day has been an utter waste.’ He
could scarcely conceal his impatience.
Gradually, the full moon disentangled itself from the web of boughs and
branches, and rose high in the sky. The silent, still grounds were etched
with shadows. This evening, in this charming, magical world Binodini felt
her own identity defined as never before. Today, when she went and put her
arms around Asha in the forested grove, her affection was entirely genuine.
Asha saw that Binodini’s cheeks were wet with tears. Concerned, she asked,
‘What’s this, Chokher Bali, why are you crying?’
Binodini said, ‘Oh it’s nothing, my dear; I am fine. It’s just that I had a
wonderful day.’
Asha asked, ‘What was so great about it?’
Binodini replied, ‘I feel as if I have died and come to heaven, as if I can
get everything here.’
A dumbstruck Asha could make neither head nor tail of this. But she
didn’t like all this talk of dying and said, ‘Shame, my darling Bali, don’t
talk that way.’
Another carriage was found. Behari took the seat in the coachbox once
again. Binodini gazed out of the window in utter silence. The rows of trees,
petrified in moonlight, rushed past like a dense shadow-fall in motion. Asha
slept in one corner of the carriage. Mahendra sat in forlorn silence all the
way back.
 18

EVER SINCE THE DEBACLE OF THE PICNIC, MAHENDRA WAS

EAGER TO re-establish his hold over Binodini. But the very next day
Rajlakshmi contracted the flu. It wasn’t serious, but she was weak enough
to be confined to bed. Binodini took it upon herself to look after her and
was at Rajlakshmi’s side all day and night.
Mahendra said, ‘If you work yourself so hard, you will fall sick very
soon. Let me hire a servant to look after Mother.’
Behari said, ‘Mahin da, don’t get so worked up. If Binod-bouthan wants
to nurse her, let her do it. This is not something a servant can do.’
Mahendra began to frequent the sickroom. The diligent Binodini found it
intolerable that a person who wasn’t doing anything, was always underfoot
when there was work to be done. Irritated, she did mention a few times,
‘Mahinbabu, you are not doing anyone any good by sitting here—don’t
absent yourself from your classes needlessly.’
Secretly, of course, Binodini was proud and thrilled that Mahendra was
following her around. But at the same time she was impatient with this
supplication, this ‘waiting with a starving heart’ even at his sick mother’s
bedside—she found it somewhat revolting. When Binodini took on a
responsibility, she lost sight of everything else. No one could ever find her
inattentive as long as there were household chores to be done, a patient to
be fed, washed and helped—she was also intolerant of frivolity at moments
of greater need.
Behari came sometimes to ask after Rajlakshmi.These were short visits.
The moment he entered the room, he’d sense what needed to be done, what
was missing—within minutes he’d set things right and then take his leave.
Binodini was well aware that Behari approved of the way she was taking
care of the patient. And hence Behari’s visits were like a special reward for
her efforts.
A feeling of indignity forced Mahendra to leave for college every day on
time. His temper was already frayed and to add to that—what a change had
come over his daily routine! Food was never ready on time, the driver
would disappear, the ladders in his socks kept inching higher and higher.
Such aberrations no longer charmed him. In the last few weeks he had
grown accustomed to having his every need anticipated and looked after.
Now, the absence of that attentiveness and Asha’s bungling incompetence
failed to amuse him.
‘Chuni, how many times have I told you to keep my clothes pressed and
ready before I go for my bath? It never happens that way. After my bath I
have to spend two hours hunting for my clothes and sewing on buttons,’ he
exploded one day.
This was like a crack of thunder for Asha. She had never received such a
dressing down. She could not summon up a suitable reply such as, ‘It was
you who stopped me from learning anything useful.’ She was entirely
unaware of the fact that competence in housework was all about practice
and experience. She believed, ‘I am unable to do a single thing properly
because I am inept and stupid.’ When Mahendra forgot himself and slighted
her with an unfair comparison to Binodini, Asha accepted it humbly and
without resentment.
Asha often hovered around her mother-in-law’s room—sometimes she
even stepped in tentatively. She would have liked very much to make
herself indispensable to the household, she wanted to show everyone her
willingness to work, but no one seemed to want it. She did not know how to
take control of the household, how to run it in her own way. Her diffidence
about her own incompetence kept her always outside the circle. A sense of
deep misery festered in her heart, growing every day, but she was unable to
articulate it, to give this formless agony a name. She perceived that she was
not being able to do anything about the household falling apart all around
her; but she didn’t know how it had all taken shape, why it was eroding
away and what would bring it back to life. She wanted to bawl her heart out
every now and then, crying, ‘I am really quite hopeless and incompetent;
my stupidity is unparalleled.’
Earlier, Asha and Mahendra had often spent hours in a corner of the
house, sometimes talking and sometimes not, but perfectly happy in each
other’s company. These days, in Binodini’s absence, when Mahendra was
alone with Asha he seemed lost for words. And he wasn’t comfortable not
saying anything either.
One day Mahendra saw a bearer carrying a letter and asked, ‘Who is that
letter for?’
‘It’s for Beharibabu.’
‘Who gave it?’
Bou-thakurani.’
‘Let me see,’ Mahendra took the letter. He was tempted to tear it open
and read what Binodini might have written to Behari. He turned the letter
over and over in his hands a few times and then hurled it back at the bearer.
If he’d opened it, he’d have found this: ‘Aunty is refusing to eat gruel
and barley water, may I give her a lentil soup today?’ Binodini never
consulted Mahendra on any medical matters. On such issues she trusted
Behari implicitly.
Mahendra paced the veranda for some time, then entered his room and
noticed that a picture hung crookedly on the wall—the string holding it was
threadbare. He scolded Asha roundly, ‘You never seem to notice anything;
this is how everything gets spoiled.’ The bunch of flowers that Binodini had
brought back from the farmhouse in Dumdum and placed in a vase, was
still in the same place, withered and dry. Mahendra usually didn’t notice
these things. But today his glance fell on it and he said, ‘These will never be
thrown away unless Binodini comes and does it.’ He hurled the vase,
flowers and all, out of the room and it bumped down the stairs with a
metallic thud. ‘Why can’t Asha be what I want, why can’t she work the way
I like, why is her innate lassitude and feebleness making me so restless
instead of binding me to the path of domesticity?’ The words roared
through Mahendra’s head as he turned and realized that Asha was standing
by the bed, holding one of the four-poster pillars, ashen-faced and lips
trembling—then she turned away and dashed out of the room.
Mahendra took measured steps and picked up the discarded vase. His
desk stood in a corner of the room. He sat at the desk with his head in his
arms as the minutes ticked away.
After dark someone brought in the lamps, but there was no sign of Asha.
Mahendra paced the terrace with impatient steps. The clock struck nine and
the lonely house grew silent as the depths of the night—but Asha still did
not come. Mahendra sent for her. Asha came up diffidently and stood by the
terrace doorway. Mahendra approached her and drew her in to his heart. In
an instant Asha’s tears flooded her husband’s bosom; she couldn’t stop, her
tears were ceaseless, her sobs threatened to tear away from her throat.
Mahendra held her tight and kissed her hair—from the mute sky the stars
looked down at them in mute silence.
Mahendra sat on the bed that night and said, ‘I have too many night shifts
to work in college. So I guess I should stay at a place near my college for
some time now.’
Asha thought, ‘Is he still angry? Is he moving away because he’s upset
with me? Am I so useless that I am pushing my husband out of his home?
Death would have been a better fate.’
But Mahendra didn’t show any signs of anger. He was silent as he held
Asha s head on his chest and played with her hair, running his fingers
through it repeatedly so that her hairdo came undone. In the early days of
their romance he often did something like this and Asha protested
vehemently. But today, far from protesting, she lay there in quiet
contentment. Suddenly, she felt a teardrop on her temple, Mahendra raised
her face to him and called in a voice choked with emotion, ‘Chuni.’ Asha
did not respond in words. She merely held him closer with her gentle hands.
Mahendra said, ‘I was wrong, please forgive me.’
Asha pressed her petal-smooth palm to his mouth and said, ‘Oh no, don’t
say that.You haven’t done any wrong, it’s all my fault. Please take me to
task like a truant servant and make me worthy of a place at your feet.’
 On the morning of his departure, before he left the bed Mahendra said,
‘Chuni, my precious, I shall hold you the highest in my heart, no one can
take away that place.’
Reassured thus, Asha steeled herself for all kinds of sacrifices and placed
before him her only and slight demand: ‘Will you write to me every day?’
Mahendra said, ‘I will, if you promise to reply.’
Asha said, ‘I wish I could write well.’
Mahendra pulled a few strands of hair tucked behind her ears and said,
‘You write better than Akshaykumar Dutta—you could write the
Charupath!’
Asha said, ‘Go on, stop teasing me.’
Before he left, Asha took it upon herself to pack his portmanteau.
Folding and packing Mahendra’s winter clothes were difficult. Between the
two of them, they pushed and stuffed all the things into two suitcases where
perhaps one would have sufficed. The things that got left out went on to
form an array of discrete bundles. Although Asha was shamed by this, yet
the squabbling, tugging at things, jesting and hurling reproofs at one
another brought back memories of happier days. For a while Asha forgot
that all this was in aid of imminent parting. The coachman sent word to
Mahendra at least ten times saying that the carriage was ready. Irritated, he
finally said, ‘Tell him to unharness it.’
Gradually, the morning wore into afternoon and then dusk. Finally, the
two of them cautioned one another once again to take care of themselves,
promised to write frequently and with a heavy heart, parted company.
Rajlakshmi’s fever had abated and she had been sitting up the last couple
of days. At dusk she wrapped herself in a thick shawl and sat playing cards
with Binodini. She was feeling quite fresh and fit today. Mahendra stepped
in and without glancing at Binodini said to Rajlakshmi, ‘Mother, I have to
work nights in the college and it’s difficult living here. I have rented a place
near the college. I am going there today.’
Rajlakshmi felt deeply wounded but only said, ‘Go ahead. Naturally, you
must do what’s good for your studies.’
 Although she was now in good health, the minute she heard Mahendra’s
plan to leave, she felt very ill indeed. She said to Binodini, ‘Child, could
you please hand me that pillow?’ She lowered her head on the pillow as
Binodini massaged her head and arms gently.
Mahendra felt his mother’s temple, took her pulse. Rajlakshmi pulled her
wrist away and said, ‘As if the pulse tells you everything. Don’t you worry,
I’ll be fine.’ She turned away feebly.
Mahendra touched her feet and walked away, without so much as a word
to Binodini.
 19

BINODINI WAS WONDERING, ‘WHAT IS THE REAL REASON—

WOUNDED EGO, wrath or fear? Does he want to prove to me that I don’t
matter to him? So he’ll go and stay in a rented house, will he? Let me see
how long this lasts.’
But Binodini herself was affected by Mahendra’s departure and felt quite
restive.
She had been keen on teaching Mahendra a lesson, throwing barbs at
him; now that this didn’t occupy her day, she felt time hanging heavy on her
hands. All her interest in the household vanished. Asha, without Mahendra
at her side, was bland fare indeed. Mahendra’s affection, caresses and love
towards Asha had always kept Binodini’s heart astir. The intense awareness
of pain their togetherness roused in Binodini’s grief-stricken imagination,
was cause for a compelling excitement. She could not figure out whether
she loved the man or despised him, whether she should penalize him or give
her heart to him; it was the same Mahendra who had deprived her of all
fulfilment in life that was due to her, the same Mahendra who had rejected a
gem of a woman like her and instead embraced a weak, feebleminded child
like Asha. He had succeeded in lighting a fire within her and she couldn’t
figure out if it was love, hate or a mixture of both. She would smile bleakly
to herself and say, ‘Is there another woman with a fate like mine? I cannot
even understand if I wish to slay or to be slain.’ But either way, whether to
be burned by or to set fire to, Mahendra was indispensable to her. Where
else would she shoot her poisoned arrows?
Binodini’s breath came thick and fast as she muttered, ‘Where can he go?
He will be back. He is mine.’
Asha was in Mahendra’s room, fiddling with his books, pictures, papers
on the desk, his chair, on the pretext of tidying up. Her evening of
separation was being spent in touching his belongings, picking them up,
dusting one, putting another away. Binodini approached her slowly; Asha
felt a trifle sheepish to be caught in the act—she stopped what she was
doing and pretended to be hunting for something. Solemnly, Binodini
asked, ‘So , what are you doing, my friend?’
Asha drew up a small smile and said, ‘Nothing much.’
Binodini wound her arms around Asha’s neck and asked, ‘Bali dear, why
did Thakurpo take off like that?’
Binodini’s question threw Asha into deep quandary and anxiety as she
replied, ‘As you probably know—he had some college work and so he had
to leave.’
Binodini raised Asha’s chin with her right hand, silently staring at her
with a mixture of pity and concern as she heaved a great sigh.
Asha’s heart sank. She considered herself to be stupid and Binodini to be
clever. This expression on her friend’s face turned her world upside down.
She didn’t dare to ask Binodini the question. Instead, she sat down on a sofa
by the wall. Binodini sat beside her and drew her into her arms tightly. Held
in the embrace of her friend, Asha couldn’t check her tears as they flowed
from her eyes unrestrained. Outside the house the blind beggar twanged his
fiddle and sang, ‘Give me the shelter of your feet, O mother Tara.’
Behari came looking for Mahendra and from the door he saw Asha
weeping and Binodini holding her to her heart as she wiped away the tears.
He stepped aside, went into the adjoining room which was dark and sat
down. He gripped his head in his hands and began to wonder why Asha
should be weeping. Who could be heartless enough to bring tears to the
eyes of the girl who was innately incapable of doing wrong to anyone? He
recalled the image of Binodini consoling Asha and said to himself, ‘I really
misjudged Binodini. In her nursing, comforting, and unselfish love for her
friend, she is nothing less than a goddess on earth.’
Behari sat there in the dark for a long time. Once the blind beggar had
stopped singing, Behari made a lot of noise, shuffled his feet, coughed and
walked towards Mahendra’s room. Before he reached the doorway, Asha
veiled her head and scuttled towards the inner chambers.
 The moment he stepped into the room Binodini exclaimed, ‘Beharibabu,
are you unwell?’
He said,‘Not at all.’
Binodini asked, ‘Why are your eyes red?’
Behari avoided answering that as he asked, ‘Binod-bouthan, where is
Mahendra?’
Binodini grew sombre. ‘I’ve heard that he has work at the college and so
he has taken up a room near there. Beharibabu, please step aside and let me
pass.’
Behari had been barring her way to the door absentmindedly. He stepped
aside quickly as he realized this. Suddenly he remembered that if he were
found talking to Binodini alone in a darkened room at dusk, people could
take it amiss. As she left, Behari quickly spoke up, ‘Binod-bouthan, please
look after Asha. She is naïve, she doesn’t know how to wound others or to
defend herself from hurt.’
In the dark, Behari could not see Binodini’s face—or he would have seen
the resentment sparked in it. She had realized the minute she set her eyes on
Behari today that he was overwhelmed with concern for Asha. Binodini
herself didn’t matter in the least! She seemed to be born to protect Asha, to
free Asha’s path of thorns, to fulfil every wish she ever had! Since
Mahendrababu wished to wed Asha, Binodini had to be exiled to the
wilderness of Barasat and married off to an uncouth ape. Since His
Highness Beharibabu couldn’t bear to see tears in dear Asha’s eyes,
Binodini must keep her shoulders ready at all times for her to weep on. Just
once, Binodini wanted to smite this Mahendra, this Behari down to the dust
at her feet and make them understand the difference between Asha and
Binodini! Her helplessness at the injustice of fate, that had prevented her
from planting a victory-flag in any man’s heart, burned like wildfire inside
Binodini and her very soul became combative.
As she left, she spoke to Behari in honeyed tones, ‘You can rest assured
Beharibabu, and don’t worry yourself to death on account of my Chokher
Bali.’
 20

SOON AFTER, MAHENDRA RECEIVED A LETTER IN A FAMILIAR

HAND, WRITTEN to his new address. He didn’t open it in the bustle of the
day’s work—but kept it safe in his pocket, near his heart. As he sat through
his classes in college, or did the rounds at the hospital, he felt the bird of
romance nestling in its nest next to his heart. If he woke it, his heart would
be filled at once with its twittering and chattering.
In the evening he switched on the lamp in his room and leaned back
comfortably in a chair. He fished out the letter from his pocket, warmed
now by his body-heat. He scrutinized the address on the envelope for a long
time, without opening it. He knew that the letter itself wouldn’t have much
to say. There was scant possibility that Asha would be able to articulate her
feelings lucidly. He would have to read between the crooked lines of
childlike scrawls to be able to reach her heartfelt thoughts. His own name
spelt out in Asha’s inept hand struck up a melodious note in Mahendra’s
mind—it was a pure love song from the concealed depths of a chaste
woman’s heart.
In the few days of absence from home, all vestiges of the ire of
familiarity had vanished from Mahendra’s heart and was replaced by his old
love for his new bride. In his last few days at home, the mundane, quotidian
details had upset and irritated him. All traces of that disappeared now, only
to be replaced by an abstract, unadulterated romantic light, which
illuminated Asha’s image in his mind.
Mahendra opened the envelope very slowly and brushed it across his
forehead and cheeks. The scent of the perfume he had gifted to Asha once
wafted from the notepaper and pierced his heart like a wayward sigh.
Mahendra unfolded the letter and read it. But what a surprise ! The lines
were crooked all right, but the language was by no means youthful. The
letters were formed in a raw hand, but the words were scarcely so. It said:
Dearest,
Why should I bring to your mind the one you went away to forget? When you have ripped
away the creeper and tossed it to the ground, she should be ashamed to try and creep up on you
again. She should ideally sink through the earth.
But just this little bit should do you no harm, my heart. Let the memories come for just a
few seconds. Will it hurt you terribly? Your dismissal has lodged itself in my heart like a thorn.
All day, all night, in whatever I do or think, wherever I turn, I feel the knife twist cruelly.
Please tell me how to empty my mind of your thoughts, the way you seem to have done with
mine.
Dearest, was it my fault that you loved me? Did I, ever in my dreams, think I would hold
such happiness in my hands? I am a nobody from nowhere in particular. If you never looked at
me twice, if I had to be a serf without wages in your household, I would still not grudge my
fate. I do not know what you saw in me, my heart, and why you raised me to the pinnacle of
joy. And today, if lightning had to strike, why did it have to leave me charred, why couldn’t it
strike me dead instead?
In the past two days, I have been very patient and thought things over at great length—but I
couldn’t make sense of one thing: couldn’t you have pushed me away without leaving home?
Did you have to go away to distance yourself from me—do I take up so much room in your
life? If you had cast me away to a corner of the room or even out of the door, would I ever
have drawn your eyes to myself? Why did you leave? Isn’t there someplace I could have gone
instead? I came from nowhere and I could have gone the same way.

What a letter! It was very obvious to Mahendra whose language this was.
He sat there, stupefied, like someone who has been wounded without
warning. He felt as if his mind had been running along a rail track as its
own pace when it had been hit from the opposite direction so suddenly, that
all his thoughts had skidded off track and lay crumpled in a heap by the
wayside.
He was deep in thought for a long time and then he read the letter again,
twice, thrice. What had been, for quite some time, a vague notion began to
take shape before his eyes. The comet that had hovered like a mere shadow
on his horizon now rushed to occupy the whole sky, its massive tail blazing
with a glowing light.
This letter had to be from Binodini. The naïve Asha had presumed it to
be hers and written it all down. As she wrote down the words dictated by
Binodini, thoughts that had never crossed her mind began to take root in her
head. Notions that were not her own took her fancy and became part of her
thoughts; Asha could never have expressed in so eloquent a language the
new pathos that surfaced. She wondered, ‘How on earth did Bali know my
mind so well? How did she say the exact words that were on my mind?’
Asha clung to her bosom friend more ardently now, because the language of
expression for the pain that was in her heart was in Binodini’s hands—she
was completely helpless.
Mahendra stood up, frowned and tried his best to be angry on Binodini.
But instead, his anger fell on Asha. ‘Just look at this girl’s foolishness, how
could she subject her husband to such nonsense?’ he thought. As if to
vindicate himself, he flopped onto the chair and read the letter yet again. As
he read it, he felt a secret thrill course through his body. He tried and tried
to read the letter as if Asha had written it. But these expressions could never
come from the unpretentious Asha. A couple of lines into the letter, a
stimulating suspicion bubbled through his mind, like fizzy, overflowing
wine. This mark of romance, covert yet uttered, forbidden yet intimate,
poisonous yet honeyed, proffered yet retracted, made him feel quite
inebriated. He wanted to slash his hands or legs or do some harm to himself
to take his mind off this matter. He brought his fist down on the desk with a
bang, jumped off his chair and exclaimed, ‘Off with you, let me burn this
letter.’ He held it close to the lamp. But instead of burning it, he read it all
over again. The next morning the servant did clear the table of a pile of
ashes, but those weren’t from Asha’s letter. Mahendra had set fire to the
many replies that he had tried to write.
 21

MEANWHILE ANOTHER LETTER ARRIVED:

You haven’t answered my letter. It’s a good thing actually. The truth can hardly be penned
down on paper; I have perceived your answers deep in my heart. When the devotee prays to
her lord, He seldom gives an answer to her face. But I suppose this poor soul’s devout offering
has found a place at your feet.
But if the devotee’s prayers wrack your concentration, please don’t take it amiss, lord of my
heart! Whether you grant her wish or not, whether you turn your eyes to her or not, whether
you come to know of her or not, this devotee has no option but to offer you her heart. Hence I
write these lines today—O my stone-hearted god, stay steadfast on your course.

Once again, Mahendra tried to write a reply. But in the attempt to write to
Asha it was a response to Binodini that flew swiftly to his pen. He could not
write covertly like Binodini had, naming one but meaning the other. Many
attempts and many torn sheets later he did manage to write something, but
when he put it into the envelope and was about to address it to Asha he felt
a whiplash on his back. A voice whispered, ‘You brute, is this how you
betray the trust of a credulous girl?’ Mahendra tore up the letter into tiny
bits and spent the rest of the night sitting at his desk, hiding his face in his
hands as if to shield it from his own gaze.
The third letter arrived:
Can someone who is incapable of indignation ever be a true lover? How will I give you my
love if it is received with slights and rebuffs?
Perhaps I have not read your mind right, and hence this impudence. When you left me
behind, I felt prompted to write the first letter; when you didn’t answer, I still poured my heart
out to you. If I have misread you, is it entirely my fault? Just try to look back on the past and
tell me if I haven’t understood what you wanted me to understand?
Anyway, whether it was truth or illusion, what I have written cannot be erased and what I
have given cannot be withdrawn—that is my only regret. Oh, that my fate had to bring me
such shame! But let this not assure you that the one who gives her love is also willing to drag
it through the mud at all times. If you do not want my letters, then I must stop. If you do not
reply, then this must be the end . . .
 Mahendra couldn’t stay still after this. He thought, ‘I will have to go back
home, however angry it makes me. Binodini is under the impression that I
have left home in order to forget her!’ Mahendra decided to return to his
home simply to disprove this defiant misreading on Binodini’s part.
Even as he reached the decision, Behari walked into the room. Mahendra
was very pleased to see him. Earlier, his doubts and suspicions had made
him feel jealous of Behari and the friendship had worn a little thin. But after
reading the letters, Mahendra’s jealousy had disappeared and he welcomed
Behari with open arms and extravagant cheer. He got up and slapped Behari
on the back, pulled him by the hand and offered him a seat.
But Behari looked crestfallen. Mahendra thought the poor wretch must
have gone to meet Binodini and she must have snubbed him. He asked,
‘Behari, have you gone to the house in the last few days?’
With a grave face Behari replied, ‘I am coming from there right now.’
Mahendra speculated on Behari’s anguish and felt quite amused. He
thought, ‘Poor, unfortunate Behari! He is really unlucky in love.’ And he
stroked his pocket once, where the three letters rustled noisily.
He asked, ‘And how is everyone there?’
Behari didn’t answer him and asked instead, ‘What are you doing here
away from home?’
Mahendra said, ‘I often have to work nights these days—it’s
inconvenient from home.’
Behari said, ‘You have had night-shifts in the past as well, I have never
seen you leaving home.’
Mahendra laughed. ‘Are you doubting me?’
Behari said, ‘I’m serious. Come home with me right now.’
Mahendra was mentally prepared to go back home. But Behari’s request
made him dig in his heels. He said, ‘How can I do that, Behari? My entire
year’s work will be ruined.’
Behari said, ‘Look here Mahin da, I have known you since you were this
high. Don’t try to fool me. What you are doing is not right.’
Mahendra said, ‘And who, my lord, am I subjecting to this injustice?’
 Upset, Behari said, ‘You have always bragged about your big-
heartedness. Where is your heart right now?’
‘These days, at the college hospital,’ Mahendra answered.
Behari said, ‘Stop, Mahin da, stop. Here you are laughing and joking at
our expense and over there Bouthan is weeping her heart out, sometimes in
the living room and sometimes in the inner rooms.’
This news of Asha’s tears was a bolt from the blue for Mahendra. His
new obsession had driven all thoughts of anyone else from his mind.
Startled out of his reverie, he asked, ‘Why is Asha weeping?’
Behari was impatient. ‘Am I supposed to know that or are you?’
Mahendra said, ‘If you must be angry because your Mahin da is not
omniscient, I think you must direct the wrath at his maker, not at him.’
Behari then told Mahendra all that he had seen. As he spoke, he
remembered Asha s tearful face burrowed into Binodini’s bosom and his
voice nearly choked with emotion. Mahendra was astounded by this display
of intense affection. As far as he knew, Behari didn’t have a heart to call his
own—this was a new development! Did it start the day they had first gone
to see Asha? Oh, poor, poor Behari! Mahendra did think him a poor soul,
but the thought tickled him rather than making him feel sorry. He was very
sure where Asha’s loyalties lay. His heart swelled a little with pride as he
thought, ‘Those who for others are unattainable stars to be wished on, have
actually come within my reach of their own accord.’
He said to Behari, ‘All right then, let’s go. But do send for a carriage
first.’
 22

THE MOMENT MAHENDRA CAME INTO THE HOUSE, ASHA TOOK

ONE LOOK at his face and all her complaints were forgotten, like the
lifting of a fleeting mist. Thoughts of the letters she had sent made her
cringe coyly and she could scarcely look him in the eye. Mahendra rebuked
her, ‘How could you accuse me of such things?’
He fished out the three oft-perused letters from his pocket. Asha wailed
vigorously, ‘Please, I beg of you, destroy those letters.’ She made to snatch
them from his hands. But he held them away from her and put them back in
his pocket saying, ‘I left on the call of duty and you thought I was running
away? You actually doubted me?’
Asha s eyes filled with tears. ‘Please forgive me, just this once? This will
never happen again.’
Mahendra said, ‘Never?’
Asha said, ‘Never.’
Mahendra drew her to him and kissed her. Asha said, ‘Give me those
letters—I’ll tear them up.’
Mahendra said, ‘No, let them be.’
Asha humbly thought, ‘He has kept them to punish me.’
On the issue of these letters, Asha felt a trifle displeased with Binodini.
She didn’t go to her friend with the good news of her husband’s return
home—instead she avoided her. Binodini noticed this and on the pretext of
work, she too didn’t stray that way.
Mahendra thought, ‘That’s strange! I had imagined Binodini would be far
more visible now. But this is quite the reverse ! So what was the meaning of
those letters?’
Mahendra had hardened his heart and decided to abstain from all
attempts at penetrating the mysteries of the female heart. He had decided
that even if Binodini tried to come closer, he’d stay away from her. But now
he changed his mind. ‘This is not right. It’s as if there is really something
between us. I must laugh, talk and joke with Binodini naturally and brush
away these niggling doubts.’
Mahendra said to Asha, ‘It looks like I have now become the grain of
sand in your friend’s eye. She is nowhere to be seen these days.’
Asha was indifferent. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with her.’
Meanwhile, Rajlakshmi came to Mahendra in tears. ‘Bipin’s wife is
really determined to leave us.’
Mahendra concealed his surprise and asked, ‘What’s the matter, Mother?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I don’t know, son, she is quite determined to go home
now. You really don’t know how to make someone feel welcome. She’s a
genteel woman, living in a strange home—how can she stay unless you
treat her as one of your own and make her feel at home?’
Binodini was darning a bedcover in her bedroom. Mahendra stepped into
the room and said, ‘Bali.’
Binodini looked up and asked, ‘What is it, Mahendrababu?’
Mahendra said, ‘Oh dear, since when did Mahendra become babu again?’
Binodini lowered her eyes and fixed them on her darning. ‘What should I
call you then?’
Mahendra said, ‘What you call your friend, Chokher Bali.’
Binodini didn’t give a mocking reply as she usually did—she continued
silently with her sewing.
Mahendra said, ‘Has that become our true relationship now, and so it
cannot be played at any more?’
Binodini paused, bit off some extra thread from her sewing and said, ‘I
don’t know, you would know better.’
She turned very grave and stopped whatever Mahendra would have said,
by asking, ‘Why did you suddenly decide to come back home from
college?’
Mahendra said, ‘How long can you keep dissecting cadavers?’
Binodini bit off some more thread with her teeth and without looking up,
she asked, ‘Do you need live people to cut up now?’
 Mahendra had decided he would really liven up the evening by chatting
and laughing with Binodini in the most friendly fashion. But he was taken
aback by her acute seriousness and the light and friendly responses did not
come readily to him. Whenever Mahendra found Binodini maintaining a
harsh distance, his entire being just rushed towards her blindly—he was
sorely tempted to shake the wall raised by her between them and to raze it
to the ground. He didn’t reply to the last of Binodini’s taunts. Instead, he
went up to her, sat beside her and asked, ‘Why do you want to leave us and
go away? What have we done?’
Binodini moved away a little, looked up from her sewing and fixed her
large, bright eyes on Mahendra’s face. ‘Everyone has duties to perform.
When you went away to college, leaving everything, was it because of
someone doing something wrong? Don’t I have to go? Don’ t I have duties
to perform there?’
Mahendra thought hard but failed to come up with a good response. After
a pause he said, ‘What are the duties that are forcing you to leave?’
Threading the needle with great concentration Binodini said, ‘My heart
knows what my duties are. I can hardly give you a list of them.’
Mahendra sat in silence, looking grave and concerned, and gazed at a
coconut palm outside the window. Binodini continued with her sewing
wordlessly. There was complete silence in the room for a while. Then
suddenly Mahendra spoke up. At the abrupt shattering of the silence,
Binodini pricked her finger with the needle.
Mahendra said, ‘Can we say nothing to hold you back?’
Binodini sucked the drop of blood from her finger and said, ‘Why would
you say anything? How does it matter whether I stay or go? Does it matter
to you at all?’ Her voice seemed to choke as she spoke. She bent low over
her work and it felt as if her lowered eyelashes were checking a trace of
tears that threatened to spill over. It was that time of the day when the
winter afternoon was poised to surrender itself to the darkness of dusk.
In a flash Mahendra gripped Binodini’s hands and said, ‘And if it does
indeed matter to me, would you stay?’
 Binodini drew back her hands swiftly and moved aside. The spell broke
for Mahendra. His own words of a minute ago kept ringing in his ears like a
huge travesty. He bit down on his culpable tongue and spoke no more.
At this point Asha stepped into the room echoing with silences.
Immediately, Binodini laughed and spoke as if in response to something
Mahendra had said earlier, ‘Since you all have placed me in such high
regard, it’s my duty to heed your request at least once. I’ll stay until you
send me away.’
Asha was thrilled at her husband’s success and threw her arms about her
friend. She said, ‘Then that is the last word. Promise me that you will never
leave as long as we don’t send you away!’
Binodini promised. Asha said, ‘Dear Bali, when you were going to stay
back, why did you make us beg and plead so? Finally you had to bow your
head before my husband, didn’t you?’
Binodini laughed. ‘Thakurpo, who was it that had to bow down, you or
me?’
Mahendra was speechless all this time. He was feeling that the room
resounded with his culpability, and shame was lashing away at him. How
would he speak to Asha normally? How could he turn his uncouth rashness
into a smiling jest at a moment’s notice? This web of deceit was beyond his
reach. He answered quietly, ‘Of course, it was I who had to bow down,’ and
walked out of the room.
He came back in there immediately and said to Binodini, ‘Please forgive
me.’
Binodini asked, ‘And what are you guilty of, Thakurpo?’
Mahendra said, ‘We don’t have the right to keep you here under
compulsion.’
Binodini laughed and said, ‘But where is the compulsion—I don’t see it
anywhere. You spoke out of kindness and concern and asked me to stay. Is
that called coercion? You tell me, dear Bali, can love and coercion ever be
the same?’
Asha agreed with her entirely. ‘Never.’
 Binodini said, ‘Thakurpo, that you would like me to stay, that you’ll be
sorry to see me leave, is an honour in itself. Isn’t that so, dear Bali? After
all, how often does one find such a well-wisher? If fate is so kind as to hand
me such a friend in need, a comrade in sorrows and joys, why would I be so
keen to brush aside the friendly hand and leave?’
Asha was distressed to see her husband defeated and silenced and she
said, ‘Oh, you can never be beaten at words. My husband has laid down his
arms, now you should stop.’
Mahendra rushed out of the room once again. At the same time Behari
came looking for him, after having spent a few minutes talking to
Rajlakshmi. Mahendra ran into him at the door and exclaimed, ‘Oh Behari,
I am the biggest scoundrel on this earth.’ The force of his words carried
them into the room.
Immediately, the summons came from within, ‘Behari-thakurpo!’
Behari said, ‘Just a minute, Binod-bouthan.’
Binodini said, Please come and listen to this.’
As he stepped into the room Behari shot a quick glance at Asha’s face.
The little that could be seen behind the anchal held no trace of sorrow or
pain. Asha tried to leave, but Binodini held her back and said, ‘Tell me
Behari-thakurpo, are you so repugnant to my Chokher Bali? Why does she
want to run away the minute she sees you?’
Embarrassed, Asha poked at Binodini.
Behari laughed as he responded with, ‘It’s probably because my maker
has not fashioned me to please the eye.’
Binodini said, ‘Did you see that Bali dear, Behari-thakurpo knows the art
of defence; he blamed his maker instead of your taste. You are so unlucky
—you have such a gem of a brother-in-law and you don’t know his worth.’
Behari said, ‘If you are convinced of that Binod-bouthan, I have no
regrets.’
Binodini said, ‘Oh , the ocean stretches to the horizon, but the mariner
thirsts for a drop of water.’
Asha could no longer be checked. She snatched her hand from Binodini’s
grip and ran out of the room. Behari also made to rise. Binodini asked,
‘Thakurpo, can you tell me what’s wrong with Mahendrababu?’
Startled, Behari stopped in his tracks and said, ‘I don’t really know; is
something wrong?’
Binodini said, ‘I don’t know, Thakurpo, it doesn’t bode well.’
Concerned, Behari sat down on a chair. He looked expectantly at
Binodini, eager to hear the whole thing. Binodini continued with her
darning without saying another word.
After some time, Behari asked, ‘Has something about Mahin da struck
you as odd?’
Binodini replied very casually, ‘I don’t know, Thakurpo, it doesn’t look
good to me. I just feel terribly concerned for my Chokher Bali.’ She sighed,
put her sewing away and made as if to get up.
Behari said, ‘Bouthan, wait a minute.’
Binodini opened all the doors and windows of the room, stoked up the
lamp light, picked up her sewing again and took a seat on the far corner of
the bed. She said, ‘Thakurpo, I cannot stay here forever. But when I am
gone, please look after my Chokher Bali, see that no harm comes to her.’
She turned away as if to hide an imminent onslaught of tears.
Behari spoke up impetuously, ‘Bouthan, you cannot leave. You don’t
have anyone to call your own—you must take it upon yourself to safeguard
this simple, innocent girl at all times. If you leave her and go, I don’t see a
way out.’
Binodini said, ‘Thakurpo, you know the world as well as I do. If I stayed
here forever, what would people say?’
Behari said, ‘Oh, let them say what they will. You mustn’t pay attention
to that. You are divine—it is your responsibility to protect the helpless girl
from all the stones and pellets hurled by the world. Bouthan, I misjudged
you at first; please forgive me for that. Just like the narrow-minded,
common man on the street, I did you injustice when I first met you. Once, I
even felt that you envied Asha her happiness, that—anyway, it’s a sin even
to speak such thoughts aloud. Since then I have glimpsed your divine soul
and because I have a deep respect for you, I felt I had to confess all my sins
today.’
 A stream of pleasure coursed through Binodini. Though her own show of
concern was an act, she couldn’t refuse this homage from Behari even in
her own heart of hearts. She had never received such a gift from anyone.
For an instant she truly believed she was chaste, noble—a vague sense of
pity for Asha brought tears to her eyes. She didn’t hide these tears from
Behari—they gave her the illusion that she was indeed worthy of homage.
When Behari saw Binodini weeping, he was close to tears himself. He
controlled himself somehow and went into Mahendra’s room. Behari had no
inkling why Mahendra had declared himself a scoundrel. On reaching his
room he found that Mahendra wasn’t there. He was told that Mahendra had
gone for a walk. In the past Mahendra seldom left his room without reason.
Away from his familiar people and places, he felt uncomfortable and
fatigued. Behari started homewards, deep in thought.
Binodini fetched Asha to her own room, drew her into her bosom and
with tear-filled eyes said, ‘Dear Bali, I am very unfortunate, very ill-
starred.’
Hurt and puzzled, Asha returned her embrace and said, ‘Why, my dear,
why do you say that?’
Binodini hid her face in Asha’s bosom like a child close to sobbing and
said, ‘Wherever I go, bad things happen. Let go, my friend, let go of me—I
will go back to my wilderness.’
Asha raised up Binodini’s face by the chin and said, ‘My sweet friend,
don’t talk like that. I cannot live without you. Why did these thoughts of
leaving come to you today?’
Meanwhile Behari, having missed Mahendra, decided to go to back to
Binodini on some pretext and thresh out the matter of Asha’s and
Mahendra’s differences at greater length. He made up an excuse of
requesting Binodini to ask Mahendra if he could have lunch with Behari the
next day, and turned back to the house. From outside the room he called
out, ‘Binod-bouthan,’ and immediately spotted, in the light of the kerosene
lamp, the two teary-eyed women holding each other tight. His steps slowed
to a halt. Asha noticed his hesitation; suddenly the thought crossed her mind
that Behari may have said something unfair or unjust to Binodini and that
was why she talked of going away thus. This was very wrong of Behari—
he wasn’t a good soul, she thought. Annoyed, Asha walked out of the room.
Behari too left, with his heart overflowing with respect for Binodini.
That night Mahendra said to Asha, ‘Chuni, I am leaving for Kashi by the
morning train tomorrow.’
Asha’s heart skipped a beat. She asked, ‘But why?’
Mahendra said, ‘It’s been ages since I saw Aunty.’
At this, Asha felt mortified: she should have thought of this before. Filled
with self-loathing she felt she was indeed hard-hearted to have forgotten her
loving aunt in the midst of the ebb and flow of life, while Mahendra had
recalled that loving soul living in a far-off land.
Mahendra said, ‘She had left, entrusting her most precious jewel to my
care—I cannot rest if I don’t see her once.’ Mahendra’s voice quivered with
unshed tears and his right palm stroked Asha’s temple repeatedly in a
gesture of silent blessing and unspoken good wishes. Asha couldn’t make
sense of this sudden onslaught of tenderness, but she felt overcome by
emotion, and tears ran down her cheeks. She recalled Binodini’s words of
exaggerated affection earlier that evening. She didn’t know if there was a
link between these two incidents. But she did perceive that this was a
watershed in her life. She couldn’t figure out if it was benevolent or
malevolent.
Distraught, she embraced Mahendra vigorously. He sensed her unspoken
terrors and said, ‘Chuni, you have the blessings of your devout Aunty, you
have nothing to fear, nothing at all. She has sacrificed everything and gone
away, for your good alone. No harm can ever come to you.’
Asha pushed away all her fears with determination and gathered her
husband’s blessings to her heart like a protective talisman. In her mind she
touched her aunt’s feet again and again and prayed fervently, ‘Mother, may
your blessings protect my husband at all times.’
The next day Mahendra went away without a word to Binodini. She said
to herself, ‘You make the mistake and then you take it out on me! What an
impostor. These pretences won’t last long.’
 23

ANNAPURNA WAS NATURALLY DELIGHTED TO SEE MAHENDRA

AFTER SUCH A long time. But at the same time she feared that he had
again fought with his mother over Asha and had come to Annapurna for
sympathy. Even as a child, Mahendra had always run to his aunt in times of
trouble. When he was hurt, Annapurna would console him, and when he
was angry, she would advise him to deal with the situation calmly. But she
was incapable of consoling him, let alone solving his problems, since his
marriage. When she became certain that whatever she tried to do to help
him would only serve to aggravate the domestic strife in Mahendra’s life,
she had walked out of the house. She had gone away like the helpless
mother who goes to the next room when the sick child weeps for water and
the doctor forbids it. In this far-off exile, away from the concerns of the
house, busy with her religious duties and pious endeavours, she had
forgotten the family to some extent. Now she feared that Mahendra had
arrived with the intent of bringing up all those conflicts once again and
upsetting her peace of mind.
But Mahendra said nothing about any friction with his mother about
Asha. Now Annapurna feared other things: why would that same
Mahendra, who was once incapable of leaving Asha long enough to go to
college, suddenly come so far away to be with his aunt? Were the bonds of
love between them wearing thin? Consumed with anxiety, Annapurna asked
Mahendra, ‘Tell me honestly, my son, I beg of you, how is Chuni?’
Mahendra said, ‘She is fine, Aunty.’
‘What does she do these days, Mahin? Are you two still as childish as
ever or have you begun to take on some household duties?’
Mahendra said, ‘No—the childlishness has stopped. Remember that
alphabet book—the root of all evil? I don’t know where it has vanished, but
it simply cannot be found. If you were there, you’d be happy to see that
Chuni is faithfully fulfilling the duties of a woman, in so far as it is
advisable for a woman to neglect her education.’
‘Mahin, what is Behari up to?’
Mahendra said, ‘Everything but his own work. His finances are managed
by his clerks and employees—I don’t know with what intent. That is Behari
for you. His own matters will be managed by others while he handles the
affairs of others.’
Annapurna asked, ‘Mahin, won’t he get married?’
Mahendra smiled at that. ‘I don’t see any signs of it.’
This jolted Annapurna deep in her heart. She was aware that Behari had
once agreed to get married, after seeing her niece and that enthusiastic
desire had then been crushed unfairly. Behari had said, ‘Aunty, please don’t
ask me to get married ever again.’ Those words, full of hurt and anger, were
still ringing in Annapurna’s ears. She had left her much-loved and trusted
Behari heartbroken and she hadn’t even been able to offer him much
consolation. With great trepidation and distress Annapurna wondered if
Behari still yearned for Asha!
Mahendra brought her up to date on much of the news of their daily lives,
with great wit and humour. But he did not mention Binodini at all.
Mahendra’s college was in session and there was no reason for him to
stay in Kashi for too long. But his visit to Annapurna was giving him the
kind of pleasure that one gets while convalescing in healthy environs after a
nerve-wracking and tedious illness. And so the days slipped by in quick
succession. The conflict with his own self that he had been unable to
resolve, disappeared gradually. The few days he spent in the company of the
pious and loving Annapurna, made him so attuned to the duties and
responsibilities of life, that his earlier fears began to seem almost ludicrous.
He began to feel that Binodini was of no consequence. So much so that he
could not recall her face clearly now. Eventually, with great force,
Mahendra said to himself, ‘I cannot see anyone on the horizon who has the
power to dislodge Asha from her place in my heart.’
 One day he said to Annapurna, ‘Aunty, I have to go back to college—so
I’ll take your leave for now. Although you have cut yourself off from family
ties, please allow me to come and visit you from time to time.’
Mahendra came back home and gave Asha the box of sindoor and the
little pot made of white stone and glitter that were sent by her aunt with
love. Asha wept copiously and when she recalled her aunt’s unconditional
love for them and the many ways in which all of them including Rajlakshmi
had tormented her, she felt very unhappy indeed. She said to Mahendra, ‘I
really wish I could go to my aunt just once, touch her feet and beg
forgiveness. Is that not possible?’
Mahendra understood her misery and he wasn’t unwilling to let her go to
spend a few days with Annapurna in Kashi. But he really didn’t see how he
could take leave from college once again, so soon after his previous trip.
Asha said, ‘I believe my uncle’s wife will go to Kashi shortly. Is it all
right if I go with her?’
Mahendra went to Rajlakshmi, ‘Mother, Asha wants to go to Kashi to
visit Aunty.’
Rajlakshmi replied scathingly, ‘Certainly, if her ladyship wants to go, she
must go. Why don’t you take her?’
She wasn’t happy that Mahendra had re-established contact with
Annapurna; at this request of Asha going there as well, she was quite
displeased.
Mahendra said,’I cannot go; I have classes. She can go withAnukulbabu.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Oh, that’s wonderful. They are rich people; their paths
seldom cross ours, poor as we are. It would be an honour for her to go with
them.’
Mahendra was sorely put out by this repeated derision from his mother.
He hardened his heart and walked away, silently determined to send Asha to
Kashi.
When Behari came to meet Rajlakshmi, she said, ‘O Behari, have you
heard—our daughter-in-law wants to go to Kashi!’
Behari said, ‘What! Mahin da will take leave again to go with her?’
 Rajlakshmi said, ‘Oh no, why would Mahin do that! It wouldn’t be the
height of fashion, would it? Mahin will stay here and she will go with her
uncle. Everyone is so modern these days.’
Behari felt concerned—not with the emerging signs of ‘modernity’
though; he wondered, ‘What is going on—when Mahin da went to Kashi,
Asha was here; now that she wants to go, he is staying back. Something
must be seriously wrong between them. How long will this go on? As
friends, can’t we do something about this—should we just keep our
distance?’
Mahendra was sitting in his room, thoroughly exasperated by his
mother’s rudeness. Binodini had not met him since he returned. Asha was
pleading with her in the next room to come and meet him.
At this point Behari walked in and said, ‘Is Asha-bouthan’s trip to Kashi
all fixed?’
Mahendra said, ‘Why wouldn’t it be fixed? What’s the difficulty?’
Behari said, ‘Who said anything about difficulty? But what’s behind this
sudden idea?’
Mahendra said, ‘Oh—wish to see her aunt—yearning for one’s loved
ones who are far away—it is not uncommon to human nature.’
Behari asked, ‘Are you going with her?’
Behari’s question made Mahendra feel that he had come to suggest that it
wouldn’t be right to send Asha with her uncle. He didn’t want to flare up at
Behari and so he answered brusquely, ‘No.’
Behari knew Mahendra fairly well. He was fully aware that Mahendra
was annoyed. He also knew that once Mahendra’s mind was made up, there
would be no way of bringing him around. So he didn’t bring up the topic of
Mahendra’s going again. He found himself thinking, ‘If poor Asha is
stressed out over something and wants to leave with a burden on her heart,
it’d help if Binodini accompanied her.’ So he said very slowly, ‘Wouldn’t it
be nice if Binod-bouthan went along with her?’
Mahendra roared in anger, ‘Behari, why don’t you say what’s really
troubling you? I don’t see the need to beat about the bush with me. I am
aware that you suspect I have fallen in love with Binodini. It’s a lie. I
haven’t. You do not have to go about guarding me in order to protect me.
Please protect yourself instead. If you were a genuine friend, you’d have
told me the truth about your feelings long ago and kept yourself far away
from your friend’s inner chambers. I can say this to your face—you are in
love with Asha.’
A speechless Behari stood up, ashen-faced, and advanced on Mahendra.
He looked like he was about to lash out without a thought, like someone
who had been wounded deliberately in his weakest spot. He stopped short
just in time and spoke with great difficulty, ‘May God forgive you—I must
be gone.’ He walked out unsteadily.
Binodini rushed out of the next room and called, Behari-thakurpo!’
Behari leaned on the wall and tried to smile. ‘What is it, Binod-bouthan?’
Binodini said, ‘Thakurpo, I will also go to Kashi along with my Chokher
Bali.’
Behari said, ‘No , no, Bouthan, that’s impossible, absolutely impossible. I
beg of you—don’t do anything that I have said; I am nobody here, I do not
want to interfere, the consequences won’t be good. You are a virtuous soul
—you must do what you think is right. I must go.’
Behari folded his hands and saluted Binodini politely as he left. Binodini
muttered, ‘I am no saint, Thakurpo—listen to me. If you leave, no one will
be happy. Don’ t blame me then.’
Behari left. Mahendra sat there, stupefied. Binodini hurled him an angry
look, spitting fire like a bolt of lightning, as she walked into the next room
where Asha sat in utter mortification and shame. She couldn’t bring herself
to look up, after she had heard Mahendra say that Behari loved her. But
Binodini felt no sympathy for her. If Asha had indeed looked up then, she’d
have felt terrified. Binodini was livid, furious with the whole world. Lies
indeed! Of course, no one loved Binodini! Everyone only loved this
bashful, dainty china doll.
Ever since Mahendra had exclaimed to Behari, ‘I am a scoundrel,’ he had
felt diffident in Behari’s presence, ashamed of his confession, especially
after his blood had stopped boiling. He felt that his heart lay exposed before
his friend. He didn’t love Binodini, but Behari felt that he did—this thought
was eating away at Mahendra. After that day whenever he came face to face
with Behari, he felt his friend was poking at him with amused interest. An
irritation was piling up inside and today at the slightest provocation he had
given vent to it.
But the manner in which Binodini rushed out of the adjoining room,
begging and pleading with Behari to stay and agreeing to obey his wishes
by accompanying Asha to Kashi, left Mahendra feeling shattered. He had
claimed that he did not love Binodini; but what he saw and heard didn’t
give him a moment’s peace—it taunted him in every way. And above all he
felt deeply regretful that Binodini had heard him say he did not love her.
 24

MAHENDRA KEPT THINKING, ‘I HAVE UTTERED A LIE, THAT I

DO NOT LOVE Binodini. It was a harsh thing to say. While it may not be
true that I love her, it is very cruel to say that I do not love her. Is there a
woman in this world who wouldn’t be hurt by this? How and when can I get
a chance to retract what I said? I can’t really go and tell her that I love her;
but I must convey to her in a more mild and gentle way that I don’t. I can’t
let Binodini go on believing something so wrong.’ And so saying,
Mahendra brought out the three letters from his box and read them over
again. He thought, ‘Without a doubt, Binodini is in love with me. But why
did she plead that way with Behari? Was it just for my benefit? When I
declared in so many words that I don’t love her, I suppose she had to
decline her love for me in some way in my presence. My rejection may
even result in her falling in love with Behari on the rebound.’
Mahendra felt such deep remorse that his agitation worried and surprised
himself. So, perhaps Binodini had heard Mahendra saying he did not love
her—what was wrong with that? Perhaps this would lead to the indignant
Binodini taking her affections elsewhere—would that be so terrible? Unable
to make sense of his inner turmoil, Mahendra clung to Asha the way a
wayward dinghy latches on to its anchor in a storm.
That night he held Asha’s head on his bosom and asked her, ‘Chuni, tell
me how much do you love me?’
Asha thought, ‘What kind of a question is that? Does he doubt me now
that all those ugly words have been said with respect to Behari-thakurpo?’
She felt she would the of mortification and said, ‘For shame, why do you
ask me that today of all days? I beg of you, tell me what’s on your mind—
have you felt anything lacking in my love for you?’
 Mahendra enjoyed seeing her so tormented and said, ‘Why do you wish
to go to Kashi then?’
Asha said, ‘I shan’t go to Kashi, I shan’t go anywhere.’
He said, ‘But you did want to go earlier.’
Vexed, Asha said, ‘You know why I wanted to go.’
Mahendra said, ‘Perhaps you’ll find greater happiness with your aunt, if
you leave me and go.’
Asha said, ‘Never. I didn’t want to go for my pleasure.’
Mahendra said, ‘I truly believe, Chuni, you’d have been much happier
married to someone else.’
Asha jerked away from Mahendra’s grasp, dug her face into the pillow
and lay there like a wooden doll—an instant later her tears were evident.
Mahendra tried to pull her close to him in an effort to console her. But she
refused to budge from the pillow. Mahendra felt wracked with guilt but at
the same time he was filled with joy and pride at this evidence of his chaste
wife’s righteous anger.
This sudden articulation of a lot of things that had been running deep in
their hearts threw everyone a little off balance. Binodini felt, ‘Why didn’t
Behari protest against such blatant accusations? She would have been
happier had he put up even a token protest, however false. As it was, she
felt he had got his just desserts from Mahendra. Why would a noble, soul
like Behari devote his heart to Asha? Binodini felt a sense of relief that this
accusation had thrown Behari into confusion and removed him from the
scenario.
But his face—Behari had looked ashen-faced and mortally wounded—
began to haunt Binodini wherever she went. The nurturing woman within
her heart wept at the remembered vision of anguish. She carried that image
of suffering in her heart the way a mother carries about a sick child on her
bosom. Binodini felt an impatient eagerness to nurse the image back to
health, to see the signs of rejuvenation.
After a few days of this unmindful preoccupation, Binodini could hold
still no longer. She wrote a consolatory letter that said:
Thakurpo,
 Ever since I saw your anguished face that day I have prayed that you recover soon, and be
your old self; when will I see that spontaneous smile again, hear those noble thoughts again?
How are you? Drop me a line and let me know.
Your Binod-bouthan

Binodini dispatched the letter through the bearer.

Behari had never imagined in his wildest dream that Mahendra would be
able to say such harsh words—that Behari loved Asha—he had never
uttered such thoughts quite so clearly even to himself. At first he was
thunderstruck. Then he stomped about in anger and hatred as he repeated to
himself, ‘Criminal, improper, baseless.’
But once the words had been uttered, their effect could not be erased
completely. The grain of truth contained in them germinated and took shape
in his mind. The face of that shy child-woman, whom he had glanced at just
once in the falling light of the evening, as a fragrant breeze drifted in from
the garden, haunted him now, and something seemed to grip his heart
tightly even as a harsh pain rose all the way to his throat and threatened to
choke him. He spent many nights lying on the terrace and many daytime
hours pacing the path in front of his house. Gradually, what was hitherto
implicit became a truth in his mind. What was repressed became
uncontrolled. Mahendra’s statement gave flesh and blood to an idea that had
been formless henceforth and filled Behari inside out.
He perceived his own culpability and thought, ‘It doesn’t become me to
be resentful. I must beg Mahin da’s pardon and take leave of him. The other
day I had stormed out as if he was guilty and I was sitting in judgement on
him. I must accept that I was to blame.’
Behari knew that Asha had left for Kashi. One evening he approached
Mahendra’s room with hesitant steps. He met Rajlakshmi’s distant uncle,
Sadhucharan, and asked him, Sadhu da, I couldn’t come earlier. Is
everything all right here?’ Sadhucharan informed him of everybody’s well-
being and Behari asked, When did Bouthan leave for Kashi?’ Sadhucharan
said, ‘She hasn’t gone to Kashi; that trip has been cancelled.’ In spite of all
that had happened, Behari yearned to rush indoors. He knew that he could
no longer bound up the familiar stairs, make pleasant conversation with
everyone without a thought, now it was all alien and forbidden to him—yet
his heart craved for that very thing. He yearned to go inside, just once, like
the member of the family that he once had been and speak a few words to
Rajlakshmi, a few to Asha behind the veil, and call her bouthan.
Sadhucharan said, ‘Why are you standing here in the dark? Come inside.’
Behari took a few hurried steps towards the inner chambers, turned back
and said to Sadhucharan, ‘I have some work—I must go.’ He left hurriedly.
The same night Behari undertook a journey. The bearer meanwhile took
Binodini’s letter to Behari and finding him gone, brought it back home.
Mahendra was strolling in the garden. He asked, ‘Whose letter is that?’The
bearer told him everything. Mahendra took the letter from him. He was
tempted to go and give it to Binodini—see her face turn red with shame—
and come away without another word. He had no doubt that the contents of
the letter would put Binodini to shame. He remembered that once before too
such a letter had gone from Binodini to Behari. Mahendra could not rest
without knowing the contents of the letter. He tried to tell himself that
Binodini was living under his roof and as such he was responsible for her.
Hence it was his duty to intercept such letters and read them, since Binodini
should not be allowed to ruin herself.
Mahendra opened the short letter and read it. Written in simple language,
the writer’s genuine concern was quite palpable in it. He read it again and
again and pondered on it, but could not figure out which way Binodini’s
thoughts flowed. He couldn’t help feeling that Binodini was now trying to
transfer her affections elsewhere because he—Mahendra—had declared that
he did not love her. Angry with him, she had given up all hopes of ever
gaining his affections.
Such thoughts made it very difficult for Mahendra to hold himself in
check. The possibility that Binodini—who had once come to surrender
herself to him—would slip from his hands for all time to come, thanks to a
momentary lapse, drove him wild. Mahendra thought, ‘If Binodini has
feelings for me, it is good for her—her feelings would not be disrespected. I
know myself, I shall never do anything to cause her harm. She can be quite
safe in loving me. I am in love with Asha and Binodini will be safe from
my attentions. But if she gives her heart to someone else, who knows what
can come of it!’ Mahendra decided he must get back Binodini’s affections,
without surrendering himself.
He stepped into the inner chambers and found Binodini standing in the
corridor with an anxious look on her face, apparently waiting for
something. Mahendra was instantly gripped by vicious jealousy. He said,
‘You know, you wait in vain; he will not come. Here is your letter—it’s
come back.’
Binodini said, ‘But it’s open.’
Mahendra went away without answering her. Binodini assumed that
Behari had opened the letter, read it and sent it back without a reply—and
she went up in flames. She sent for the bearer who had carried the letter. He
was busy elsewhere and so he didn’t come. Behind closed doors, Binodini’s
tears fell from her burning eyes the way molten wax drips from a candle.
She tore her letter to tiny bits and still wasn’t satisfied—was there no way
to erase those few lines from the past and the present, to nullify all of it?
The irate bee stings whoever crosses its path; a thwarted Binodini was now
ready to set fire to everything around her. Was she to lose everything that
she ever desired? Could success never be hers? Since happiness was not to
be hers, she decided she’d rest in peace only when she had dragged to the
ground all the people who had hindered her happiness, posed an obstacle to
her success and had deprived her of all possible joy.
 25

THAT EVENING, AS THE FIRST BREEZE OF SPRING DRIFTED

THROUGH THE air, Asha laid out a mat on the terrace and sat there after
ages. In the falling light, she was reading a serialized novel in a monthly
magazine.The hero of the story was on his way back home after a whole
year and was attacked on the way by robbers, setting Asha’s heart aflutter;
meanwhile, the unfortunate heroine had woken up at that very moment
from a terrible nightmare. Asha could scarcely hold back her tears. She was
a generous reader of Bengali literature and she liked nearly everything that
she read. She’d call Binodini and say, ‘Dear Bali, I beg you to read this one
—it’s really good. I cried my heart out.’ But Binodini would pick faults
with the story and tear it to bits, leaving Asha crestfallen.
Today she decided she would make Mahendra read this story, as she shut
the magazine, dewy-eyed. It was at this point that Mahendra appeared on
the terrace. The look on his face made Asha tense, although he tried to
affect an air of bonhomie and asked, ‘Who is the fortunate soul you are
thinking of, alone on the terrace?’
Asha forgot the travails of her hero and heroine completely and asked,
‘Aren’t you feeling too well today?’
Mahendra said, ‘I feel just fine.’
Asha said, ‘But you are lost in some thought, please tell me what it is.’
Mahendra picked up a paan from Asha’s box, put it in his mouth and
said, ‘I was thinking that it’s been ages since your aunt saw you. If you
could go and visit her all of a sudden, she’d be so happy.’
Asha gazed at his face wordlessly; she failed to understand why this
subject was being revived.
Seeing Asha silent, Mahendra asked, ‘Don t you feel like going?’
 This was difficult. Asha did want to visit Annapurna but she didn’t feel
like leaving Mahendra. She said, ‘When your college closes, we can both
go.’
Mahendra said, ‘When my college closes, I won’t be able to go. I’ll have
to prepare for my exams.’
Asha said, ‘In that case, let it be—I don’t have to go now.’
Mahendra replied, ‘But why? Since you wanted to go, I think you
should.’
Asha said, ‘No, I don’t want to go.’
Mahendra asked, ‘Just the other day you wanted it and now you don’t?’
Asha looked down silently. Mahendra wanted an unfettered space to
claim his truce with Binodini and he felt impatience tugging at him. When
Asha fell silent, he felt an unprovoked surge of anger. He said, ‘Are you, by
any chance, not sure of me? Do you want to guard me and keep me under
surveillance?’
Suddenly, Asha’s innate timidity, softness and uncomplaining nature
struck him as unbearable. He thought, ‘If you want to go to Aunty, you
should say, yes I want to go, please arrange it somehow. Instead, it’s yes,
no, I don’t know and then silence—what is all this?’
Asha was taken aback by this sudden, harsh outburst from Mahendra.
She tried to think of an answer but nothing came to mind. She was at a loss
as to why Mahendra was so affectionate at times and so cruel at others. But
the more incomprehensible he grew to her, the harder Asha clung to him,
with all the fears and affections of her trembling little heart.
Asha was suspicious of Mahendra and so she wanted to guard him day
and night! What a cruel joke, what misplaced sarcasm. Should she take an
oath and protest or should she brush it off in jest?
When a confused Asha remained speechless, Mahendra lost his patience,
got up and stormed away. The hero and the heroine of the monthly
magazine weren’t given another thought. The last rays of the setting sun
disappeared, the mild spring breeze of the early evening was replaced by a
chilly nip in the air—Asha lay still on the mat.
 Late that night Asha stepped into the bedroom and found Mahendra had
already gone to bed without even calling her. She felt that Mahendra was
repulsed by her indifference to her doting aunt. Asha got into bed, took
Mahendra’s feet in her hands, buried her face in them and lay still.
Mahendra was overcome by pity and tried to pull Asha to him. But she
refused to budge. She said, ‘If I have done any wrong, please forgive me.’
Deeply affected, Mahendra said, ‘You have done no wrong, Chuni. I am
a great scoundrel to have hurt you so wickedly.’
Asha’s tears drenched Mahendra’s feet. He got up, held her in his arms
and made her sit down beside him. Once her tears stopped flowing, she
said, ‘Do you think I don’t want to visit Aunty? But I don’t feel like leaving
you and going away. That’s why I didn’t want to go—please don’t be
angry.’
Mahendra stroked her damp forehead gently and said, ‘How can I be
angry about this, Chuni? How can I be angry because you do not want to
leave me and go anywhere? You don’t have to go anywhere.’
Asha said, ‘No, I shall go to Kashi.’
Mahendra said, ‘But why?’
Asha said, ‘Since the thought that I do not leave you because I don’t trust
you has crossed your mind, I must go away, even if for a few days.’
Mahendra said, ‘But that was my sin, why should you pay for it?’
Asha replied, ‘I don’t know all that—but I must have sinned too,
somewhere, somehow, or such impossible doubts would not have come to
your mind. Why would I have to hear things that I cannot imagine in my
wildest dreams?’
Mahendra said quietly, ‘That is because you cannot imagine, even in your
wildest dreams, what an appalling person I am.’
Asha was distressed. ‘Not again! Don’ t say that. But my mind is made
up—I will go to Kashi.’
Mahendra laughed. ‘All right then, go. But what will you do if I fall to
my ruin in your absence?’
Asha said, ‘Don’t you threaten me like that—as though I am quaking in
my boots!’
 Mahendra said, ‘But it needs to be given a thought. If you allow such a
great husband of yours to get ruined, who will you blame for it?’
Asha replied, ‘I won’t blame you, don’t you worry.’
Mahendra said, ‘Will you accept your part in it?’
Asha said, ‘Most certainly.’
Mahendra said, ‘All right. Then I’ll go tomorrow, speak to Anukulbabu
and make the arrangements.’
He added, ‘It’s very late now,’ and turned over to sleep.
A little later he turned to her again and suddenly said, ‘Chuni, forget it,
don’t go.’
Asha was desolate. ‘Why are you saying this again? If I don’t go just this
once, your accusation will stare me in the face. Even if it’s for a couple of
days, please send me away.’
Mahendra said, ‘Fine.’ He turned over and went to sleep.
The day before she left for Kashi, Asha hugged Binodini and said, ‘Bali,
promise me one thing.’
Binodini pinched her cheeks and said, ‘What is it, my sweet? You know
I’d keep my word to you.’
Asha said, I’m not so sure, you have changed these days. You refuse to
come in front of my husband.’
Binodini replied, ‘Don’t you know the reason for that? You heard what
Mahendrababu said to Beharibabu the other day. After such words are
spoken, do you think I should stand before him ever again—you tell me?’
Asha was aware that Binodini had a point. She herself had recently had a
taste of how embarrassing such words could be. Still she said, ‘Words come
and go; if you cannot rise above them, what’s love all about, my dear? You
must forget all that.’
Binodini said, ‘As you wish—I’ll forget it.’
Asha said, ‘Look, I leave for Kashi tomorrow. You must keep an eye on
what my husband needs and see that he doesn’t miss anything. You cannot
hide from him the way you’ve been doing.’
Binodini was silent. Asha held her hands and said, ‘For my sake, dear
Bali, you must promise me this.’
Binodini said, ‘Yes, I promise.’
 26

WHEN THE MOON SETS, THE SUN RISES. ASHA HAD LEFT, BUT
MAHENDRA STILL could not catch sight of Binodini. He walked around
aimlessly, sometimes stepping into his mother’s room on a slight pretext—
but Binodini managed to give him the slip every time. From Mahendra’s
desolate, forlorn air Rajlakshmi thought, ‘Now that his wife is away, Mahin
doesn’t seem to like being in this house any more.’ She felt hurt that
nowadays Mahendra’s wife was more indispensable to his well-being than
his mother. And yet, his lost and despondent air disturbed her. She sent for
Binodini, ‘Ever since that attack of flu I have developed asthmatic
tendencies. I can’t go up and down the stairs as easily as before. Child, you
must look after Mahin yourself, whether he’s eating properly or not. All his
life he’s been used to being pampered. Ever since Asha left, he’s looking so
lost. And speaking of the girl—I don’t know how she could go, leaving him
like this!’
Binodini curled her lip and scratched at the bedcovers. Rajlakshmi said,
‘What is it, child, what are you thinking? There’s nothing to think about;
whatever anyone may say, you are no stranger to us.’
Binodini said, ‘Aunty, let it be.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Fine, let it go. Let me see what I can do myself.’ She
made as if to get up and climb the stairs to Mahendra’s room on the second
floor. Binodini hastily stopped her, ‘You are unwell, you mustn’t go. I’ll go.
Please forgive me, Aunty, your wish will be my command.’
Rajlakshmi never paid heed to what people said. Ever since her
husband’s death, with the exception of Mahendra nobody had meant
anything to her. She didn’t like Binodini hinting at social criticism where
Mahendra was concerned. She had known him all his life—there wasn’t a
better man to be found anywhere! Criticism about her Mahin! If anyone
dared to criticize him, may their tongue fall off! Rajlakshmi had a natural
tendency to defy the entire world where something that she considered good
was concerned.
That day Mahendra came back from college, went into his room and
looked around in stunned disbelief. The minute he opened the door the
scent of sandalwood and incense had filled his senses. The mosquito nets
were adorned with pink tassels. The mattress on the floor glimmered with
fresh sheets, and instead of the old cushions on it there were foreign-made,
square cushions with embroidered silk and wool covers. The embroidery
was the outcome of Binodini’s hard labour of many months. Asha had often
asked her, ‘Who are you making these for?’
Binodini had laughed and said, ‘For my deathbed. Death is my only
intimate now.’
There were coloured yarns twisted decoratively into knots at the four
corners of Mahendra’s photo-frame and beneath it, on the floor on either
side of a teapoy, were a pair of vases with fresh flowers, as though
Mahendra’s likeness had been worshipped by an unknown devotee. All in
all, the room was transformed. The bed was shifted slightly from its old
position; it was screened by the clothes rack and the clothes that hung on it,
thereby dividing the room into two discrete spaces. The curio-cabinet which
held all the little assortments, dolls and things that Asha held dear, was
decorated with scrunched-up red fabric stuck on the inside of the glass
panels, so that nothing within it was visible now. The deft touch of a new
pair of hands had shrouded all that was reminiscent of the room’s past.
Weary from his day’s work, Mahendra lay down on the mattress and
rested his head on the new cushions. Immediately, an aroma assailed his
senses—the stuffing in the pillows were generously mixed with a fragrant
pollen and some essence.
Mahendra’s eyes drifted shut. He perceived the touch of the hands, light
as a feather, that had done such subtle work on the pillows. Now the maid
brought in fruits and sweets on a silver plate and iced pineapple juice in a
glass tumbler. All this was different from the way things were done earlier.
There was great attention to detail and novelty in every gesture. Mahendra’s
senses were dulled by this onslaught of freshness in every smell, every
touch and every sight.
He finished his meal with great satisfaction. Binodini stepped into the
room slowly with paan and mouth-freshner in a silver box. She laughed and
said, ‘Thakurpo, forgive me for not being present all these days, tending to
your meals. For my sake, I beg of you, do not tell my Chokher Bali that you
have been neglected. I try to do my best—but I have to look into all the
household chores, you see.’
Binodini held the box of paan before Mahendra. Today the paan was
scented differently—a new kind of lime paste had been used.
Mahendra said, ‘It’s good to slip up sometimes, even while tending so
assiduously.’
Binodini asked, ‘And why is that?’
Mahendra replied, ‘Then later it can be held against you and greater
penalties exacted.’
‘So, Mr Shylock, what has the interest come to?’
Mahendra said, ‘You weren’t present when I had my meal. Now, after the
event, you must stay longer and make up for it.’
Binodini laughed, ‘Oh dear, you are so particular with the accounts that
woe betide anyone who falls into your trap.’
Mahendra said, ‘Whatever the accounts say, have I succeeded in exacting
payment?’
Binodini said, ‘What is there to exact?You hold me a prisoner as it is.’
She turned the jest into mock-seriousness by heaving a slight sigh.
Mahendra too grew sombre. ‘Bali, is this a prison for you then?’
The bearer interrupted them, coming in to place the lamp on the teapoy.
Binodini shielded her face from the sudden glare of the lamp and
answered with lowered eyes, ‘I don’t know.Who can beat you at wordplay?
I must go now, there’s work to be done.’
Mahendra grabbed her hand and said, ‘Since you’ve admitted to being
captive, where do you want to run?’
Binodini said, ‘Oh for pity’s sake, let me go—why try to imprison one
who has nowhere to escape?’
 She snatched away her hand and rushed out of the room.
Mahendra lay there on the scented pillows. The blood roared in his veins.
The silent dusk, a room to themselves, spring in the air and Binodini’s heart
just within his reach—Mahendra felt he could hardly bear the intoxicating
thrill of it all. Quickly, he blew out the lamp, bolted the door and went to
bed long before his usual time.
It wasn’t his old, familiar bed. A few extra mattresses had made it softer
than before. Yet another aroma, he couldn’t quite name the ingredient.
Mahendra tossed and turned; he wanted to discover at least one marker of
the past and cling to it. But nothing came to hand.
At nine o’clock there was a knock on his door. Binodini spoke from
outside, ‘Thakurpo, I have brought you dinner. Open the door.’
Mahendra sat up with a start and reached for the bolt. But he didn’t open
the door. He dropped down on the floor and said, ‘Oh no, I am not hungry. I
shan’t have dinner.’
Binodini sounded concerned, ‘Are you unwell? Shall I get you some
water? What would you like to have?’
Mahendra said, ‘I don’t want anything, I don’t need anything.’
Binodini said, ‘For God’s sake, don’t play the fool. All right, even if
you’re not sick, just open the door.’
Mahendra shook his head vehemently. ‘No, I won’t, never. Go away.
He got into the bed hastily. In that empty bed and in his restless state, he
desperately groped for memories of the absent Asha.
When sleep eluded him till late at night, he lit the lamp again, sat at his
desk and wrote to Asha.
Asha, please don’t leave me alone for too long now. You are the goddess of my heart. When
you are gone, I scarcely know how all my instincts run away with me and lead me astray.
Where is the light that would light my way—it rests in the loving gaze of your eyes brimming
with trust. Please come back soon, my innocence, my eternal, my only one. Make me strong,
save me, fulfil my heart. Retrieve me from this nightmare of forgetting you for even an instant,
of committing the blunder of sinning against you.

Thus Mahendra wrote, long into the night, goading himself towards
Asha. Several clocks on church towers in the distance struck three. The
roads of Kolkata were silent, devoid of traffic. At one end of the lane, a
singer, invited to a house, had struck up a melody that had also now
subsided into silence and slumber. Mahendra felt greatly relieved after
meditating on Asha and pouring his heart out in a long letter. He lay his
head on the pillow and was immediately claimed by sleep.
When he woke up, it was late in the day and sunlight was streaming into
the room. Mahendra sat up with a start. A good night’s sleep put the events
of the night before in better perspective in his mind. He left the bed and
looked at the letter on his desk, written to Asha the previous night. He read
it over and thought, ‘What have I done! Thank goodness I haven’t sent it
yet. What would Asha think if she reads this? She wouldn’t be able to make
sense of this.’ Mahendra was embarrassed by the excess of his emotions the
previous night; he tore the letter into tiny bits. Then he wrote another letter
to Asha in simpler language—‘Will you be away for much longer? If
Anukulbabu has plans to stay longer, drop me a line; I shall go and fetch
you. I don’t like it here all alone.’
 27

WHEN ASHA ARRIVED IN KASHI SOON AFTER MAHENDRA HAD

LEFT, Annapurna was truly concerned. She began to interrogate Asha,
‘Chuni, didn’t you tell me that this Chokher Bali of yours is the most
talented and competent girl in the whole world?’
‘It’s true, Aunty, I am not exaggerating. She is as smart as she is pretty
and efficient.’
‘Well, she’s your friend and so you’re bound to feel that way about her.
But what does everyone else in the house feel about her?’
‘Mother is extremely fond of her. If she so much as mentions going back,
Mother gets all worked up. There’s no one like her when it comes to
nursing someone. Even if a maid or a servant is sick, she nurses them like a
member of the family.’
‘What does Mahendra feel about her?’
‘You know him well, Aunty. He doesn’t take to anyone unless they are
truly near and dear. Everyone is fond of my Chokher Bali; but he doesn’t
get on too well with her.’
‘Why?’
‘I worked so hard on getting them to meet. But now they hardly speak a
word to each other. You know how reserved your nephew is—people think
he’s arrogant; but Aunty, except for a handful, he really doesn’t like too
many people.’ The last few words had slipped out inadvertently and
suddenly Asha was embarrassed. Her cheeks turned red. Annapurna was
relieved and said, ‘So that’s the reason why Mahin didn’t say a word about
your Bali when he was here.’
Asha was miffed. ‘That’s the problem with him. If he doesn’t love
someone, she doesn’t exist for him. He behaves as if he is not aware of their
existence.’
 Annapurna smiled serenely. ‘But when he does love someone, it’s as if he
has eyes only for her, doesn’t he?’
Asha didn’t answer. She looked at the ground and smiled. Annapurna
asked, ‘Chuni, tell me about Behari. Won’t he ever get married?’
Asha’s face fell in an instant. She didn’t know what to say.
Asha s silence worried Annapurna and she asked, ‘Tell me honestly,
Chuni, is he in good health or is he unwell?’
For this childless woman with a golden heart, Behari had the honoured
position of an ideal son. That she had left Kolkata without seeing him
settled with a family bothered Annapurna every day in this far-off land. Her
meagre demands from life had been fulfilled. The only thought that broke
her concentration and stopped her from surrendering herself completely to
an ascetic life, was of Behari, unsettled and drifting.
Asha said, ‘Aunty, don’t ask me anything about Behari-thakurpo.’
Taken aback, Annapurna asked, ‘But why?’
Asha said, ‘Oh, I cannot tell you that.’ She left the room.
Annapurna sat in silence, thinking, ‘How could that gem of a boy,
Behari, change so much in this short while that the very mention of his
name makes Chuni leave the room? It is destiny. If only his wedding hadn’t
been fixed with Chuni and if only Mahin hadn’t snatched her away from
him!’
After many months, Annapurna s eyes filled with tears again. She said to
herself, ‘If my Behari has done anything unworthy of him, he has done it
from a lot of pain; he wouldn’t do that unless pushed to it.’ She imagined
his pain, his sorrow and felt misery welling up in her heart.
In the evening, when Annapurna was at her prayers, a carriage came to a
stop at the door. The coachman called out to open the door, and thumped on
it loudly. Annapurna called out from the puja room, ‘Oh dear, it had slipped
my mind entirely—Kunja’s mother-in-law and her two nieces were
supposed to come here from Allahabad today. That must be them now.
Chuni, could you please take the lamp and open the door?’
Asha held the lantern up and opened the door. She found Behari standing
there. He said, ‘Bouthan! But I was told you weren’t coming to Kashi!’
 Asha dropped the lantern in confusion. She ran upstairs as if she’d seen a
ghost, and pleaded with Annapurna, Aunty, please tell him to go away.’
Annapurna started as she looked up from her puja, and asked, ‘Who is it,
Chuni?’
Asha said, ‘Behari-thakurpo has come here too.’ She rushed to the next
room and slammed the door shut.
Behari had heard everything from the bottom of the stairs. He wanted to
rush out immediately—but when Annapurna finished her puja and came
downstairs, she found him sitting on the doorstep, ashen-faced and very
stiff.
Annapurna hadn’t brought the light. In the dark she couldn’t see Behari’s
face and neither could he see her.
She called out, ‘Behari.’
Alas, gone was that caring, mellow tone of the past. This voice held the
thunder of judgement and punishment. Mother Annapurna, on whom were
you raising your sword of justice? In this darkness, the unfortunate Behari
was here to lay his weary head on your compassionate feet.
Behari started as if he had been whipped. He raised his numb body and
said, ‘Aunty, no more—don’t say another word. I am leaving.’
Behari bent to the ground and bowed to her without touching her feet.
Annapurna set him adrift into the dark night, the way unfortunate mothers
cast their children into the Ganga; she didn’t call him back. The carriage
disappeared from sight.
The same night Asha wrote to Mahendra, ‘Behari-thakurpo was here all
of a sudden this evening. I don’t know when my uncle plans to go back
home—please come soon and take me away from here.’
 28

AFTER STAYING UP HALF THE NIGHT, MAHENDRA WAS

GRIPPED BY A STRANGE lassitude the next morning. It was early March
and the days were beginning to get warmer. On other days Mahendra sat
with his books in a corner of his room. But today he leaned back on the
pillows and lay flat on the mattress. The day wore on and he didn’t go for
his bath. The street-vendors called out as they peddled their wares in the
street. The road echoed with sounds of traffic, of the people rushing to
office. A neighbour was adding a new floor to his house—the artisans
struck up a monotonous tune as they hammered away at their work. The
delicate, warm breeze cast a languorous spell on Mahendra’s senses. No
harsh vows, intricate endeavours, or battles with the mind seemed worthy of
this slack, lethargic spring day.
‘Thakurpo, what’s wrong with you—won’t you have your bath? Your
meal is ready. Why are you in bed still—are you unwell? Do you have a
headache?’ Binodini walked up to him and touched his forehead.
Mahendra answered in slurred mumbles, ‘I don’t feel too well today; I
think I’ll skip the bath.’
Binodini said, ‘All right then, have a bite to eat.’ She pleaded with him
and dragged him downstairs where she personally attended to his meal with
great concern and compassion. After the meal, when Mahendra returned to
his mattress and lay down, Binodini sat by his side and pressed his head
with gentle fingers. Eyes shut, Mahendra said, ‘Bali , you haven’t had lunch
—why don’t you go and eat.’
Binodini refused to go. On that lazy afternoon, the curtains flapped in the
warm breeze and sounds of the meaningless fluttering of the coconut palm
by the compound wall floated into the room. Mahendra’s heart beat faster
and faster and Binodini’s balmy breath kept pace as it gently stirred the
locks that lay across his temple. Not a single word emerged from either of
them. Mahendra’s thoughts went thus—we float through the endless river of
life; how does it matter to anyone if the boat stops here or there? Even if it
does matter, how long will it last?
As she sat by him, gently stroking his forehead, Binodini’s head bent
lower and lower, weighted down by the cumbersome, bemused passions of
youth. Eventually, the loose strands of her hair rested on Mahendra’s brow.
The gentle brush of her hair as they stirred on his brow shook Mahendra’s
entire body and his breath caught at his chest, nearly choking him. He sat
up with a start and said, ‘No-o, I must go to college.’ He stood up without
looking at Binodini.
Binodini said, ‘Relax—I’ll get you fresh clothes.’ She brought out the
clothes he usually wore to college.
Mahendra went off to college in a rush. But he was restless. After many
vain attempts at concentrating on his books, he came back home earlier than
usual.
He stepped into the room and found Binodini lying on her stomach, upon
his mattress, reading a book. Her jet-black hair was strewn over her back.
Perhaps she hadn’t heard his footsteps. Mahendra tiptoed into the room and
stood beside her. He heard her heave a great sigh as she read.
Mahendra said, ‘Oh mother of all sad souls, don’t squander your heart on
fictitious characters. What are you reading?’
Startled, Binodini sat up straight and concealed the book in the folds of
her sari. Mahendra tried to seize it by force; After many minutes of this
game of catch, Mahendra managed to retrieve the book from a vanquished
Binodini’s hands—it was Bankim’s The Poison Tree. Binodini turned away
and sulked, even as her breath came faster from the just-lost tussle.
Mahendra’s heart was clamouring in his breast. He tried to laugh and
said, ‘Shame on you, this is a comedown. I had expected something very
clandestine and after all this effort I find it’s only The Poison Tree.’
Binodini said, ‘Pray tell me what can be clandestine about me?’
Before Mahendra could stop himself, the words had slipped out, ‘Say for
example, if it was a letter from Behari?’
 In an instant, lightning flashed through Binodini’s eyes. The cupid that
was cavorting around in the room was turned to ashes in a second. Binodini
stood up, flaring like a flame that had been fanned. Mahendra gripped her
hands. ‘Forgive me, I spoke in jest.’
Binodini snatched away her hands. ‘Whom do you mock? If you were
worthy of his friendship I would have endured your mockery of him. You
have a small mind; you are not strong enough to be a friend and you talk of
jest.’
As she was about to leave, Mahendra reached out with both hands and
grabbed at her feet. At the same instant a shadow fell across the doorway.
Mahendra let go of Binodini’s feet and looked up—it was Behari.
It was as if Behari’s steady, withering gaze burned up the two of them in
turn. When he spoke, his voice was neutral and toneless, ‘I’m afraid I have
come at an inconvenient moment, but I shan’t stay for long. I came to say
one thing—I had gone to Kashi. I didn’t know Bouthan was there. With no
intent to do so, I have wronged her; there was no time to beg her pardon. So
I have come to say sorry to you instead. I have one request to you—if I
have ever sinned, even in thought, consciously or unconsciously, let that not
result in any suffering for her.’
Mahendra felt helplessly angry because Behari had witnessed his
moment of weakness. This wasn’t the time for generosity. With a little
laugh he said, ‘You are like the proverbial man with the guilty conscience. I
haven’t asked you to beg pardon; why have you come to say sorry and act
the martyr?’
Behari stood there like a wooden puppet for a few moments. When his
lips trembled in an effort to speak, Binodini said, ‘Behari-thakurpo, don’t
bother to answer him. Don’ t say a word. What this man has just said, taints
only him—it doesn’t touch you in any way.’
It wasn’t clear if Binodini’s words fell on Behari’s ears—he turned away
like one in a trance and walked out of Mahendra’s room. Binodini ran after
him and said, ‘Behari-thakurpo, do you have nothing to say to me? If you
want to reprimand me, please do so.’
 Behari continued to walk away without saying a word. Binodini barred
his way and gripped his right hand. Behari pushed her away with palpable
revulsion. He didn’t even notice that Binodini had lost her balance and
fallen.
At the sound of Binodini’s fall Mahendra came running. He found
Binodini’s left elbow had a bruise that was bleeding. He said, ‘Oh no, that
looks bad.’ In an instant he ripped off a strip of his thin shirt and made as if
to tie a bandage around the wound. Binodini drew away her arm and said,
‘No, please don’t. Let the blood flow.’
Mahendra said, ‘Let me tie it up and I’ll give you medication—that’ll
take away the pain and heal the wound quickly.
Binodini moved aside. ‘I don’t want the pain to go—let this wound stay.’
Mahendra said, ‘I lost my patience today and insulted you. Can you bring
yourself to forgive me?’
Binodini said, ‘Forgive you for what? You did nothing wrong; I am not
afraid of people. I don’t care about anyone. After all, what are they to me if
they can hurt me and walk away? Instead, those who touch my feet and
draw me towards them, should mean more to me.’
Ecstatic, Mahendra spoke fervently, ‘Binodini, you will not reject my
love then?’
Binodini said, ‘I shall hold it to my heart. Since the day I was born, I
have never experienced such an abundance of love that I can ever reject it.’
Mahendra held her hands in his and said, ‘In that case, come to my room.
I have wounded you today and you have returned the hurt. As long as that is
not wiped away, I shall have no peace.’
Binodini said, ‘Not today—let me go now. If I have hurt you, please
forgive me.’
Mahendra said, ‘And you will pardon me as well, or I shall not sleep a
wink tonight.
Binodini said, ‘I forgive you.’
Mahendra impetuously wanted to receive a distinct sign of Binodini’s
forgiveness, right then and there. But he took a look at Binodini’s face and
stopped short. She ran down the stairs. Mahendra climbed the stairs back to
the terrace and began to stroll there. He felt a sense of release in the fact
that his feelings were exposed to Behari. The ignominy of smokescreens
and camouflages was dispelled by this revelation to one person alone.
Mahendra thought, ‘No more grand delusions about myself—I am in love, I
love and that is not a lie.’ The new-found admittance of love made him
conceited enough to feel proud of his own fall from grace. He cast a glance
of scornful disdain at the entire universe, bedecked with the silent stellar
constellations in the tranquil evening light, and said, ‘The world may call
me whatever they wish, but I am in love.’ And he covered the whole world,
the endless sky and all sense of duty with an image of Binodini that his
mind conjured up. Behari’s sudden arrival had acted as a force that upset
the ink-bottle, uncorked it and spilled its contents all over—by and by,
Binodini’s black eyes and inky black hair fanned out and mussed up all the
white sheets, and all that was ever written before.
 29

THE NEXT MORNING, AS SOON AS HE OPENED HIS EYES,

MAHENDRA’S HEART was flooded with a sweet sensation. The morning
sun spread a veneer of gold on all his thoughts and desires. What a lovely
world, what a beautiful sky—the breeze seemed to lift his soul like pollen
dust and set it adrift.
The Vaishnav mendicants played their one-string lute and sang on the
street below. The watchman was about to shoo them off when Mahendra
stopped him and found himself giving them one whole rupee. The bearer
dropped the kerosene lamp as he was putting it away right in front of
Mahendra. But the master smiled pleasantly and said, ‘Hey you, see that
you sweep it clean—bits of glass can pierce someone’s feet.’ Today,
nothing angered him, no harm seemed too great.
Romance had been hidden behind a veil all these days. Today, the veil
had been ripped away. It was as if a cover had been lifted off the face of a
brave new world. Every banal detail of daily life had disappeared. The
trees, birds, people on the streets, sounds of the city—they all seemed to
look and sound new today. Where had this novelty been all this time?
Mahendra decided that today he would not meet Binodini in the usual
way. It was a day fit for poetry and music. He wanted to turn this day into
something out of the Arabian Nights, full of sumptuousness and beauty,
unconnected to life and the mundane. It would be real and yet a dream, it
would be devoid of material realism, duties, rules and norms of everyday
living.
Mahendra was restless that morning; he couldn’t go to college. There was
no telling when the auspicious moment would arrive for that fateful union.
All through the day Binodini’s voice floated to his ears, sometimes from the
kitchen, sometimes from the store room; she was busy with her household
chores. He didn’t like that—on this day he would have liked Binodini to be
far beyond the reach of household duties.
Time hung heavy on Mahendra’s hands. He had his bath and ate his meal.
Finally, all household chores ground to a halt as the silence of the afternoon
extended itself around him. But there was still no sign of Binodini.
Mahendra was high-strung with sorrow and anticipated pleasure,
impatience and hope.
The Poison Tree, rescued from the scuffle of the previous afternoon, lay
on the mattress. Mahendra’s eyes fell upon it and he felt a thrill coursing
through his body as he remembered the tussle. He pulled out the pillow on
which Binodini had lain, and laid his head upon it; he picked up the book
and began to turn the pages. Mahendra wasn’t aware when he lost himself
in the book and the clock struck five.
Binodini entered the room with fruits and sweets on a plate and a bowl of
iced melons with powdered sugar sprinkled on it. She placed it before
Mahendra and said, ‘What’s wrong with you Thakurpo, it’s past five
o’clock and you still haven’t freshened up or changed?’
Mahendra got a harsh jolt. Did she have to ask what was wrong with
him? She should have known the answer to that. Was this day like every
other day? Mahendra didn’t dare to make any demands by harking back to
the day before, for fear that he’d have to face something contrary to his
expectations.
He sat down to eat. Binodini went to the terrace, gathered the clothes that
were drying on the line and brought them in. She began to fold them deftly
and arranged them in Mahendra’s cupboard.
Mahendra said, ‘Wait a minute. Let me finish eating and I’ll lend you a
hand.’
Binodini folded her hands and said, ‘Oh pray do not try to help me,
whatever else you may do.’
Mahendra finished eating as he said, ‘Really! So you think I am hopeless
with household chores? All right, let this be a test of my abilities.’ He tried
to fold the clothes, in vain.
 Binodini snatched them from his hands and said, ‘My dear sir, do let go.
You will only pile up more work for me.’
Mahendra said, ‘In that case, you carry on with your work while I watch
and learn.’ He sat down in front of the cupboard, beside Binodini. She
began to air out the clothes on his back with a swish, before she folded
them and put them on the shelf.
Thus began the first meeting of the day, without a hint of the exclusivity
that Mahendra had visualized and fantasized about all day long. Such a
meeting did not befit poetry, music or even prose. But it did not upset
Mahendra. In fact he felt a little relieved. He hadn’t been able to decide how
he would go about actualizing his fantasy, what to say, what to do and how
to keep all predictability at a distance. The fun and jest that was native to
this airing of clothes and folding them away, set him free of a self-induced,
impossible ideal—and he breathed easier.
At this point Rajlakshmi walked into the room. She said to Mahendra,
‘Mahin, Binodini is folding the clothes—but what are you doing there on
the floor?’
Binodini said, ‘You tell him, Aunty! He is teasing me and getting in my
way.’
Mahendra said, ‘Is that so! And here I throught I was lending you a
hand.’
Rajlakshmi said, Rubbish! You and lend her a hand! Binodini, Mahin has
always been that way. Always pampered by his mother and aunt, he has
never learnt to do a thing for himself.’ So saying, the mother cast a loving
look upon her inept son. She felt all she had in common with Binodini was
the concern that this adult, incompetent mother s boy should have all
possible comfort. On the issue of tending to her son, being able to lean on
Binodini gave Rajlakshmi great relief, great pleasure. She was also pleased
by the fact that lately Mahendra seemed to understand Binodini’s worth and
worked towards making her feel at home. She made sure Mahendra was
listening as she said, ‘Binodini, today you’ve aired out Mahin’s warm
clothes. Tomorrow you must embroider his initials on his handkerchiefs.
Ever since I brought you with me, I haven’t been able to pamper you, child;
I’ve only worked you harder and harder.’
Binodini said, ‘Aunty, if you talk that way, I will feel that you are
creating a distance between us.
Indulgently Rajlakshmi said, ‘Oh dear, who is dearer to me than you, my
child?’
When Binodini had finished putting the clothes away, Rajlakshmi asked,
‘Shall we start making the sugar syrup now or do you have other things to
do?’
Binodini said, ‘Oh no, I’ve finished everything. Let’s go and make the
sweets now.
Mahendra said, ‘Mother, you were just saying how hard you work her
and again you are dragging her off to the kitchen?’
Rajlakshmi pinched Binodini’s chin affectionately and said, ‘This good
little girl of mine loves to work.
Mahendra said, ‘I have nothing to do this evening. I’d planned to read a
book with Chokher Bali.’
Binodini said, ‘That’s fine, Aunty. Let’s both of us come and hear
Thakurpo read?’
Rajlakshmi said to herself, ‘My poor Mahin is feeling really lonely and
we must all do our best to entertain him.’ So she said, ‘Why not! We shall
come back later and hear him read, after we’ve finished cooking Mahin’s
meal. How about that, Mahin?’
Binodini threw an oblique glance at Mahendra’s face. He said, ‘Fine.’
But his enthusiasm waned. Binodini left the room along with Rajlakshmi.
Mahendra muttered in frustration, ‘I shall go out this evening and come
back late.’ He changed his clothes at once. But having done that, he didn’t
execute his plan. He paced about on the terrace for many minutes, glanced
towards the stairway a million times and finally came and sat in the room.
He thought, ‘I shall refuse to touch the sweets today and convey the
message to Mother that if you boil the sugar syrup for too long, it loses its
sweetness.’
 At dinner time Binodini brought Rajlakshmi along. The latter was afraid
to climb stairs these days, due to her asthma. Binodini’s requests brought
her upstairs today. Mahendra sat down to his meal with a very glum look.
Binodini said, ‘Thakurpo, why are you pecking at your food today?’
Rajlakshmi was immediately concerned, ‘Are you not well, my child?’
Binodini said, ‘We worked so hard on the sweets, you must have some of
it. Hasn’t it turned out well? Oh, then leave it. No, no, don’t eat it just
because we asked you to—that means nothing. Leave it then.’
Mahendra said, ‘Will you stop that! I liked the sweets the best and that’s
what I want to have—why should I listen to you?’
Mahendra finished the two sweets in their entirety; not a scrap, not a
crumb was left on the plate. After the meal the three of them came into his
room and sat down. Mahendra did not bring up the topic of reading.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Didn’t you say something about reading something?’
Mahendra said, ‘Oh , but what I have doesn’t have anything about gods
or goddesses in it. You wouldn’t like it.’
Not like it! Rajlakshmi was determined to like it, come hell or high water.
Even if Mahendra read something in Turkish, she would have to like it!
Poor, dear Mahin—with his wife away in Kashi, he was so lonely; Mother
must, absolutely must like whatever he liked.
Binodini said, ‘Thakurpo, why don’t you put your books aside and read
some of the holy books that are there in Aunty’s room? She would also like
that and the evening would pass nicely.’
Mahendra threw a dismal look at Binodini. At this point the maid came
with the news that the neighbour’s wife had come visiting. This was a close
friend of Rajlakshmi’s and the latter loved talking to her in the evenings.
Yet she said to the maid, ‘Tell her I am busy in Mahin’s room today and she
should come back tomorrow.’
Mahendra spoke hastily, ‘But why Mother, certainly you can go and meet
her now?’
Binodini said, ‘Oh no, Aunty, why don’t you stay here and I’ll go and
talk to her.’
 Rajlakshmi gave in to the temptation and said, ‘No , you stay here—let
me see if I can go and get rid of her. The two of you start reading, don’t
wait for me.’
The moment Rajlakshmi was out of the room, Mahendra burst out, ‘Why
do you torture me like this?’
Binodini seemingly didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘What!
When did I torture you? Was I wrong to come into your room then? Fair
enough, let me leave.’ She made as if to get up with a crestfallen
expression.
Mahendra grabbed her wrist and said, ‘This is precisely how you torment
me.’
Binodini said, ‘Really! I didn’t know I had so much power. You are not
too bad yourself; obviously you can take a lot. You don’t look like you’ve
been burnt at the stake.’
Mahendra said, ‘Looks cannot tell you the whole story.’ He grabbed her
hand forcefully and pressed it to his heart.
Binodini screeched in pain and immediately he let go, saving, ‘Did I hurt
you?’
He saw that Binodini’s wound from the previous day was bleeding once
again. In abject apology he said, ‘I was careless—how remiss of me. But
now you must let me tie it and apply some ointment—please don’t stop me
today.’
Binodini said, ‘No, it s nothing. I shall not put medication on it.’
Mahendra said, ‘Why not?’
Binodini said, ‘What do you mean “why not”! Don’ t put on your
medical airs with me; let it be.’
Mahendra grew solemn and throught, ‘Beyond me entirely—a woman’s
mind!’
Binodini rose to leave. Piqued, Mahendra didn’t stop her this time. He
merely asked, ‘Where are you going?’
Binodini said, ‘I have work to do.’ She walked out slowly.
A few seconds later Mahendra got up, meaning to go and call her back.
But he turned back from the stairway and began to walk about on the
terrace instead.
Binodini drew him to her continuously, and yet she never let him get
really close to her. Mahendra had recently surrendered the conceit that no
one could have complete power over him. But would he also have to give
up the conceit that he could have complete power over anyone if he so
desired? Today he had to concede defeat as he failed to overpower
Binodini. In matters of the heart Mahendra held his head very high indeed.
He didn’t consider anyone his equal. But today he had to lose that pride as
well. And he didn’t gain anything in return. Like a beggar he stood empty-
handed at dusk, in front of a closed door.
In the months of March and April, Behari’s farmlands yielded honey
from the mustard flowers. Every year he sent some to Rajlakshmi and this
year was no different.
Binodini took the pot of honey to Rajlakshmi and said, ‘Aunty, Behari-
thakurpo has sent honey.’
Rajlakshmi asked her to put it away in the store room. Binodini did as
she was told and then came and sat beside Rajlakshmi. She said, ‘Behari-
thakurpo never fails to do his bit for you. I suppose because he doesn’t
have, a mother, he sees her in you, doesn’t he?’
Rajlakshmi was so used to seeing Behari as Mahendra’s shadow that she
never gave him much thought. He was an unpaid, uncared for, unthought of,
loyal friend to the family. When Binodini mentioned Behari as a motherless
boy and sited Rajlakshmi as his guardian, a tender, maternal spot was
touched in the latter’s heart. Suddenly Rajlakshmi thought, ‘That’s true.
Behari is motherless and he sees me as his mother.’ She recalled how
Behari had always looked after her in sickness and in health, without being
sent for and without any pretentiousness; Rajlakshmi had taken it all for
granted, just like the air she breathed. She had never considered being
grateful for it. But did anyone ever reciprocate any concern for Behari?
When Annapurna was around, she had looked after him. Rajlakshmi had
thought that she put on a great show of affection to keep Behari tied to her
apron-strings.
 Today Rajlakshmi heaved a great sigh and said, ‘True, Behari is just like
a son to me.’
As she said it, she realized that Behari did more for her than her own son;
he was devoted to her even without the promise of any returns. This thought
provoked another sigh from the depths of her heart.
Binodini said, ‘Behari-thakurpo really loves to eat food cooked by you!’
Rajlakshmi was full of maternal pride as she said, ‘He doesn’t like fish
curry made by anyone else.’ As she said it, she realized that Behari hadn’t
come around for many days. She asked, ‘Why doesn’t Behari come around
these days?’
Binodini said, ‘I was wondering about that myself. But then your son has
been so busy with his wife ever since he got married—why would friends
come round any more?’
Rajlakshmi felt the criticism was justified. For the sake of his wife,
Mahendra had distanced all his near and dear ones. Behari was right in
feeling hurt—why should he visit them? Rajlakshmi felt sympathy welling
up for Behari once she saw him as neglected by Mahendra as she was. She
began to narrate to Binodini, in great detail, how much Behari had done for
Mahendra since their childhood days, how much he had sacrificed. Through
this narration she rationalized all her own grievances against her son.
Mahendra had done a grave injustice by alienating his childhood friend for
the sake of a new wife!
Binodini said, ‘Tomorrow, Sunday, why don’t you send for Behari-
thakurpo and cook for him? He’d be delighted.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘You are right. Let me send for Mahin and he can go
and invite Behari.’
Binodini said, ‘Oh no, Aunty, you invite him personally.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I don’t know to read and write, like all you
youngsters.’
Binodini said, ‘That’s nothing—I can write the letter on your behalf.’
Binodini wrote out an invitation on behalf of Rajlakshmi and sent it off.
Sunday was eagerly anticipated by Mahendra. His fantasies went wild
from the night before, although till that point nothing had really gone
according to his fantasies.Yet, the morning sun seemed to pour honey on his
eyes as Sunday dawned. The sounds of the city awakening were like a
melodious tune to his ears.
But what was this—did his mother have a religious vow today or
something? She wasn’t resting like other days, leaving the household chores
to Binodini. Today she was busy cooking in the kitchen.
Amidst all the hustle and bustle it was ten o’clock soon. In all that time
Mahendra couldn’t snatch a moment alone with Binodini. He tried to read
but couldn’t concentrate. His eyes were glued to an inconsequential
advertisement in the newspaper for fifteen whole minutes. Finally he could
take it no longer. He went downstairs and found his mother busy cooking in
a corner of the veranda near her room. Binodini had her sari tucked firmly
into her waist as she went about assisting Rajlakshmi.
Mahendra asked, ‘So what are you two doing today? Why all these
elaborate arrangements?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Hasn’t Binodini told you? I have invited Behari to
lunch today.’
Behari invited to lunch! Mahendra felt vicious anger rise up to his throat.
Immediately he said, ‘But Mother, I shall not be here.’
Rajlakshmi asked, ‘Why?’
Mahendra said briefly, ‘I must go out.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Go out after lunch—it won’t take long.’
Mahendra said, ‘But I have an invitation for lunch.’
Binodini threw a quick, veiled look at Mahendra’s face and said, ‘Aunty,
if he does have an invitation, let him go. Let Behari-thakurpo have lunch
alone today.’
But how could Rajlakshmi bear it if Mahin did not eat all that she was
cooking with such great care? But the more she pleaded, the harsher was
Mahendra’s refusal: ‘Very important lunch invitation, simply cannot refuse,
you should have asked me before inviting Behari,’ etc. etc.
This was Mahendra’s way of punishing his mother. It had its effect.
Rajlakshmi lost all interest in cooking. She felt like dropping everything
and walking away. Binodini said, ‘Aunty, don’t you worry—Thakurpo may
say all this; but he is going nowhere today.’
Rajlakshmi shook her head. ‘No my child, you don’t know my Mahin.
Once his mind is made up, nothing can stop him.’
But apparently Binodini knew Mahendra no less than Rajlakshmi.
Mahendra realized that Binodini was instrumental in this invitation to
Behari. The more he burnt in envy at this revelation, the harder it grew for
him to walk away. How could he go without seeing what Behari and
Binodini were up to? It would be torture, but he had to see it.
After many days, Behari came into the inner chambers today as an
invited guest. For an instant he stopped short at the doorway of the room
where he had been a regular since his youth, where he had got up to all
kinds of mischief as a child. A wave of emotion swelled in his heart,
threatening to rise and crash with all its might. He suppressed it and walked
in with a smile. Rajlakshmi had just finished her bath when Behari came in
and touched her feet. When Behari used to come in almost daily, such a
manner of greeting wasn’t customary between them.Today it felt as though
he was home after a long trip abroad. Rajlakshmi blessed him lovingly.
Rajlakshmi was full of affection and concern for Behari, out of a sense of
heartfelt empathy. She said, ‘O Behari, where were you all these days?
Every day I felt sure you would come, but there was no sign of you.’
Behari laughed. ‘If I came here every day, would you have spared me
another thought, Mother? Where is Mahin da?’
Rajlakshmi replied glumly, ‘Mahin had a lunch invitation; he couldn’t
stay here today.’
Behari’s face fell. So this was the consequence of a lifelong friendship?
Behari heaved a sigh, strove to drive away the dejection for the moment and
asked, ‘What’s for lunch today?’ He asked after his favourite dishes.
Whenever Rajlakshmi cooked, Behari showed himself to be a little more
eager and hungry. That was his way of stealing the love from the maternal
Rajlakshmi’s heart. On this day too, Rajlakshmi enjoyed Behari’s eager
craving for her food and reassured him with a laugh.
 Suddenly, Mahendra arrived and greeted Behari in the most polite tones,
‘Hello there, how are you, Behari?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mahin, didn’t you go to your lunch invitation?’
Mahendra tried to mask his embarrassment as he said, ‘Oh no, I was able
to cancel it.’
When Binodini walked in, bathed and changed, Behari was lost for words
at first. The scene he had witnessed between Mahendra and Binodini was
still engraved on his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to greet her.
Binodini stood quite close to Behari and spoke in low tones, ‘Thakurpo,
don’t you know me at all?’
Behari replied, ‘It’s hard to really know someone.’
Binodini said, ‘Not if you have good judgement.’ She turned to
Rajlakshmi, ‘Aunty, lunch is ready.’
Behari and Mahendra sat down to eat; Rajlakshmi sat close by and
tended to them while Binodini served the food.
Mahendra wasn’t interested in the food. He noticed the special favours in
the serving more keenly. He began to feel that Binodini was deriving a
special kind of satisfaction while serving food to Behari. The fact that
Behari got the largest piece of fish and the bigger portion of curds could
easily be rationalized mus—Mahendra was family and Behari was the
guest. But Mahendra burned with agonized spite simply because there was
no cause to vocalize his complaint. A certain variety of delicious fish had
been fetched specially from the market—it was unusual for this time of the
year. One was stuffed full of roe and Binodini tried to serve it to Behari. He
protested, ‘No, no, give that to Mahin da; he loves it.’
Full of righteous indignation, Mahendra said, ‘Oh no, I don’t want it.’
Binodini didn’t ask him a second time; she merely dropped it onto
Behari’s plate.
At the end of the meal the two friends came outside; Binodini came up to
them and said, ‘Behari-thakurpo, don’t go home just yet. Let’s go upstairs
and sit and talk.’
Behari asked, ‘Won’ t you have lunch?’
 Binodini said, ‘No, it s ekadasi, the three-quarter moon—the day we
widows fast.’
A smile of cruel mockery touched Behari’s lips; so even the fast must be
kept! All rituals were adhered to!
That faint smile did not escape Binodini’s notice. But she bore it the
same way she had borne the gash on her arm. She pleaded, ‘Please come
and sit down for a while.’
Suddenly, Mahendra lost his temper and spoke out of turn, ‘What’s
wrong with you all—drop everything you were doing, whether you like it or
not, please come and sit for a while! I don’t get the meaning of such
excessive fondness.’
Binodini laughed out loud, ‘Behari-thakurpo, just listen to your Mahin da
talk. Fondness means just that, affection. The dictionary doesn’t give
another meaning.’ She turned to Mahendra, ‘I must say, Thakurpo, going by
your childhood days there is no one who understands the meaning of
excessive fondness better than you.’
Behari said, ‘Mahin da, I have something to say. Could I talk to you
alone for a moment?’ Behari walked out with Mahendra without a
backward glance at Binodini. She stood on the veranda, clinging to the
railings, and stared into the void of the empty courtyard.
Behari came outside and said, ‘Mahin da, I want to know—is this where
our friendship ends?’
Mahendra was burning up with envy; Binodini’s mocking repartee was
splitting his head from end to end, like a searing bolt of lightning. He said,
‘I suppose if we patch up, it will be to your benefit. But I do not see
anything in it for me. I do not wish to admit strangers into my life, and I’d
like to keep the inner chambers secluded from the world at large.’
Behari walked away without another word.
Green with envy, Mahendra vowed never to see Binodini again. Soon
afterwards he restlessly paced the stairway and every room of the house in
the hope of meeting her by chance.
 30

ONE DAY ASHA ASKED ANNAPURNA, ‘AUNTY, DO YOU EVER

THINK OF UNCLE?’
Annapurna said, ‘I was widowed at the age of eleven. My husband is like
a shadowy memory to me.’
Asha asked, ‘Aunty, who do you think of then?’
Annapurna smiled. ‘I think of Him who is now the keeper of my husband
—of God.’
Asha asked, ‘Does that bring you joy?’
Annapurna stroked her head lovingly and said, ‘Child, what would you
know of the matters of my mind? It is known only to me and to Him on
whom my heart is fixed.’
Asha mulled over this as she thought, ‘Does he know my heart—the one
I think of day and night? Just because I cannot write well, why has he given
up writing to me?’
It was a while since Asha had got a letter from Mahendra. She sighed and
thought, ‘If only Chokher Bali were with me, she’d have been able to pen
down my thoughts faithfully.’
Asha couldn’t ever bring herself to write to her husband for fear that her
badly written prose would not be appreciated by him. The harder she tried,
the more her scrawls went awry. The more she tried to express herself
concisely, the further her thoughts scattered themselves. If only she could
write the first ‘Dearest’ and then sign her name, such that an omniscient
Mahendra would read between the lines all that she meant to write, Asha
would have completed her letters with great success. Fate had gifted her
with a great capacity to love, but with little verbal skills.
That evening Asha came back from the temple after the aarti, sat down at
Annapurna’s feet and began to stroke them gently. After many minutes of
silence she said, ‘Aunty, you always say that a husband should be
worshipped and served like a god. But what can a wife do, if she is stupid,
slow-witted and doesn’t know how to serve him?’
Annapurna gazed at Asha’s face for a few seconds and a covert sigh
excaped her as she said, ‘Child, I too am stupid, and yet I serve my God.’
Asha said, ‘But He knows your heart and so He is pleased. But what if
the husband is not satisfied with the dumb woman’s devotion?’
Annapurna said, ‘Not everyone has the capacity to satisfy everyone, my
child. If the wife serves her husband and his family with the utmost
devotion and genuine dedication, then even if the husband throws her
service away as worthless, the Lord of the Universe will pick it up and
treasure it.’
Asha sat in wordless silence. She tried very hard to take heart from these
words spoken by her aunt. But she simply couldn’t accept that a woman
discarded by her husband can derive any solace even from the Lord of the
Universe Himself. She sat with her head bent and continued to stroke her
aunt’s feet.
Annapurna held her hand and drew her closer. She kissed the top of her
head. With great effort she cleared her choked voice and said, ‘Chuni, the
trials and tribulations of life are a great teacher—mere advice can’t take
their place. At your age, I had struck a give-and-take relationship with life.
Just like you, I too thought that I should get recognition from whoever I
served. But at every step I found that my expectation wasn’t realistic.
Eventually one day, I could take it no longer. I felt all that I had done had
been in vain. The same day I left home. But today I find nothing has been in
vain. My child, He who is the chief of this business called life, with Whom
we have a constant give-and-take relationship, has been taking everything I
have ever given. Today He rests in my heart and admits my worth. If only I
knew it then! If I worked through life seeing it as work done for Him, if I
poured my heart into life as if I was pouring it into Him, who would ever
have had the capacity to hurt me?’
Asha lay in bed thinking hard, going back to Annapurna’s words,
although she couldn’t make proper sense of them all. But she had immense
respect for her pious aunt and in spite of not understanding all that she had
said Asha gave credence to most of it. She sat up in bed, folded her hands
and sent up a prayer in the direction of that God to whom her aunt had
given her heart. She said, ‘I am a child, I do not know You. All I know is
my husband; please don’t blame me for that. Dear God, please tell my
husband to accept the devotion that I place at his feet. If he chooses to reject
it, I shall surely die. I am not as devout as my aunt; shelter at your feet
alone cannot be my salvation.’ Asha bowed again and again and prayed
fervently before she got into bed.
It was time for Anukulbabu to go back home. The evening before Asha
left, Annapurna sat her down by her side and said, ‘Chuni, my child, I do
not have the power to protect you from the sorrows, travails and hardships
of life at all times. This is my advice to you: however anyone may hurt you,
keep your faith, your piety intact; may your integrity always be
uncompromised.’
Asha touched her feet and said, ‘Bless me, Aunty, so that I can do that.’
 31

ASHA RETURNED HOME. BINODINI REPROACHED HER

PETULANTLY, ‘BALI, you didn’t write me a single letter in all these
days!’
Asha said, ‘As if you showered me with letters!’
Binodini said, ‘Why should I write? You were supposed to write first.’
Asha hugged her and conceded defeat. She said, ‘You know I cannot
express myself too well. Especially writing to a learned person like you
really makes me shy.’
Gradually, the two friends put aside their mutual complaints and went
back to their affectionate selves.
Binodini said, ‘You have truly spoilt your husband by keeping him
company day and night. He must have someone by his side at all times!’
Asha said, ‘The precise reason why I left him in your care ! You are
better at keeping him company.’
Binodini said, ‘In the day I’d be spared by sending him off to college; but
the evenings were harder to escape—chat with him, read to him, endless
demands!’
Asha said, ‘Serves you right! Why would people spare you when you can
entertain them so well?’
Binodini said, ‘Watch out, my friend. The way Thakurpo behaves at
times, I wonder if I have mesmeric powers!’
Asha laughed, ‘You’d have to be the one! If only I had even an ounce of
your charm.’
Binodini said, ‘Why, who do you wish to ruin? Work on guarding the one
you have—don’t go after strangers; it’s not worth the bother.’
Asha chided her with a push and said, ‘Oh dear, what nonsense!’
 The moment Mahendra met Asha for the first time after her return from
Kashi, he said, ‘I can see you’ve put on weight—the trip seems to have
done you good.’
Asha felt mortified. She should not have looked so healthy—but nothing
ever went right for poor Asha. Even while she was so miserable, her silly
body had put on weight. On the one hand she didn’t have the words to
express herself, and on the other her body played truant.
Asha murmured, ‘How have you been?’
In the past, Mahendra would have said, with mock sorrow and some
genuine emotion, ‘I was only half alive.’ But now he couldn’t be playful;
the words stuck at his throat. He said, ‘I’ve been fine, not bad at all.’
Asha gazed at him and found he had lost weight—his face had a pallor
and a bright flame burned in his eyes. A deep-seated hunger seemed to be
licking away at his insides. Asha felt upset. ‘My poor husband hasn’t been
well at all. Why did I leave him and go to Kashi?’ She was outraged indeed,
at her own health, at the fact that her husband had lost weight while she put
it on.
Mahendra wondered what he should talk about next and slowly stumbled
out with, ‘I suppose Aunty is keeping well?’
He was reassured to that effect and thereafter he was lost for things to
say. A tattered, old newspaper lay close by. He pulled it close and glanced
through it absentmindedly. Asha stood there looking down as she thought,
‘We meet after so long and he s not talking to me properly; he hasn’t even
looked at my face. Is he angry because I didn’t write to him the last few
days, or is he upset that I stayed back longer in Kashi at Aunty’s request?’
Desolate and miserable, Asha pondered over the possible sources of her
own culpability.
Mahendra went to college and returned later in the day. While he had his
snacks, Rajlakshmi waited on him and Asha stood at a distance with her
anchal drawn over her head. But no one else was present.
Rajlakshmi asked with a concerned frown, ‘Are you unwell today,
Mahin?’
The question annoyed Mahendra. ‘No Mother, why should I be unwell?’
 Rajlakshmi said, ‘But you have hardly eaten anything.’
Mahendra snapped back, ‘I am eating, am I not?’
It was a summer evening. Mahendra wrapped himself in a light shawl
and began to pace the terrace. He had great hopes that the regular reading
session (with Binodini) would take place as usual. They were nearly
through with Bankim’s Anandamath, with just a couple of chapters to go.
Binodini may be heartless, but she would surely come and read those out to
him today! But the evening wore on, the hands of the clock moved on and
Mahendra had to go to bed with a heavy heart.
Asha came into the bedroom, bashful and dressed up. She found
Mahendra lying in bed. She didn’t know what to do next. A long separation
brought with it some coyness—both parties expected a fresh greeting from
each other before they could become intimate with each other like before.
How could Asha re-enter her old, familiar, pleasure-seat without being
asked? She waited at the door for a few long minutes, but Mahendra did not
say anything. She stepped into the room, one step at a time. If a bangle or
an anklet made a sudden sound, she nearly died of shame. With heart
aflutter she went up to the bed and realized that Mahendra was asleep. In
that instant, all her finery seemed to strangle her and mock her cruelly. She
wanted to hurl everything from her body and rush from the room, go
anywhere else.
Asha got into bed as stealthily as possible .Yet, there were enough sounds
and movement so as to wake Mahendra if he had truly been asleep. But
tonight his eyes stayed shut because Mahendra wasn’t asleep. He lay at one
end of the bed and so Asha lay still beside him. It was clear to Mahendra,
even with his back to her, that Asha was weeping silent tears in the dark.
His own cruelty to her was tormenting him. But he simply did not know
what to say, how to hold her or love her. He hurled abuses at himself and
lacerated himself mentally—it hurt badly, but didn’t resolve anything. He
thought, ‘In the morning I won’t be able to pretend I’m asleep—what shall I
say to Asha then?’
But Asha took care of his concern. At the crack of dawn she left the bed
in her affronted finery; she couldn’t face him either.
 32

ASHA WONDERED, ‘WHY DID THIS HAPPEN? WHAT HAVE I

DONE WRONG?’ But she never considered the obvious. The very idea
that Mahendra was in love with Binodini never crossed her mind. Asha was
very naïve in worldly matters. Besides, she could never imagine that
Mahendra could be anything other than the person she had known forever,
ever since their marriage.
Mahendra left for college earlier than usual. As he left, Asha always
came and stood at the window. Mahendra would glance up just once before
he got into the carriage. This had been a routine with them for the longest
time. Thus habituated, Asha drifted to the window mechanically the minute
she heard the sounds of the carriage drawing up. Possibly by habit,
Mahendra too shot a glance at the window. He found Asha standing there—
she hadn’t yet bathed, or changed her clothes; her face was pallid. Instantly
Mahendra lowered his gaze and looked down at the books on his lap. Alas
for that silent greeting as their eyes met, or that meaningful smile!
The carriage went its way; Asha dropped to the floor. The whole world
turned to dust before her eyes. In the streets of Kolkata it was business as
usual—carriages headed for offices, trams were chasing other trams—this
lone, solitary, pained heart in a distant corner of the city was a misfit amidst
the hustle and bustle of life.
Suddenly Asha saw the light. ‘I know—he has heard that Thakurpo went
to Kashi and he is upset about that. Nothing else has happened in the
meantime that could cause him any displeasure. But—why blame me for
that?’
As she mulled over this for a few seconds, Asha’s heart skipped a beat.
Suddenly she was gripped by the fear that Mahendra was under the
misconception that Asha and Behari had colluded in his sudden arrival in
Kashi. A conspiracy. Oh, shame! Such mistrust! It was bad enough that her
name was linked to Behari, causing her such trauma; if Mahendra doubted
her in this manner now, she’d surely die. But if there was really such a
misgiving, if Mahendra felt she’d really gone wrong, why didn’t he
confront her with it? He should judge her and punish her to his satisfaction.
She felt he was avoiding her without tackling the issue head-on. Asha was
convinced that Mahendra was suffering from some misconception that he
knew was intrinsically false and he was ashamed to admit it even to Asha.
Why else would he walk around looking so guilty? The censorious husband
would hardly look like this!
All day long Mahendra was haunted by that melancholy expression on
Asha’s face that he had glimpsed in an instant in the morning. Through the
lectures in college, amidst the hordes of students, he could only see Asha,
wan and dishevelled, her clothes in disarray, her eyes pained and aggrieved.
After college he went for a stroll around the circular lake. As he strolled,
dusk drew close; he couldn’t decide what he should do about Asha—
sympathetic duplicity or harsh honesty—which did she deserve? Not once
did he even consider letting Binodini go. He only wondered how he could
honour both his loves at the same time.
Mahendra consoled himself with the thought that the love he still felt for
Asha was rare in most women’s lives. Asha should be grateful for that love
and generosity. Mahendra’s heart was large enough to carry both Asha and
Binodini in it. His nuptial relationship wouldn’t be affected in the least by
the platonic, noble romance he had with Binodini.
Having thus convinced himself, Mahendra felt a weight lifting from his
shoulders. He grew cheerful at the thought of spending his entire life like a
planet with two moons, with both Binodini and Asha being where they
belonged in his life. He decided to go to bed early that night and to caress
and stroke away all the doubts that Asha was facing. Reassured by his own
decision, he walked home hurriedly.
Asha was absent when he had his dinner. But he went to bed thinking that
she’d have to come to the bedroom at some point. But in the silent room, in
that empty bed, which were the reminiscences that flooded his heart? Were
they the ones of the first days of his romance with Asha? No. All those
memories had faded away from his mind the way moonshine melts before
sunlight. A razor-sharp, accomplished young woman outshone the image of
the naïve child-woman cloaked in shyness. Mahendra recollected his scuffle
with Binodini over The Poison Tree. In the evenings, as Binodini had read
out Bankim’s Kapalakundala to him, the night crept up and the household
fell asleep. In that solitary room, in that still silence, Binodini’s voice grew
softer and nearly disappeared as she read on. Suddenly, she came back to
her senses, dropped the book and stood up to leave. Mahendra said, ‘Let me
come with you till the bottom of the stairs.’ Mahendra reminisced about
those evenings and felt thrilled anew. The night wore on and Mahendra
began to dread Asha’s arrival. But Asha did not come. Mahendra thought, ‘I
was ready to do my duty, but if Asha takes exception without reason and
refuses to come here, what can I do?’ And he gave himself up to more
pleasurable meditations on Binodini and brought back even more of her.
When the clock struck one, Mahendra could hold still no longer. He went
out to the terrace and found the mellow moonlight flooding the night. The
mammoth silence of Kolkata felt as tangible as the waves in a speechless
ocean—the breeze ambled casually amidst the row of edifices, shrouding
them in thick layers of sleep.
Mahendra could not contain his craving: ever since Asha returned from
Kashi, Binodini hadn’t met him. The lonely night enchanted by moonlight
propelled him relentlessly towards Binodini. Mahendra went down the
stairs. He stood before Binodini’s door and realized that it wasn’t locked
yet. He stepped into the room and saw that the bed was made, but there was
no one in it yet. At the sound of footsteps, Binodini called out from the
balcony to the south, ‘Who’s there?’
Mahendra replied in a voice drenched in emotion, ‘Binod, it’s me.’ He
walked straight out onto the balcony.
On this warm summer night Rajlakshmi happened to be lying there, on a
mat, along with Binodini. She said, ‘Mahin, what are you doing here so late
at night?’
 Binodini cast an angry, thunderous glance at him from under her thick,
dark brows. Mahendra walked away without another word.
 33

THE FOLLOWING MORNING WAS CLOUDY AND GLOOMY. THE

SKY WAS LADEN with rain-clouds after days of scorching heat.
Mahendra left early for his classes. His discarded clothes lay scattered on
the floor. Asha counted them up as she handed them out to the washerman.
Mahendra was absentminded by nature. Hence Asha had instructions to
check his pockets before handing his clothes over to the laundry. She fished
into a pocket of his discarded shirt and came up with a letter.
If only that letter had turned into a poisonous snake and stung Asha’s
fingers before she could read it! If a potent poison spreads in the body, it
can yield results in five minutes. But a poisoned mind only brings mortal
torment, not death.
Asha fished out the open letter and saw it was written by Binodini.
Asha’s face turned ashen. She took the letter into the next room and began
to read—
After what you did last night, I’d have thought you’ll come to your senses. Why did you send
me a clandestine note through Khemi, the maid? Shame on you! What must she think! Are you
going to make it impossible for me to show my face to anyone in the world?
What do you want from me? Love? Why do you beg? You have received love since the day
you were born, but still you crave for it.
In this world, I have no one to love and no one to love me. Hence I play at games of love
and satisfy my craving for it. When you had the time to spare, you joined in the game. But all
games must end some day. You have summons from the house—why do you still peep into the
playroom? Shake off the dust and go back home now. I have no home. So I’ ll sit in a corner
and play games in my head. I shall not call you.
You wrote that you love me. That may have worked while we were playing games—but if
you want me to take it for the truth, I do not believe it. At one point in time you believed you
love Asha—that was a lie too. Now you think you love me, this too is a lie. The only one you
love is yourself.
Thirst for love has parched my heart and soul. You do not have the capacity to quench my
thirst—I know that for a fact. As I keep telling you, let go of me, don’t come after me. Don’ t
 be so shameless as to shame me. My desire for games has ended. Now, if you call me, I shall
not answer. You have called me heartless in your note. That may be true. But I also have a soul
and hence today I take pity on you and renounce you. If you dare answer this letter I shall be
sure that the only way to escape you is to leave this house.

As she finished reading the letter, everything came tumbling around

Asha. Her nerves gave way, she could scarcely breathe and the sun stole
away the light from her eyes. Asha tried to hold on to the wall, then the
cupboard and finally the chair as she crumpled to the floor. A little later she
came back to her senses and tried to read the letter once again. But her
shattered mind could hardly take it in. The black letters danced before her
eyes. How did this happen? What was all this! What a terrible, earth-
shattering disaster! Asha couldn’t think of where to go, whom to call and
what to do. Her heart fluttered like the fish that was hauled out of water and
gasped for breath. Just as the drowning man reached up and groped for the
sky over his head, deep down in her heart Asha desperately tried to get a
hold of something firm, and finally she sobbed out, ‘Aunty!’
The minute she took the name of her beloved aunt, tears sprang to her
eyes and flowed relentlessly. She sat on the floor and wept her heart out.
When the weeping subsided, she thought, ‘What shall I do with this letter?’
She cringed as she imagined Mahendra’s severe embarrassment if he
discovered that Asha had read the letter. She decided to put the letter back
in the pocket of his shirt and hang it up on the shelf instead of sending it to
the laundry.
With this thought she came back into her room. Meanwhile, the
washerman had leaned back on his bundle of clothes and gone to sleep.
Asha picked up the shirt and tried to put the letter back in its pocket when
she suddenly heard, ‘Bali dear!’
She dropped the shirt and the letter hastily on the bed and sat on it.
Binodini came into the room and said, ‘These days the washerman has been
mixing up clothes. Let me take back the ones that haven’t been marked yet.’
Asha couldn’t bring herself to look at Binodini. She turned away and
looked out of the window for fear that her face would give her away. She
bit down hard on her lips so that the tears wouldn’t escape her eyes.
 Binodini stopped short and took stock of Asha’s expression. She said to
herself, ‘I get it—so now you know all about last night. And I suppose I am
the only one to blame!’
Binodini did not make any effort to speak to Asha. She just picked out a
few clothes and walked away.
Asha was stung by the shame of having been friends with Binodini so
naïvely for all these days. She wanted to compare the cruel letter just once
more to the ideal of a friend that she carried in her heart.
She was opening the letter once again when Mahendra burst into the
room. Apparently, he had rushed out in the middle of a lecture and run
home for some reason.
Asha hid the letter in the folds of her sari. Mahendra also stopped short
when he found Asha in the room. Then he cast anxious looks all over the
room. Asha knew what he was looking for; but she couldn’t think of a way
to slip the letter back in its place and make good her escape from the room.
Mahendra picked up each discarded item and hunted through it. Asha
couldn’t bear to watch his pitiful attempts any longer. She hurled the shirt
and the letter on the floor, gripped the bedpost with one hand and buried her
face in the other. Mahendra picked up the letter in a flash. For a second he
gazed at Asha. Then the sounds of his footsteps running down the stairs fell
on Asha’s ears. The washerman was saying, ‘Ma , how much longer for you
to give all the clothes? It’s getting late and I live far away.’
 34

SINCE MORNING RAJLAKSHMI HAD NOT SENT FOR BINODINI.

WHEN BINODINI went into the storeroom as usual, Rajlakshmi did not
even look up.
This did not escape Binodini’s notice. She said, ‘Aunty, are you unwell? I
don’t blame you, after what Thakurpo did last night. He just barged in like a
madman! I could hardly sleep after that.’
Rajlakshmi merely sulked and didn’t say a word.
Binodini said, ‘He must have had a minor tiff with Chokher Bali and that
was that! He must drag me there to resolve it or to hear them out. He
couldn’t wait for the morning. I must say this, Aunty, and don’t you blame
me, your son may have many qualities, but patience isn’t one of them.
That’s what all our spats are about.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘You are blabbering in vain—I am not in the mood to
listen to anything today.’
Binodini said, ‘Neither am I, Aunty. If I criticized your son I was afraid
you’d be hurt and so I tried to pull the wool over your eyes with a bunch of
lies. But a time has come when that’s no longer possible.’
Rajlakshmi said, I know the good and the bad in my son—but I didn’t
know what a temptress you could be.’
Binodini opened her mouth to say something and then closed it again.
She said, ‘That’s true, Aunty—no one really knows anyone. One doesn’t
even know oneself. Wasn’t it you who once wanted to tempt your son with
this temptress, simply to avenge yourself on your daughter-in-law? Think
about that and then answer me.’
Rajlakshmi flared up like a forest-fire, ‘You wretched woman, shame on
you for making such allegations about a mother where her son is concerned.
May your tongue drop off for sinning so blatantly.’
 Binodini replied calmly, ‘Aunty, you know better than me whether I am a
seductress or not and what enchantment I possess. Just so, I know the spell
that you tried to cast, though you might deny it. But it must’ve been there or
this wouldn’t have happened. Both you and I lay the trap with some
wilfulness and some ignorance. That’s the way our breed goes—we are
enchantresses.’
Rajlakshmi was so incensed that she could barely speak. She left the
room in a huff.
Binodini stood a while in the empty room; her eyes burned with fire.
Once the morning chores were done, Rajlakshmi sent for Mahendra. He
knew that the subject of last night’s events would come up. He was already
disconsolate with Binodini’s response to his letter. As a consequence, his
wayward heart was focused entirely on Binodini. A confrontation with his
mother was beyond him right now. Mahendra knew that if his mother
brought up Binodini and rebuked him, in defence he would be impelled to
blurt out the truth; this would lead to terrible domestic strife. Hence it was
imperative to leave the house for the moment, sit in solitude and sort out his
thoughts. He instructed the servant, ‘Go and tell Mother that I have urgent
work at college today and I have to leave now. I shall talk to her when I
come back.’ He changed his clothes and scuttled away like a truant child
without even eating. The terrible reply from Binodini that he had carried
with him all morning and perused several times, stayed back in his
discarded shirt pocket.
After a heavy shower, the sky remained overcast. Binodini was very
distraught. Whenever she felt upset, she was given to working harder. So
she had decided to gather all the clothes in the house and to mark them for
the washerman. When she had gone to collect clothes from Asha and seen
the latter’s expression, her irritation knew no bounds. If she had to be held
responsible for what had happened the previous night, why should she only
get the humiliation and none of the pleasures of her crime?
The rain clattered away outside. Binodini sat on the floor in her room.
The clothes lay in a heap in front of her. Khemi, the maid, was handing
them to her one by one as Binodini stamped the initials onto them.
Suddenly Mahendra barged into the room without warning. Khemi dropped
her work, pulled the sari over her head and dashed away.
Binodini dropped the clothes she had in her hands, stood up in a flash and
said,’ Go away, leave my room immediately.’
Mahendra said, ‘Why? What have I done?’
Binodini said, ‘What have you done! Coward! What can you do? You can
neither love nor do your duty. Why must you drag my name into the mud?’
Mahendra tried to reason with her, ‘How can you say I do not love you?’
Binodini said in a scathing voice, ‘That’s exactly what I say. Stealth,
camouflage, indecision—I am repulsed by your knavery. I hate it. Go
away.’
Mahendra was miserable. ‘You are repulsed by me, Binod?’
Binodini said, ‘Yes.’
Mahendra said, ‘There’s still time for repentence, Binod. If I stop
dithering and leave everything behind, will you come with me?’
Mahendra grabbed her with both hands and pulled her to him. Binodini
said, ‘Let me go, you are hurting me.’
Mahendra said, ‘It doesn’t matter. Tell me, will you come with me?’
Binodini said, ‘No, never, not on your life!’
Mahendra said, ‘But why? You were the one to ruin me—today you
cannot turn your back on me.You have to come.’
Mahendra drew her to him forcefully and held her close. He said, ‘Even
your hatred cannot turn me away. I will take you along and somehow I shall
make you love me.’
Binodini freed herself with a jerk.
Mahendra said, ‘You have set fire all around you; now you cannot put it
out and try to escape.’
Mahendra’s voice rose as he shouted, ‘Why did you play such games,
Binod? Now you can’t brush it all off as a game and get away. You and I
have no choice but to die together.’
Rajlakshmi stepped into the room and said, ‘Mahin, what do you think
you are doing?’
 Mahendra’s delirious gaze turned just once at his mother and came back
to rest on Binodini as he said, ‘I am leaving everything and going away. Tell
me, will you come with me?’
Binodini looked at the infuriated Rajlakshmi. Then she stepped forward,
took Mahendra’s hand and said, ‘I will.’
Mahendra said, ‘In that case, wait just one more day. I am leaving this
house. From tomorrow, you will be all I have left with me.’
Mahendra went away.
At this point the washerman came and said to Binodini, ‘Ma, I cannot
wait any longer. If you do not have the time today, I can come back
tomorrow for the clothes.’
Khemi came and said, Bou-thakurun, the coachman says he’s run out of
hay.’
Binodini used to weigh out a week’s feed and send it off to the stables.
She would stand at the window watching as the horses ate.
Gopal, the servant, came and said, ‘Bou-thakurun, the bearer has had a
tiff with Sadhubabu. He says if you take the accounts for the kerosene from
him, he will go to the head clerk, work out his pay and leave.’
Life went on as usual.
 35

BEHARI WAS IN MEDICAL COLLEGE ALL THIS WHILE. BUT HE

DROPPED OUT of college right before the exams. If anyone asked, he
said, ‘There’s time enough to care for other people’s health; I must look
after my own first.’
As a matter of fact, Behari had immense energy. He needed to be
intensely involved with something at all times; but he did not need to work,
to earn a living; nor did he seek fame. After he graduated from college, he’d
gone to Shibpur first, to study engineering. He acquired as much knowledge
as he wished, and as much skill as he thought was necessary, and left to join
medical college. Mahendra had joined medical college a year before him.
Among the students in college, their friendship was legendary. They teased
them by calling them the Siamese twins. The previous year, when
Mahendra failed his exams, the two landed up in the same year. But no one
could understand why the pair broke up at this point. Behari couldn’t bring
himself to go to class where he was bound to run into Mahendra, but not
meet him in the proper sense of the word. Everyone knew that Behari
would pass the exams with flying colours, and win awards and prizes. But
Behari didn’t sit for the exams.
Behari’s neighbour was a poor Brahmin, Rajendra Chakravarty. He
worked in a printing press as a compositor and brought home twelve rupees
a month. Behari said to him, ‘Let your son live in my house, I shall teach
him.’
The Brahmin heaved a sigh of relief.With a happy heart he surrendered
his eight-year-old son, Vasant, into Behari’s care.
Behari began to teach him in his own fashion. He said, ‘I shall not give
him a book to read before he’s ten years old; I’ll teach him orally until
then.’ Behari spent his days playing with the child, taking him to the park,
the museum, the zoo and farmlands. Behari’s entire day was taken up by
teaching him English orally, telling him stories from history, testing his
intelligence with various quizzes and games and riddles. He didn’t have a
moment to spare.
One evening, there was no way they could go out. Since noon, the rain
had halted just once and had now begun again. Behari sat in his room
upstairs with Vasant and played at a new game he had invented.
‘Vasant, quick, tell me how many beams there are in this room—no, you
cannot count them now.
Vasant said, ‘Twenty.’
Behari said, ‘Wrong—it’s eighteen.’
Suddenly he reached out, fingered the blinds and asked, ‘How many rows
in this blind?’
‘Six.’
‘Right. How long is this bench?What’s the weight of this book?’ In this
way Behari was sharpening the boy’s reflexes when the bearer walked in
and said, ‘Babuji, a woman—’
Before he had finished speaking, Binodini walked into the room.
Taken aback, Behari exclaimed, ‘What is it, Bouthan?’
Binodini said, ‘Do you have any female relatives who live here with
you?’
Behari said, ‘No relatives, no strangers, nobody. My aunt lives in the
village.’
Binodini said, ‘In that case, take me to your village and leave me there.’
Behari said, ‘And what will be my excuse?’
Binodini said, ‘Say that I am your maid. I shall do the housework there.’
Behari said, ‘My aunt will be a trifle surprised. She has not complained
to me about a shortage of maids. First you must tell me how you came up
with this idea. Vasant, go to bed now, child.’
Vasant left the room. Binodini said, ‘If I tell you the events, you will not
really understand what happened.’
Behari said, ‘What’s the harm—even if I misunderstand?’
‘Fine, then misunderstand if you want to—Mahendra is in love with me.
 Behari said, ‘That’s not news and neither is it something that one would
like to hear again and again.’
Binodini said, ‘I have no wish to utter it again and again. That’s the
reason I have come to you—to seek refuge.’
Behari said acidly, ‘You have no wish? And who, pray, caused this to
happen? Who dragged Mahendra on to the path he now treads?’
Binodini said, ‘I did. I cannot he to you—this is my handiwork. I may be
bad, or wrong, but do try to see things from my point of view just this once
and understand me. The fire that burned in my heart caused me to set fire to
Mahendra’s home. Once, I did think that I loved Mahendra, but I was
wrong.’
Behari said, ‘If you loved him, would you have wreaked havoc like this?’
Binodini said, ‘Thakurpo, these are sentiments straight out of your books.
I am not yet ready to hear such sermons. Set aside your textbooks and peer
into my heart just this once, free from your predisposed notions. Today I
have come to tell you everything about me.’
Behari said, ‘The books are there for a reason, Bouthan. I leave it to God
to comprehend the heart by its own rules. I must stick to the rules set out in
the books or I will be lost.’
Binodini went on, ‘Thakurpo, I will be shameless enough to admit to you
—if you had wanted to, you could’ve pulled me back. Mahendra may be in
love with me, but he is blind, he doesn’t know me at all. Once, I did feel
that you understand me; once upon a time you felt respect for me. Tell the
the truth, don’t hold back today!’
Behari said, ‘It’s true, I felt respect for you.’
Binodini said, ‘You weren’t wrong,Thakurpo. But if you did understand
me, respect me, why did you stop there? Why couldn’t you love me? I have
abandoned shame and come to you, and so I say this to you—why didn’t
you love me too? It’s my bad luck—you too had to lose your heart to Asha.
Oh no, Thakurpo, you can’t be angry. Sit down. I shall not hold back today.
I knew that you loved Asha even when you didn’t know it yourself. But I
fail to understand what all of you see in Asha. Good or bad—what is there
in that girl? Hasn’t God given an ounce of insight to the male gaze? How
little, and what stuff does it take to mesmerize you men! Fools, blind men!’
Behari stood up and said, ‘I shall listen to everything you have to say
today; but I beg of you, don’t say that which must not be said.’
Binodini gave a wry smile and said, ‘Thakurpo, I know exactly where it’s
pinching you. But please be patient and spare a thought for me—just mink
of the extreme agony that has dragged me here tonight, shedding all shame
and fear, to appeal to the person who once respected me and whose love
would have turned my life around. I can tell you very honestly, if you
weren’t in love with Asha, I wouldn’t have wreaked such havoc on her life
tonight.’
Behari turned pale. ‘What has happened to Asha? What have you done to
her?’
Binodini said, ‘Mahendra has committed to going away with me
tomorrow, leaving his family and everything behind.
Behari suddenly snarled, ‘That’s impossible, this cannot happen!’
Binodini said, ‘Impossible? And who is going to stop Mahendra today?’
Behari said, ‘You can.’
Binodini was silent for a few minutes.Then she fixed her gaze on Behari
and said, ‘Why shall I stop him? For your Asha’s sake? And I suppose I
have no dreams and desires of my own? I am not so pious that I’d wipe out
all my wishes from this life, for the sake of your Asha’s well-being, for the
sake of Mahendra’s family—I have not studied the holy books so faithfully.
If I give something up, what do I get in return?’
Gradually, the lines on Behari’s face hardened as he said, ‘You have tried
to speak honestly, now let me be frank for a change. What you have done
today, and the words you speak now, are all derived from the literature
you’re so fond of reading. Three-fourths of it is the language of dramas and
novels.’
Binodini said, ‘Dramas! Novels!’
Behari repeated, ‘Yes, dramas and novels. And not of a very high
standard, mind you. You believe this is all original—it’s not. They are mere
echoes of the printing press in your story. Had you been a silly, stupid,
bumbling child, you d still have got some sympathy from this world. But
the heroine of the play is only fit for the stage, not the home.’
Where was Binodini’s cutting sharpness, her famous pride? In response
to Behari’s words she bowed down in silence like the spellbound snake.
Many minutes later she spoke calmly, without looking at Behari, ‘What do
you want me to do?’
Behari said, ‘Don’t try to work wonders. Let an ordinary woman’s good
sense prevail. Go back to your village.’
Binodini said, ‘How can I go?’
Behari said, ‘I can board you into the ladies’ compartment and escort you
to your destination.’
Binodini said quietly, ‘Let me stay the night here then?’
Behari replied, ‘No! Even I do not have so much faith in myself.’
Binodini slipped off the chair, dropped to the ground, held Behari’s feet
to her breast and said, ‘Thakurpo, don’t wipe out that tiny bit of weakness
that you have! Don’t be purer than the driven snow. Love the vile and be a
little vile yourself.’ She kissed his feet again and again. For an instant
Behari lost control at this unexpected reaction from Binodini. His senses
slackened their hold on sanity. Binodini sensed his moment of weakness
and she let go of his feet; she raised herself on both knees and wound her
arms around Behari who was seated on a chair and said, ‘My dearest life, I
know you are not mine forever; but do love me even if it’s for this moment.
After that I shall vanish into the forest where you cast me, I won’t ask
anyone for anything again. Give me something that can last me till my
death.’ She closed her eyes and offered her lips to him. For one second the
two of them were still and the room seemed to hold its breath. Then, Behari
heaved a sigh and unwound her arms from around his neck. He moved
away to another chair and spoke in a voice that was nearly inaudible, ‘There
is a passenger train at one in the night.’
Binodini was mute for a few minutes and then she murmured, ‘I shall
take that train.’
Vasant walked into the room barefoot, bare-bodied and fair as the day; he
stood by Behari’s chair and stared solemnly at Binodini.
 Behari asked, ‘Didn’t you go to sleep?’
Vasant didn’t answer him and continued to stand there, looking grave.
Binodini stretched out her arms. Vasant hesitated a little and then went up
to her slowly. She held him close to her heart as the tears flowed freely
from her eyes.
 36

THE IMPOSSIBLE CAN BECOME POSSIBLE AT TIMES AND THE

UNBEARABLE CAN indeed be borne, or that night and the following day
wouldn’t have passed in Mahendra’s house. After instructing Binodini to be
prepared, that same night Mahendra mailed a letter to his house. This letter
reached the following day. Asha was in bed. The bearer came to her with
the letter and said, ‘Ma, letter for you.’
Asha’s heart leaped in her breast. In the flash of a heartbeat a thousand
hopes and worries resonated in her mind. She picked up the letter hastily
and found it was in Mahendra’s hand, addressed to Binodini. Her head
lolled back on the pillow instantly and she handed the letter back to the
bearer mutely. He asked, ‘To whom should I give this letter?’
Asha said, ‘I don’t know.’
It was around eight in the evening when Mahendra arrived at Binodini’s
room, charging in like a maelstrom. He found the room in darkness. He
fished out a matchbox from his pocket, struck a match and found that the
room was empty. Binodini wasn’t there and neither were her things. He
went into the balcony to the south and called out, ‘Binod!’ The balcony was
empty and there was no answer.
‘Fool! I’ m a fool. I should’ve taken her with me. I’m sure Mother spoke
such harsh words to her that Binodini was impelled to walk out,’ Mahendra
thought.
The moment the thought entered his head he was convinced of its
veracity. He strode into Rajlakshmi’s room impatiently. That room lay in
darkness too, but Rajlakshmi was lying in bed; he could see even in the
dark. In an angry tone, Mahendra asked, ‘Mother, what have you said to
Binodini?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Nothing.’
 Mahendra persisted, ‘So where has she gone?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘How would I know?’
Mahendra was sceptical, ‘You don’t know? Fine, I am going to look for
her. I shall find her, wherever she may be.’
Mahendra walked away. Rajlakshmi left the bed and tried to follow him,
crying, ‘Mahin, don’t go, please Mahin, come back. Listen to me.’
Mahendra left the house like a madman. But he came back a moment
later and asked the watchman, ‘Where has Bou-thakurun gone?’
The watchman said, ‘She did not tell us—we do not know.’
Mahendra roared in anger, ‘You don’t know!’
The watchman folded his hands and bowed low, ‘No sire, we don’t
know.’
Mahendra decided his mother must have tutored them to supply these
answers. He said, ‘Fair enough!’
On the streets of the metropolis dusk had fallen; the ice-candy man was
hawking his ice-candy and the fish seller was yelling out the names of the
kinds of fish he carried. Mahendra waded into the throng of noisy people
and disappeared in their midst.
 37

BEHARI HAD NEVER SAT DOWN TO MEDITATE UPON HIMSELF.

HE HAD NEVER turned himself into a subject of analysis for his own
mind. Books, chores and friends had kept him busy. He was happy to give
the whole world around him more attention than he gave himself. But all of
a sudden, one day, everything had crashed to pieces around him. Amidst the
darkness and the destruction, he had found himself standing alone on the
peak of the colossal mountain of anguish. Ever since, he had feared his own
company; he had drowned himself in work and more work so that this
unwanted companion of his, his own shadow self, wouldn’t have access to
him.
But on this particular day, Behari was powerless in keeping his inner self
at bay. The previous night he had taken Binodini to her village. Since then,
wherever he was and whatever he tried to keep himself busy with, he felt
his agonized heart pointing him to his own immeasurable loneliness.
Behari felt defeated by fatigue and heartache. It was around nine at night;
the south-facing terrace adjacent to Behari’s room was aflutter with a
summer breeze. Behari sat alone on the terrace, under a moonless sky. He
hadn’t been able to teach Vasant that evening; he’d sent him to bed early.
His heart wept for the days of his old, familiar past like a motherless child;
arms outstretched, it searched for something in the dark of the universe,
yearned for consolation, for solace of some sort. His determination, his
control over himself, had all washed away. He felt like running to the same
people that he had once vowed never to think of again. There was no way
of controlling his emotional turbulence.
Like a map marked in different colours for land, water, hills and rivers,
the various images of his long friendship with Mahendra and its unfortunate
conclusion unfolded before Behari’s eyes. He mulled over the precise
moment at which his world had come crashing down and all that he held
dear to him had been lost forever. Who had been the first to break the
charmed circle? The bashful face of Asha, coloured by the rays of the
setting sun, etched itself in the twilight. The blowing of the conch shell,
auguring good omens at dusk, rang in his ears at the same time. Asha,
Behari thought, was something of a benevolent planet that had made its
place between the two friends, casting her influence on both. She had
brought with her a little conflict, and a strange kind of pain that could
neither be spoken of nor nurtured in the heart. And yet, this conflict, this
pain were covered in a pleasant light, full of love and affection.
But then had come the malevolent planet and that had ripped apart the
friendship, the romance, the peace and purity of the family. Behari tried to
push away Binodini’s image with great revulsion. But wonders never cease!
The push was no more than a gentle thrust, barely touching her. That
incredibly beautiful mirage with her dark eyes brimming with inscrutable
mystery, stood still before him in the dense dark of the night. The fulsome
breeze of the summer night touched him like her breath. Gradually, her still,
steady gaze wavered; the dry, intense eyes overflowed with tears as emotion
overcame them; like a flash the mirage dropped at his feet and grasped his
knees to her breast with all her might. And then she wove herself around
him like a human creeper and raised a pair of lips as fragrant as a flower, up
to his own. Behari closed his eyes and tried with all his might to banish the
image from his mind. But he felt powerless to hurt her in any way—an
incomplete, fervent kiss hung on his lips, and he was suffused with a
strange exhilaration.
Behari could no longer stay in the solitary darkness of the terrace. He
rushed into his lamp-lit room in order to distract himself. In one corner, on a
teapoy, was a framed photograph covered with a silk scarf. Behari
uncovered it and sat down to gaze at it under the bright light.
It had been taken soon after Mahendra and Asha’s wedding, with the
couple smiling happily. Behind the photograph Mahendra had written his
name and Asha had added hers in her childish scrawl. The sweetness of
new-found romance still hung over the photo. Mahendra sat on a chair
looking very pleased with his newly married status. Asha stood beside him
shyly. The photographer had insisted on her dropping her veil, but he
couldn’t rid her of her shyness. Today, this same Mahendra was about to
leave Asha in tears and go far away. But the Mahendra of the photograph
still looked as much in love with her as ever—his emotions were frozen in
time, ignorant of the irony of fate that time would unfold.
Behari tried to cast Binodini far away by hurling abuse at her, with the
photograph on his lap. But those loving, youthful arms of hers still held on
to his knees, strong as ever. Behari said, ‘You went and destroyed such a
loving, happy relationship!’ But Binodini’s face, raised for his kiss, silently
told him, ‘I have loved you. From all the men in this whole wide world I
have chosen you.’
But was that an answer! Could these words obscure the pained shriek that
arose from a household torn asunder? What a witch!
Witch! Was this only a rebuke or was there some indulgence mixed in the
word? When Behari was left standing like a beggar, robbed of all the love
he had ever counted on in his life, was he in a position to reject, from the
bottom of his heart, such an outpouring of love that came unwarranted and
unasked for? In comparison, what had he ever got? He had sacrificed his
entire life in search of some crumbs of love. But when the goddess of love
had sent him a golden plate replete with her blessings, how could he have
the strength to turn his back on the feast?
He sat there with the photograph on his lap, lost in his thoughts.
Suddenly a sound beside him made him look up—Mahendra stood at his
side. Startled, Behari stood up in a rush and the photo dropped to the floor
—he didn’t even notice.
Mahendra asked without any preamble, ‘Where is Binodini?’
Behari stepped closer to Mahendra, took his hand and said, ‘Mahin da, do
have a seat. We can discuss everything by and by.
Mahendra said, ‘I don’t have the time to sit and discuss things. Tell me,
where is Binodini?’
Behari said, ‘Your question cannot be answered quite so simply. You
must calm down and have a seat.
 Mahendra said, ‘Sermonizing, are we? Spare me the trouble. I have read
the holy books when I was a child.’
Behari said quietly, ‘I have neither the power nor the right to sermonize.’
Mahendra said, ‘Perhaps it’s reproach, then? I know I am a scoundrel, the
worst kind, and whatever else you may choose to call me. But the point is,
do you know where Binodini is?’
Behari replied, I do.’
Mahendra said, ‘And you won’t tell me?’
Behari said, ‘No.’
Mahendra yelled, ‘You have to. You have stolen her away and hidden
her. She is mine; give her back to me.’
Behari stood in stunned silence for a while. Then he spoke with firm
determination, ‘She is not yours. I have not stolen her away; she came to
me of her own free will.’
Mahendra barked, ‘Liar!’ He turned and banged on the closed door of the
next room. ‘Binod, Binod!’ he yelled.
The sounds of weeping from inside the room made him say, ‘Don’t be
afraid, Binod! It’s me, Mahin. I shall rescue you—no one can keep you
locked away.’
Mahendra pushed hard and the door gave way. He rushed inside and
found the room in darkness. He noticed a shadowy figure on the bed
sobbing in fear and pressing the pillow to its chest. Behari stepped in
hurriedly, picked Vasant up in his arms and consoled him gently, ‘Don’t
worry Vasant, it’s all right, everything’s all right.’
Mahendra rushed out and searched all the rooms in the house. When he
was back, Vasant was still crying out in fear even as he slept. Behari had the
lights on in his room and was trying to stroke him gently to sleep.
Mahendra came and asked, ‘Where have you kept Binodini?’
Behari said, ‘Mahin da, do be quiet. You have needlessly terrified this
child so much that he may be sick. I assure you, you needn’t concern
yourself with Binodini’s whereabouts.’
Mahendra said, ‘Brilliant! A saint! Spare me your homilies, you
impostor. Which god were you meditating on, with my wife’s photograph
on your lap at this time of the night?’ Mahendra hurled the photo to the
floor and stamped on it with his boots. The glass shattered into tiny shards.
He picked up the photograph, tore it into tiny bits and hurled it at Behari.
His crazed behaviour made Vasant wail with fear again. Behari could barely
speak as he pointed to the door and said, ‘Leave!’
Mahendra ran out like a mad man.
 38

THE GREEN FARMLANDS AND TREE-LINED VILLAGES FLASHED

BY BINODINl’s window as she sat in a deserted train compartment. The
sights brought back memories of the peaceful village life for her. She felt
she’d be able to sit under the shade of those trees with her favourite books
and have some respite from all the anger, sorrow and anguish of her sojourn
in the city. As she took in the sun setting beyond the expanse of the barren
fields of summer, she felt life was complete. She wished to drown in this
green stillness and close its eyes, to take the boat away from the crashing
waves of life, towards the shore, under the shelter of a banyan tree, and stay
there, wishing for nothing else. The scent of green mango blossoms wafted
in as the train hurtled on, and her heart came to terms with itself. She
throught, ‘This is for the best; I cannot tug and pull at myself any more.
Now I’ll forget, now I’ll sleep. I shall be one with the village, live a quiet,
rural life and spend my days peacefully and in joy.’
Binodini walked into her tiny home with a heart parched for peace and
quiet. But alas for that rare commodity—emptiness and poverty were all
she could find. Everything around her was worn, dirty and faded. She
choked on the vapid air inside, the house not having been aired for many
months. The little furniture that the room held was nearly ruined by dust,
termites and rats. The house that evening was joyless and dark. Binodini
managed to light an oil lamp and in that meagre light the dismal condition
of the house was sadly exposed. All the things that hadn’t bothered her
before seemed to choke the very life out of her now and she muttered
forcefully, ‘This won’t do for a single day.’ A few old books and magazines
were gathering dust on the shelf. But she didn’t feel like touching them.
Outside, in the still air the mosquitoes and insects struck up a dialogue that
echoed through the night.
 Binodini had an old aunt-in-law living with her earlier. She had gone to a
distant village to visit her daughter, having locked up the house. Binodini
went to visit her neighbours. They seemed to jump out of their skins when
they saw her. My, my! Binodini’s complexion had really cleared up, her
clothes were well turned out, almost like a lady’s. They nudged each other
and gestured towards Binodini as they muttered among themselves: as
though the rumours they’d heard were now confirmed.
At every step Binodini felt anew how distant she had become from her
own village. She was exiled in her own home: there was not a moment’s
peace for her anywhere.
The old postman knew her since she was a child. The next morning when
Binodini was about to go to the pond for a bath, she saw him walking up the
street with his bag of letters and she couldn’t control herself. She dropped
her towel, rushed up to him and asked, ‘Panchu-dada, any letters for me?’
The old man said, ‘No.’
An anxious Binodini persisted, ‘There may be one; will you please
check?’
She took the five or six letters he had for that area and leafed through
them carefully; not one was for her. When she returned to the pond looking
glum, a friend spoke with mock curiosity, ‘Bindi, why the rush for this
letter?’
Another chatterbox butted in, ‘Oh, this is good; how many of us are
lucky enough to get letters by mail? We have husbands, brothers and
brothers-in-law working in far-off places, but the mailman never has pity on
us.’
Thus the conversation took off, the words got more blunt and the jibes
sharper. Binodini had pleaded with Behari that he should write to her at
least twice a week, if not daily, even if it was just a few lines. She couldn’t
really expect to have a letter from him so soon. But her craving was so
strong that she couldn’t let go of the hope, the distant possibility. She felt
she’d left Kolkata many months ago.
Thanks to friends and foes, Binodini was left in no doubt as to how her
name was being bandied about in every household in the village, linked to
Mahendra’s of course. Where was the peace!
She tried to distance herself from the people in the village. But the
villagers took offence at that. They didn’t want to be deprived of the
pleasure of mocking and loathing the sinful woman.
In vain did Binodini attempt to hide herself from the public eye in that
tiny rural community. There was no space here to nurse her wounded heart
in a dark, lonely niche; curious glances poked and pried at her all the time
and worsened the wound. The more she thrashed about like a fish in
captivity, the more she lacerated herself by smashing against the narrow
confines of her prison. There was no space to even indulge in one’s own
misery here.
On the second day, after the postman had gone his way again, Binodini
shut the door to her room and sat down to write:
Thakurpo, don’t worry—this is not a love letter. You are my judge and I bow before you. For
my sins you have awarded me a harsh sentence. I have accepted it with full humility; my only
regret is that you cannot see just how harsh the punishment is on me. I have been deprived of
the pity you’d have surely felt, if only you could see my condition, or know of it. With your
memories and with my head bowed at your feet, I shall take this in my stride. But my lord,
even the prisoner deserves two square meals a day. Not fancy meals—but the bare minimum
that is needed to survive. A few lines written by you would be a feast for me in this exile.
Deprived of them, this isn’t merely an exile; it’s a life-sentence. Please do not test me so
cruelly, my lord. My sinful heart was full of arrogance—I never thought I would have to bow
before anyone so humbly. You have won, my lord. I shall not rebel. But please have mercy on
me—grant me life. Give me the meagre bit necessary to survive this exile. It will give me the
strength to stay on the path charted by you. This is my only request to you. The other things
that my heart is prompting me to tell you, I have vowed never to speak of again. I shall keep
my vow.
Your Binod-bouthan

Binodini mailed the letter. Her neighbours continued their slander: ‘She
shuts the door of her house, writes letters, attacks the postman for letters she
expects—this is how one is ruined if one spends a few days in Kolkata!’
The next day went without a letter as well. Binodini was silent all day
long and the lines on her face grew harsh. The torment and agony from
within and without turned her defences—from the depths of the darkness in
her heart—into a violent force that threatened to erupt. Binodini perceived
the advent of that merciless brutality with fear and shut the doors to her
house.
She had nothing of Behari—not a photograph, not a few lines on paper,
nothing! She began to hunt for something in that barrenness. She wanted to
hold something of his to her heart and bring tears to her arid eyes. She
wanted to melt away the viciousness with her tears and place Behari’s
sentence on the throne of love, on the gentlest spot in her heart. But her
heart continued to smoulder like the parched sky at noon; there was no sign
of a single droplet in the distant horizon.
Binodini had once heard that if you contemplate on someone with all
your heart and soul, he had to come. So she folded her hands, closed her
eyes and called on Behari, ‘My life is empty, my heart is empty, there is
emptiness all around me—come unto this emptiness, even if for an instant,
you have to come, I won’t let go of you.’
She said these words over and over and began to feel heartened. She felt
that the power of this love, this pleading, could not go in vain. But such
tender bleeding of the heart at the roots of despair, such fierce
concentration, made it weak and feeble. Still she felt stronger inside after
this relentless meditation. She felt that her powerful yearning, neglecting all
other worldly thoughts, by sheer will power alone could draw the desired
one closer like a magnet.
When her lampless, dark room was suffused with thoughts of Behari,
when the whole world, her village, her life and the entire universe lay in
shambles before her, Binodini suddenly heard a hammering on her door.
She stood up hastily, rushed to the door with heartfelt faith and trust, and
opened it exclaiming, ‘You have come !’ She was convinced that no one
other than Behari could stand on the other side of her door at that precise
moment.
Mahendra replied, ‘Yes, I’ve come, Binod.’
Binodini shouted with revulsion and distaste, ‘Go. Go away from here.
Leave right now.’
Mahendra stood there in stunned disbelief.
 An elderly neighbour walked up to her door saying, ‘Bindi dear, if your
aunt-in-law comes back tomorrow—’ As her glance fell on Mahendra, she
stopped short, drew her anchal over her head and beat a hasty retreat.
 39

THERE WAS AN UPROAR IN THE VILLAGE. THE ELDERS SAT

AROUND THE TEMPLE courtyard and said, ‘This cannot be tolerated. It’s
possible to ignore whatever happened in Kolkata. But she has the audacity
to ply him with letters, bring him into her house here and be so brazen
about it all! We cannot allow such a fallen woman to stay in the village.’
Today Binodini was sure Behari would write to her. But no letters came.
Binodini thought, ‘What right does Behari have over me? Why should I
obey him? Why did I give him the impression that I shall take his orders
humbly and follow his instructions? All he cares about is saving his beloved
Asha—he doesn’t really care about me. I have no rights, no demands over
him—not even two lines in a note—am I so insignificant, such an object of
hatred?’ The fumes of humiliation and hostility threatened to choke her; she
said to herself, ‘I would have taken this pain for anybody else, but not for
Asha. Why do I have to tolerate this poverty, exile, denigration and this
continuous denial of all my desires, merely for Asha’s sake? Why did I
have to accept such a farce? I should have stayed and fulfilled my promise
of vengeance. Fool, I am a fool! Why did I have to love Behari?’
As Binodini sat in the room, still as a petrified statuette, her aunt-in-law
returned from her trip, walked into the house and said, ‘You wretch, what is
all this I have heard!’
Binodini said, ‘All that you have heard is true.’
Her aunt-in-law said, ‘Why did you have to bring your shame into the
house, why did you come back?’
Binodini was silent from suppressed misery. The old lady said, ‘Child, let
me tell you clearly, you cannot stay here. I am still living, even after fate
has snatched away all my dear ones from me. I cannot tolerate this. Shame
on you—you’ve disgraced us. Leave the house immediately.’
 Binodini said, ‘I shall go right now.’
At this moment Mahendra arrived again, unshaved, dishevelled. He
looked wan and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Earlier, he’d
intended to try one last time at dawn, and make Binodini go with him; but
Binodini’s rudeness and vitriolic response the previous day had given rise to
a host of doubts in his mind. Then, as the sun rose and the morning wore
on, Mahendra saw that it was time for the train’s arrival. He pushed aside
all doubts and arguments in his mind, left the station, got into a carriage and
arrived straight at Binodini’s doorstep. When a person casts away all shame
and embarks blatantly on a daring venture, he is imbued with a certain
audacious strength; that power lent an abandoned thrill to Mahendra,
sweeping away his earlier doubts and dithering. In his feral gaze the curious
village folk looked like inanimate dolls in the dust. Mahendra didn’t spare a
second glance to any of them, walked right up to Binodini and said, ‘Binod,
I am not such a coward that I’ll desert you in the face of public outrage. By
hook or by crook, I must take you from here. After that, if you wish to cast
me off, do so. I shall not stop you. I can swear by you on this day that
nothing will happen without your wish or consent—if you wish to be with
me, I shall be grateful. If you don’t, I’ll go far away from your life. I know I
haven’t been a model of trust, but please do not distrust me today. We are
standing on the brink of devastation and this isn’t the time for games.’
Binodini spoke naturally and without emotion, ‘Take me with you. Do
you have a carriage?’
Mahendra said, ‘I do.’
Binodini’s aunt-in-law came out of her room and said, ‘Mahendra, you
may not know me, but we are related. Your mother, Rajlakshmi, is from my
village and in that sense I am your aunt. Let me ask you: what kind of
behaviour is this? You have a wife at home, a mother, and you walk the
streets in this half-crazed, brazen fashion! How can you show your face in
civil society?’
Mahendra’s world of impassioned madness got a severe jolt at these
words. He had a mother, a wife and there was such a thing as civil society!
This simple fact came home to him anew. There was a time when he would
have trouble imagining that one day he’d have to hear these words from a
stranger in an unknown, faraway village. It was a strange chapter in his life,
indeed, that in broad daylight Mahendra was taking a virtuous widow by the
hand and leading her away from her home. And yet, he had a wife, a mother
and there was such a thing as civil society!
As Mahendra stood there dumbstruck, the old woman said, ‘If you must
leave, go right away. Don’ t dally at my doorstep—go away, right now!
She walked into her room, slammed the door shut and bolted it from
within. Binodini clambered onto the carriage, dishevelled, squalid, empty-
handed and hungry. As Mahendra was about to board the carriage she
stopped him, ‘No, the station isn’t far; you can walk.’
Mahendra said, ‘But then everyone in the village will stare at me.’
Binodini said, ‘Do you have a drop of honour left here to protect?’ She
shut the door of the carriage and instructed the coachman, ‘To the station.’
The man asked, ‘Isn’t the gentleman coming?’
Mahendra hesitated a little and then decided to step back. The carriage
drove off. Mahendra left the village road and took a roundabout route
through the field as he headed for the station, head lowered and eyes to the
ground. The village women had finished their bath and lunch; only a few
hardworking old housewives, who got off work late, were walking through
the mango-groves headed for the cool waters of the pond with their bowls
of oil and towels.
 40

RAJLAKSHMI WAS LOSING SLEEP AND HUNGER, WORRYING

ABOUT MAHENDRA. Sadhucharan had hunted high and low for him but
without any luck. Then, one day, Mahendra returned to Kolkata with
Binodini. He dropped her off at his flat in Patoldanga and came home late at
night.
Mahendra stepped into his mother’s room and found it in darkness; the
kerosene lamp was shaded so as to shield the glare of the flame. Rajlakshmi
lay on the bed, looking ill; Asha sat at her feet, stroking them gently. At
long last, the bride of the house had her place at the mother-in-law’s feet. At
Mahendra’s advent, Asha looked up in surprise and left the room hurriedly.
Mahendra cast away his diffidence forcefully and said, ‘Mother, I cannot
attend to my studies from here; I have rented a flat near college; I’ll stay
there.’
Rajlakshmi pointed to a corner of the bed and said, ‘Mahin, sit down.’
Mahendra sat down awkwardly. Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mahin, you are free to
stay where you wish, but please, I beg of you, don’t make my daughter-in-
law suffer.
Mahendra was silent. Rajlakshmi continued, ‘I am so unlucky that I
didn’t know the worth of my darling daughter all these days.’ Her voice
broke as she spoke. ‘But you have known her for so long, loved her so
much; how could you cast her into such misery?’ She began to weep
openly.
Mahendra desperately wished to get up and leave, but something stopped
him from doing so. He sat still in the dark, on one corner of his mother’s
bed.
Much later, Rajlakshmi said, ‘Are you staying here tonight at least?’
Mahendra said, ‘No.’
 She asked, ‘When will you leave?’
Mahendra said, ‘Right now.
Rajlakshmi sat up with great difficulty and said, ‘Right now? Don’t you
wish to meet your wife just once and speak to her properly?’
Mahendra was silent. Rajlakshmi said, ‘Can’t you even guess how she
has spent the last few days? Oh you shameless wretch, it breaks my heart to
see just how cruel you can be.’ Rajlakshmi fell back on the bed like a felled
branch.
Mahendra rose and walked out. He tiptoed stealthily up the stairs towards
his bedroom. He had no wish to run into Asha. But there she was, lying
down on the covered terrace adjacent to his room. She hadn’t heard his
footsteps. When he stood in front of her, she sat up in confusion and began
to arrange her clothes hurriedly. At that moment if he had called out just
once, ‘Chuni,’ she would have taken his transgression upon her own head,
fallen at his feet in remorse and guilt, and wept all the tears she could ever
weep. But Mahendra couldn’t bring himself to utter that beloved name.
However hard he tried and wished with all his might that he could be
intimate with her again, though he felt sorrier than ever, he couldn’t forget
that caressing Asha today would be nothing but an empty gesture on his
part. What would be the use of consoling her, when he had closed out all
options of renouncing Binodini?
Meanwhile, Asha was flooded with shame as she sat there. She was too
embarrassed to stand up, walk away or try to move in any way at all.
Mahendra began to pace the floor slowly without uttering a single word.
The sky was moonless tonight. In a corner of the terrace a tuberose plant
yielded two stems of flowers in an earthen pot. In the dark sky overhead,
the same stars that had once been witness to many scenes of impassioned
love being enacted between these two, now twinkled mutely.
Mahendra wished he could wipe out the devastating events of the last
few days in the dark of the night, and take his accustomed place beside
Asha on the mat, on that terrace. No questions, no explanations, just the
same trust, the same love and that pure, simple joy. But alas, there was no
way of going back to that space ever again. On this terrace, that little space
beside Asha upon the mat was lost to Mahendra forever. Until now, his
relationship with Binodini had no ties. There was the unfettered pleasure of
loving, but none of its ancillary bindings. But now that he had ripped her
apart from society with his own hands—now that there was no place to
keep her, or to send her back to, Mahendra was her sole recourse. Now,
whether he liked it or not, he was bound to shoulder all responsibility for
her. This thought weighed heavy on him. All of a sudden, he found great
solace in this room on the terrace, in the memory of the peace, the sweet
romancing of lovers at night that came with it. But this solace, to which he
had full rights once, was out of his reach today. Not even for a day would
he be allowed to put aside the burden he had promised to shoulder all his
life and catch a moment’s peace for himself.
Mahendra heaved a sigh and glanced at Asha. She sat in still silence,
holding back her mute tears. The dark of the night shielded her
mortification and pain, like a protective mother.
Mahendra paused in his pacing and walked up to her, as if to say
something. Asha’s blood roared in her veins and she closed her eyes.
Mahendra lost track of what he had wanted to say and couldn’t figure out
what he should do. But he couldn’t step back without saying something at
least. So he asked, ‘Where are the keys?’
They were under the mattress. Asha got up and went into the room—
Mahendra followed her. Asha took the bunch of keys from under the
mattress and placed them on the bed. Mahendra picked them up and began
to insert them one by one, to unlock his clothes-cupboard. Asha couldn’t
check herself; she spoke softly, ‘Those keys are not with me.’
She couldn’t bring herself to say who had those keys, but Mahendra
understood. Asha left the room in a hurry, fearing she’d be unable to hold
back her tears any longer. In the dark, she stood in one corner of the terrace
and sobbed her heart out, trying very hard to keep the noise down. But she
didn’t have much time in hand. Suddenly she remembered it was time for
Mahendra’s dinner. Quickly, she ran downstairs.
Rajlakshmi asked her, ‘Bou-ma, where is Mahin?’
Asha said, ‘He is upstairs.’
 Rajlakshmi said, ‘Then why have you come down?’
Asha lowered her eyes. ‘His dinner—’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I will take care of that. Why don’t you freshen up, Bou-
ma. Wear your new sari from Dhaka and come to my room—I shall do your
hair.’
Asha couldn’t refute Rajlakshmi’s affection, but all this talk of dressing
up made her wish she could sink through the floor. She bore Rajlakshmi’s
ministration patiently, in tortured silence.
Decked up to the full, Asha went upstairs slowly. She peeped in and saw
that Mahendra was not on the terrace. Quietly, she walked up to the room
and found it empty. His dinner lay untouched.
Having given up on the keys, Mahendra had wrenched open his
cupboard, taken some essential clothing and medical textbooks, and left.
The following day was ekadasi, the three-quarter moon fast; Rajlakshmi
lay on her bed, weak and fatigued. Outside, the wind blew fiercely, brewing
up for a storm. Asha stepped into the room gently. She sat at Rajlakshmi’s
feet, stroked them softly and said, ‘I have brought you milk and fruits; come
and eat.’
Rajlakshmi’s parched eyes flooded with tears at this diffident attempt at
nursing by her sad-eyed bride. She sat up, drew Asha to her heart, kissed
her tear-soaked temple and asked, ‘Bou-ma, what is Mahin doing?’
Asha felt embarrassed as she said softly, ‘He has gone.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘When did he leave—I wasn’t even told?’
Asha bowed her head as she replied, ‘He went away last night.’
Immediately, all trace of gentleness vanished from Rajlakshmi’s face and
her touch lost its tenderness. Asha sensed a silent rebuke, and walked away
slowly with her head bowed.
 41

WHEN MAHENDRA HAD GONE HOME ON THAT FIRST NIGHT,

BINODINI SAT alone in the Patoldanga flat in the midst of the ceaseless
commotion of Kolkata, thinking about herself. She had never been blessed
with a lot of spaces to turn to; but there had always been enough room to
turn over and lie on the other side, if the bed felt too uncomfortable. But
today the space left to her was very restricted indeed. Her boat would pitch
her straight into the water if it so much as tilted a little to one side. Hence,
she had to steer it very carefully now—there was no room for a single error
or even a little bit of dithering. It was a daunting prospect for any woman.
Where was the space, in these narrow confines, for those little hide-and-
seek games so necessary to keep a male mind in thrall? She’d have to spend
all her life face-to-face with Mahendra, without any veils. The difference
was that if the boat did overturn he had the means to scramble to the shore,
but she had none.
As Binodini’s vulnerable position became very clear to her, she began to
gather strength within herself. She had to find a way out—this wouldn’t
work for her.
The day she had admitted her love for Behari, she had reached the end of
her tether. The lips that she had raised for his kiss, and had been forced to
draw back, were suspended in an incompleteness of desire—unable to find
their place in this world and carried from place to place like the flowers
preordained for a certain deity but never used in worship. Binodini’s heart
was unfamiliar with the concept of despondency—under no circumstances
did she usually let go of hope. Her heart still claimed, every minute of every
day, with great vehemence, ‘Behari will have to accept my appeal one day.’
To this unrestrained ardour was added her strong desire for self-defence.
Behari was her only way out. Binodini knew Mahendra very well indeed—
if she leaned on him, he d not be able to take the pressure. He could be
attained only if he was allowed to go—if he were clung to, he would wish
to run. Behari alone was capable of giving her the tranquil, reliable, safe
haven that a woman needed. Today, she couldn’t let go of Behari at any
cost.
The day she left the village, Binodini had made Mahendra go to the post
office adjacent to the station and leave firm instructions for all letters in her
name to be forwarded to her new address in Kolkata. She couldn’t bring
herself to accept that Behari wouldn’t answer even a single one of her
letters. She said to herself, ‘I shall be patient and wait for seven days—after
that I’ll decide what to do.’ She then opened the window and sat there in the
dark, staring out unmindfully at the streets of Kolkata lit by gaslamps. On
this dark night, Behari was somewhere in this very same city—a few roads
and lanes lay between her and his house, with the same tiny courtyard that
had a tap in it, those stairs, that same well-arranged, brightly lit, secluded
room—Behari sitting alone on his armchair, amidst tranquil peace; perhaps
Vasant, the fair, healthy and handsome boy with large eyes, sat beside him
turning the pages of his book. As she conjured up this image bit by bit,
Binodini’s heart was flooded with love and affection. If she wanted to, she
could go there immediately. Binodini’s heart picked up this thread of
thought and played with it; in the past she would have rushed to fulfil her
desires. But now she had to think before taking such steps. Now it was no
longer about fulfilling a desire but about accomplishing a mission. Binodini
said, ‘Let me first see how Behari responds and then I can decide on my
course of action.’ She did not dare to go and disturb Behari without first
understanding his reactions.
As she sat lost in her thoughts, the clock struck ten and Mahendra
returned. The last few sleepless nights and fitful days had taken their toll on
him; now, when he was finally successful in bringing Binodini to his home,
he seemed overwhelmed by fatigue and exhaustion. He had no strength left
to fight with himself or with his state in life. Today, he was bent low with
the unwieldy burden of his future life.
 Mahendra was too embarrassed to stand before the closed door and bang
on it. Where now was that ardour that had helped him to overlook the entire
world? Even the eyes of a complete stranger on the road were enough to
make him cringe in shame.
The new servant was fast asleep inside. It took a while to get the door
opened. As he stepped inside an unfamiliar, new home in the dark,
Mahendra’s heart plummeted. The apple of his mother’s eye, Mahendra was
used to certain comforts, hand-pulled fans and decorative furniture, and the
lack of it all struck him anew this particular evening. Mahendra would have
to fill in the requirements himself, he had the sole responsibility of this
household. He had never given much thought to someone else’s comforts.
But from this day, the burden of a new, unfinished household with all its
minute details, rested on his shoulders alone. A kerosene lamp on the
staircase emitted smoke continually—it needed to be replaced by a proper
lamp. The area between the corridor and the stairway was damp and soggy
from its proximity to the tap. He must call the mason and get it fixed. He
would have to fight with the landlord about the two shops in the front of the
house that were occupied by shoe sellers who were yet to vacate the
property. In a flash he realized that each of these things could only be done
by him, and it merely served to increase the weight of his burdensome
fatigue.
Mahendra stood below the stairs for some time, trying to compose
himself. He tried to stoke the embers of the love he felt for Binodini. He
tried to tell himself that eventually he had got the person he had wanted
above all else in the world; today nothing stood between the two of them—
it was a day of great joy for Mahendra. But perhaps the fact that nothing
stood between them was the greatest barrier—today Mahendra was his own
hurdle.
Binodini, spotting Mahendra at the door, left her meditative pose, got up
and lit a lamp. She picked up her sewing, lowered her eyes and immersed
herself in the needlework. This sewing was her shield, she felt safe behind
it.
 Mahendra stepped into the room and said, ‘Binod, you must be terribly
uncomfortable here.’
Binodini carried on with her sewing as she said, ‘Not at all.’
Mahendra said, ‘I’ll arrange for all the furniture to be delivered within
the next couple of days; but until then you must bear with the discomfort.’
Binodini said, ‘Oh no, you cannot do that—you will not bring in another
piece of furniture into this house. The ones that are there are already
excessive.’
Mahendra said, ‘And am I included in that list?’
Binodini said, ‘It’s good to have some humility—don’t think of yourself
as “excessive”.’
As he gazed at Binodini, lost in her work with her head bent low, in that
furtive lamplight Mahendra felt the thrill of the romance course through his
veins once again.
If he had been at home, he would have thrown himself at her feet—but
this was not home and so he couldn’t do that. Binodini was vulnerable, very
much within his reach and if he did not restrain himself now, it would be
the worst kind of baseness.
Binodini said, ‘Why have you brought your books and clothes here?’
Mahendra said, ‘I happen to consider them essentials—they don’t exactly
belong to the category of “excessive”.’
Binodini said, ‘I know, but why here?’
Mahendra said, ‘You’re right—essential things are a misfit here. Binod, if
you throw the books out on the street, I shan’t say a word. But please don’t
throw me out as well.’ He used this pretext to move a little closer to
Binodini and place the bundle of books at her feet.
Binodini didn’t look up from her sewing as she replied gravely,
‘Thakurpo, you cannot stay in this house.’
Mahendra grew impatient as his renewed enthusiasm was thwarted; he
spoke ardently, ‘Why Binod, why do you wish to push me away? I have left
everything for you and is this what I get?’
Binodini said, ‘I will not allow you to leave everything for my sake.’
 Mahendra exclaimed, ‘Now it is no longer in your hands—my life, my
family have gone away from me—only you remain, Binod! Binod—Binod
—’ Mahendra lay flat on the ground, gripped her feet and covered them
with innumerable kisses.
Binodini snatched her feet away and stood up as she said, ‘Mahendra,
don’t you remember your promise?’
Mahendra exerted immense will power and checked himself. ‘I
remember. I promised I shall only do as you wish and never cross your
wishes. I shall keep my word. Tell me, what should I do?’
Binodini said, ‘You must go and stay in your own home.’
Mahendra said, ‘Am I the only surplus object here, Binod? If that is so,
why did you drag me here? What is the point of hunting that prey which
you do not like to devour? Tell me honestly—have I surrendered to you of
my own free will or have you hunted me down at your will? Why should I
endure you playing such games with me? Yet, I shall keep my word—I will
go back and stay in that house where I have crushed my own place
underfoot so callously.’
Binodini sat on the floor and carried on with her sewing without saying a
word.
Mahendra fixed her face in an unwavering glance for a while and said,
‘Heartless, Binod, you are heartless. I am unfortunate indeed to have loved
you so.’
Binodini made a wrong stitch, held it up to the lamp and began to undo it
with great care. At that moment, Mahendra wanted to grab her pitiless heart
in his callused fist and crush it to death. He wanted to confront this silent
cruelty and unyielding disregard with sheer brute force and bring it to heel.
He walked out of the room and came back immediately to say, ‘If I go
away, who will look after you, all alone here?’
Binodini said, ‘Don’ t worry about that. Aunty has sacked Khemi, the
maid, and she has joined me here today. The two of us will lock the door
and be quite safe inside.’
With his anger, Mahendra’s attraction for Binodini intensified. He longed
to crush her body to his bosom with all his might and wreak havoc on it. In
order to escape this terrible urge, Mahendra rushed out of the house.
As he walked the streets, Mahendra vowed to retaliate with equal
disregard against Binodini’s indifference. Even at her most vulnerable,
when Mahendra was her sole recourse, she chose to show him such patent
indifference so coolly and fearlessly—such humiliation was perhaps seldom
meted out to a man. Mahendra’s pride lay shattered and yet it refused to die;
it only continued to feel tormented and battered. Mahendra said, ‘Am I so
pathetic? How dare she treat me thus! Who does she have to call her own,
except me?’
Suddenly he remembered—Behari. In the flash of a second his passion
turned to ashes. So Binodini had placed all her faith in Behari! He was just
a pretext, he was the stepping-stone on which she placed her feet, only to
crush it underfoot every single moment. That was what gave her the
strength to insult him! Mahendra became convinced that Binodini was in
touch with Behari through letters and had received his reassurance.
So, he set off for Behari s house. When he finally banged on Behari s
door, the night was all but over. After much banging and shouting the bearer
opened the door and announced that his master was not at home.
Mahendra was shell-shocked. He thought, ‘All the time that I was
walking the streets like a madman, Behari was with Binodini. This is the
reason why Binodini humiliated me so heartlessly and I, fool that I am,
stormed out in a huff and left her alone, just as she wished.’
Mahendra asked of the old, familiar bearer, ‘Bhoju, when did your master
leave the house?’
Bhoju replied, ‘Oh , about four or five days ago; he has gone somewhere
to the west.’
Relief flooded through Mahendra and he thought, ‘Now I must lie down
and rest a bit—I am too tired to walk any more.’ He walked up the stairs,
went into Behari’s room, lay upon the couch and promptly fell into a deep
sleep.
The same night that Mahendra had come and kicked up a ruckus in
Behari’s house asking after Binodini, Behari had decided to leave for the
west without having a particular destination in mind. He felt that if he
stayed on, his conflicts with his old friend would take such an ugly turn that
he would regret it all his life.
The next day when Mahendra woke up, it was nearly eleven. His glance
fell upon the teapoy before him and he saw that a note to Behari, addressed
in Binodini’s hand, lay on it, a marble paperweight holding it in place. He
picked the note up hastily and saw that it was unopened. It was awaiting
Behari’s return. Mahendra opened it with trembling hands and read the
letter. This was the same letter that Binodini had written to Behari from her
village, to which she hadn’t received a reply.
Every alphabet in the letter bared its teeth at Mahendra. Ever since their
childhood, Behari had always stood in Mahendra’s shadow. In terms of love
and affection, he only received the stale leftovers from the godly
Mahendra’s plate. Today, Mahendra himself was the seeker and Behari was
indifferent; and yet, Binodini had pushed Mahendra aside and chosen this
undeserving oaf of a Behari over him! Mahendra had also got a few letters
from Binodini. But compared to this letter to Behari, those were mere
artifice, a vain and vacuous attempt to pacify the gormless.
Mahendra recalled Binodini’s eagerness to send him to the post office to
update her present address there, and he now knew why. Binodini was
waiting for a reply from Behari, with her heart and soul fixed upon it.
In keeping with the past, Bhoju brought him tea and breakfast from the
shop around the corner despite his master being absent. Mahendra forgot all
about his bath. His eyes drifted over Binodini’s inciting letter with
compulsive haste, just as the traveller covers the flaming hot desert sands in
hurried steps. Mahendra made promises to never set eyes upon Binodini
again. But he realized that if a few more days passed without a response,
Binodini would arrive at Behari’s house and she would be relieved to know
the truth of the matter. That prospect was anathema to him.
So Mahendra pocketed the letter and just before dusk he arrived at the
flat in Patoldanga.
Binodini took pity on Mahendra’s deplorable condition. She realized that
he must have spent the night walking the streets, without a wink of sleep.
She asked, ‘Didn’t you go home last night?’
 Mahendra said, ‘No.’
Binodini got worked up. ‘Haven’t you eaten all day?’ The nurturing heart
in Binodini prompted her to go and arrange a meal for him.
Mahendra said, ‘Forget it—I have already eaten.’
Binodini pressed him, ‘Where have you eaten?’
Mahendra said, ‘At Behari’s.’
In an instant Binodini’s face turned pallid. After a moment s pause she
controlled her emotions and asked, ‘Is everything all right with Behari-
thakurpo?’
Mahendra said, ‘Quite so. He has gone west.’ The way he said it implied
that Behari had left that very day.
Binodini’s face fell once again. But she composed herself valiantly and
said, ‘I have never seen such a restless soul before. Has he heard all about
us? Is Thakurpo very angry?’
Mahendra said, ‘Why else would someone go away to the west in this
desperate heat?’
Binodini asked, ‘Did he say anything about me?’
Mahendra said, ‘What is there to say? Here’s the letter.’
Mahendra handed the letter to Binodini and began to scan her face with
eagle eyes for every reaction.
Binodini took the letter hastily and found that the envelope was open and
the writing on the envelope was hers, addressed to Behari. She took it out of
the envelope and found that it was her letter. She turned it this way and that
and failed to find even a line of reply from Behari.
After a few moments’ silence Binodini asked Mahendra, ‘Have you read
the letter?’
The look on her face frightened Mahendra and the lie slipped out easily,
‘No.’
Binodini tore the letter into tiny bits and threw it out of the window.
Mahendra said, ‘I am going home.’
Binodini did not answer him.
Mahendra said, ‘I shall do exactly as you wish. I will stay at home for
seven days. On my way to college every day I’ll look into the matters here
and leave the rest in Khemi’s hands. I shall not disturb you by seeking an
audience.’
It was hard to tell if Binodini heard a single word Mahendra spoke; there
was no answer. She stared out of the open window, into the dark sky.
Mahendra collected his things and left the house.
Binodini sat in the deserted house, alone and immovable—until finally,
perhaps to revive her senses forcibly, she tore off her sari and began to whip
herself with it ruthlessly. Khemi heard the sounds and came running, ‘Bou-
thakurun, what are you doing?’
Binodini snarled, ‘You get out of here,’ and shooed Khemi out of the
room. Then she slammed the door noisily, bunched up her fists, threw
herself on the ground and howled like a wounded animal. Eventually, she
wore herself out and lay in a faint under the open window all night long.
When the sun rose the next morning, she was gripped by suspicion:
suppose Behari hadn’t left the city and Mahendra had said that to her
merely to delude her? Binodini summoned Khemi immediately and said,
‘Khemi, go to Behari-thakurpo’s house immediately and find out how they
are doing.’
Khemi returned an hour later and said, ‘All the doors and windows of
Beharibabu’s house are firmly shut. When I banged on the door the bearer
said from within that the master wasn’t at home—he had gone west.’
Now Binodini’s doubts were laid to rest.
 42

WHEN RAJLAKSHMI HEARD THAT MAHENDRA HAD LEFT HOME

THAT SAME night, she was displeased with her daughter-in-law.
Rajlakshmi thought Asha’s condemnation must have driven her son away.
So she asked Asha, ‘Why did Mahendra go away last night?’
Asha looked at the floor as she said, ‘I don’t know, Mother.’
Rajlakshmi thought this was merely Asha’s wounded ego speaking.
Disgruntled, she said, ‘If you don’t know, who would? Did you say
anything to him?’
Asha merely said, ‘No.’
Rajlakshmi didn’t believe her. This was impossible. She asked, ‘What
time did Mahin leave last night?’
Asha cringed in discomfiture and said, ‘I don’t know.’
Rajlakshmi was furious. ‘You don’t know anything! My little china doll!
Very smart, aren’t you?’
Rajlakshmi blamed Asha’s behaviour and inadequate personality for
Mahendra’s actions and spoke her mind vehemently. Asha accepted the
insult with her head bowed, went away to her room and began to cry. She
thought, ‘I scarcely know why my husband loved me once upon a time and
now that he doesn’t, I don’t know how to win his love back.’ When you
were loved, your heart told you how to please him. But how would she
know how to win the heart of someone who didn’t love her? How on earth
was she supposed to make a brazen attempt at winning back the affections
of someone who loved another woman instead?
At dusk the family priest and his sister, Acharya-thakurun, came to the
house. Rajlakshmi had sent for them in order to conduct some prayers to a
favourable constellation for her son. Rajlakshmi requested the priest to read
her daughter-in-law s palm, but that was just a pretext for her to present the
unfortunate Asha to the priest. The poor girl cringed in shame when her
disgrace was being discussed in public. She sat down, palm extended and
eyes lowered. Suddenly, Rajlakshmi heard the soft tread of shoes outside
the room, along the dark veranda. Someone was trying to sneak past the
door. Rajlakshmi called out, ‘Who is it?’
At first there was no response. When she called out again, ‘Who goes
there?’ Mahendra stepped in silently.
Far from being thrilled, Asha’s heart brimmed over with sadness for
Mahendra. He now had to walk into his own house in stealth. Asha was all
the more embarrassed because the priest and his sister were seated there.
For her, the censorious gaze of the whole world actually seemed greater
than her own personal sorrow. Rajlakshmi murmured to Asha, ‘Bou-ma, tell
Parvati to bring Mahin’s dinner upstairs.’ Asha replied, ‘I’ll get it, Mother.’
She wanted to shield Mahendra even from the gaze of the servants.
Meanwhile, Mahendra was quite upset when he found the family priest
and his sister in the room. He couldn’t bear the throught that his mother and
his wife were conniving with these illiterate oafs in order to control him by
occult methods. To add to it, when Acharya-thakurun asked him in a
honeyed voice, ‘How are you, my son,’ Mahendra was hard put to sit there
any longer. He didn’t respond to the question and spoke to Rajlakshmi,
‘Mother, I’m going upstairs.’
Rajlakshmi thought he wanted to go up and have a few words in private
with his wife. Delighted at the prospect, she rushed to the kitchen and said
to Asha, ‘Go on, go upstairs quickly—I believe Mahin wants something.’
Asha went upstairs with a beating heart and faltering steps. From what
Rajlakshmi had said, Asha had thought that Mahendra had sent for her. But
she simply couldn’t walk into the room uninvited. Instead she stood at the
threshold, in the dark, and gazed at Mahendra.
He was lying on the mattress upon the floor, staring desolately at the
beams on the ceiling. This was the same Mahendra she had known,
everything about him was the same, yet what a change there was! There
was a time when Mahendra had turned this tiny room into heaven for Asha.
Why then was he insulting the same room, drenched as it was in happy
memories? If you are so sad, so restless, and so piqued, please do not sit
upon that bed, Mahendra! If you do not remember those fulfilling, profound
nights, the intense afternoons, the fancy-free monsoon days, the
overpowering spring evenings swept by a mild breeze, the endless,
unlimited, countless conversations that you have had in this room, there are
many other rooms to choose from in this house—but do not tarry here a
moment longer.
The longer Asha stood there staring at Mahendra, the more she felt that
he had just come from Binodini’s arms—her touch clung to his body, his
eyes held her image, her voice rang in his ears and his heart was filled with
desire for her. How could Asha gift her chaste devotion to this Mahendra,
how could she say, ‘Come unto my steadfast heart, come and place your
feet upon the spotless lilies of my chaste wifely devotion’? She couldn’t
bring herself to follow her aunt’s advice, the words of the holy texts and
religious sermons. She no longer perceived this Mahendra—dispossessed of
conjugal loyalties—as her god. Today, Asha immersed her deity and let go
of her devotion in Binodini’s oceans muddied by sin; in the dark of that
loveless night, the drums of farewell echoed in solemn and sombre tones in
her ears, in her heart and mind, in her veins, all around her, in the stars of
her sky, in her very own terrace, in her own room, on her own bed.
Binodini’s Mahendra was like a strange man for Asha, or something even
worse—even with a stranger she wouldn’t feel such terrible shame. She
simply couldn’t bring herself to enter the room.
At one point Mahendra’s careless eyes slid down from the ceiling and
came to rest on the wall in front of him. Asha followed his gaze and found
her own photograph adorning the wall, right beside Mahendra’s. She
wanted to cover it, tear it off the wall and take it away. She began to curse
herself for not noticing it earlier; she should have thrown it away. Asha felt
Mahendra was laughing at it and along with him, the image of Binodini that
he held in his heart, was also casting an oblique glance at the photograph
through her arched brows and smiling in cruel mockery.
Finally, Mahendra’s gaze dropped from the wall and roamed around the
room. These days whenever Asha had the time to spare from attending to
her mother-in-law, she studied until late in the night, wishing to rid herself
of her ignorance. Her textbooks and notebooks were neatly arranged in a
corner of the room. Suddenly, Mahendra picked out one idly and began to
glance through it. Asha wanted to scream and snatch it away from him
violently. She could barely stand still as she visualized Mahendra’s
contemptuous gaze taking in her childish scrawls. Quickly she walked
towards the stairs, without making any attempt to hide her presence.
Mahendra’s dinner was ready. Rajlakshmi was under the impression that
he was busy talking to Asha and so she didn’t feel like disturbing him by
calling him for his meal. But when she saw Asha coming downstairs, she
laid out the dinner and sent word to Mahendra. The minute he went down to
eat, Asha ran into the bedroom, tore her own photograph into bits and threw
it over the terrace wall, picked up her books and took them away with her.
After the meal Mahendra went and sat in his room again. Rajlakshmi
couldn’t find Asha anywhere. Eventually, she went down to the kitchen and
found Asha boiling the milk for Rajlakshmi. There was no need for this
because the maid who usually did this chore stood close by, protesting at
this undue interest from Asha. The maid was quite upset about losing her
chance of stealing the little bit of milk that she replaced every night with
water.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Bou-ma, what’s this! Go upstairs.’
Asha went upstairs and took refuge in Rajlakshmi’s room. Rajlakshmi
was vexed at this behaviour as she thought, ‘If Mahendra has come home
for a short while, disentangling himself from that siren’s clutches, Asha will
send him back to her with tantrums and ego tussles like this. After all, it
was Asha s fault that Mahendra was caught in Binodini’s snares. A man, by
nature, is bound to go astray. It is the wife’s duty to keep him on the straight
and narrow path, by fair means or foul.’
Rajlakshmi spoke to Asha in harsh and unsparing tones, ‘What kind of
behaviour is this, Bou-ma? You’re fortunate enough that your husband has
come home; why are you skulking around corners with a sullen face?’
Asha felt she was really at fault and so she ran upstairs in deep distress;
without giving herself a chance to think twice, she took a deep breath and
stepped into the bedroom. It was past ten o’clock now. Mahendra was
standing in front of the bed with a thoughtful expression on his face,
dusting the mosquito net slowly. He was beset by a strong sense of
indignation against Binodini as he thought, ‘Does she take me for such a
worthless knave that she didn’t feel a moment s fear when she sent me to
Asha? From this day on if I revert to abiding by my duties towards Asha,
who in this world will be there for Binodini to lean on? Am I such an oaf
that this course of action is unthinkable for me? Is that how Binodini sees
me? I have lost her respect, failed to win her heart—and been humbled by
her.’ As he stood before the bed, Mahendra vowed to protest against this
disregard from Binodini—by hook or by crook; he’d incline his heart
towards Asha once again and take his revenge on Binodini.
When Asha stepped into the room, Mahendra’s careless dusting of the
mosquito net came to an abrupt halt. He was faced with the insurmountable
problem of finding something to say to Asha.
Mahendra tried to smile, failed miserably and said the first thing that
came to his mind, ‘I see that you have also taken to studies, like me. Where
are the books that I saw here some time back?’
The words were not merely out of place, but they also seemed like a
whiplash to Asha. The fact that the illiterate Asha was trying to educate
herself, was a matter she was very sensitive about. Asha was convinced that
it was a laughable thing to do. And if there was one person whose derision
and mockery she was determined to shield this matter from, it was
Mahendra. When Mahendra, after all these days, chose to begin his
conversation with a reference to that very subject, Asha cringed in pain like
a small child cringes before the cruel lashes of the schoolteacher’s cane.
She didn’t say a word as she looked away and stood there holding on to the
edge of the teapoy.
Mahendra too realized, the minute the words were out, that it wasn’t the
most apt and opportune thing to bring up. But he simply couldn’t think of
anything else to say under the circumstances. After the hurricane that had
swept their lives, simple words from the past would sound awkward; the
heart too was silent, unprepared with new words to say. Mahendra thought,
‘If we get into bed, it may be easier to find words within that enclosed,
confined intimacy.’ With that notion Mahendra began to dust the outside of
the mosquito net once again. He began to go over his dialogue and his
performance in the manner of a new actor standing in the wings and
nervously memorizing his lines just before he has to walk on to the stage.
Suddenly, a mild sound made him turn around, and he found Asha had left
the room.
 43

THE FOLLOWING MORNING MAHENDRA SAID TO RAJLAKSHMI,

‘MOTHER, I need a room of my own for my studies. I’d like to stay in
Aunty’s old room.’
Rajlakshmi was thrilled as she thought, ‘So then, Mahin will stay at
home now. He must have resolved everything with Bou-ma. How could he
possibly neglect my darling daughter-in-law for too long? And how long
can one be spellbound by that siren, neglecting such a chaste wife?’
She replied in haste, ‘Why, certainly Mahin!’ She unlocked the room and
set about dusting it and cleaning it with great ceremony. ‘Bou, oh Bou,
where is Bou?’ she kept enquiring. After hunting high and low, a tentative
Asha was dragged out of a corner of the house. ‘Lay a fresh mattress here.
There is no desk here—bring one and put it here. This lamp will not do;
send the one from upstairs.’ In this manner, between the two of them, they
prepared a princely seat for the monarch of the house in Annapurna’s old
room. Mahendra didn’t spare a second glance at his willing slaves, moved
into the room with his books and notes, and without wasting a single
moment, sat down to study.
In the evening, after his dinner, he went back to his books. No one could
tell if he would go up to his bedroom to sleep or if he’d sleep in his room
downstairs. Rajlakshmi decked a stiff, doll-like Asha in all her finery and
said, ‘Go on, Bou-ma, ask Mahin if his bed should be made upstairs?’
Asha’s feet refused to budge. She stood in silence with her head bent low.
An irate Rajlakshmi began to hurl cruel accusations at her. Asha dragged
her feet up to the door but simply couldn’t go any further. Rajlakshmi
looked at Asha from a corner of the corridor and gestured wildly for her to
go on inside.
 In desperation, Asha walked into the room. Mahendra heard her footsteps
behind him and spoke without turning his head, ‘I’ll be here for some more
time—tomorrow I have to wake up early to study—I shall sleep here
tonight.’
Oh, the shame of it! Was Asha here to persuade Mahendra to go and
sleep upstairs?
As she stepped out of the room, Rajlakshmi asked her eagerly, ‘What’s
the matter, what happened?’
Asha said, ‘He is studying, he ll sleep downstairs. She went into her own
dishonoured bedroom. There was no peace to be had anywhere—every little
inch of this earth flamed like the desert under an afternoon sun.
A little late in the night there was a banging on Asha’s closed door. ‘Bou,
Bou, open the door.’
Quickly, Asha held the door open. Rajlakshmi had braved the stairs
despite her asthma and now she stood there gasping for breath. She tumbled
into the room and flopped down on the bed. When she recovered her breath,
she spoke in hoarse tones, ‘Bou, what are you up to? Why have you come
up and shut the door? Is this a time for petty tantrums? Your misery should
teach you a few lessons! Go on, go downstairs.’
Asha spoke softly, ‘He wishes to be alone.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘And that is that? He may have spoken in anger, without
thinking twice, but you don’t have to take him up on his word. You cannot
afford to be so arrogant. Go now, go quickly.’
In times of trouble, the mother-in-law had no secrets from the daughter-
in-law. She wanted to use the only weapons she had to bind Mahendra
irrevocably.
As she spoke fervently, Rajlakshmi again had trouble breathing. She
calmed herself a bit and rose. Without a word Asha held her and walked
downstairs with her. She took Rajlakshmi into her bedroom, sat her down
on the bed and began to plump up the pillows and cushions behind her.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Let it be for now, Bou-ma. Send Sudho, the maid, to me.
You go on, don’t linger here.’
 This time Asha did not hesitate. She walked out of her mother-in-law’s
room and headed straight for Mahendra’s room. The book lay open in front
of Mahendra—he sat with his feet hoisted on the desk and his head resting
on the backrest, thinking intently. When he heard her footsteps, he looked
up in surprise and turned his head, as if wishing the fleeting appearance of
the one in whose thoughts he was lost. When he saw Asha he composed
himself, put his feet down and pulled his book to him.
Mahendra was quite stunned today. Usually Asha never appeared before
him thus, so boldly. If their paths ever happened to cross, she moved away
immediately. But today, at this late hour, her sudden entry into his room was
really quite incredible. Without lifting his head from his book, Mahendra
sensed that Asha showed no signs of leaving. She came and stood in front
of him, still and silent. Now he could no longer pretend to go on reading.
He looked up. Asha spoke in clear, ringing tones, ‘Mother’s had an asthma
attack. Could you please take a look at her?’
Mahendra asked, ‘Where is she?’
Asha said, ‘In her bedroom; she’s not able to sleep.’
Mahendra said, ‘Come on then, let me go and take a look.’
After ages, this tiny communion with Asha made Mahendra feel very
buoyant. Silence had stood between them like an impregnable fortress.
Mahendra had no weapons to tear the barrier down. Asha had suddenly
opened a door to the fort with her own hands.
Asha waited outside Rajlakshmi’s room, while Mahendra went in.
Rajlakshmi viewed this inopportune arrival of Mahendra with anxiety—she
feared he had sparred with Asha once again and was ready to leave the
house. She said, ‘Mahin, haven’t you gone to bed yet?’
Mahendra said, ‘Mother, is your asthma troubling you?’
This question, long awaited and coming so late, piqued the mother
deeply. She realized that Mahin had come to ask after her health today only
at Asha’s insistence. This anxious agony only augmented her trouble and
she spoke with difficulty, ‘Go on, go to bed—my asthma is nothing.’
Mahendra said, ‘No, Mother, it’s best to do a check-up; this isn’t
something one should ignore.’
 Mahendra knew that his mother had a weak heart and the look on her
face was not too reassuring—he was anxious.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘There’s no need for a check-up; my ailment is beyond
cure.’
Mahendra said, ‘All right, let me get you a sleeping pill for tonight and
tomorrow we shall examine you thoroughly.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I’ve had enough of pills; they don’t work on me. Go
on, Mahin, it’s very late—you go and sleep.’
Mahendra replied, ‘I’ll go as soon as you feel a little better.’
Miffed and hurt, Rajlakshmi addressed Asha, concealed behind the door,
and said, ‘Bou, why did you bother Mahin so late at night and fetch him
here?’ As she spoke she could scarcely breathe.
Asha stepped into the room now and addressed Mahendra in soft yet firm
tones, ‘Go on, you go to sleep. I’ll stay with Mother.’
Mahendra called Asha out of the room and said to her, ‘I am sending for
some medicine; there’ll be two doses in the bottle. Give her one dose first
and if she still cannot sleep, administer the second dose after an hour. If it
gets worse in the night, don’t forget to send for me.’
Mahendra went back to his room. This new face of Asha was a novelty to
him. This Asha had no diffidence, no inadequacy; this Asha was confident
of what she was doing and she wasn’t begging for protection from him.
Mahendra may have rejected his wife, but he felt a growing respect for the
daughter-in-law of the house.
Rajlakshmi was secretly pleased that Asha had fetched Mahendra out of
concern for her health. What she said, however, was, ‘Bou-ma, I sent you to
sleep—why did you drag Mahendra here?’
Asha didn’t answer her and simply began to fan her as she sat behind her
on the bed.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Go to bed, Bou-ma.’
Asha spoke softly, ‘He has asked me to stay here.’ Asha knew that
Rajlakshmi would be pleased to hear that Mahendra had instructed her to
serve his mother.
 44

WHEN IT BECAME OBVIOUS TO RAJLAKSHMI THAT ASHA

WASN’T ABLE TO hold on to Mahendra, she felt, ‘If my illness is the
pretext needed to hold Mahin back, so be it.’ She was afraid that she might
be completely cured soon. She began to pull the wool over Asha’s eyes and
to throw her medication away.
Mahendra, in his preoccupation, didn’t notice anything. But Asha
perceived clearly that Rajlakshmi’s ailment had worsened. She thought that
perhaps Mahendra wasn’t giving enough thought to his choice of drugs and
treatment; so lost was he in his own confusions that even his mother’s
illness couldn’t prod him out of his daze. Asha couldn’t help feeling
disgusted at the extent of Mahendra’s downfall. If a man was ruined in one
way, did he have to let everything go in this manner?
One evening, as she was in the throes of pain, Rajlakshmi suddenly
recalled Behari. It was ages since he had visited them. She asked Asha,
‘Bou-ma, do you know where Behari is right now?’ Asha realized that it
was Behari who had always nursed Rajlakshmi when she was sick and
that’s why she was thinking of him now. But Behari, once the bulwark of
the household, had also been thrown out. Had he been here, Asha thought,
Rajlakshmi would have received proper treatment—he wasn’t as heartless
as Mahendra. She heaved a sigh.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Has Mahin had a fight with Behari? That’s very wrong,
Bou-ma. Mahin doesn’t have a greater well-wisher, a better friend than
him.’ As she spoke tears gathered in her eyes.
Many memories flitted slowly through Asha’s mind. She recalled how
many times, in various ways, Behari had tried to warn the stupid and
unseeing Asha, thereby earning her displeasure; today she cursed herself for
it. Why should fate spare a foolish woman who had hurled abuses at her
true ally and drawn to her bosom her one and only foe? The poignant sighs
that Behari had heaved as he left the house were bound to echo between the
walls and have an effect someday.
Rajlakshmi was silent and thoughtful for a while before she spoke again,
‘Bou-ma, if Behari had been here, he could have saved us in these times of
trouble—things wouldn’t have gone so wrong.’
Asha sat mutely, lost in her thoughts. Rajlakshmi sighed and said again,
‘If he hears I am sick, he won’t be able to stop himself from coming over.’
Asha realized that Rajlakshmi wanted this news to reach Behari. She was
evidently feeling quite helpless in his absence.
Mahendra was standing by the moonlit window in silence, with the room
in darkness. He was tired of studying. The house did not provide him any
happiness. When you are estranged from your closest ones, it is not possible
to discard them like strangers; neither can you draw them to your bosom
comfortably. This weighs heavy on the heart and constricts one’s breath.
Mahendra hesitated nowadays before going to his mother; if she ever saw
him approach, she looked at his face with such anxious panic that he felt
wounded. If Asha ever came anywhere close to him, he had trouble finding
words to say; but the silence between them was equally troubling. His days
had turned into a living nightmare. Mahendra had vowed that he wouldn’t
set eyes on Binodini for at least seven days. Two days were left for the
week to be over—how would he endure those two days?
Mahendra was lost in these thoughts when he heard footsteps behind
him. He knew Asha had entered the room. He stood still, pretending not to
have heard her. Asha realized his pretense, but she didn’t leave the room.
She stood behind him and said, ‘There’s something I have to say—I’ll
finish saying it and then I’ll leave.’
Mahendra turned around and said, ‘You don’t have to leave—why don’t
you sit for a while?’
Asha paid no heed to this courteous offer and continued, ‘Behari-
thakurpo needs to be told about Mother’s illness.’
The very mention of Behari was like adding insult to injury for
Mahendra. He composed himself and said, ‘But why? Don’t you have faith
in my treatment?’
Asha was already too upset at the thought that Mahendra wasn’t working
hard enough on his mother’s treatment and so she blurted out, ‘Well,
Mother’s ailment hasn’t abated one bit! It seems to get worse every day.’
The covert criticism cloaked in this simple statement of fact hit
Mahendra hard. Never before had Asha hurled such masked allegations at
him. His ego was wounded and he spoke in bemused derision, ‘I suppose
now I’ll have to take medical lessons from you.’
Asha’s deep feeling of hurt got a fresh jolt at this disparagement. The
room was in darkness; the ever-silent Asha gathered her courage and spoke
with resolute vigour, ‘Perhaps not medical lessons, but you can surely take
lessons on caring for your mother.’
Such a riposte from Asha left Mahendra gasping for words. The
unfamiliar harshness of Asha’s words made Mahendra turn vicious and he
said, ‘You are well aware why I have forbidden your Behari-thakurpo to
enter this house—I suppose you’ve begun to miss him again!’
Asha stormed out of the room. She felt impelled to leave because of an
onrush of shame. The shame wasn’t for herself. How could the person who
was himself neck-deep in culpability utter such baseless allegations? Such
brazenness could not be covered over even by mountains of mortification.
The moment Asha left, Mahendra perceived his total defeat. He had
never imagined that Asha would, in any situation, ever be capable of
reprimanding him thus. He realized that his status had now been dragged
down from the throne to the ground. He was suddenly gripped by a fear lest
Asha’s anguish turned into disgust.
Meanwhile, the very mention of Behari filled him with anxious qualms
about Binodini. He didn’t know whether Behari was back from his trip. In
the meantime, Binodini may have found him and the two may even have
met up. Mahendra could scarcely honour his vow now.
That night Rajlakshmi’s ailment took a turn for the worse and she sent for
Mahendra. She spoke with great difficulty, ‘Mahin, I would dearly love to
see Behari—he hasn’t come around for ages now.’
 Asha was fanning her mother-in-law as she sat with her eyes lowered to
the ground. Mahendra said, ‘He is not here; he left on a trip to the west or
somewhere.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I feel certain he is right here and he’s just staying away
because he is upset with you. For pity’s sake, please go and look him up
tomorrow.
Mahendra said, ‘All right, I will.’
Today everyone was reaching out for Behari. Mahendra felt that no one
in the whole wide world wanted or desired him.
 45

THE VERY NEXT MORNING MAHENDRA LANDED UP AT

BEHARI’S house. He found the servants at the gate, loading furniture onto
several bullock carts. Mahendra asked Bhoju, ‘What ‘s up?’
Bhoju said, ‘The master has acquired a farmhouse by the river Ganga in
Bally and everything is being moved there.’
Mahendra asked, ‘Is the master at home?’
Bhoju said, ‘He spent just two days in Kolkata and yesterday he went
back to Bally.’
Mahendra’s heart sank. He was sure that Binodini and Behari had met in
his absence. In his mind’s eye he could see a similar queue of bullock carts
at Binodini’s door, and furniture being loaded onto them. He felt certain that
for this very reason Binodini had made him, the senseless fool, stay away
from her house.
Without a second’s delay, Mahendra leaped onto his carriage and barked
orders at the coachman. He swore continuously at the coachman for the
tardiness of the horses. Once inside the lane at Patoldanga, he found that
there were no preparations for a move or transfer. He was afraid that it had
all been accomplished already. He banged on the door loudly. The minute
the old servant opened the door, Mahendra asked, ‘Is everything all right?’
He replied, ‘Yes sir, everything’s fine.
Mahendra went upstairs. Binodini was in the bathroom. Mahendra
stepped into her bedroom and threw himself on Binodini’s unmade bed. He
gripped the soft mattress with both hands, buried his face in the pillow and
took in the scent with a deep bream as he said, ‘Heartless! Heartless!’
Thus he emptied his heart of its turbulent emotions, left the bed and
began to wait impatiently for Binodini. As he paced the floor he noticed a
Bangla daily lying open upon the mattress on the floor. He picked it up
casually to pass his time. But from the first spot on which glance fell,
Behari’s name leaped out at him. In an instant his whole being was
concentrated on the newspaper. A report said that Behari had acquired a
property in Bally, beside the Ganga, where he proposed to provide free
treatment to poor and needy gentlefolk—the clinic could accommodate five
people at a time, etc. etc.
Binodini had obviously seen this piece of news. What did she feel?
Mahendra felt sure that Binodini yearned to go away to Bally. He was
further agitated at the throught that this new step taken by Behari would
only enhance Binodini’s respect for him. As for himself, Mahendra labelled
Behari a ‘humbug’ and his new venture a ‘vagary’; he throught, ‘Behari has
always had a penchant of making a show of doing good.’ As opposed to
Behari, Mahendra tried to laud himself as a very spontaneous and genuine
person, thinking, ‘I abhor the attempt to con simple folk under the guise of
philanthropy and altruism.’ But alas, perhaps people, and one person in
particular, would not really appreciate the worth of his sincerity and lack of
subterfuge. Mahendra began to feel this was another way in which Behari
had unfairly scored over him.
As he heard Binodini’s footsteps, Mahendra folded up the newspaper and
sat upon it.When a freshly bathed Binodini entered the room Mahendra
looked up at her—and reeled in shock. What a change had come over her—
she seemed to have endured austere penance through fire in the last few
days. She had grown thin and a strange glow emanated from behind her
pallid face.
Binodini had given up all hopes of hearing from Behari. Imagining
Behari’s obvious indifference towards her, she had suffered in silence every
minute of the day. She knew no ways of liberating herself from this
torment. She felt Behari had gone away after rejecting her and she had no
way of reaching him any more. Binodini, who loved to do the housework to
perfection, felt stifled in the walled confines of this house where she had
nothing to do—all her energies turned inwards and lacerated her instead.
When she imagined her entire future within the confines of this loveless,
joyless, activity-less house, when she contemplated this narrow lane and
thoughts of living there forever, her rebellious nature made vain attempts at
battering away at the sky in mute frustration against providence. Binodini
felt relentless hatred and disgust for Mahendra, the senseless fool who had
closed out all her escape routes and constricted her life thus. She realized
that she would no longer be able to keep Mahendra at arm’s length. In this
tiny house, Mahendra would inch relentlessly closer to her—every day he’d
edge closer, propelled by an invisible attraction; she knew that disgusting
battles would be fought within this black hole, on this grimy bed of an
immoral life, between hatred and attraction. How could she protect herself
from the deadly whiplash of the dragon’s tail when she had dug out with her
own hands, this drooling, lusting, filthy beast from the depths of
Mahendra’s heart? On the one hand was her anguished heart, on the other
was her entrapment in this tiny house and added to that the waves of
Mahendra’s desire crashing away at the door—Binodini’s soul recoiled in
fear. Where would all this end? When would she be free of it all?
The sight of Binodini’s gaunt, pallid face lit the fires of jealousy in
Mahendra’s heart. Did he have any powers by which he could, forcefully,
uproot all thoughts of Behari from this woman’s heart? The eagle flies
down and snatches away the lamb in one fell swoop and flies back to its
nest atop the insurmountable mountain. Wasn’t there one such spot,
shrouded in the clouds and beyond all memories, where a lone Mahendra
could hold his gentle, pretty captive to his bosom? The heat of envy
augmented the force of his desire. Now he could no longer let Binodini go
out of his sight, even for an instant. He must keep the nightmare of Behari
at bay; he didn’t dare to give Behari even an inch of opportunity hereafter.
Mahendra had read in Sanskrit poetry that the anguish of separation lent
a softness to a woman’s beauty. Today, the more he looked at Binodini he
realized the truth of it, and his heart was astir with a cavernous sorrow
tinged with pleasure.
After a few moments of silence Binodini asked Mahendra, ‘Have you
had tea?’
Mahendra said, ‘I may have, but please don’t let that stop you from
making me another cup with your hands—fill my cup, oh beloved!’
 Perhaps quite deliberately, Binodini chose to cruelly lash out at this burst
of passion from Mahendra, asking abruptly, ‘Do you happen to know where
Behari-thakurpo is right now?’
Mahendra lost colour in an instant as he replied, ‘He is not in Kolkata
now.’
Binodini said, ‘What is his new address?’
Mahendra replied, ‘He doesn’t wish to disclose that to anyone.’
Binodini said, ‘Is it possible to look for him and locate it?’
Mahendra said, ‘I have no urgent need to do that.’
Binodini said, ‘Need is not everything. Isn’t a friendship as old as this
worth something?’
Mahendra said, ‘Behari may be a very old friend of mine, but you have
known him for a very short while—yet I sense that you have a greater
urgency to find out where he is.’
Binodini retorted, ‘That should tell you something; hasn’t a friend like
that taught you the meaning of the word friendship?’
Mahendra replied, ‘No, and that’s no great loss to me. But if I had learnt
the art of stealing a woman’s heart by deception, it would have stood me in
good stead now.’
Binodini said, ‘That particular art requires skill and not just intent.’
Mahendra said mockingly, ‘If you know the guru’s whereabouts please
divulge it to me—at this age I’m ready to go and take tuitions from him.
Then we shall see about skill.’
Binodini said, ‘If you fail to locate your friend’s address, do not utter
words of love to me. After the way you have treated Behari-thakurpo, who
can trust you?’
Mahendra said, ‘If you didn’t trust me totally, you would not have
humiliated me thus. If only you hadn’t been supremely confident of my
love, I would have suffered less today. Behari knows the art of not-being-
tamed and if he had taught me that art, he’d have been a true friend indeed.’
‘Behari-thakurpo is human and hence he cannot be tamed,’ Binodini said
as she stood by the window as before, her black tresses snaking down her
back. Suddenly, Mahendra stood up, bunched up his fists and shouted in
fury, ‘How do you have the nerve to humiliate me like this time and again?
Is it your belief in my goodness or your superiority that makes you so sure I
won’t retaliate? If you truly believe I am sub-human, know me to be a brute
indeed. I am not so unmanly as to be unable to inflict a wound when I’m
hurt.’ He gazed at Binodini’s face for a few silent seconds. Then he said,
‘Binod, let’s go away from here. Let’s begin our journey—be it the west or
the mountains, wherever you wish to go. This is no place to live—it s
killing me.
Binodini said, ‘Let’s go right away then—let’s go towards the west.’
Mahendra said, ‘Where in the west?’
Binodini said, ‘Nowhere in particular; we shan’t stay in the same place
for more than two days, we’ll keep moving.’
Mahendra said, ‘That’s good; let’s leave tonight.’
Binodini agreed and went away to cook Mahendra’s meal.
Mahendra understood that the news item about Behari had escaped
Binodini’s notice. She no longer had the powers of deliberation necessary to
concentrate on a newspaper. He spent the whole day on edge, lest that
particular news reached Binodini somehow.
 46

MAHENDRA’S LUNCH WAS PREPARED AT HOME, IN THE HOPE

THAT HE’D come back after looking up Behari. When he didn’t return, an
ailing Rajlakshmi grew anxious. Lack of sleep the night before had already
weakened her and worrying over Mahendra did her no good at this stage.
Asha went to check and found that Mahendra’s carriage had returned. The
coachman informed her that from Behari’s house Mahendra had gone to the
flat in Patoldanga. At this news, Rajlakshmi turned her face to the wall and
lay still. Asha sat by her head, her face turned to stone, and fanned her. On
other days Rajlakshmi always urged Asha to go and have her meal on
time.Today she didn’t say anything. If, even after seeing how ill she was the
night before, Mahendra felt drawn towards Binodini today, Rajlakshmi had
nothing left to live for. She was well aware that Mahendra was not taking
her ailment seriously; he was secure in the knowledge that this time too, as
on every other occasion, her illness was a temporary malady, curable in a
few days. And this casual complacence struck Rajlakshmi as very cruel
indeed. In the throes of passion, Mahendra refused to acknowledge any
anxiety or any concern and hence he was making light of his mother’s pain;
he rushed to Binodini at every brazen opportunity lest he found himself
bound to his ailing mother’s bedside. Rajlakshmi lost all interest in recovery
—in a fit of sorrow, she wanted to prove to Mahendra how unfounded his
complacence was.
At two in the afternoon Asha said, ‘Mother, it’s time for your
medication.’ Rajlakshmi didn’t respond. When Asha rose to go and fetch
the medicine, she said, ‘There’s no need for medicines, Bou-ma. You may
go.’
Asha could fathom Rajlakshmi’s pain and when its ripples touched her
own heart, she could hold still no longer. She tried to stifle her sobs, but
they broke forth nonetheless. Rajlakshmi half-turned on her side, took
Asha’s hands in her own and stroked them with gentle compassion as she
said, ‘Bou-ma, you are very young, there’s time yet for you to find
happiness. But don’t work so hard on my account, my dear—I have lived
long enough; there’s no point in going on.’
Asha’s sobs only increased at these words and she pressed her anchal
over her lips.
In this way, the cheerless day dragged on. In spite of their misery and
hurt, both Rajlakshmi and Asha hoped in their heart of hearts that Mahendra
would arrive at any moment. Both of them realized that they were sitting up
at every little sound that came to their ears. Gradually, twilight cast its
shadow into the inner chambers of the house—it held neither the joy of
light nor the comfort of darkness. It made sorrow weigh heavier and
despondency tearless; it stole away the power to work or hope and yet,
didn’t bring the peace of respite or liberation. In that withered, graceless
dusk of the sick house Asha rose, lit a lamp and brought it into the room.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Bou-ma, the light bothers me. Keep it outside.’
Asha took the lamp outside and came back to sit by Rajlakshmi’s side.
When the darkness grew thicker and brought the endless night from the
outside into the tiny room, Asha asked in gentle tones, ‘Mother, should I
send word to him?’
Rajlakshmi answered firmly, ‘No Bou-ma, this is my order to you—do
not inform Mahendra.’
Asha stood there speechless. She didn’t even have the strength to weep.
Outside, the bearer said, ‘The master has sent a letter.’
In that instant Rajlakshmi thought that perhaps Mahendra was suddenly
afflicted by some ailment and so he couldn’t come; hence he had sent the
letter. Contrite and concerned, she said, ‘Go and take a look Bou-ma—see
what Mahin has said.’
Asha held the letter with trembling fingers and read it in the light of the
lamp outside the door. Mahendra wrote that he wasn’t keeping too well
lately and so he was off to the west. There was no need to worry overmuch
about Rajlakshmi’s health; he had instructed Nabin-doctor to check up on
her regularly. He had left instructions for bouts of insomnia or headaches
and along with the letter had sent two bottles of light and nutritious tonics
that he’d fetched from the chemist’s. In the postscript there was a request to
be kept posted on his mother’s health at an address in Giridih for the
moment.
Asha stood there dumbfounded after she finished reading this letter. Her
sorrow was overtaken by a terrible sense of guilt—how was she to convey
this brutal news to Rajlakshmi?
Seeing the delay in Asha’s return Rajlakshmi grew more concerned. She
called out, ‘Bou-ma, come here and tell me what Mahin has written.’ In her
eagerness she sat up on the bed.
So Asha came in and read out the letter slowly. Rajlakshmi said, ‘What
has he said about his health—just read that bit once again.’
Asha reiterated, ‘I haven’t been feeling too well lately and so I—’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘That’s enough, stop—how could he feel well! The old
mother refuses to die and only bothers him with her sickness! Why did you
have to tell him of my illness? At least he was at home; he sat in a corner
with his books and didn’t meddle in anybody’s business. But you had to go
and drag him into his mother’s troubles and where has that got you—he has
left the house! If I had died in one corner of the house, would that have
been too bad? Even after all this, you haven’t learnt a thing, Bou-ma.’
Rajlakshmi lay back on the pillows, panting.
Outside, there was the sound of boots. The bearer said, ‘The doctor is
here.’
The doctor cleared his throat and stepped into the room. Asha quickly
pulled her anchal over her head and moved to the side of the bed. The
doctor asked Rajlakshmi, ‘Could you tell me what your complaints are?’
Rajlakshmi roared angrily, ‘What complaints! Won’t you let a woman die
in peace? If I have your medication, will I live forever?’
The doctor spoke placatingly, ‘You may not live forever, but at least I can
reduce the pain—’
Rajlakshmi exclaimed, ‘A true remedy for anguish was available to
widows who jumped into their husband’s pyres. Now, it’s only a matter of
prolonging the agony. Doctor, please go away—don’t bother me; I want to
be alone.’
Apprehensively the doctor said, ‘May I check your pulse—’
Rajlakshmi spoke irately, ‘I’m telling you to leave. My pulse is fine—
there’s no hope of it giving way in the near future.’
The doctor had no choice but to leave the room. From the door he sent
for Asha. He quizzed her in detail about the symptoms of the ailment. After
he had heard her out, he re-entered the room with a grave expression and
said, ‘Look here, Mahendra has entrusted a responsibility to me. If you
refuse to let me treat you, he’d be hurt.’
Mahendra feeling hurt sounded like a joke to Rajlakshmi. She said, ‘Don’
t worry too much about Mahin. Everyone is hurt some time in his life. This
hurt will not kill Mahin. Please go now, doctor. Let me sleep a little.’
Nabin-doctor realized it was best not to disturb the patient further. He
walked out slowly and gave explicit instructions to Asha about what had to
be done.
When Asha came back Rajlakshmi said, ‘Child, you go on and take some
rest—you’ve been at my bedside all day long. Send the old maid here—she
can sit in the next room while I rest.’
Asha knew Rajlakshmi well. This wasn’t an affectionate request—it was
a command that had to be obeyed. She sent Haru’s mother, went into her
own room and lay down upon the cool floor in the dark. The day-long fast
and privation had left her feeling very weak. The wedding band was playing
in some neighbour’s house. Now the shehnai struck up again. The notes of
the tune echoed in the dark of the night and reverberated everywhere,
wounding Asha continually. Upon the dreamscape of the night unfolded
every minute incident of her own wedding night: the lights, the chaos, the
people, the garlands, the sandal paste, the smell of new clothes and the
fumes of the holy fire, the timid, shy, joyous trembling of her new bride s
heart; the more the memories took shape and embraced her, the more her
sorrow took root and the more her heartache grew. Just as the hungry child,
in the midst of a terrible famine, strikes out at his mother, demanding food,
these animated memories of past joys looked to Asha’s heart for
nourishment and struck out at it vehemently when they found no response.
A weary Asha could scarcely be quietly supine. She brought her palms
together to pray to God; as she did so, the image of the only god she ever
knew, that of her chaste and loving aunt, appeared within her tearful soul.
Asha had vowed not to drag that saintly figure back into the murk and
gloom of mundane lives ever again. But today she could see no way out for
herself—the thick, dense anguish surrounding her did not permit even a tiny
crack of hope. So Asha lit a lamp, pulled a notepad onto her lap and wrote a
letter as she wiped away the tears that streamed from her eyes:
My respected Aunty,
You are all I have left in this world; please come over just this once and draw this
unfortunate soul into your bosom. Or else I’ll surely die. I do not know what else to write. I
place a hundred thousand salutations at your venerable feet.
Affectionately yours,
Chuni
 47

ANNAPURNA RETURNED FROM KASHI, WALKED INTO

RAJLAKSHMI’S ROOM slowly and touched her feet with respect. Despite
the intervening tiffs and rows, the sight of Annapurna gave Rajlakshmi a
new lease of life. Only after Annapurna’s arrival did Rajlakshmi realize that
she’d been seeking her all this while, reaching out to her, unknown even to
her own self. In an instant she recognized that much of her distress, much of
the ennui of the past few weeks were due to Annapurna’s absence. In one
single moment she became her old self. Rajlakshmi was flooded with
memories of the old camaraderie between the two sisters-in-law, which had
been there even before Mahendra’s birth—from the day they had entered
this house as new brides and accepted the good and bad in it as their own, in
festivals, in death and sorrow—when they had pulled the vehicle of this
household together as one, with one destination in mind. The dearest friend
of her youth, with whom she had once begun her journey, had come back to
her side after many interludes and interruptions. But the one for whom
Rajlakshmi had inflicted such wounds on this friend of hers was now
nowhere to be found.
Annapurna sat beside the ailing woman, took her hand in her own and
said, ‘Didi.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mejo-bou,’ but she could not say anything more. The
tears flowed from her eyes. Asha could no longer check herself; she went
into the next room, collapsed on the floor and cried her heart out.
Annapurna did not dare to ask Rajlakshmi or Asha any questions about
Mahendra. She called Sadhucharan and asked, ‘Uncle, where is Mahin?’
Sadhucharan narrated the entire episode of Mahendra and Binodini.
Annapurna asked, ‘Where is Behari?’
 Sadhucharan replied, ‘He hasn’t come here for many days now—I don’t
know his whereabouts.’
Annapurna said, ‘Please go to Behari’s house and get me news of him.’
Sadhucharan came back to say, ‘He is not at home. He is in a farmhouse
by the Ganga in Bally.’
Annapurna sent for Nabin-doctor and asked after the patient’s health. He
said, ‘Along with her weak heart, she has now developed dropsy. Death
may come suddenly, without warning.’
That evening, when Rajlakshmi’s pain worsened, Annapurna asked her,
‘Didi, may I send for Nabin-doctor?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘No Mejo-bou, Nabin-doctor won’t be able to do
anything for me.’
Annapurna said, ‘Then tell me who would you like to see?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘It’ll be good if you could send word to Behari.’
Annapurna was touched to the quick. One day at dusk, in a far-off land,
she had slighted and sent Behari away from her doorstep, and the memory
still perturbed her. Behari would never come back to her doorstep again.
She had never imagined that in this lifetime she’d get another chance to set
right that rebuff.
Annapurna went up to Mahendra’s room on the terrace. Once this room
had been the one cheerful spot in the house. Today it looked forlorn—the
beds were unmade, the décor dishevelled; no one had watered the plants on
the terrace and they looked withered.
Asha realized her aunt had gone up to the terrace and she followed her
slowly. Annapurna pulled her into her heart and kissed her forehead. Asha
went down on her knees, touched Annapurna’s feet and laying her head on
them said, ‘Aunty, bless me, give me strength. I had never imagined that a
person could bear such immense heartbreak. Oh Lord, how much longer
can I bear this!’
Annapurna sat down on the floor and Asha lay down at her feet.
Annapurna picked up her niece’s head onto her lap and without saying a
word, folded her own hands and meditated in silence.
 This silent, loving benediction from Annapurna was like balm to the
depths of Asha’s soul; after an age she felt at peace. She felt her prayers
were nearly answered—the gods may well ignore her, a silly and stupid girl,
but they’d surely hear the prayers of her aunt.
With this reassurance and strength in her heart, Asha stood up with a sigh
after a while. She said, ‘Aunty, please write a letter to Behari-thakurpo.’
Annapurna said, ‘No, a letter won’t do.’
Asha said, ‘But then, how will you send word to him?’
Annapurna said, ‘Tomorrow I shall go and meet him in person.’
 48

WHILE BEHARI WAS TRAVELLING IN THE WEST, HE HAD

REALIZED THAT IF HE didn’t bind himself to a mission, he would know
no peace. He resolved to take up the onus of providing treatment to
Kolkata’s indigent clerks. The life of a low-income, needy clerk living in a
shack in a narrow lane, burdened with a family, was like that of a fish in a
pond in summer, when it thrashed about helplessly in the mud and gasped
for breath as the water around it dried up. For many years Behari had
nurtured sympathy for this pallid, emaciated, fretful bunch of gentlefolk. So
he wanted to confer upon them the shade of the woods and the breeze of the
Ganga.
He bought some land in Bally and with the help of some Chinese artisans
started building tiny cottages there. But his heart knew no peace. As the day
grew closer for him to inaugurate his mission, his soul rebelled against his
chosen vocation. His heart echoed with one thought, ‘There is no joy, no
pleasure, no beauty in this work—it is nothing but a dreary burden.’ Never
before had Behari felt so oppressed by the prospect of work.
In the past, Behari had never needed anything. He had always been able
to apply himself with ease to the task at hand. But now he felt a strange
kind of hunger without appeasing which he couldn’t bring himself to feel an
interest in anything. In keeping with his old habits he tried his hand at this
and that; but in the very next moment he wanted to give it all up and be free
of everything.
The yearning of youth which had lain dormant within him and whose
existence he had been unaware of had suddenly come alive at Binodini’s
magic touch. It now began to prowl through the landscape, looking for
objects to satisfy its hunger. Behari was unsettled by this hungry animal
within himself; what would he do now with the sickly, withered community
of clerks from Kolkata!
The Ganga, overflowing in the monsoon, streamed ahead. Every now and
then indigo clouds inclined towards each other in intimate embrace over the
thick foliage on the other bank. The river sometimes glinted like a steel
sword and sometimes it glittered like a flashfire. Every time Behari’s glance
fell on this festive monsoon scenery, someone emerged from his heart and
stood all alone beneath the serene blue glow of the sky; someone with her
moist, jet-black tresses cascading in waves over her back—she collected all
the scattered rays of the monsoon-laden clouds and directed upon him the
unblinking, burning fire of her gaze.
Today, Behari felt that his past, which he had spent in peace and quiet,
had actually been a grave loss. Many such overcast evenings and moonlit
nights must have come with their untold boon of joys to Behari’s empty
heart, and gone back unfulfilled—so many melodies had remained unsung,
and so many joyous occasions incomplete. Today, Binodini’s uplifted face,
with the proferred kiss hanging in the air, cast its rosy glow upon all his
memories of the past and turned them into wan, insignificant shadows. He
had wasted the larger part of his life as Mahendra’s bosom friend! What had
he gained from it? Behari had been unaware that the pathos of romance
could exhume from the very heart of creation such a melodic tune on the
flute. How could he now remove from his mind the memories of that
woman, who had held him in her arms and elevated him all at once to this
unimaginable place of beauty? Her gaze, her desires were everywhere now;
her fervent, deep sighs raised waves in Behari’s blood and the gentle
warmth of her touch embraced Behari again and again and enlivened his
heart like a blossoming flower.
And yet, why was Behari so far away from Binodini today? The reason
was that he couldn’t imagine a relationship that would be as beautiful as the
beauty of the emotions with which she had drenched his soul. If you tried to
pluck the lotus, the sludge came with it. Where could he place her in the
web of relationships so that the exquisite would not be turned into the
hideous? Besides, if a tug-of-war ensued with Mahendra, the whole thing
would take such an ugly turn that Behari couldn’t even bear to think about
it. Hence, Behari had come away to this solitary bank of the Ganga, placed
his idol on a pedestal and burned his heart like incense at her altar. He did
not even write to Binodini or ask after her for fear that he would hear
something that would destroy his house of cards.
On this cloudy morning Behari sat pensively in the southern corner of his
garden beneath the berry tree. Tiny boats ferried to and fro on the river and
he watched them idly. The sun rose higher in the sky. The servant came to
ask him if he should get started on lunch. Behari said, ‘Not now.’ The chief
artisan came to him for some urgent consultation and Behari said, ‘Later,
please.’
Suddenly, Behari was startled to find Annapurna standing before him. He
sat up in a rush, held her feet in his firm grasp and bent to the ground,
seeking her blessings. Annapurna stroked his head affectionately with her
right hand and spoke in a voice laced with tears, ‘Behari, why have you
grown so thin?’
Behari said, ‘So that I could get back your love, Aunty.’
Tears streamed down Annapurna’s cheeks. Behari stood up attentively,
‘Aunty, have you eaten yet?’
Annapurna said, ‘No, it’s not time yet.’
Behari said, ‘Come then, let me lend you a hand. Today, after all these
months I am dying to eat food cooked by you, off your plate after you are
finished.’
Behari did not ask a word about Mahendra or Asha. One day, Annapurna
had closed her door on Behari’s face ruthlessly. With hurt pride, he obeyed
her indictment to this day.
After lunch Annapurna said, ‘Behari, the boat is ready at the quay—come
to Kolkata right away.’
Behari said, ‘But I have no work in Kolkata.’
Annapurna said, ‘Didi is very ill, she has asked to see you.’
Behari looked up in startled disbelief. He asked, ‘Where is Mahin da?’
Annapurna said, ‘He is not in Kolkata. He is travelling in the west.’
 Behari turned ashen as he heard this. He sat for a while in wordless
silence.
Annapurna asked, ‘Don t you know everything, Behari?’
Behari said, ‘I know some of it, but not what has happened recently.’
So Annapurna narrated to him the events leading up to Mahendra’s
escape to the west with Binodini in tow. In a flash of a second the colour of
the earth-sky and water changed before Behari’s very eyes; the nectar of his
imagination turned bitter all at once: ‘So Binodini, the temptress, played
with my emotions on that night! The surrender of her heart was a mere
illusion! She left her village brazenly with Mahendra and headed
westwards! Shame on her, and shame on me—I was a fool to have trusted
her even for a moment.’
Alas for the overcast monsoon evening, alas for the rain-soaked full-
moon night—where was their magical charm now?
 49

BEHARI WONDERED HOW HE WOULD BE ABLE TO BRING

HIMSELF TO LOOK at the heartbroken Asha. When he stepped into the
courtyard, the palpable pathos of the desolate house overwhelmed him. He
looked at the servants and on behalf of Mahendra, culpable and absent, he
hung his head in shame. He could not bring himself to ask of the familiar
old retainers how they were, as he’d always done in the past. On the
threshold of the inner chambers, his feet fairly dragged. Mahendra had
hurled a vulnerable Asha into a naked humiliation that robbed a woman of
all protective mantles and exposed her to the pitying, curious glances of the
whole world. How could he bear to gaze upon Asha who would be injured
and cringing?
But there was no time for these ruminations and quandaries. The moment
he stepped inside, Asha walked up to him quickly and said, ‘Thakurpo,
please come quickly and take a look at Mother—she is really suffering.’
This was the first time Asha had addressed Behari directly. In times of
trouble, masks are ripped away suddenly; people from far and wide are
brought together in one lightning stroke and held close.
Asha’s forthright fervour struck a chord in Behari. This tiny event told
him much about the state in which Mahendra had left his family. The
trauma of harsh times robs the household of charm and grace and the
woman of the house has no opportunity to shield herself. Trivial shields and
barriers come crashing down—no one has time for them.
Behari stepped into Rajlakshmi’s room. Rajlakshmi had lost all colour
due to a sudden attack of breathlessness—but that passed and she soon
composed herself.
Behari touched her feet and sought her blessings. Rajlakshmi indicated
for him a seat beside her bed. She spoke slowly, ‘How are you, Behari? It’s
been so long.’
Behari said, ‘Mother, why didn’t you let me know that you are unwell? I
would have rushed to your side immediately.’
Rajlakshmi spoke softly, ‘I know that, my child. I may not have given
birth to you, but you are all I have left in this world.’ Tears coursed down
her cheeks as she spoke.
Behari got up hastily and pretended to examine the bottles and jars of
medication on the shelf as he controlled his emotions. When he returned to
check Rajlakshmi’s pulse, she said, ‘Leave my pulse alone—let me ask you,
why have you grown so thin, Behari?’ She reached out her bony fingers and
stroked Behari’s collarbone.
Behari replied, ‘If I don’t have fish curry cooked by you, my bones will
wither away thus. Get well soon, Mother, and I’ll keep everything ready in
the kitchen.’
Rajlakshmi smiled wanly and said, ‘Behari, you must bring home a bride;
there’s no one to look after you. O Mejo-bou, all of you must find him a
bride now—just look at what he has done to himself.’
Annapurna said, ‘Didi, you get well first. This is your duty and you will
fulfil it. We shall all join in the fun and enjoy ourselves.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘There’s no time left for me to do it, Mejo-bou; I leave
Behari in your care—you must make him happy. I could not repay his
debts. But God will be merciful to him.’ She stroked Behari’s head
affectionately.
Asha couldn’t stay in the room any longer—she went out to cry her heart
out. Annapurna gazed lovingly at Behari through her tears.
Suddenly, Rajlakshmi seemed to remember something and she called out,
‘Bou-ma, O Bou-ma!’
When Asha re-entered the room she said, ‘Have you arranged for
Behari’s meal?’
Behari said, ‘Mother, everyone knows this glutton of a son of yours. The
minute I stepped into the courtyard I noticed Bami, the maid, rushing into
the kitchen with a large, fresh fish. I knew then that this household still
remembers my tastes.’ Behari laughed and looked at Asha.
 Today, Asha wasn’t embarrassed. She smiled sweetly and accepted
Behari’s banter indulgently. In the past she hadn’t known the full weight of
Behari’s place in this family. Often, she had taken him for an intruder and
disregarded him; many a times her exasperation had shown through in her
gestures. Today, she regretted it all and it lent a new edge to her respect and
sympathy towards Behari.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mejo-bou, the cook won’t be any good—you’ll have to
take charge of the cooking today. This country lad of ours from the other
side of the river needs his food very spicy or he doesn’t take to it.’
Behari protested, ‘Your mother came from Bikrampur, in East Bengal;
and you call a gentleman from West Bengal’s Nadia district a country lad
from the other side of the river! This I cannot stand for.’
There was a spate of good-humoured exchanges and after many days, the
pall of sorrow lifted a little from the house.
But amidst all this conversation, not one person mentioned Mahendra’s
name. In the past Rajlakshmi only talked of Mahendra to Behari. Mahendra
had often teased his mother for this. And today, when the same Rajlakshmi
never once mentioned Mahendra, Behari was silently shocked.
When Rajlakshmi seemed to drift into sleep, Behari came out of the room
and said to Annapurna, ‘Mother’s ailment is quite grave.’
Annapurna said, ‘That is very obvious.’ She sat down by the window in
her own room. After many minutes of silence she said, ‘Don’t you think
you should go and fetch Mahin, Behari? We shouldn’t wait any longer.’
After a long pause Behari said, ‘I shall do as you say. Does anyone have
his address?’
Annapurna said, ‘Not exactly, you’ll have to hunt for it. Behari, let me
tell you one more thing. Take a look at Asha. If you cannot salvage
Mahendra from Binodini’s clutches, she will surely die. If you look at her
face you can tell that she has no will left to live.’
Behari laughed at this irony deep in his heart and thought, ‘I’m the right
choice to go and salvage another—and who, pray, will be my salvation?’
Aloud he said, ‘Aunty, do I possess the secret of keeping Mahin da away
from Binodini forever? He may come now due to his mother’s illness. But
how can I promise that he won’t go back later?’
At this point Asha walked in slowly with her anchal pulled slightly over
her head and sat down at her aunt’s feet. She knew that Annapurna was
discussing Rajlakshmi’s illness with Behari and she was eager to hear about
it. When he saw the glow of mute anguish on the chaste Asha’s face, Behari
was filled with a sense of reverent admiration. This young woman had
bathed in the holy waters of sorrow and acquired a divine status like the
goddesses of ancient times—she was no longer an ordinary mortal; terrible
grief seemed to have made her as old as the acsetic women that the Puranas
described.
After Behari discussed Rajlakshmi’s diet and medication with Asha and
sent her on her way, he heaved a sigh and said to Annapurna, ‘I must
salvage Mahin da.’
Behari went to Mahendra’s bank and found out that the latter had
recently begun transactions with their branch in Allahabad.
 50

AT THE STATION BINODINI CLAMBERED STRAIGHT INTO THE

LADIES’ COUPE in the intermediate class. Mahendra said, ‘What are you
doing—I’ll buy a second-class ticket for you.’
Binodini said, ‘But why? I’ll be fine here.’
Mahendra was a little surprised. Binodini enjoyed her luxuries. In the
past all hint of paucity had been anathema to her. The inherent poverty of
her own home had always mortified her. If there was one thing that
Mahendra had realized, it was that once Binodini had felt drawn to the
comforts of his home, and to its reputation of being richer than average. She
had felt restless at the thought that she could very easily have been the
mistress of these comforts and the rightful claimant to the household’s
dignity. But today, when she had a complete hold over Mahendra, when she
could easily bring all his wealth to her service, why was she displaying such
careless obstinacy and rebelliously welcoming the path of arduous,
degrading hardships? The fact was that she wanted to curtail her
dependence on Mahendra as far as possible. She didn’t want to accept from
Mahendra, the man who had dislodged her from her rightful sanctuary
forever, anything that could be counted as recompense for her disgrace.
When Binodini lived in Mahendra’s home, she had never followed the rigid
rules of widowhood. But now she had begun to deprive herself of all
pleasures. Now she had only one meal a day, wore a coarse sari and her
perpetual laughter and banter were things of the past. Now she was so
taciturn, masked, so distant and so forbidding that Mahendra didn’t dare
speak a harsh word to her. In amazement, impatience and fury, Mahendra
said to himself, ‘Binodini tried so hard to attain me—like the effort one
makes to pluck a fruit from a lofty bough; why then did she cast the fruit
away without even smelling it?’
 Mahendra asked, ‘For which place should I buy the tickets?’
Binodini said, ‘Anywhere in the west—we can get down wherever the
trains halts tomorrow morning.’
This kind of journey didn’t appeal to Mahendra. He hated the disruption
of his comfortable life. It would be difficult for Mahendra to survive
without a proper dwelling in a big city. He wasn’t the sort who could fend
for himself and go where his fortunes took him. He boarded the train in a
very irritable frame of mind. The fear that they were in separate
compartments and that Binodini could get off the train without his
knowledge made things worse.
In this manner, Binodini spun around on her orbit like a malevolent
planet in the skies and she made Mahendra spin likewise—never letting him
rest. Binodini had the capacity to make friends easily. Very soon she made
friends with the women travelling with her. She gathered information about
their desired destinations, put up in the dormitories and went about touring
the sights worth seeing with her new friends. Every time Mahendra felt he
was superfluous to Binodini, it was like a fresh blow to him. His only task
was to buy the tickets from here to there. The rest of the time it was a
ceaseless scuffle between him and his desires. At first, he accompanied
Binodini on her forays in sightseeing—but gradually he grew tired of it. So
he had his meal and tried to sleep while Binodini roamed about all day. No
one could have dreamt that Mahendra, the apple of his mother’s eye, would
one day come out into the streets thus.
One day, the two were waiting for the train at Allahabad station. For
some reason the train was late. Meanwhile, Binodini was scanning the faces
of the passengers alighting from and boarding other trains. Perhaps she
nurtured the hope that since they were in the west, if she looked hard
enough, she’d be able to find one particular person. For her, there was a
kind of tranquillity in this daily search amidst the chaotic throngs of people;
at least it was better than her lonely life, captive in a solitary home, dying
each day under the weight of stillness.
At Allahabad station her glance fell upon a glass box on the platform and
she got a shock. The postal-department box displayed the letters addressed
to all those who could not be located. On one letter carefully arranged
inside the box, Binodini spotted Behari’s name. The name ‘Beharilal’
wasn’t uncommon and there was no reason to imagine that the Behari
whose name was on that letter was the same one that Binodini longed for;
yet, his full name spelt out on the letter left her in no doubt that it must
indeed be Behari. She memorized the address on the envelope. Mahendra
was seated on a bench, wearing a dour expression. Binodini went up to him
and said, ‘Let us stay here in Allahabad for a few days.’
Mahendra’s male ego had felt increasingly slighted and rebellious at the
thought that Binodini drove him as per her wishes and never bothered to
provide fodder for his hungry, craving heart. At this point he would have
been happy to stay longer in Allahabad and get some rest—but he felt like
cutting off his nose to spite his face, not wanting to fall in with Binodini’s
wishes. He spoke irritably, ‘Since we have set off we shall continue. I can’t
go back.’
Binodini said, ‘I shall not go.’
Mahendra said, ‘You stay alone then, I am off.’
Binodini said, ‘That’s fine.’ She gestured to a porter, picked up her
luggage and headed out of the station.
Mahendra with his male ego remained seated on the bench with dark
thunderclouds hovering on his face. He could hold still only as long as
Binodini was still visible to the eye. When she left the station without once
looking back, he quickly summoned a porter, asked him to pick up his
luggage and followed her. When he came out of the station he found that
Binodini had already hired a carriage. In silence, Mahendra loaded the
baggage atop the carriage and jumped into the coachbox. He had no
inclination of sitting inside, facing Binodini and his defeated ego.
The carriage went on and on. Nearly an hour later they’d left the city
behind and the carriage now rolled over fields and farmlands. Mahendra
was embarrassed to ask questions of the coachman lest he thought that the
woman inside was the mistress and she hadn’t even bothered to consult this
man about their destination. He silently chewed on his wounded ego and sat
in the coachbox wordlessly.
 The carriage came to a halt in front of a solitary, well-kept farmhouse on
the banks of the Yamuna. Mahendra was dumbfounded. Whose farm was
this? How had Binodini come upon this address?
The house was shuttered. After much hollering an aged caretaker came
out. He said that the owner was a rich man who lived nearby and if his
permission was obtained they could stay in the farmhouse. Binodini glanced
at Mahendra just once. He was tempted at the sight of this beautiful
mansion—the prospect of a few days’ relaxation thrilled him no end. He
said to Binodini, ‘Let us go to this rich man’s house.You can stay in the
carriage while I go inside and fix the rates.’
Binodini said, ‘I am too tired. You go ahead. I’ll stay here awhile. I think
it’s quite safe.’
Mahendra got into the carriage and left. Binodini called the old man to
her side and asked after his children—how many there were, where they
worked and where his daughters were married and so on. When she heard
of his wife s demise she spoke compassionately, ‘Oh, it must be hard on
you. At this age you are all alone in this world. There’s no one to look after
you.’
In the course of conversation Binodini asked him, ‘Did Beharibabu stay
here once?’
He said, ‘Well yes, he did for some time. Does madam know him?’
Binodini said, ‘He is related to us.
The description that the old man gave of Behari removed the last traces
of doubt from Binodini’s mind. She made the old man open up the house,
and went into the rooms where Behari had stayed. Since they were locked
up after his departure, it felt as if his spirit still lingered in the rooms, the
wind had failed to sweep it away. Binodini drew in a deep breath and
sucked it into her soul, let the still, silent air touch her all over; but she
could not get any information about where Behari had gone. He could come
back—nothing was certain. The old man assured Binodini that he’d check
with his master and return with the news.
Mahendra paid the advance, meanwhile, and came back with permission
for them to stay there.
 51

THE WATERS THAT THE HIMALAYAS GIFTED TO THE YAMUNA

FROM ITS SNOWY peaks were eternal, as were the torrents of poetry that
generations of poets had presented to her. The rippling stream of this river
contained sparkling rhythms in its currents and its waves surged with the
exuberant emotions of many centuries.
When Mahendra came and sat on its banks at dusk, the sensation of
romance conjured up a trance in his eyes, in his breath, in his veins and in
his bones. The rays of the setting sun played a golden sitar of secret
melodies and tremulous agony. The day cast speckled colours on the
expansive banks, and wore to an end. Mahendra sat with half-closed eyes
and heard as if from the elegiac dreamworld of Vrindavan the sounds of
calves returning home at dusk.
The skies were overcast with monsoon clouds. The darkness was not a
mere sheath of pitch-black but also something that echoed with curious
mysteries. The bare shapes that were apparent through it in a strange glow
spoke in nameless, unspoken languages. The indistinct pallor of the other
bank, the inky blackness of the still waters, the huddled stillness of the
massive, leafy lime tree at the riverside, the wan, dusty horizon in the
distance, all merged together in the dark in various indefinite, indistinct
shapes on this rainy evening and embraced Mahendra from all sides.
The rainy trysts of the Vaishnava padabalis came to his mind. The lady
has set off on her tryst. She had come to the banks of the Yamuna all by
herself and stood at the water’s edge. How could she cross the river?
‘Please ferry me across,’ the cry rang in Mahendra’s ears, ‘oh please, ferry
me to the other side.’
On the opposite bank of the river, in the dark, the lady stood far away—
yet Mahendra could see her clearly. She was timeless and ageless, the
eternal lover of Krishna and yet, Mahendra recognized her—she was none
other than Binodini! She had begun her journey from beyond time with all
her anguish, the pangs of separation and the full burden of her youth; her
tryst had finally brought her to this river bank today through many melodies
and many rhythms—today, the skies above the remote river reverberated
with her voice, ‘Oh please, ferry me across.’ For how many more ages
would she stand there thus, waiting for the boatman to ferry her across?
The clouds in a corner of the sky parted, revealing a sickle moon. The
elusive magic of the moonlight took the river and its banks, the sky and its
horizon far beyond the limits of reality. They were free of all earthly ties.
The reins of time snapped, entire histories of the past disappeared,
consequences of the future vanished—just this deluge of silvery water on
the Yamuna remained—and this moment held Mahendra and Binodini in it,
as time and the world stood still.
Mahendra was inebriated. He felt sure that Binodini wouldn’t reject him
today, she wouldn’t refuse to fill this solitary, moonlit paradise with her
gracious beauty. He stood up instantly and went towards the house in search
of Binodini.
When he reached the bedroom he was overwhelmed by the scent of
flowers. Through the open doors and windows the moonlight streamed onto
the shimmering bed. Binodini had picked flowers from the garden, threaded
them into garlands that she wore in her hair, on her arms and neck—
adorned with flowers she lay upon the bed like a creeper in spring, bent
under the weight of its blossoms.
Mahendra’s yearning intensified. He spoke in a choked voice, ‘Binod, I
waited on the banks of the Yamuna. The moon in the sky brought me news
that you are waiting and here I am.’ Mahendra stepped forward and made to
sit on the bed.
But Binodini sat up in startled surprise, stretched out her right arm and
said, ‘Go, go away—you must not sit on this bed.’
The wind went out of the ship’s sail and it faltered to a halt—Mahendra
stood there, dumbfounded. He couldn’t speak for a few minutes. Lest he
refused to obey her, Binodini got off the bed and came to stand before him.
 Mahendra asked, ‘Then why have you dressed up—who are you waiting
for?’
Binodini gripped her heart and said, ‘The one I wait for is right here, in
my soul.’
Mahendra said, ‘Who is it? Is it Behari?
Binodini said, ‘Don’t you dare utter his name.’
Mahendra said, revelation striking him, ‘Is he the reason why you are
roaming around in the west?’
Binodini replied, ‘Yes , he is.
Mahendra said, ‘And he is the one you are waiting for now?’
Binodini said, ‘Yes, he is.’
Mahendra asked, ‘Have you found his address?’
Binodini said, ‘No, I haven’t—but I’ll get it somehow.’
Mahendra said, ‘I shall not let you find it.’
Binodini said, ‘Even if you do that, you cannot take him out of my heart.’
Binodini closed her eyes and perceived Behari within her heart at once.
Thus intensely attracted to and violently rebuffed by this image of a
beflowered yet disdainful Binodini, Mahendra suddenly grew fierce—he
clenched his fists in rage and said, ‘I shall take a dagger, rip your heart out
and remove him from it.
Binodini spoke with unruffled detachment, ‘Your dagger will enter my
heart more easily than your love.’
Mahendra said in baffled wonder, ‘Why are you not afraid of me—who is
there to protect you here?’
Binodini said simply, ‘You are there—you will protect me even from
yourself.’
Mahendra said, ‘So there is still this much respect and trust left?’
Binodini said, ‘Otherwise, I’d rather have killed myself than set off with
you.’
Mahendra said, ‘You should have. Why have you hung that slender noose
of modest faith around my neck and dragged me around the country? Just
think how much good will come of your death!’
 Binodini said, ‘I know that; but I cannot die as long as my hopes of
Behari live.’
Mahendra said, ‘As long as you don’t die, my aspirations won t die either
—I shall not be free. From this day on I shall pray to God with all my heart
that you should die. Don’ t belong to me; don’t belong to Behari. Just go.
Set me free. My mother weeps, my wife weeps—their tears lacerate me
from afar. Unless you die and go beyond my aspirations, I shall not get the
chance to wipe away their tears.’
Mahendra rushed out of the room. He ripped away the lacy webs of
illusion that Binodini had been weaving in solitude. Binodini stood in
silence and gazed out of the window—the skyful of moonlight had
disappeared, taking with it the magical nectar. The manicured lawn, the
river bed beyond, the inky depths of the water and the obscurity of the other
bank—all seemed like a pencil sketch on a large white sheet of paper—
quite dreary and hollow.
Today, when she realized afresh just how intensely she’d fascinated
Mahendra, how she’d uprooted him like a terrible storm and felled him to
the ground, Binodini grew more agitated. She had all these powers. Why
then did Behari not come and crash at her feet like the swollen waves on a
full-moon night? Why did the powerful memory of a redundant love come
sobbing into her meditation every day? An unfamiliar lament continually
intruded and stopped her own inner dirge from being fulfilled. What would
she do for the rest of her life with this massive upheaval that she had
caused? How would she calm it and lay it to rest?
As she realized that the flowers decking her had attracted Mahendra’s
appreciative gaze, she tore away at them. All her powers, her efforts, her
life were in vain—this garden, the moonlight, the river banks, this
picturesque world were all in vain.
Such futility—and yet everything stood exactly where it had earlier.
Nothing mattered in the least in this world. The sun wouldn’t fail to rise
tomorrow and life wouldn’t forget the tiniest of details. And Behari—
impassive and detached—would stay distant as before and teach Vasant a
new lesson from his textbook.
 Tears welled up in Binodini’s eyes. What was this unyielding stone that
she was trying to move with all her strength? Her heart knew bloodshed
every day, but her fate didn’t move an inch from its place!
 52

MAHENDRA DIDN’T SLEEP ALL NIGHT—BUT TOWARDS DAWN

SLEEP overcame his tired body. He woke up at around nine and sat up
hastily. The anguish from last night had threaded its way into his sleep. The
moment he was awake Mahendra felt the pain afresh. Within a few
moments the events of the night before came flooding back to him. In the
scorching late-morning heat, the fatigue of a fitful night set in and his life
appeared quite distasteful to his eyes. Why was he bearing this burden,
leaving his family, feeling the guilt of going astray and enduring the
discomforts of a nomadic life? In the stark morning light Mahendra
suddenly felt he was not in love with Binodini. He glanced at the street and
saw the whole world rushing about, people getting on with their work. The
stupidity inherent in forfeiting all self-esteem and dedicating his whole,
redundant life to the feet of an unwilling woman was suddenly apparent to
him. On the heels of a tremendous passion comes terrible fatigue—the
weary heart wants to keep away the object of its desire for some time. In
these times of waning, when the tide is at an ebb, the sludge and grime of
the river bed is clearly visible—the object of desire then provokes
revulsion. Today, Mahendra could not understand why he had been
dragging himself pointlessly through the mud all these days. He said, ‘I am
superior to Binodini in every way and yet I endure all kinds of insults and
injury and follow her around like a hideous beggar—what kind of a devil
put such strange ideas in my head!’ Today, Binodini seemed like any other
woman and nothing more. When the wonderful glow that had emanated
from the world around her and from the poetry and tales involving her
vanished suddenly like a mirage, all that was left was an ordinary woman,
with nothing to set her apart from the rest.
 Mahendra grew impatient, wishing to extricate himself from this
insufferable web of illusion and head home at once. The peace, love and
affection he had once experienced at home, now seemed like the most
sought after elixir to him. He realized that Behari’s loyal friendship of many
years was the most precious thing in the world. Mahendra said to himself,
‘Since it is easy to drown yourself effortlessly into that which is truly
profound and eternal, we take it for granted and do not realize its true
worth. And since the restless illusion, which brings no pleasure even if you
drain it to the dregs, leads us by the nose and makes us dance a merry dance
to its tune, we take it to be the most desirable thing.
He decided, ‘I’ll go home today—let Binodini stay wherever she wants
to stay. I’ll make the arrangements and then I’ll be free.’ As he uttered the
words, ‘I’ll be free’, a tremor of delight shook Mahendra’s being; he felt the
burden of incessant quandary that he had carried around all these days
suddenly lifting. For so long, he had been forced to do in one instant what
had seemed odious to him a moment ago—he didn’t have the power to
assert himself; every command that came from his conscience was
strangled as he took the other road instead. Today, when he asserted ‘I’ll be
free’, his vacillating heart found shelter at least and applauded him.
Mahendra left the bed instantly, washed his face and went to meet
Binodini. He found her door closed. He banged on it and asked, ‘Are you
asleep?’
Binodini said, ‘No. Go away now.’
Mahendra said, ‘I need to speak to you—it won’t take long.’
Binodini said, ‘I don’t wish to speak to you or hear anything any more—
go away, don’t bother me now; I wish to be alone.’
At any other time, this rejection would have made Mahendra’s heart
grow more impassioned. But today he only felt disgust. He thought, ‘I have
sunk myself so low in this ordinary woman’s esteem that she has acquired
the right to dismiss me at any time, in any manner! This is not her rightful
privilege. It is I who gave it to her and made her think too much of herself.’
This rebuff made Mahendra resolute to establish his own superiority to
himself. He said, ‘I shall win—I’ll break her hold over me and I’ll go
away.’
After lunch Mahendra went to the bank to pick up money. Thereafter he
roamed the shops of Allahabad in search of some nice things to buy for
Asha and his mother.
Once again, there were knocks on Binodini’s door. At first she was
irritated and didn’t respond. But when the knocking went on, she lost her
temper and hurled the door open as she shouted, ‘Why must you disturb me
again and again?’ But her last words hung unspoken in the air. She had seen
Behari standing outside.
Behari glanced inside just to check if Mahendra was there. The room was
strewn with withered flowers and torn garlands. His heart turned sour in one
instant. Away from Binodini, Behari had often been beset by doubts about
her, but his imagination was powerful enough to shroud his doubts of
immorality and paint a pretty picture over it all. Yet, as he entered the
farmhouse, he had shuddered and cringed lest the image in his heart be
shattered. Standing at Binodini’s door, he received the very jolt he’d
dreaded.
From afar, Behari had once imagined that with the power of his love he’d
be able to wash away all the grime from Binodini’s life. But now, close at
hand, he realized it wouldn’t be easy—his heart was scarcely filled with
compassion! The sudden waves of revulsion that rose within him took him
by surprise. He found Binodini looking quite listless.
Behari turned away and called, ‘Mahin da, Mahin da.’
Binodini spoke in soft and gentle tones, ‘Mahendra is not here, he has
gone to the city.’
When Behari made as if to leave, Binodini said, ‘Behari-thakurpo, I beg
of you, you must sit here awhile.’
Behari had decided he wouldn’t give in to any plea and he would remove
himself from this hideous scene instantly. But the pathetic pleading in
Binodini’s tone held him rooted to the spot for a second.
Binodini said, ‘If you turn away and leave today, I swear on you that I
shall give up my life.’
 Behari turned around and asked, ‘Why do you try to entangle me in your
life? What have I ever done to you? I have never stood in your way or
meddled in your joys and sorrows.’
Binodini said, ‘I have once told you just how much you mean to me—
you did not believe me. Today, faced with your disgust, I shall say the same
thing again. You have not given me the time to communicate this
wordlessly, or coyly. You have pushed me away and yet, I hold your feet as
I say that I—’
Behari interrupted her, ‘Don’ t say those words ever again. There’s no
way I can believe them now.’
Binodini said, ‘Other people may hold their presumptions true, but you
too? That’s why I have asked you to sit awhile.’
Behari said, ‘How does it matter if I believe it or not? Your life will go on
as before.’
Binodini said, ‘I know it will not make a difference to you. I am so
unfortunate that I shall never be able to take my place beside you with
honour and esteem. I will have to stay away from you. But my soul wishes
to lay just one claim on you—wherever I am, you must think well of me. I
know that once you had felt a little respect for me—I shall hold that dear to
my heart. That’s why you have to hear me out. I beg of you Thakurpo, sit
awhile.’
‘All right, let’s go,’ Behari made as if to go someplace else.
Binodini said, ‘Thakurpo, it is not what it seems. This room hasn’t been
touched by dishonour. You had once slept in this room—I have dedicated it
to your memory; those flowers were used to worship your thoughts and
they lie there now, withered and lifeless. You must sit in this very room.’
Behari felt a secret thrill course through him. He stepped into the room.
Binodini silently indicated the bed to him. Behari sat on the bed—Binodini
sat on the floor at his feet. At this, he tried to rise in haste and she said,
‘Thakurpo, sit down. For my sake, do not get up. I am not even fit to sit at
your feet—you are kind enough to give me that space; even if I am far away
from you, I shall retain that privilege.’
 Binodini was silent for some time. Suddenly, she remembered something
and looked up. Thakurpo, have you eaten?’
Behari said, ‘I ate at the station.’
Binodini said, ‘Why did you send back the letter that I’d written to you
from the village, through Mahendra?’
Behari said, ‘But I did not receive any letter.’
Binodini asked, ‘Didn’t you and Mahendra meet in Kolkata?’
Behari said, ‘I met Mahendra the day after I dropped you off at your
village. Soon after that I left for the west and I have never met him since
then.’
Binodini enquired again, ‘Before that, did you read a letter from me and
send it back without an answer once?’
Behari said, ‘No, I’ve never done that.’
Binodini sat there, speechless. Then she heaved a sigh and said, ‘Now I
know what happened. And now I must tell you everything. If you believe
me, I shall consider myself fortunate; if you don’t I won’t blame you—it is
difficult to believe me.’
Behari’s heart had melted. He couldn’t bring himself to affront the
devotion of the pious, devout Binodini. He said, ‘Bouthan, you do not have
to say anything—I believe you entirely. I am not capable of hating you.
Please do not say another word.’
Binodini’s tears flowed unchecked as she touched his feet in gratitude.
She said, ‘I shall die if I don’t confess everything to you. You must be
patient and hear me out. I surrendered myself to the sentence you meted out
to me. In spite of not getting a single letter from you, I would have spent the
rest of my life enduring the jibes and taunts of the villagers; I would have
gladly settled for your reprimand instead of your love. But fate denied me
that too. The sins that I gave birth to, didn’t let me remain in exile.
Mahendra came to the village, to my door and dishonoured me before
everyone. I could no longer stay in the village. I hunted high and low for
you, in order to seek your judgement a second time. But I couldn’t find you.
Mahendra brought back my letter to you, opened, and betrayed my trust. I
thought you had given up on me forever. After this, I could have sunk to my
doom—but you have untold powers, you can protect one even from afar. I
could remain chaste only because I have placed you in my heart. The day
you sent me away you revealed your true self, the harsh self, as harsh as
pure gold, as harsh as the uncut diamond—it stayed lodged in my heart and
made me precious too; my lord, I swear at your feet that its purity has not
been defiled.’
Behari sat there in silence. Binodini did not say another word. The
afternoon sun had begun to lose its glare. At this point Mahendra returned
—and stood stunned seeing Behari. The indifference to Binodini that had
taken over his mind was nearly driven out by a sudden force of burning
envy. When the slighted Mahendra found Binodini sitting at Behari’s feet,
his pride was wounded. He was left in no doubt that this meeting was a
consequence of prolonged correspondence between Binodini and Behari.
All these days Behari had been away; now if he came to her, who could
stop Binodini from rushing to him? Today, on seeing Behari, Mahendra
realized that he could let go of Binodini, but he couldn’t give her up to
another man.
In thwarted anger, Mahendra hurled harsh sarcasm at Binodini, ‘So now
it is exit Mahendra and enter Behari on stage, is it? Quite a pretty scene—
one feels like clapping. But I do hope this is the last act. Nothing else can
follow this one.’
Binodini’s face turned red. Since she had been forced to take Mahendra’s
help, she had no answer for this slur—she merely cast a fervent glance at
Behari.
Behari got up, took a step forward and said, ‘Mahin da, you will not
insult Binodini like a coward; if your civility doesn’t forbid you from doing
so, I have the right to forbid you.’
Mahendra laughed. ‘Oh, so we have already worked out rights and all,
eh? Let us give you a name from this day—Binod-Behari!’
When Behari realized that the invectives were crossing their limits, he
gripped Mahendra’s hands and said, ‘Mahin da, let me inform you that I
intend to marry Binodini; from now on do control your language.’
 At these words Mahendra went speechless with surprise and Binodini
looked up, startled. The blood rushed to her ears.
Behari said, ‘I have something else to tell you—your mother is on her
deathbed; there’s no hope for her. I am leaving tonight. Binodini will come
with me.’
Binodini was stunned. ‘Aunty is ill?’
Behari said, ‘Fatally. Anything can happen at any time.’
Mahendra left the room without saying another word.
Binodini said to Behari, ‘How could the words that you just spoke come
from your lips! Is it a joke?’
Behari said, ‘No, I spoke the truth. I would like to marry you.’
Binodini said, ‘So that you can save this sinner?’
Behari said, ‘No. It’s because I love you and respect you.’
Binodini said, ‘This will be my final reward. That you have accepted me
is all I could ever hope for. Anything more will not last, and the heavens
won’t stand for it.’
Behari asked, ‘But why not?’
Binodini went red. ‘Oh, for shame, even the thought is shameful. I am a
widow, I am tarnished—I shall bring dishonour to your name in the eyes of
society—no, no, this cannot happen. For pity’s sake, never say these words
again.’
Behari said, ‘Then, you will leave me?’
Binodini replied, ‘I do not have the right to leave you. You are involved
in beneficial activities for others—give me some duties in one of your
missions. I shall perform them all my life and consider myself at your
service. But for pity’s sake—you cannot marry a widow. Your generosity
may have room for anything, but if I do this and ruin your name in society, I
shall not be able to hold up my head for the rest of my life.’
Behari said again, ‘But Binodini, I love you.’
Binodini said, ‘I shall use that privilege today to take just one liberty.’
She knelt on the ground and kissed his feet. She sat at his feet and said, ‘I
shall pray that I have you in my next birth—in this lifetime I hope for no
more, I deserve no more. I have inflicted much misery, received much
sorrow, I have learnt a lot. If I had forgotten those lessons, I would have
sunk lower by dragging you with me. But since you remain on your
pedestal, I am able to hold my head high today—I shall not raze this
monument to the ground.’
Behari was silent and grave.
Binodini pleaded with folded hands, ‘Don’ t misunderstand me—you
will not be happy marrying me. I, too, will lose my self-esteem. You have
always been detached and contented with your lot. Stay that way—I shall
serve you from afar. I hope you will be happy and fulfilled.’
 53

MAHENDRA WAS ABOUT TO ENTER HIS MOTHER’S ROOM

WHEN ASHA quickly stepped out and said, ‘Don t go in there now.’
Mahendra asked, ‘But why?’
Asha said, ‘The doctor has said that if Mother gets a sudden shock, of joy
or sorrow, the consequences may be grave.’
Mahendra said, ‘Let me go and stand by her bedside quietly, just this
once—she wouldn’t know a thing.’
Asha said, ‘The slightest sound is enough to startle her these days—she’ll
know as soon as you enter the room.’
Mahendra said, ‘So what do you suggest?’
Asha said, ‘Let Behari-thakurpo come and have a look first—we’ll do as
he says.’
As she spoke, Behari arrived. Asha had sent for him.
Behari said, ‘Bouthan, did you send for me? How is Mother?’
Asha seemed relieved to see Behari. She said, ‘After you left, Mother
seemed to grow more restless. The first day, when she didn’t see you she
asked me, “Where is Behari?” I said, “He has gone on some urgent work.
He’ ll be back by Thursday.” Ever since then she starts at the slightest
sound. She doesn’t say anything but she seems to be waiting for someone.
When I got your telegram yesterday, I knew that you’ll be here today. She
heard that and she’s arranged a special meal for you today. She sent for all
the things that you like to eat; she also arranged for the cooking to be done
in the veranda upfront so that she could supervise it from her bed. She
refused to obey the doctor’s instructions. A little while ago she called me
and said, “Bou-ma, you will cook everything with your own hands. I shall
sit with him during his meal.”’
Behari’s eyes grew moist at these words. He asked, ‘How is she feeling?’
 Asha replied, ‘Come and take a look yourself. I feel her condition has
worsened.’
Behari stepped into the room. Mahendra stood outside in stunned silence.
Asha had taken up the responsibility of the household with ease—how
effortlessly she forbade Mahendra from entering the room! There was no
hesitation, no hurt. Mahendra’s position was so weak today. He was
culpable, he stood outside the door silently—he couldn’t even enter his
mother’s room.
It was also surprising how comfortably Asha spoke to Behari! Her entire
discussion was with him alone. Behari was the sole guardian of this
household today, dear to everyone. He had access everywhere and everyone
took his advice. Mahendra had left the space vacant for a while and on his
return he found it was no longer there for him to lay claims on.
As Behari approached her bedside, Rajlakshmi laid her grief-stricken
eyes on his face and said, ‘Behari, you’re back!’
Behari said, ‘Yes Mother, I am back.’
Rajlakshmi asked, ‘Is your work done?’
She looked at him with eager anticipation. Behari smiled cheerfully and
said, ‘Yes Mother, my mission is accomplished and I have no more
worries.’ He glanced at the door as he spoke.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Today Bou-ma will cook for you and I shall supervise.
The doctors forbid me, but what is the point of all this, my child! Must I
leave without once watching you all eat heartily?’
Behari said, ‘I don’t see why the doctors should object—it won’t do if
you don’t supervise everything. Ever since we were children, we have
learnt to love food cooked only by you—Mahin da is heartily sick of the
daal and roti they serve in the west—he’d be delighted to have some of
your fish curry. Today, we two brothers will compete with each other and
eat like old times—let’s hope your Bou-ma cooks enough rice.’
Although Rajlakshmi knew that Behari had brought Mahendra along, the
very mention of his name made her heart leap and she found it difficult to
draw breath. When the feeling passed, Behari said, ‘Mahin da’s health has
improved from the change of air. Today he’s a little drawn due to the
travails of the journey—nothing that a shower and a proper meal wouldn’t
put right.’
Rajlakshmi still didn’t take her son’s name. So Behari said, ‘Mother,
Mahin da is waiting outside the door. He cannot come in unless you call
him in.’
Rajlakshmi glanced at the door mutely. Immediately, Behari called out,
‘Mahin da, come in.’
Mahendra stepped into the room slowly. Rajlakshmi couldn’t bring
herself to look at his face for fear that her heart would suddenly miss a beat
and stop entirely. She lowered her eyes. Mahendra looked towards the bed
and got the shock of his life—he felt someone had dealt him a mortal
wound. He fell at his mother’s feet and placed his head on them.
Rajlakshmi shuddered as her heart raced with emotion.
A little later Annapurna spoke softly, ‘Didi , please ask Mahin to get up
or he’ll stay there forever.’
Rajlakshmi opened her mouth with difficulty and murmured, ‘Mahin, get
up.’
As she said his name, after an age, the tears welled up and rolled down
her cheeks. They lightened the burden on her heart. Mahendra rose, knelt on
the floor and sat close to his mother. Rajlakshmi turned over with difficulty,
took his head in both her hands, fondly breathed in the scent of his hair and
kissed his forehead.
Mahendra choked with emotion as he said, ‘Mother, I have hurt you no
end—please forgive me.’
Now much calmer, Rajlakshmi said, ‘Don’ t talk that way Mahin—how
can I live without forgiving you? Bou-ma—where’s Bou-ma?’
Asha was cooking Rajlakshmi’s food in the next room. Annapurna went
and fetched her. Rajlakshmi gestured to Mahendra to get off the floor and to
sit upon the bed. When he did so, Rajlakshmi indicated the spot beside him
and said, ‘Bou-ma, you sit here—today I want to make you sit beside each
other and take my fill of the sight—that’ll ease all my misery. Bou-ma—
don’t be shy, and cast away your grudges against Mahin—come and sit
here, just for once. Let me feast my eyes, child.’
 Asha raised her anchal, veiled her head and bashfully, with a trembling
heart and a gentle tread, she came and sat beside Mahendra. Rajlakshmi
picked up Asha’s right hand and pressed it into Mahendra’s hand as she
said, ‘Mahin, I leave this child of mine in your care—mark my words
Mahin, you won’t find a finer woman anywhere. Mejo-bou, come and bless
them; let your virtue prove benevolent for them.’
When Annapurna came forward, the couple was in tears as they bent low
and touched her feet. She kissed their foreheads and said, ‘May God bless
you.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Behari, come my son, come here and say you forgive
Mahin.’
Instantly, Behari came and stood in front of Mahendra, who drew him to
his bosom with a firm pull and held him in a tight embrace.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mahin, I pray to God that Behari stays as close to you
as he has been since your childhood—it would be the greatest boon for
you.’
Rajlakshmi was tired by now and she fell silent. Behari held a
revitalizing drug to her lips, but she pushed it away and said, ‘No more
medicines, my child. Now let me think of God—He would administer the
final cure to release me from all wordly pains. Mahin, you go and rest for a
while. Bou-ma, you get started on the cooking.’
That evening, Behari and Mahendra’s place was laid in front of
Rajlakshmi’s bed as they sat down to eat. Rajlakshmi had given Asha the
responsibility of serving food and she began to serve them.
Mahendra’s heart was surging with tears and he could scarcely eat.
Rajlakshmi coaxed him again and again, ‘Mahin, why aren’t you eating
anything? Eat heartily—let me watch and be happy.’
Behari said, ‘You know him, Mother, he’s always been that way. He can
hardly eat anything. Bouthan, you must give me some more of that curry,
it’s really delicious.’
Rajlakshmi was delighted and she smiled as she said, ‘I know Behari
loves that curry. Bou-ma, that’s not enough, give him some more.’
 Behari said, ‘This daughter-in-law of yours is so tight-fisted—nothing
slips through her fingers.’
Rajlakshmi laughed. Look at that Bou-ma—Behari is critiquing you even
as he eats your food!’
Asha plied Behari with a ladleful of curry.
Behari said, ‘Oh dear me, I suppose I’ll have to make do with the curry
and all the other delicacies will go to Mahin da!’
Asha chastized him in a whisper, ‘The critic’s lips can never be sealed.’
Behari replied softly, ‘Try some rice pudding and see if it works!’
When the two friends had finished their meal, Rajlakshmi sighed with
pleasure and said, ‘Bou-ma, you go and have your meal quickly.’
Asha left to do her bidding and Rajlakshmi said to Mahendra, ‘Mahin,
you go to bed now.’
Mahendra said, ‘Why should I go to bed so early?’
He had decided he’d stay up at his mother’s bedside that night. But
Rajlakshmi wouldn’t hear of it. She said, ‘Mahin, you are tired, go to bed.’
After her meal, Asha picked up a hand-fan and tried to sit by
Rajlakshmi’s bed. But the latter conspiratorially whispered to her, ‘Bou-ma,
just check if Mahin’s bed has been made—he is all alone.’
Asha nearly died of shame and made her escape from the room, leaving
Behari and Annapurna behind. Rajlakshmi asked Behari, ‘Tell me
something Behari—do you know what became of Binodini? Where is she
now?’
Behari replied, ‘Binodini is in Kolkata now.’
In reply to Rajlakshmi’s unuttered question, Behari said, ‘Mother, don’t
be afraid of Binodini causing you any more grief.’
‘She has caused me a lot of grief, Behari, but deep in my heart I care
about her.’
‘And she cares about you, Mother.’
‘I feel the same, Behari. No one is perfect, but she must have cared about
me. No one can fake that kind of tender ministration.’
Behari said, ‘She is eager to nurse you again.’
 Rajlakshmi sighed and said, ‘Mahin and Asha have gone to bed—what’s
the harm in sending for her in the night?’
Behari said, ‘Mother, she is hiding in one of the rooms in this very house.
I haven’t been able to get her to take even a drop of water through the day
—she has vowed that until you send for her and forgive her, she won’t have
anything to eat or drink.’
Rajlakshmi was concerned. ‘Starving the whole day—oh dear, send for
her, quick!’
The moment Binodini stepped into her room hesitantly, Rajlakshmi said,
‘Shame on you, Binodini, what have you done? You have starved yourself
the whole day! Go and eat first and then we’ll talk.’
Binodini touched Rajlakshmi’s feet and said, ‘Aunty, first you must
forgive this sinner and only then will I eat.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I do forgive you, my child—I am no longer angry with
anyone.’
She took Binodini’s hand in hers and said, ‘May you be happy and may
no one be harmed by you.’
Binodini said, ‘Your blessing won’t go in vain, Aunty. I swear at your
feet, no harm will befall this household on my account.’
Binodini bowed low and touched Annapurna’s feet, too, before she left to
have her dinner. When she came back Rajlakshmi looked at her and said,
‘Are you leaving now?’
Binodini said, ‘Aunty, I will attend to you. As God is my witness, you
have nothing to fear from me.’
Rajlakshmi glanced at Behari. He gave it some thought and said, ‘Let
Bouthan stay, it won’t do any harm.’
That night Binodini, Behari and Annapurna nursed Rajlakshmi together.
Meanwhile, Asha woke up very early the next morning, abashed at not
having gone into Rajlakshmi’s room even once through the night. She left
Mahendra still asleep in bed, washed and changed before she came
downstairs. The dark of the night still lingered. When she came and stood at
Rajlakshmi’s door, the sight that greeted her eyes made her wonder if she
was dreaming.
 Binodini was heating some water over a spirit lamp; it was to make some
tea for Behari who hadn’t slept all night long. When she saw Asha,
Binodini stood up and said, ‘Today, with my burden of crimes, I seek refuge
from you. No one else can evict me, but if you say “go”, I will leave this
very minute.’
Asha couldn’t say a word—she couldn’t even fathom what her heart was
saying. She just stood there, overwhelmed.
Binodini said, ‘You’ ll never be able to forgive me—don’t even try it. But
please, do not fear me any more. Please let me stay here and serve Aunty as
long as she is in need of it. Afterwards, I shall leave.’
The day before, when Rajlakshmi had placed Asha’s hand in Mahendra’s,
Asha had wiped away all traces of hurt and rejection and surrendered
herself to Mahendra all over again. But today as Binodini stood before her,
the pangs of her rejected love refused to be calmed. The thought that
swelled in her bosom was that Mahendra had once loved this woman, and
perhaps he still loved her deep in his heart. In a short while Mahendra
would wake up, he’d see Binodini—how would he feel? The night before
Asha had perceived her whole life to be free of thorns henceforth. But this
morning she found the thorny bush planted right at her doorstep. Joy was
the most delicate of objects—there was scarcely a place to keep it safe.
With a heavy heart Asha stepped into Rajlakshmi’s room and with great
mortification she said, ‘Aunty, you have stayed up all night—go to sleep
now.’ Annapurna looked at Asha’s face searchingly. Then, instead of going
to bed, she took Asha to her room and said, ‘Chuni, if you want to be
happy, try and forget what happened. The misery of remembering the
crimes of others is greater than the pleasure in laying the blame at their
door.’
Asha said, ‘Aunty, I do not want to remember—I want to forget—but I
can’t.’
Annapurna said, ‘Child, you are right. It’s easier said than done. Let me
tell you a way of doing it—you must keep the pretense alive that you have
forgotten everything. If you succeed outwardly, it’ll also take root in your
heart. Keep this in mind, Chuni—if you do not forget, you’ll keep it alive in
others’ minds too. If you cannot do it on your own, I command you hereby
—behave with Binodini as if she has never done you any harm and neither
is she capable of it.’
Asha humbly asked, ‘Please tell me what I must do.’
Annapurna said, ‘Binodini is making tea for Behari right now. You take
the cups, saucers, milk and sugar—work together, the two of you.’
Asha rose to obey her command. Annapurna said, ‘This was easy, but I
will tell you something much more difficult, which you must do. There will
be times when Mahendra will run into Binodini and I know what will pass
through your mind—at those times, you must not try to see Mahendra’s or
Binodini’s reaction, even with a covert peep. Even if your heart breaks, you
must stay unruffled. Mahendra must come to think that you do not suspect
him, you do not grieve, you nurse no fears or worries—things are exactly
the same as they were once, before the rift; even the traces of the fissure
have vanished. Mahendra, or anyone else for that matter, should not look at
you and feel weighed down by guilt. Chuni, this is not a request or advice;
this is your aunt’s command. When I go back to Kashi you must not forget
this for even an instant.’
Asha fetched the teacups and saucers and approached Binodini, ‘Is the
water ready? I’ve brought milk for the tea.’
Binodini looked at Asha in amazement and said, ‘Behari-thakurpo is
sitting on the veranda—you have the tea sent to him while I go and arrange
for Aunty to wash her face; she should be waking up any minute.’
Binodini did not take the tea to Behari. She felt embarrassed to claim the
rights that he had granted her by admitting her love for him. In order to
retain the due respect for privileges, one must use them judiciously. Only
the beggar would pull and stretch at his whole booty at once. The true worth
of wealth lay in savouring it prudently. Now Binodini couldn’t bring herself
to go in front of Behari under some pretext, unless he sent for her
specifically.
As she finished speaking, Mahendra arrived on the scene. Although
Asha’s heart missed a beat, she composed herself quickly and addressed
him calmly, ‘Haven’t you woken up early today? I shut the doors and
windows lest the sunlight wakes you.’
When Mahendra found Asha speaking to him so normally in Binodini’s
presence, a burden seemed to lift off his heart. He replied cheerfully, ‘I’ve
come to check on Mother—is she still asleep?’
Asha said, ‘Yes, she’s sleeping—don’t go in there now. Behari-thakurpo
has said she is much better today. After many days, she slept through the
night last night.’
Mahendra was relieved. ‘Where is Aunty?’
Asha showed him to Annapurna’s room.
Binodini, too, was taken aback to see this calm and controlled Asha.
Mahendra called, ‘Aunty!’
Annapurna had finished her bath at the crack of dawn and was about to
sit down to her puja, but she called out, ‘Come, Mahin, come.’
Mahendra touched her feet and said, ‘Aunty, I have sinned and I hate to
stand before you thus.’
Annapurna said, ‘Oh no, don’t talk that way Mahin—the little boy comes
to his mother’s lap even when he’s covered in mud.’
Mahendra said, ‘But this mud cannot be washed off.’
Annapurna said, ‘A few flicks, a good dusting down and it’ll be gone.
Mahin, it’s all for the best—you were very proud of your ideals, you were
too confident in your beliefs—the squall of sins has shattered your
arrogance but left you unharmed.’
Mahendra said, ‘Aunty, this time we won’t let you go—your absence
brought all this upon us.’
Annapurna said, ‘If the mishap was held at bay by my presence alone, it
is better that it has taken its toll. Now you will not need me any more.’
There was another voice at the door, ‘Aunty, are you doing your puja?’
Annapurna said, ‘No , you may come in.’
Behari stepped into the room. When he found Mahendra awake at this
early hour, he said, ‘Mahin da, this is perhaps the first time that you are
seeing the rising sun!’
 Mahendra said, ‘Yes Behari, it’s my first sunrise. Perhaps you need to
discuss something with Aunty—I’ll be off then.’
Behari laughed. ‘You can be included in the cabinet of ministers. I have
never concealed anything from you and if you have no objections, I won’t
start doing so now.’
Mahendra laughed. ‘Objections and me! But of course, I can no longer
demand it. If you do not conceal anything from me, I shall be able to
respect myself again.’
These days it was rather difficult to say everything in Mahendra’s
presence. Behari nearly stumbled, but he went on resolutely, ‘My marriage
to Binodini was a subject broached earlier and I have come to conclude the
discussion with Aunty.’
Mahendra shrank away and Annapurna looked up in surprise. ‘What’s all
this, Behari!’
Mahendra made a great effort and shrugged away his qualms. ‘Behari,
there is no need for this marriage.’
Annapurna asked, ‘Is Binodini with you on this talk of marriage?’
Behari said, ‘Not one bit.’
Annapurna said, ‘Will she agree to this?’
Mahendra spoke up, ‘Why wouldn’t she agree to it, Aunty? I know that
she is devoted to Behari—why would she throw away this chance of a safe
haven?’
Behari said, ‘Mahin da, I proposed marriage to Binodini—she has turned
it down.’
At this Mahendra fell silent.
 54

FOR RAJLAKSHMI, THE NEXT TWO OR THREE DAYS PASSED

SOMEHOW, WITH some good moments and some bad. One morning her
face grew contented and all signs of pain vanished. She sent for Mahendra
and said, ‘I don’t have much time—but I die in peace, Mahin, I have no
regrets. Today my heart wells with the same kind of joy that I once felt,
when you were a child. You are the apple of my eye, my own little boy—I
am taking with me all your troubles and that fills me with joy.’ Rajlakshmi
stroked his face and arms. Mahendra couldn’t check his tears as the sobs
rose to his throat.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Don t weep, Mahin; the queen of grace is still in your
home. Give the household keys to Bou-ma. I have kept everything in order
—you two wouldn’t lack for anything in the house. One other thing, Mahin,
don’t tell anyone before I die—there are two thousand rupees in my box
that I bequeath to Binodini. She is a widow, all alone in this world—the
interest from this money would suffice for her. But Mahin, my request to
you is don’t keep her within the walls of your own home.’
Rajlakshmi sent for Behari and said, ‘Behari my son, Mahin was telling
me that you have bought a property where you want to treat impoverished
gentlemen. May God grant you a long life to do the poor a good turn. At the
time of my marriage my father-in-law had gifted me a village, I bequeath
that to you. Use it to serve the poor; it’ll bring peace to my father-in-law’s
soul.’
 55

WHEN THE LAST RITES FOR RAJLAKSHMI WERE CONCLUDED,

MAHENDRA said, ‘Dear Behari, I have studied medicine—please make
me a part of your mission. With the way Chuni has gained control over the
household chores, she’d be able to lend you a hand too. We shall all live
there.’
Behari said, ‘Mahin da, please think this through—would this work
satisfy you at all times? Don’t take on permanent duties in the throes of a
sudden surge of altruism.’
Mahendra said, ‘Behari, you think about it too—the life that I have made
for myself, can no longer be savoured at leisure. If I do not occupy myself
with a worthwhile cause, my restless soul can haul me into the nadir of
despair one day. You must make room for me in your mission.’
So it was decided.
When it was time for them to say goodbye, Annapurna and Behari sat
immersed in restful sorrow, discussing the days past. Binodini came and
stood at the door. ‘Aunty, may I sit here for a while?’
Annapurna said, ‘Come, come, my child—sit.’
Binodini came in and sat down. Annapurna spoke a few words with her
and then under the pretext of making her bed, she went into the veranda.
Binodini asked Behari, ‘Tell me what I should do now—what is your
command?’
Behari said, ‘Bouthan, why don’t you tell me what you want to do?’
Binodini said, ‘I’ve heard that you have taken a house by the Ganga to
treat poor patients. I’d like to be of some use to you there. If nothing else, I
could cook there.’
Behari said, ‘Bouthan, I have given this a lot of throught. Through
circumstances the webs of our lives are now utterly tangled. The time has
come for us to sit in solitude and undo the knots one by one. First, we must
clear everything. Now I no longer have the courage to indulge in all that the
heart desires. Without laying to rest every upheaval, every tumult that has
resulted from the events till now, from all that we have borne, we cannot
settle down and anticipate the end of our lives. If our pasts had been
different, you are the only one who could have given my life completion—
but now I must part from you. Now, it would be a vain effort to strive for
happiness. Now we can only repair the damages slowly and surely.’
At this point Annapurna stepped into the room and Binodini said,
‘Mother, you must give me shelter at your feet. Please don’t push me away
as a fallen woman.’
Annapurna said, ‘Child, come then, come with me.’
On the day that Annapurna and Binodini were to go to Kashi, Behari
sought out Binodini at some point and said, ‘Bouthan, I want something
from you—a mark—to keep with me always.’
Binodini said, ‘What do I have to give, that you can keep as a mark, by
your side forever?’
Abashed and diffident, Behari said, ‘The English have a custom—they
keep a few locks of the dear one’s hair as a memento—if you—’
Binodini recoiled, ‘Oh no—how shameful! What would you do with my
hair? That tainted, dead item means nothing to me, that I would gift it to
you. Hapless that I am, I could not be of any use to you—I’d like to gift you
something that can help you in my stead. Will you accept it?’
Behari said,‘I will.’
Binodini untied the knot at the end of her anchal, took out two notes of a
thousand rupees each and handed them to Behari.
Behari gazed at her steadily, his eyes alight with intense fervour. A little
later he said, ‘Is there nothing that I can give you?’
Binodini said, ‘I have a mark from you, it graces my body—no one can
take it away from me. I do not need anything more.’ She showed him the
scar on her elbow.
Behari was astounded. Binodini said, ‘You may not be aware but this was
given by you and it is worthy of you. Even you cannot take this back now.’
 Despite her aunt’s counsel, Asha had not been able to free her mind
entirely of vitriol towards Binodini. They had nursed Rajlakshmi together,
but every time Asha’s eyes had fallen on Binodini, her heart had smarted,
the words had dissolved on her tongue and the effort to smile had been
painful. She had resented it if she had to accept even the slightest help from
Binodini. She had accepted the paan made by Binodini out of courtesy, but
later thrown it away in distaste. But today, when it was time to take leave,
when her aunt was departing from the household a second time, Asha’s
heart swelled with tears, and she found herself pitying Binodini too. There
are few hearts hard enough to be incapable of forgiving the one who is
taking leave forever. Asha was sure Binodini loved Mahendra—and why
wouldn’t she? Asha knew from her own heart just how inevitable it was to
feel love for Mahendra. It was the anguish of this love that made her feel
compassion for Binodini now. Asha could not wish upon her worst enemy
the agony that Binodini was bound to feel as she left Mahendra forever; the
very thought brought tears to Asha’s eyes. In the past, she had loved
Binodini and that love touched her heart again. Slowly she walked up to
Binodini and with great compassion, affection and sadness, she said, ‘Didi,
so you are leaving?’
Binodini held up Asha’s chin and said, ‘Yes, my sister, it’s time for me to
leave. Once, in the past, you had loved me—now, in times of joy, set aside a
bit of that love for me, my friend—and forget everything else.’
Mahendra came and touched Binodini’s feet as he said, ‘Bouthan, forgive
me.’ Two teardrops brimmed over the corners of his eyes and rolled down
his cheeks.
Binodini said, ‘You forgive me too, Thakurpo. May God grant you two
eternal happiness.’
 GHARE BAIRE

 
(Home and the World)
 Bimala

OH MOTHER, TODAY I REMEMBER THE SINDOOR ON YOUR

FOREHEAD, THE red-bordered sari you used to wear, and your eyes—
calm, serene and deep. They touched my heart like the first rays of the sun.
My life started out with that golden gift. What happened after that? Did the
dark clouds come charging like brigands? Did they destroy the gift of light?
And yet, that touch of the chaste dawn at the most important moment of
one’s life may perhaps be clouded by disaster, but it can never be erased
completely.
In our land, only the fair-skinned are considered beautiful. But the sky
that radiates light is dark. My mother was dark-skinned; her glow came
from her inner goodness. Her virtue could put the vanity of beauty to
shame. They all said I looked like my mother. As a child, this was my
quibble with the mirror. I felt my entire being had been wronged—the
colour of my skin was not my own, it was someone else’s, a mistake from
start to finish.
I was not beautiful. But I prayed to God with all my heart that, like my
mother, I would be blessed with the gift of chastity. At the time of my
marriage, the astrologer from my in-laws’ came to read my palm and said,
‘This girl has all the signs of good fortune and she will make a virtuous
wife.’ All the women said, ‘Well, naturally. After all, isn’t Bimala the
spitting image of her mother?’
I married into an aristocratic family. Their title could be traced back to
the days of the Mughals. I had heard fairy tales as a child and created the
image of a prince in my mind. An aristocratic prince: his body would be
like chameli petals; his face would be shaped as a result of the long and
fervent prayers that a young maiden offered to Lord Shiva. Those eyes, that
nose! His slim, newly-emerged moustache would be as dark and delicate as
the wings of a bumble bee.
When I saw my husband, he didn’t exactly match this description. Even
his skin, I noticed, was just as dark as mine. It did take away some of my
regret about my own lack of beauty, but a sigh escaped my lips as well. I
could have lived with remorse for my own looks, if only I could have one
glimpse of the prince of my dreams!
But perhaps it is best when beauty slips past the sentry of the eyes and
secretly shows up in the heart. There, on the banks that are lapped with the
swelling waves of reverence, beauty can come unadorned. In my childhood,
I have seen how the glow of bhakti turns everything beautiful. Even as a
child I felt the caress in my mother’s gracious, nurturing hands and the love
from my mother’s heart that poured out and plunged into a sublime ocean
of beauty when she carefully peeled the fruits for my father and arranged
his meal on a white marble plate, when she kept aside the paan for him,
wrapped in fine cloth sprinkled with keora water, and as she gently fanned
him and kept the flies off his plate when he sat down to eat.
Didn’t the same strain of reverence run in me? It did. No debate, no
deliberations over good or bad—it was just an inexorable strain! An entire
lifetime spent playing it like a hymn in praise of the Lord Almighty in a
corner of His temple—if that made sense, then that strain of melody heard
in the early hours of my life had begun its work.
I remember, when I woke up at dawn and, very cautiously, touched my
husband’s feet, the sindoor on my forehead seemed to shine brighter than
ever. One day he woke up, laughed and asked, ‘What’s this, Bimal, what are
you doing!’ I was so embarrassed. Perhaps he felt that I sought his blessings
furtively. But no, oh no, it wasn’t for the blessings—it was the woman’s
heart, where love itself seeks to worship.
The family I married into was very orthodox. Here, some rules were as
old as the Mughals and some were even older, set by Manu and Parashar.
But my husband was very modern in his outlook. He was the first in his
family to be highly educated; he had earned an MA. Both his elder brothers
died young from intemperance, they had no children. My husband did not
drink and he was solemn by nature; this was unusual in this family and not
everyone appreciated it. They thought such purity only suited those who
were not blessed by the goddess of wealth. Only the expanses of the moon
could contain blemishes with ease.
My husband’s parents had died a while ago. The household was run by
his grandmother. My husband was the jewel in her crown, the apple of her
eye. This was the reason he dared to transgress the bounds of conformity.
So, when he appointed Miss Gilby as my companion and tutor, tongues
started wagging at home and outside, and yet, my husband’s will won in the
end.
At that time he had completed his BA and was studying for his MA. He
had to stay in Calcutta for his classes in college. He wrote me a letter nearly
every day. They were short and simple. That rounded, distinct writing from
his hand stared back at me serenely.
I stored his letters in a sandalwood box. Every morning I picked some
flowers from the garden and covered the box with them. By then my prince
of the fairy tales had vanished like the moon on a sunny morning. The true
prince of my heart had gained his rightful place. I was his princess and my
place was beside him; but it was a greater joy to take my place at his feet.
I am educated. I am acquainted with this day and age in today’s language.
The words I speak now sound inordinately poetic even to my own ears. If I
had never known today’s world, I would have found my thoughts and
feelings of those bygone days quite commonplace—I’d have thought, just
as my being a woman was a fact, it’s equally natural that a woman would
turn her love into devotion. I wouldn’t waste a moment’s thought on
whether there was any extraordinary kind of poetic beauty in this sentiment
or not.
But from those days of my childhood to this day of my youth, I seem to
have traversed an entire age. Thoughts, once as natural as breath, have to be
constructed as poetic craft. The impassioned poets of today sing loud
praises about the incredible beauty in a wife’s chastity and a widow’s
celibacy. It is evident that truth and beauty have parted ways at this juncture
of life. So then, can Truth be salvaged only under the guise of beauty?
 All women don’t think the same way. But this I know for certain—I have
that element of my mother in me, the urge to revere. Today, when it is no
longer considered natural by society, it is clear to me that it is an innate
quality in me.
But woe for my Fate, my husband didn’t wish to give me an opportunity
to revere him.That was his generosity of spirit: at the holy place, the greedy
priest grapples to get worshipped because he doesn’t deserve it rightfully. In
this world, only the weak demand reverence from their wives as their due. It
shames both the worshipper and the worshipped.
But why this abundance of luxury for my benefit? It was as if his
affection overflowed and flooded my banks, with maids and material things
and creature comforts. How was I to push through all this and find a gap to
offer myself up to him? I needed ways to offer more than to take. Love is,
after all, reclusive by nature. It will blossom profusely and carelessly on the
dust by the roadside. But it can’t bloom in all its glory, trapped in a ceramic
pot in a sitting room.

My husband couldn’t violate all the orthodox rules and customary

regulations of the inner chambers of the house. It wasn’t possible for me to
meet him freely in the mornings or at any odd hour of the day. I knew
exactly when he would come in; so we would never meet casually, for no
rhyme or reason. Our meeting was like a poem: it came with its own meter
and its own rhythm. After the day’s work, I freshened up, tied my hair
carefully, dotted my forehead with sindoor, wore a freshly creased sari,
collected my scattered mind and body from all its domestic concerns and
offered myself on a golden tray at a special time to a special person. The
time was little, but in itself it was boundless.
My husband always claimed that men and women have equal rights over
one another and hence their love is also on an equal footing. I have never
argued with him on this. But my heart says that devotion doesn’t stop
people from being equals. It tries to equalize people by elevating them.
Hence, the pleasure of becoming equal is ever-present in it and it never
turns into a thing of indifference. On the tray of love, devotion is like the
light of the lamp in the ritual of worship—it falls the same way upon the
worshipper and the worshipped. Today I know for sure that a woman’s love
is sanctified only through her own veneration—or else it’s worth nothing.
When the lamp of our love glows, the flame rises upwards and only the
burnt-up oil remains at the bottom.
Dearest, it is your greatness that you refused my invocation, but it would
have been best if you’d accepted it. You have loved me by adorning me, by
educating me, by granting me what my heart desired and even what it did
not desire, your love did not take time out to blink and I have seen the
stolen sighs you have spent over your love for me. You have loved my body
as if it was a parijata flower from the heavens, my soul you have loved as if
it was your good fortune. This makes me proud; I feel that it is the wealth of
my attributes that have thus drawn you to me. It makes me feel like the
rightful occupant of the queen’s throne—I sit here and demand homage.
The demands increase constantly and can never be met. ‘I have the power
to conquer a man’—does this thought alone bring joy to a woman or for
that matter, is it even good for her? Her salvation lies in the act of setting
adrift such thoughts on the currents of reverence. Shiva came to Annapurna
in a beggar’s guise; but if she hadn’t done penance for him, would she have
succeeded in thus enduring his empyrean powers?
I can remember how many people used to burn in the slow fire of envy at
my good fortune. It was something that warranted envy all right—I came by
it as a bonus, without deserving it. But luck doesn’t last long. One has to
pay the price or Fate does not put up with it. The price of good fortune has
to be paid over years, every day and only then can ownership claims be
staked. God is quite capable of granting it to us, but we have to receive it on
our own merit. Sometimes we are not blessed enough to live with what has
been bestowed upon us.
Many a girl’s father sighed at my good fortune. It was the talk of many
households all over town: how I didn’t deserve to be married into this
family, since I have no great beauty or qualities to boast of. My
grandmother-in-law and mother-in-law were known for their extraordinary
beauty. My sisters-in-law were also confirmed beauties. Gradually, when
misfortune befell both of them, my grandmother-in-law vowed that she
wouldn’t look for a beautiful girl for her youngest and favourite grandson. I
was able to enter this house solely on the merits of the ‘good omens’ in my
charts.
In this house, amidst such profusion of wealth, very few wives had
received the true status and respect that was due to them. But apparently
that was the rule; hence, even when all the tears of their life sank beneath
the froth of liquor and the tinkle of the courtesans’ anklets, they still clung
to the pride of being a daughter-in-law of this aristocratic household and
managed to keep their heads afloat. Yet, my husband never touched liquor
and did not go around depleting his humane qualities seeking female flesh
at the doorsteps of the houses of sin; was this, in any way, to my credit? Did
Fate gift me with any special charms to control the restless, wild spirits of a
man? No, it was pure good fortune and nothing else. In the case of my
sisters-in-law, was Fate suddenly so ruthless that every word in store for
them turned into warped expressions? Long before nightfall, all the lamps
of their joyous lives were extinguished and the flames of their youth
continued to burn in vain, through the night in empty ballrooms. No music
—just pain.
Both my sisters-in-law pretended that they didn’t think much of my
husband’s masculinity. To think that he steered this great vessel of life
solely with the help of the lone sail of his wife’s anchal! I have had to bear
so many jibes from them, off and on, as if I had stolen my husband’s
affections, as if I was full of artifice and pretence—the insolent, modern,
fashionable woman. My husband dressed me up in contemporary fashions
and they would burn in envy when they saw those colourful jackets, saris,
blouses, petticoats and all the other accessories. ‘Such elaborate adorning
when there isn’t even any beauty to speak of! It is shameful how you have
gone and decked your body up like it’s a novelty shop!’
My husband was well aware of all this. But his heart brimmed over with
sympathy for women. He would always advise me, ‘Don’ t be upset.’ I
remember, once I had said to him, ‘Women’s minds are very crooked, very
narrow.’ He had replied, ‘Just like the feet of Chinese women which are
crooked and narrow. The entire society has squashed our women’s minds
from all sides and made them narrow and crooked. Fate gambles with their
lives—their lives depend on the turn of the dice; do they have any powers
of their own?’
My sisters-in-law always got whatever they demanded from their
brother-in-law. He never stopped to think whether their demands were
valid. I fumed silently when I noticed that they didn’t feel a shred of
gratitude. So much so, that my eldest sister-in-law—who spouted piety so
freely with her holier-than-thou chants, pujas, vows and fasts, that there
wasn’t even an ounce left for her soul—would often quote her brother, a
lawyer, that if she were to take her case to the court then my husband . . .
oh, it was a lot of rubbish that she’d say! I promised my husband that under
no circumstances would I ever retort to anything that either of them said.
Hence my misery lay heavier on my shoulders. I felt there was a limit to
forbearance and if that limit was crossed it almost made one less of a man.
But he said, ‘The law or society has not supported my sisters-in-law; it was
a great humiliation for them to have to beg and ask for what they once knew
to be rightfully theirs, by virtue of their husbands’ legacy. To add to that one
shouldn’t ask for gratitude—how can one get kicked around and also have
to shell out a tip for it?’ Shall I be honest with you? I often felt that my
husband ought to have been more audacious, enough for him to be a little
less compassionate.
My second sister-in-law was of a different kind. She was younger and
didn’t have any saintly pretences. On the contrary, her comments and
gestures often carried lewd suggestions. The comings and goings of the
young maids she’d hired were questionable to say the least. Nobody,
however, raised eyebrows as these things were supposedly customary in
this house. I knew that my sister-in-law hated the fact that I was fortunate
enough to have a husband who didn’t have a vice. Hence, she would find
several ways to waylay her brother-in-law. I am ashamed to admit that, even
with a husband such as mine, I sometimes felt the slightest twinge of fear.
The very air in this place was murky and even the clearest objects appeared
distorted. On some days, my second sister-in-law would cook and invite her
brother-in-law affectionately. I often wished desperately that he would
make some excuse and refuse the invitation. She was wrong to try to trap
him, and why should this wrong go unpunished? But instead, when he
smiled and accepted the invitation each and every time, a niggling doubt
troubled me—it was entirely my fault, but feelings wouldn’t heed reason—I
felt this indicated the inherent flightiness in men. At these times, however
busy I was otherwise, I would find an excuse to go and sit in my sister-in-
law’s room. She would laugh and exclaim to my husband, ‘My goodness,
Chhotorani won’t let you out of her sight at all—she’s the strictest of
guards. I must say, even in our heyday, we had never learnt how to guard so
carefully.’
My husband could only see their misery and never the flaws. Once I said,
‘Fine, let’s assume that the fault lies entirely with society; but why do they
deserve so much pity? It’s all right for people to deal with a little misfortune
sometimes.’ But he was impossible. Instead of arguing, he just smiled a
little. Perhaps he knew about the occasional pangs of doubt I suffered. The
main object of my anger was neither society nor anyone else, it was just that
—oh well, I won’t go into that.
One day he sat me down and explained, ‘All these criticisms that they
direct at you—if they really thought that you were so blameworthy, would it
upset them so much?’
‘Then why this unfair resentment?’
‘I don’t know if you can call it unfair. There is a grain of truth embedded
in envy; it is this: whatever brings happiness should ideally be received by
every individual.’
‘Then one should quarrel with one’s Fate, not take it out on me.’
‘But Fate isn’t close at hand.’
‘So then they can just go ahead and take whatever they want—you would
never deprive them. Let them wear sari-jacket-jewellery-socks and shoes; if
they want a memsahib to tutor them, she comes here already, and even if
they want to remarry, you have the resources to be able to cross every
barrier just like Vidyasagar did.’
 ‘That is precisely the problem—it isn’t always possible to hand them
whatever their heart desires.’
‘Is that any reason to go on playing such coy games, as if whatever one
hasn’t got is actually a bad thing so that when someone else gets it, one
burns up in envy?’
‘When someone is deprived, this is the only way they know to conquer
their deprivation—it is their only consolation.’
‘I don’t care what you say—women are very coy. They never admit the
truth and resort to many pretences.’
‘That only proves how very deprived they are.’
When he brushed aside every little spiteful barb from the women of this
household, I used to get very angry. There was no point discussing what
society could have or may have been; but it was impossible to feel sorry for
these thorns strewn on the way, the cruel jibes and the artifice.
When he heard this, he said, ‘So you have enough sympathy for yourself
when your own feelings are bruised, and you have none to spare for those
whose lives have been ripped to shreds by the cruel arrows of society?
Should the loser be made to pay a fine for losing?’
Oh well! I was narrow-minded. Except me, everyone of course was good.
A little miffed, I said, ‘You don’t even know half of it, since you don’t stay
indoors—’ I tried to divulge some specific information about the other part
of the house, but he abruptly got up saying, ‘Chandranathbabu has been
waiting for me for a while now.’
I sat and wept. How could I bear to look so wretched in my husband’s
eyes? There was no way I could prove to him that if I had been faced with
misfortune, I would never have behaved in this manner.
Sometimes I feel that if God grants women a chance to be vain about
beauty, they are spared from vanity of other kinds. One could be vain about
jewels and baubles, of course; but in a rich household that would be
meaningless. I placed my conceit in my chastity. I knew that even my
husband would have to bow before it. But every time I spoke to him about
some domestic matters, I ended up looking so petty that it tore me up
inside. Hence, I wanted to make him look small in turn. I said to myself,
‘I’ll not let your words make you look good; it is mere naivety. It’s not
altruism, you are being taken advantage of by others.’

My husband had a great wish that I’d step outside the inner chambers. One
day I said to him, ‘I don’t need the world outside.’
He said, ‘The world outside may be in need of you.’
‘If it has survived for so long without me, it can continue to do so; it
won’t the of sorrow.’
‘Let it die, I am not bothered. My concerns are for myself.’
‘Really? And what are you worried about?’
My husband smiled and didn’t reply. I knew his ways and so I said, ‘No ,
you can’t fool me by keeping quiet. You must finish your sentence.’
He said, ‘Can one sentence be enough to finish the thought? There are so
many thoughts that take a lifetime to finish.’
‘Please stop your word-games and tell me.’
‘I would like you to be mine in the world out there. We need to settle our
accounts in that space.’
‘Why, what’s wrong with our perceptions here, in this room?’
‘Over here, your eyes, ears and mouth have been wrapped in me; you
don’t know who you want and who you’ve got.’
‘I know very well, dearest, I really do.’
‘You think you know, but you don’t even know if you really do.’
’I just hate it when you talk like this.’
‘Which is why I didn’t want to bring it up.’
‘Your silence is even more unbearable.’
‘That is why I wish that I won’t have to speak or keep quiet; you should
just come out there and comprehend everything by yourself. Neither you
nor I were made to play the game of life within this domestic chicanery.
Our love will be true only if we really know each other in the midst of
truth.’
‘Maybe you are yet to know me wholly, but my understanding of you is
complete.’
 ‘Fair enough. Then why don’t you do it just to complete my
understanding?’
We had many different versions of this conversation. He’d say, the
glutton who loves the fish curry would cut up the fish, stew it and cook it to
his taste, but the man who truly appreciated the fish wouldn’t really want to
capture it in a bowl—he’d rather try to master it in the water itself, or he’d
wait on land. When he returned home, he’d be happy that although he
didn’t get what he wanted, at least he didn’t cut it up and destroy it for his
own pleasure. It’s best to get all of something and if that is not possible,
then it’s best to lose it in its entirety.
I never really liked these discussions, but that wasn’t the reason why I
stayed indoors at the time. My grandmother-in-law was alive then. My
husband had gone against her wishes and recast nearly four-fifths of the
household by twentieth-century standards, and she had accepted it. If a
daughter-in-law of this aristocratic household renounced her purdah and
chose to come out, she’d have accepted that too. She knew for a fact that
this was bound to happen one day. But I felt, it wasn’t so important that she
should have to undergo the pain of it. I have read in books that we are all
birds in a cage; I could not speak for others, but my cage was so full that I
wouldn’t find such fullness out there amidst the world. At least that is how I
felt at the time.
The primary reason my grandmother-in-law loved me so much was
because she thought that I had been able to hold my husband’s love solely
by the powers of my own qualities or the strengths of my astrological stars.
She felt it was the inherent nature of a man to sink into decadence. None of
her other granddaughters-in-law, with all their beauty and youth, had been
able to lure her grandsons; they were destroyed by the flames of sin and no
one could save them. She firmly believed that I was the one who had finally
doused those flames singeing the men in this family. So she was very
protective of me; my slightest ailment made her tremble with fear. She
didn’t really like the clothes which my husband bought from foreign stores
and dressed me in. But she felt that men were bound to have some such
idiosyncrasies that were quite silly and a mere waste. There was no way of
restraining them, but it was important to see that it didn’t lead them to total
destruction. If my Nikhilesh didn’t deck up his wife, he’d have done the
same to another woman. So, every time a new dress arrived for me, she
called my husband and riled and teased him merrily. Gradually her taste
changed too. Thanks to this unholy age of modernism, a day came when her
evenings would be incomplete unless her granddaughter-in-law read her
stories from English books.
After her death, my husband wanted us to go and settle in Calcutta. But I
just didn’t feel right about it. The family roots were here—our
grandmother-in-law had borne so much misery and yet held onto this home
for so many years and if I just dropped everything and left, her sighs
wouldn’t let me rest. This thought haunted me continually—her empty seat
stared me in the face. That pious woman came into this house at the age of
eight and she died when she was seventy-nine. She didn’t have a happy life.
Fate had repeatedly shot arrows at her, but each misfortune had only made
her stronger. This large household was a memento built on the piety of her
tears. How could I leave this and go into the muck of Calcutta?
My husband felt that this was a chance to hand over the charges of this
house to my sisters-in-law; that would make them happy and our life would
be able to take its own course, in its own space, in Calcutta. But that is what
I didn’t want to accept.Were they to be rewarded for torturing me all these
years and for envying my husband’s good fortune and character? Besides,
the ‘royal’ house was right here. All our subjects, our employees, the
luckless relatives, the guests, were all strewn around, clinging to this
homestead. I did not know who we were in Calcutta where no one knew us.
The complete image of our status, power and wealth lay right here. Should I
just hand over all this to them and go into exile, like Sita? Only to have
them mock me in my absence? Did they know the value of this
magnanimity that my husband wanted to show or did they even deserve it?
Later when I’d have to return here someday, would I get back my rightful
seat? My husband said, ‘Why do you need that seat? Life has other things to
offer.’
 I said to myself, ‘Men really don’t understand these things very well.
They don’t know how significant the positions in the inner-chambers are
since they live and breathe the air outside. Here they should abide by the
advice of women.’
I thought it was most important for one to have some firmness in one’s
character. It would be a defeat if we went away, handing over everything to
those who have only wished us ill. Although my husband was ready to do
that, I wasn’t. In my heart of hearts, I felt I was speaking from the
righteousness of my chastity.
Why didn’t my husband force me to leave? I know why. It was because
he had the power to do so, that he didn’t use it. He has always said to me, ‘I
wouldn’t accept it if you were to always agree with whatever I said and had
to put up with every whim of mine. I’d rather wait—if you and I come to a
consensus, it’ll be great. If not, there’s nothing to be done.’
But there is something called firmness of character and that day I’d felt
that perhaps on that score I was—no, I can’t even utter those words today.
It would be impossible to close the gap between night and day if one
were to start doing it slowly, over a period of time. But when the sun rises,
night disappears—the lengthy reckoning is resolved in a moment. All at
once, the age of swadeshi came upon Bengal; but no one knew how it
arrived suddenly. It was as if the passage of time between the age of
swadeshi and the one before it just didn’t exist. Perhaps that was the reason
why the new age swept away all our fears and worries in the blink of an
eye, like a deluge. There was no time to consider what had happened and
what the future had in store.
When the groom and his party are at the door, with the music playing and
the lights glowing, the women of the village stream up to the terrace,
scarcely caring to cover their face. Just so, when the music played,
signalling the arrival of the groom of the entire country, how could the
women stay busy with their household chores? Ullulating and blowing on
the conch, they peeped out from the door or window nearest to them.
In that moment my sight and mind, hopes and wishes, were coloured by
the tempestuous new age. On that day, although the mind didn’t break free
of the bonds of wishes, desires and pious thoughts within which it had
settled itself happily, the world that it had known till then, it did peer over it
all and it heard the clarion call from far away; the meaning of that call
wasn’t clear, but the heart lurched dangerously.
During his college days, my husband was interested in manufacturing all
that the land needed within the land itself. There were many date trees in
the area and he spent several days trying to figure out how to collect the
extract from all the trees at the same spot with the help of a single pipe and
boil it to produce sugar. I have heard that a very effective way was indeed
discovered, but it required so much more money to be spent than what
could be earned, that the business soon folded up. The kinds of crops he
reaped from the farmlands, through various experiments, were quite
remarkable, but the money that he spent in the process was even more
astonishing. He felt that the reason no large-scale industries can be
sustained in our country was because there were no banks. At that time he
began to teach me political economy. There was no harm in that. But he felt
it was imperative to inculcate the habit and the desire to save money in
banks among our people. So he started a small bank. The urge to save
money in the bank was strong among the villagers because the rate of
interest was very high. But for the precise reason for which the people’s
interest grew, the bank slipped through the high interest chasm and
disappeared. His old clerks grew very upset over these eccentricities and his
enemies made fun of him. One day my elder sister-in-law saw to it that I
was within earshot when she exclaimed that her cousin brother, a renowned
lawyer, had told her that if one pleaded the case before a judge, it may still
be possible to salvage some of the reputation and wealth of this
distinguished family from the hands of a lunatic.
Of all the people in this family, only my grandmother-in-law was
unperturbed by all this. She called me and chided me often, saying, ‘Why
do you all plague him like this? Are you concerned about the fortune? In
my days, I have seen this estate go into the hands of the receiver all of three
times. Men are not like women. They are restless and they only know how
to squander. Granddaughter-in-law, you are lucky that he isn’t frittering
himself away along with it. Since you have never been hurt that way, you
seldom remember that.’
The list of my husband’s charities was endless. If someone tried to install
a loom or a rice-husking machine or something along those lines he helped
him till the project was obviously a failure. He floated a swadeshi company
to compete with the British ships that journeyed to Puri. Not a single ship
sailed from that, but several company documents were drowned in the
process.
I used to be most upset when Sandipbabu extracted money from him,
giving some excuse about the country’s work. Sandipbabu wanted to run a
newspaper, or spread the word about swadeshi, or said that the doctor has
advised him to spend a few days in Ootacamund on health grounds—and
my husband casually shouldered the cost. Besides, he received a certain
amount every month to meet his regular expenses. But the strangest thing
was that my husband didn’t even agree with him on most principles or
ideologies. My husband felt that it was a kind of destitution if one failed to
mine the existing resources in one’s land properly and in the same way, if
we couldn’t discover and realize the essential richness in the heart of our
land, it was the greatest shame of all. One day I was a little irked and said to
him, ‘You are being cheated by all these people.’ He laughed and said, ‘I
have no qualities to speak of and yet, just by throwing away some money, I
am acquiring some greatness—I am the one who’s gaining something
treacherously.’
The moment the air of the new age brushed past me, I told my husband to
burn all the foreign clothes I owned.
He said, ‘Why should you burn it? Instead, stop using them for as long as
you wish.’
‘How can you say “as long as I wish”; never in my entire life—’
‘Fine, don’t wear them ever again. Why should you make a display of
burning them?’
‘Why are you stopping me from doing this?’
‘I feel you should devote all your energy to building something instead of
wasting even a quarter of it in the excitement of destroying something.
 ‘But this excitement helps you build something.’
’So you would claim the only way to light up one’s home is by setting it
on fire? I am ready to go to great lengths to light a lamp, but I don’t want to
set my house on fire just to get the job done quickly. That only looks like
exuberance, but in reality it is a weak compromise.’ He went on, ‘Listen, I
can see that my words seem futile to you today, but I suggest you consider
them. Just as a mother decks each of her daughters with her own jewels, the
day has come when the earth is adorning each of its countries with her own
jewellery. Today all our needs are linked to those of the whole world. I
believe that this connection is a sign of good fortune for every nation and
there is no greatness in rebutting that.’
Then there was another problem. When Miss Gilby first came into the
house, there was a furore for some days. Gradually everyone became
accustomed to her and there was no further talk about it. But now all those
debates surfaced again. I had quite forgotten whether she was a Bengali or
British, but the thought crossed my mind again at this time. I said to my
husband that she’d have to go. He was silent. That day I spoke to him
harshly and he walked away, despondent. I cried my heart out. At night
when I was a little more collected after my crying bout, he said, ‘I can’t
look at Miss Gilby in a bad light simply because she is British. So many
years of familiarity should be able to break through the barriers of names.
She happens to care for you.’
I was a little ashamed and yet, with a shade of my earlier tantrum I said,
‘Fine then, let her be. Who wants her to leave?’
Miss Gilby continued to come. One day as she walked to church, a young
boy who was a distant relation of ours, hurled a stone at her and insulted
her. Until then the boy had lived in my husband’s care; after this incident he
was promptly thrown out. This caused quite a commotion. People believed
whatever that boy went out and said to them. They began to say it was Miss
Gilby who had insulted the boy and made up the tale. I too felt that wasn’t
entirely improbable. The boy didn’t have a mother and his uncle pleaded
with me. I tried very hard on his behalf, but it was of no avail.
 That day, no one could pardon my husband’s decision, not even I. In my
heart of hearts I criticized him. This time Miss Gilby herself quit. She had
tears in her eyes when she left, but I didn’t feel a thing. I felt for the boy:
poor child, how she had ruined his life. And what a splendid boy! His
enthusiasm for swadeshi had robbed him of hunger and sleep.
My husband personally escorted Miss Gilby to the station in his own car.
I thought this was taking things a bit too far. I felt he deserved the censure
when this incident was blown up and recounted in the local newspaper,
which called him all sorts of names.
Until that day, I had suffered many anxieties on account of my husband,
but never did I feel ashamed of him. That day I did. I didn’t know what
crime Naren had committed against Miss Gilby, but in this day and age it
was shameful that one could be righteously just and be punished for it. I had
no desire to smother those feelings, which made Naren act so rudely
towards a British woman. When my husband refused to agree with me on
this, I took it as a lack of boldness in his nature. And that made me feel
shame. Moreover, what hurt me most was the fact that I had to concede
defeat. My resolute nature only served to make me miserable and it couldn’t
raise my husband from ignominy—it was a humiliation of the power of my
chastity.
Yet , it was not that my husband had no interest in matters of swadeshi or
that he was opposed to it. But he could never wholly accept the absolute
superiority of the ‘Vande Mataram’ mantra. He said, ‘I am willing to serve
my country; but the One whom I’ll invoke is far above it. If I pray to my
country, it will be disastrous for her.’

At this juncture, Sandipbabu arrived at our place with his entourage, to

spread the swadeshi message. A meeting was to be held in our temple
courtyard that evening. We women waited on one side of the hall, behind
the woven screen. As the roars of ‘Vande Mataram’ drew closer, my heart
began to tremble. Suddenly a stream of young men and boys, barefoot,
dressed in saffron with turbans on their heads, burst into our immense front
yard like the tawny flood of the first monsoon rains along a dry river bed.
The place was thronged with people. Cutting through the throng a group of
ten or twelve boys held aloft a large stool, on which Sandipbabu was seated,
and bore him into the yard on their shoulders. ‘Vande Mataram!’ ‘Vande
Mataram!’ ‘Vande Mataram!’ It felt as though the sky would shatter and fall
around us in tiny bits.
I had once seen a photograph of Sandipbabu. I can’t say I’d really liked
his looks then. He wasn’t unattractive, in fact quite the opposite. Yet I had
somehow felt that although his appearance was bright, it was compounded
with much dross: there was something about his eyes and mouth that were
not quite genuine. So , when my husband met every one of his demands
without so much as a question, I wasn’t pleased. I could’ve put up with the
monetary loss, but I felt that as a friend this man was cheating my husband.
He scarcely had the air of a hermit or a poor man—he looked quite the
babu. Obviously, he liked his creature comforts, and yet—many such
thoughts had clamoured in my mind. Today they are stirring again: but let
them be.
Yet, on that day when Sandipbabu was making his speech and the heart
of that huge gathering swayed and swelled, overflowing its banks,
threatening to sweep everything away, I witnessed the compelling aura of
the man! At a certain point, when the declining sun peeped below the
rooftops and brushed his brow with its golden fingers, it felt as though a
god had declared him, before all the men and women present there, to be
one of the immortals. Every word of his speech, from beginning to end,
seemed to carry the gust of a storm. His boldness knew no limits. The slight
obstruction of the screen seemed unbearable to me. I don’t remember when,
quite unaware of my action, I parted the screen a little, thrust out my face
and gazed steadily at him. Not a single person in that assembly had the time
to spare me a glance. But at one point, I noticed that Sandipbabu’s eyes,
bright as Orion in the sky, settled on my face. I was past caring. At that
moment I was no longer the daughter-in-law of this aristocratic household: I
was the sole representative of all the women in Bengal and he was its hero.
The sunbeams from the sky poured down upon his brow: it was no less
needful to anoint him from the nation’s womanly heart. How else could his
expedition be truly propitious?
I sensed very clearly that after he looked at my face, his words took on a
new fire. It was as if the divine chariot could no longer be reined in—it was
like thunderbolt upon thunderbolt, lightning flash upon lightning flash. My
heart said it was the flames in my heart that lit this fire; we aren’t merely
Lakshmi, we are also Bharati, the goddess of speech.
I returned to my room that day, full of joy and self-exaltation. A storm
raging deep inside me dragged me from one state of mind to another in an
instant. Like the brave women of Greece, I felt an urge to cut off my knee-
length hair and hand it to that gallant warrior for his bowstring. If the
ornaments on my body had any link with my heart, my necklace, torque and
armlets would have dropped upon that meeting like shooting stars. I needed
to do something self-destructive to be able to bear the ecstasy I felt.
When my husband returned that evening, I dreaded that he might say
something about the day’s speech to strike a false note amidst the blazing
symphony or disagree in the slightest over something that offended his
sense of integrity. Had he done so, I was quite capable of treating him with
open contempt that day.
But he didn’t say a word to me. That didn’t please me either. He should
have said, ‘Sandip’s words have opened my eyes today: they have cleared
my old misconceptions on these matters.’ I felt that he was keeping quiet
obstinately and expressing disinterest deliberately.
I asked him, ‘How long will Sandipbabu stay here?’
‘He’s leaving for Rangpur tomorrow morning.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
‘Yes—he’s supposed to give a speech there.’
I was silent for a while. Then I asked again, ‘Can he manage to stay a day
longer?’
‘That won’t be possible. But why do you ask?’
‘I’d like to ask him to lunch and serve him myself.’
My husband was surprised. He had asked me to come out before his
friends many times. I had never agreed. He looked at me fixedly, in a
strange way; I couldn’t really interpret that look. But I suddenly felt
embarrassed and said, ‘No, never mind.’
‘I don’t see why,’ he said. ‘Let me speak to Sandip. He’ll stay back
another day if he possibly can.’
It turned out that it was indeed possible.
I will be very honest: that day I wished God had made me beautiful. It
was not to steal anyone’s heart but because beauty was glory in itself. On
this momentous day, the men of this land need to behold the Earth-mother
(Jagatdhatri) in its women. But would male eyes be able to perceive the
goddess unless there was surface beauty? Would Sandipbabu be able to
glimpse in me the life force of the nation? Or would he think of me as an
ordinary woman, his friend’s wife and the mistress of the house?
Early in the morning I washed my long hair, left it loose and tied it neatly
with a red silk ribbon. Sandipbabu was coming to lunch; so there was no
time to dry my hair and tie it up. I wore a white Madras sari with a zari
border, a matching blouse with short sleeves and zari piping.
I decided that this was a very modest outfit: nothing could be simpler.
But suddenly my second sister-in-law came in and subjected me to a head
to toe inspection. She gave a sardonic smile and laughed a little. I asked,
‘Didi , why are you laughing?’
She said, ‘How you have dressed up.’
I felt a little irritated. ‘What’s so special about my dress?’ I asked.
She smiled sarcastically again and simply said, ‘Nothing at all, my lady:
in fact it’s pretty good. But I can’t help wondering if that revealing jacket of
yours from that foreign shop wouldn’t have completed the effort.’ She
finished the sentence and left, her whole body shaking with suppressed
laughter. I was very angry and even considered taking everything off and
wearing a simple, coarse, everyday sari instead. I still don’t know why I
didn’t carry out that impulse in the end. I thought, ‘If I don’t appear
decently dressed before Sandipbabu, my husband will be upset—after all,
women are supposed to uphold the social prestige of the household.’
I thought I would make my appearance as Sandipbabu sat down to eat.
By tending to his meal, I could dispel the embarrassment of our first
meeting. But lunch was late today—it was almost one o’clock. So my
husband sent for me in order to introduce us. When I first entered the room,
I felt too shy to look Sandipbabu in the face. Somehow I managed to brush
aside my shyness and said, a little awkwardly, ‘Your lunch is a bit late
today.’
He walked over quite spontaneously to the seat next to me and said, ‘We
get our daily rice after a fashion, but the goddess who provides it stays out
of sight. Today when Annapurna has deigned to appear, the meal actually
becomes insignificant.’
His conduct was as confident as his speeches. There was no hesitation
about him: he seemed used to securing his rightful place within minutes in
any situation. If he upset someone or even seemed offensive that did not
bother him. He assumed the right to come and sit very close to one; if
people looked askance, it seemed more their fault than his.
I was afraid Sandipbabu might decide that I am an old-fashioned dullard.
The very thought embarrassed me. I had hoped that my speech would turn
brilliant and flow smoothly so that each of my responses would fill him
with wonder. But that did not happen. I agonized inwardly. Why did I
suddenly decide to appear before him?
I was about to make my escape after he finished his meal. But as before,
he walked up to the door casually and blocked my way, saying, ‘Please
don’t take me for a glutton. I didn’t come here to eat. I was eager to come
only because you have invited me. If you run away like this after the meal,
you’ll be cheating your guest.’
If these remarks hadn’t been uttered very frankly and persuasively they
could have struck a false chord. But after all, my husband was his dearest
friend and I was like a sister-in-law to him. As I was battling my own
feelings and trying hard to attain the same level of informal familiarity, my
husband sensed my discomfiture and said, ‘Why don’t you finish your
lunch and then join us here again?’
Sandipbabu said, ‘But promise me that you will keep your word.’
I smiled a little, ‘I’ll be back soon.’
 ‘Let me explain why I don’t trust you. It’s nine years since Nikhilesh
married. But you’ve cheated me of your presence all these nine years. If
you disappear now for another nine years, I’ll never see you again.’
I reciprocated the familiar tone and replied softly, ‘Why will you never
see me again?’
‘My horoscope says I’ll die young. Neither my father nor his father lived
to be thirty years, and I’ve just completed twenty-seven.’
He knew this would distress me and so it did. Now my softly spoken
words were laced with compassion as I said, ‘The blessings of the entire
nation will ward off the curse.’
‘The nation’s blessings are best received from the lips of its goddesses.
That’s why I’m begging you to return so that the warding off of the curse
can begin from this very day.’
Flowing water, however muddy, is still good for a wash. Everything
about Sandipbabu was so swift and vigorous that the same words, which
may have seemed distasteful from someone else, seemed innocuous coming
from him. He laughed as he said, ‘Look here, I’m holding your husband
hostage. If you don’t return, he shan’t be released.’
As I was leaving the room he spoke again, ‘I have another small request.’
I stopped in my tracks and turned around. ‘Don’t worry, all I want is a
glass of water.You must have noticed that I don’t drink water during the
meal. I have it some time later.’
At this, I couldn’t but ask anxiously, ‘Why is that so?’
Then came the history of how he was once afflicted by severe dyspepsia.
I also heard how he had suffered for nearly seven months. He described the
drudgery of homeopathic and allopathic treatment before being
miraculously cured at last by ayurveda. He laughed and said, ‘God has
fashioned even my illnesses in such a way that they refuse to be cured
without Indian-made pills.’
My husband now spoke up after a long time, ‘And what about the fact
that bottles of allopathic medicine also refuse to leave your side? They take
up nearly three shelves in your sitting room—’
 ‘Do you know why? They’re like the punitive police. They are not there
because they serve a purpose; but the modern dispensation has brought
them in and thrust them on us. I keep paying for them as punishment and I
get my share of jabs as well.’
My husband abhors exaggeration. But rhetoric, by definition,
exaggerates: it was, after all, invented by humans and not by God. Once
while trying to justify a fib I had said to my husband, ‘It’s only trees,
animals and birds that are always truthful; the poor things lack the capacity
to lie. That’s where humans are superior to animals, and women again are
superior to men. Women are best embellished with ornaments and
fabrications.’
When I came out of the room my second sister-in-law was in the
corridor, prising apart one of the window blinds. ‘What are you doing
here?’ I asked.
‘I was eavesdropping,’ she whispered.
Later, when I returned to the room again, Sandipbabu said
sympathetically, ‘You couldn’t have had much to eat today’
I was flustered. I was obviously back a little too soon. I hadn’t allowed
the length of time needed to finish one’s meal decently. If one were to
calculate, it’d be clear that I couldn’t have eaten much that day. But it had
hardly occurred to me that anyone might notice.
Perhaps Sandipbabu sensed my discomfiture, which was more
disconcerting still. He said, ‘You were all set to run away like the wild deer.
I’m honoured that you did go to the trouble of keeping your word.’
I couldn’t make a suitable reply. Blushing and fretting, I sat on the edge
of a sofa. It had been my resolve to present myself before Sandipbabu
honourably and confidently as the image of the nation’s Shakti and to adorn
his brow with victory garlands simply by appearing before him. So far, I
had utterly failed.
At this point, Sandipbabu got into an argument with my husband quite
deliberately. He must have known that in an argument his razor-sharp mind
shone in all its brilliance. Many times later as well, I noticed that in my
presence he never let slip the slightest opportunity for a debate.
 He was aware of my husband’s opinions on theVande Mataram mantra.
Referring to that he said, ‘Nikhil, don’t you agree that there is a space for
the imagination in the act of serving the country?’
‘I agree there is a space, but it isn’t all of it. I intend to know that thing
called “my country” in a more heartfelt, genuine fashion and that’s how I’d
like to have others know it. I feel quite nervous and ashamed to use some
kind of entertaining hocus-pocus mantra in relation to such a profound
concept.’
‘That thing which you call an entertaining mantra is precisely what I call
the Truth. I truly believe my country is my God. I believe God resides in
man—He truly reveals Himself through men and their land.’
‘If you truly believe this, then you wouldn’t discriminate between two
men or between two countries.’
‘That’s true. But I am a man of limited strengths and so I fulfil my duties
towards God through the worship of my own land.’
‘I’d never stop you from worshipping, but if you disregard the presence
of God in another land and feel hatred towards it, how will your worship be
complete?’
‘Hatred is an aspect of puja. Arjuna got his boon only when he fought
with Shiva dressed as a kirata. If we are ready to battle God, He will be
pleased with us eventually.’
‘If that were the case, then those who are ruining the country and those
who are serving it are both worshipping it in the same way. So what is the
point of going out of your way to spread the message of patriotism?’
‘When it comes to one’s own country, it’s a different matter. On that the
heart has clear orders to venerate.’
‘In that case, why just one’s own country, there are even clearer
instructions about one’s self. The mantra that dwells in our heart to worship
God through man, is the same one that resonates throughout all the lands.’
‘Nikhil, all your arguments are based on dry logic. Will you deny the fact
that there is something called a heart?’
‘Sandip, I’ll be honest with you: when you try to pass off misdeeds as
duty and irreverence as piety in the name of the nation-god, it pains my
heart and I can’t keep still. If I steal to satisfy my own needs, isn’t it a blow
to the true love that I bear for myself? That’s why I can’t steal. Is it because
I am intelligent or because I respect my self?’
I was seething inwardly. I couldn’t hold back; I said, ‘English, French,
German, Russian—is there a civilization that doesn’t have a history of
stealing for the sake of the country?’
‘They will be answerable for those crimes; they’re still paying for them.
History hasn’t yet come to an end.’
Sandipbabu said, ‘Fine then, we’ll pay up too. First let us stock up our
home with the stolen loot and then we’ll pay for them slowly over many
centuries. But let me ask you, where do you see them paying the price for it
as you just mentioned?’
‘When Rome paid the price for her sins, there were no witnesses. There’s
no telling when the day of reckoning will come upon renowned brigand
civilizations and when they’ll have to pay for their misdeeds and at that
time, no outsider will witness it. But aren’t you missing something—their
bag of politics is full of lies, deception, betrayals, espionage, forfeiting right
and Truth for the sake of saving their face; the weight of all these sins can’t
be a light one. Isn’t this draining the blood, drop by drop, from the heart of
their civilization every day? I believe that those who don’t accept the place
of Truth over their land don’t respect their land either.’
Never before had I seen my husband argue with an outsider. He argued
with me but his tenderness for me made him feel sorry to corner me in an
argument. Today I got to see his fencing skills in a debate.
Somewhere my heart refused to agree with my husband’s words. I felt
that there must be some appropriate rejoinders to his arguments but they
wouldn’t come to mind just then. The problem was that if you bring up
virtue/dharma, one has to keep silent. It’s difficult to claim that I don’t take
dharma to those extremes. I decided to write a fitting retort to this debate
and hand it over to Sandipbabu one day. So I quickly noted down today’s
conversation once I returned to my room.
All of a sudden Sandipbabu turned to me and asked, ‘What do you feel
about this?’
 I said, ‘I won’t go into subtleties; I’ll state my case bluntly—I am human,
I am avaricious and I’ll be greedy for the sake of my country. When I want
something, I’m prepared to snatch it. I feel anger and I’ll use it for my land.
I need someone to tear into bits, on whom I’ll avenge the humiliation I have
lived with for so long. I have illusions and I shall be bewitched by my
country; I need a tangible form for her—which will be Mother, a goddess or
Durga to me—for whom I’ll sacrifice an animal and let loose a bloodbath. I
am human, I am not a god.’
Sandipbabu jumped up from his seat, raised his right hand high in the air
and shouted, ‘Hurrah! Hurrah!’ The next moment he corrected himself and
exclaimed, ‘Vande Mataram! Vande Mataram!’
A shadow of pain crossed my husband’s face. He spoke very softly,
‘Neither am I a god; I too am human and that’s why I will not, at any cost,
thrust all my imperfections upon the country.’
Sandipbabu replied, ‘Look here Nikhil, Truth is something that is innate
to womankind, at one with their heart and soul. For us men, Truth is all
logic and no shades, emotions or life. The woman’s heart is the lotus on
which Truth resides and it is not insubstantial like our Reason. That is
precisely why it is only the women who can be truly heartless and not men,
since rationality weakens them. Women can destroy someone with ease; so
can men, but the threads of reason trip them up. Like a thunderstorm,
women can wreak havoc—they have a terrible beauty—when men commit
the same crimes, they look ugly since it is tainted by the pangs of Reason.
One thing, Nikhil, is for sure—in these times, it is women who will salvage
our nation. This is not the time for us to differentiate between good and evil,
right and wrong; today unscrupulously and indifferently we have to be
ruthless and unfettered; we have to anoint sin with holy markers and let the
women of the nation receive it cordially. Don’t you remember what the poet
has said?—
Welcome sin, welcome oh beauty!
Let the flaming tonic of your kiss
Inflame my blood.
Sound the trumpet of malevolence,
Anoint my brow with infamy,
Fill my heart with tumultuous,
Dark, sinful murk, shameless.

Shame on that piety which is incapable of being callously ruthless.’

Having said this, he stamped his foot twice very loudly. Startled, a lot of
drowsy dust rose off the carpet and into the air. He stood straight with such
pride after having scorned in an instant the very values, which are treasured
across lands over the ages, that a shiver went down my spine as I looked at
him.
Suddenly he roared again, ‘I can clearly see that you are the beautiful
goddess of that fire which reduces the home to ashes and burns down the
world; today you must give us that inconquerable strength to destroy
ourselves, and you must adorn our transgression.’
It wasn’t clear to whom these last words were addressed. One could
assume it was to the presence that he venerated with ‘Vande Mataram’ or to
the woman who was present there as a representative of that goddess-
motherland. One could assume that just as the poet Valmiki had articulated
his first meter when his impious nature was struck by compassion,
Sandipbabu also uttered these words suddenly when brutality struck against
righteousness—or it was perhaps a habitual display of excellent histrionics,
common to the business of impressing an audience.
Perhaps he would have spoken some more. But just then my husband
rose and patted him, speaking softly, ‘Sandip, Chandranathbabu is here.’
The spell broke and I looked up to find the austere, serene old gentleman
hesitating by the door, wondering whether to come in or not. Like the
setting sun, his face glowed with the soft light of humility. My husband
came up to me and said, ‘He is my teacher. I have spoken to you about him
many a times; touch his feet.’
I touched his feet reverently. He blessed me, ‘Ma, may the lord protect
you always.’
Just at that moment I was in great need of that blessing.
 Nikhilesh

ALL MY LIFE I HAVE BELIEVED THAT I HAVE THE STRENGTH TO

ACCEPT whatever God grants. Till date my faith has never been put to test.
But now I believe the time has come.
To test the strength of my belief, I have visualized many kinds of misery
—including poverty, imprisonment, humiliation and even death—to the
extent that I have even tried to imagine Bimal’s death.When I felt I’d be
able to deal with all this and still not lose faith in Him, perhaps I wasn’t
very wrong. But there’s just one thing that I had never ever foreseen and
today I have mulled over it all day long—can I possibly go through this?
Deep down within me there is a pain. I go about my usual duties, but the
hurt lingers. Even as I sleep, the pain gnaws at my ribs. When I wake up at
dawn, the light seems to have gone from the day. What is it? What has
happened? What is this darkness? From where has it come upon my full
moon and cast its dark shadow?
My mind has suddenly become too sensitive and the lie of the past
sorrows which masqueraded as joy tears me apart. The more my shame tries
to hide its face as the sorrow creeps up on me, the more it lays itself bare
before my heart. My heart has gained a new vision—it sits and watches
what is not to be seen, what I don’t even want to see.
That day has arrived when I am being made to feel every day, every
moment, with every word and every glance that I was cheated and for too
long; I was a mere beggar amidst all my so-called wealth. In these nine
years of my youth the interest that I have paid to ‘illusion’ will now be
exacted to the last penny by ‘Truth’ for the rest of my life. The weight of
the heaviest debt has landed on the shoulders of the man who has lost all
means of paying his debts. And yet, I pray that I can say with all my
strength, ‘Oh Truth, may you win, always.’
 Yesterday my cousin Munu’s husband came to ask for some help for his
daughter’s wedding. He must have looked around my house and felt that I
was the happiest man in the world. I said, ‘Gopal, please tell Munu that I
shall come to lunch tomorrow.’ Munu has turned her needy home into a
haven with the goodness of her heart. On this day my heart cried out for a
morsel from the hands of that pious woman. In her home, the hardships
have turned into her ornaments. Today I want to go and see her once. Oh
Piety, your holy grace has not yet vanished entirely off the face of this earth.
Is there any point in holding onto one’s pride? Is it not better to hang my
head and admit that I am not good enough? It is possible that I lack that
power which women value most in men. But is power only about boasting,
about whimsicality and thoughtlessly crushing underfoot—but why all
these arguments? Quibbling will not make me a worthier man. Worthless,
worthless, worthless. Well, perhaps I am—but love doesn’t come with a
price-tag and it can turn worthless into worthwhile. For the deserving, there
are many prizes in this world; it is for the unworthy that Fate has reserved
love alone.
Once I had asked Bimal to come out into the world. Bimal was in my
home, she was a mere doll, confined to a small space, caught up in trivial
duties. The love that I got from her habitually—did it stem from the deep
well of her heart or was it driven by social pressures like the fixed ration of
municipal water that one receives daily?
Am I greedy? Rather than being happy with my lot, did I aspire for a lot
more? No, I am not greedy, I am a lover. That’s why I didn’t want
something being kept under lock and key in an iron chest; I desired her who
can only be had when she wanted to give herself to me. I do not wish to
decorate my home with flowers cut out from the pages of the Smrutisamhita
text. I had a great desire to see Bimal in all her glory, blooming with
knowledge, strength and love amidst the world.
At the time I hadn’t thought of one thing: that if you really must see a
person in her true, free self, then you cannot expect to lay any definite
claims on her. Why didn’t I think of it then? Was it due to the natural
arrogance of possessing one’s wife? No, it was not that. It was because I
had complete faith in love.
I was conceited enough to believe that I have the strength to bear the
complete, stark face of Truth. Today that belief is being tested. I am still
vain enough to believe that I will pass the test, even if it kills me.
Till this day, Bimal has failed to understand me in one area. I have
always considered coercion to be a form of weakness. The weak man
doesn’t dare to judge fairly. He will avoid the responsibility of following
justice and arrive at his goal quickly through unfair means. Bimal is very
impatient about patience. She’d rather see in men the dynamic, the wrathful
and even the unjust. In her mind, respect and fear are closely connected.
I had thought that when she came into a larger world and looked at life
from a wider perspective she’d outgrow this craze for recklessness. But
now I’m beginning to feel that this is a part of Bimal’s nature. She has an
innate passion for the grotesque. She takes the small and simple pleasures
of life, rubs salt and spices into them, burning her tongue and innards all the
way; any other kind of taste does not appeal to her.
In the same way, it is my firm resolution that I will not use an excitement
like dutch-courage to do my duty for the country. I’d rather tolerate
inefficiency than raise my hand against a servant. My very being balks at
the thought of doing or saying something to someone in anger. I know that
Bimal considers my restraint to be a form of feebleness and disrespects it.
Today, for that same reason she is angry with me because I am not yelling
‘Vande Mataram’ and going around kicking up a ruckus.
Today I have earned everyone’s displeasure since I have not sat down
with a glass of liquor in my country’s honour. People think I’m either
scared of the police or I’m angling for a title. The police think I am
masquerading as a good soul because I have other hidden agendas. Even so,
I continue on this road strewn with scepticism and humiliation.
I believe that when you can’t summon up the enthusiasm to serve the
country by thinking of her merely as the country and its people as mere
human beings, when you need to scream and shout out mantras and call her
a goddess and go into a trance, then you love the craze more than you love
your motherland. The need to place an obsession above Truth is an
indication of our innate servility. When we set our mind free, we are no
longer as strong. Unless we place an illusion, or an image or some
framework of the establishment upon our listless consciousness as a rider,
we cannot function. As long as we don’t acquire a taste for the plain Truth,
as long as we need such an obsession, it is obvious that we haven’t acquired
the strength to receive our country in all the glory of its freedom. Until then,
whatever state we are in, either an imaginary spectre or a genuine presence
will continue to trouble us.
The other day Sandip said to me, ‘You may have many qualities, but you
lack an imagination and that’s why you can’t perceive the divine form of
the country as the Truth.’ I noticed Bimal agreed with him. I didn’t care to
retaliate. There was no joy in winning this argument. This wasn’t about a
difference of opinion—it was about the difference in nature between Bimal
and me. Within the limits of domestic trivia this disparity appears rather
small; so it doesn’t strike a discord in a harmonious union. In a larger space
such differences resonate louder. There, the waves of discord don’t just
ricochet, they mutilate.
Lacking an imagination? So I guess the lamp within me holds the oil but
the flame is missing. I’d say the lack is in you. Like a flint, you are the ones
who lack the light. Hence, you need to be struck and make a lot of noise
and then a few sparks fly—those disruptive sparks merely enhance the
conceit and don’t add to the vision.
Lately, I have noticed that there’s a palpable sense of greed in Sandip’s
nature. It’s this arrant addiction that made him weave myths around religion
and go into a frenzy over serving the country. Since his mind is sharp, he
calls his inclinations grandiose names although he is coarse by nature. He
needs an expression of his hatred as badly as he needs the fulfilment of his
desires. Bimal has often cautioned me that Sandip has an appetite for
money. I wasn’t unaware of it myself, but when it came to Sandip, I
couldn’t be tight-fisted. I’d be reluctant to even consider that he was
cheating me. I refrained from ever taking up the issue with him, in the fear
that the fact of my helping him financially could turn nasty and ugly. But
today, it would be difficult to convince Bimal that a large part of Sandip’s
feelings for the country are a variation of this covetousness. Bimal has
begun to worship Sandip in her heart. So, I hate to say anything about
Sandip to her, in case it is influenced by my own insecurities and I say
something that is not entirely true. Perhaps the image of Sandip that comes
to my mind now is warped by the searing heat of anguish. And yet, it’s
better to put my thoughts down on paper than to bottle them up inside.

I have known Chandranathbabu, my mentor, for all of the thirty years of my

life. He fears neither criticism, nor injury and not even death. No amount of
advice could have saved my life in the house where I was born. But this
person, with his calm, sincere and unsullied presence, placed his life
squarely in the service of mine—in him I have perceived benevolence in its
truest and most tangible form.
The same Chandranathbabu came to me the other day and asked, ‘Does
Sandip have to stay here much longer?’
The slightest whiff of misfortune goes straight to his heart; he senses it
immediately. He is not one to be disturbed easily, but on that day he could
foresee the dark shadow of some great danger. I know just how much he
loves me.
Over tea I said to Sandip, ‘Won’t you go to Rangpur? They have written
to me; they think I am the one who’s holding you back.’
Bimal was pouring tea. Instantly her face paled. She simply glanced at
Sandip’s face once.
Sandip said, ‘I have thought it over and come to the conclusion that the
way we go around spreading the word about swadeshi only leads to a waste
of our resources. I believe that if we work from one central base, the results
would be much more long-lasting.’
He looked at Bimal and said, ‘Don t you think so?’
At first Bimal didn’t know what to say. A little later she said, ‘One can
serve the country in both ways. Whether one should roam about or stay in
one place is a choice that depends on one’s wish or nature. Of the two, the
one that you feel like doing is the best way for you.’
 Sandip said, ‘Then let me be frank. All these days I thought that my duty
was to go from place to place and stir up enough fervour. But I was wrong.
The reason for this misunderstanding was that so far I have never found a
source of energy or power that can keep me fulfilled at all times. Hence, I
needed to gather the vital force for my life by travelling and whipping up
excitement in others and then drawing from it to sustain myself. Today you
are the motherland’s message to me. Till this day I have not seen such a fire
in anyone. Shame on me, that I was proud of my own strength. But now, I
don’t aim to be a hero for this country anymore. I am audacious enough to
claim that I’ll be a mere instrument and stay put here, setting the country
ablaze with the help of your burning fervour; no, no, please don’t feel
embarrassed. Your place is far above such sham coyness, qualms and
humility. You are the Queen Bee of our beehive. We will stay around you
and do our work, but the strength for that has to come from you and hence,
if we leave your side our work will suffer. Please accept our homage
unhesitatingly.’
Bimal blushed with awkwardness and pride and her hands shook as she
poured the tea.
Another day Chandranathbabu came and said, ‘Why don’ t the two of
you take a trip to Darjeeling; you don’t look too well these days. Are you
getting enough sleep?’
The same evening I asked Bimal, ‘Shall we go to Darjeeling?’
I knew she was very keen to go to Darjeeling and see the Himalayas. But
that day she replied, ‘No, not now.’
I guess she feared that the country’s work would suffer.

I shall not lose faith; I will wait. The road that leads from narrow confines
to vaster plains is a stormy one. When Bimal has left the home behind, the
rules binding her to those boundaries no longer operate. Once she
reconciles with the unfamiliar world and comes to an agreement with it, I
shall see where my place lies. If I find that amidst the workings of this vast
life, there is no room for me, then I’ll know that everything I lived with for
all these years was a lie. I have no use for that falsehood. If that day comes,
I will not protest; slowly and silently I’ll move away. Force and coercion?
Whatever for! Can Truth ever be defied?
 Sandip

ONLY THE POWERLESS CLAIM THAT WHATEVER HAS BEEN

GIVEN TO THEM IS all that truly belongs to them, and the feeble ones
assent. This world teaches you that only whatever I can snatch and grab is
rightfully mine.
Just because I was born in this country doesn’t make it mine. The day I’ll
be able to seize the land and make it mine forcefully, is the day it’ll truly be
mine.
Since we have the natural right to acquire, the inclination to aspire is also
natural. Nowhere does Nature claim that one has to be deprived of anything
on any account. Whatever the heart desires, the body has to acquire—this is
the only decree that Nature accepts. The rules that do not let you accept this
Truth is what we call morality and that’s why, till date, man hasn’t been
able to come to terms with morality.
There are a handful of weak souls in the world who do not know how to
seize, cannot hold on to what they have, their fists come loose at the drop of
a hat—morality is the consolation prize for these souls. But those who can
desire with all their heart, savour with all their soul, those who don’t suffer
from hesitation and reluctance, they are the favourite sons of Nature. It is
for them that Nature has set forth all that’s beautiful, all that’s valuable.
They’re the ones who’ll swim across the rivers, scale the walls, kick the
doors open and seize all that is worth taking. This is true pleasure, and the
true measure of a valuable thing dwells in this. Nature will surrender, but
only to the brigand, because she values the power to desire, to snatch and to
receive. Hence, she wouldn’t like to grace the bony neck of the half-dead
mendicant with the garland of her favourite spring flowers. The band is
playing in the ballroom—the hours drift away and the heart grows sad. Who
is the groom? I am. The one who can grab the groom’s seat, blazing torch in
hand, is the rightful owner of that seat. Nature’s groom comes without an
invitation.
Shame? No, I am not ashamed. I ask for whatever I need and sometimes I
take without asking. Those who feel shy and don’t take the things that are
worth taking, give great names to that misery that stems from their denial.
This world that we have come into, is a world of reality—why has man
come into this hard world only to deceive himself with a few noble thoughts
and to go away from this materialistic market, empty-handed and starved?
Did he come here on the request of a bunch of ‘pious’ babus who spend
their time playing sweet, set tunes on their flutes in the fool’s paradise up
there in the sky? I don’t need the tunes of that flute and that fool’s paradise
won’t fill my stomach. When I want something, I want it with all my heart.
I’d like to mash it with my hands, crush it under my feet, wear it all over
my body and devour it. I am not ashamed to ask and I do not falter in
receiving. The feeble criticism of those who have chewed on the famine of
morality for too long and have grown thin and pale like the bed-bugs in a
long-forsaken cot, won’t even reach my ears.
I don’t like to deceive because that’s a sign of cowardice. But if I’m
unable to deceive even when required, that is also a form of cowardice. If
you raise walls around that which you want, I’ll have to break in to get what
I want. You raise walls because you covet and I break in because I crave. If
you play tricks I resort to capers. This is the whole truth of Nature, All the
states and kingdoms on this earth and all things that happen here, work on
this same principle. And when some godly creature comes from the heavens
and speaks in the language of that kingdom, it is unreal. Hence, after much
shouting and screaming, those words find a place only in the corner of the
weak man’s home. The ones who are resilient and have taken to ruling the
world cannot accept those words because that leads to loss of power and
strength. That’s because the words are not true in themselves. Those who
don’t hesitate to admit this, don’t feel ashamed to accept this, are the ones
who are successful; and those hapless ones who straddle both the boats of
the real and the unreal, torn between Nature and the godly creature, can
neither move ahead nor live.
 A bunch of people are born in this world having vowed that they will not
live life. There is a beauty in the sky when the sun is setting and those
people are floored by that faint beauty. Our Nikhilesh belongs to that
category; he seems almost lifeless. Almost four years ago, he and I had a
great verbal battle on this issue. He said to me, ‘I accept that you can’t
achieve something without power. But the debate is about what is called
power and achievement. My power is more inclined towards sacrifice.’
‘Meaning, you are addicted to the passion for loss.’
‘Yes , just as the bird within the egg gets restless to lose the shell. The
shell is very real indeed but in its stead it achieves air and light. In your
opinion perhaps the bird is cheated.’
Nikhilesh talks like this, in metaphors. Thereafter it is difficult to get him
to understand that those metaphors are still mere words and not the truth.
Well, if he is happy with these metaphors, let him be—we are the
carnivores of this earth. We have teeth and nails, we can run, catch and rip
things apart—we cannot spend the entire day romanticizing about the grass
we chewed in the morning. Hence, we are not ready to accept it if you, the
group of metaphor-people, stand guard at the door to the feast that’s laid out
for us on this earth. We will either steal or rob or we will die. We are not
ready to lie around on lotus leaves, in love with death, and draw our last
breath in the tenth chapter, however much it offends my Vaishnava friends!
People dismiss my thoughts with, ‘Oh, it’s just something you say.’
That’s because those people live by the same rules as I do in this world, but
they spout something else. Hence, they do not know that these rules are
what constitute morality. I know. It has been tested through my life that my
words are not mere opinions. The rules I live by make it easy for me to win
the hearts of women. They are the ones who are beings of this real world
and they don’t wander the clouds on balloons of vacant ‘Ideas’ like men. In
my eyes and face, my body and soul, they can sense a tremendous desire—
that desire isn’t dried up by some penance, turned the other way by some
logic, it is just pure and full desire—which growls away like a juggernaut:
‘I want, I want, I’ll have, I’ll have.’ From deep within, women know that
this desire is the life force of this world. That life force wins out everywhere
only because it refuses to acknowledge anyone other than itself. Many a
time I have seen that women just let themselves go on the face of my desire,
irrespective of whether they’ll live or die. The power that lets you win these
women is the power of the true brave, the power to win the real world. The
ones who imagine they’ll achieve some other world are most welcome to
elevate their desire from its place on the earth and lift it skywards. Let me
see how high their fountain rises and how long it lasts. Women haven’t been
created for these subtle beings, who rove the world of ‘Ideas’.
Affinity! God has paired men and women as couples in a special way and
sent them into this world; their union is truer than the harmony of the chants
—I have said this several times when required, on different occasions. The
problem is that people want to accept Nature, but they need to hide behind
the veil of words. That’s why the world is now full of lies. Why should
there be one affinity? There should be thousands. No one has given it to
Nature in writing that we’ll have to dismiss all other affinities for the sake
of just one of them. I have enjoyed several affinities in my life and that
wouldn’t stop me from pursuing one more. I can see her quite clearly and
she has felt my affinity as well. Then? Then if I fail to win her over, I am
not a man.
 Bimala

WHERE HAD MY SENSE OF SHAME DISAPPEARED, I NOW

WONDER. I HAD NO time to look at myself—my days and nights were
swirling me around like a tornado. Hence, shame found no way to enter my
soul.
One day in my presence, my second sister-in-law laughingly remarked to
my husband, ‘Dear brother-in-law, until today in this household only the
women have cried their heart out; now it’s the men’s turn. From now on,
we’ll make you cry. Isn’t that so, little princess? You’ve already donned the
armour and now you need to just assail the hearts of men.’ She looked me
over from head to toe. The shades of hue that radiated from me, through my
dress and manner, my every gesture, did not escape her eyes in the least.
Today I feel ashamed to write this, but that day I felt no shame whatsoever.
That day my very Nature was working from within, I was not thinking or
understanding any of this.
Those days I know I used to dress up specially. But it was unconscious to
an extent. I could clearly sense which outfit of mine pleased Sandipbabu the
most. Besides, there was no need for any guesswork. Sandipbabu discussed
it openly in front of everybody. In my presence, one day he said to my
husband, ‘Nikhil, the day I saw our Queen Bee for the first time—sitting
silently, dressed in a zari-bordered sari, her eyes looking through eternity
like stars that have lost their way, as if for thousands of years she has waited
thus, on the banks of darkness, in search of something, waiting for someone
—my heart trembled. I felt the fire in her heart was wrapped around her in
the borders of her sari. This fire is what we need, these palpable flames.
Queen Bee, I request you—once more, could you appear before us dressed
like the fiery flame?’
 Up until then I had been a nameless river in a village—I had a certain
rhythm, a language. But suddenly, with no warning, the ocean flooded me
and my breast swelled and heaved, my banks overflowed and on their own,
my waves pulsated to the rhythm of the ocean’s drumbeat, I could never
really fathom the true meaning of the throbbing in my veins. Where was the
old me? Suddenly, from where did these waves of beauty come lapping at
my shores? Sandipbabu’s famished eyes lit up like a pair of lamps to
worship my beauty. Through his glances and words, he declared it like the
cymbals and bells of the temple: I was awe-inspiring in my beauty and
power. At that moment that sound drowned out all other sounds on this
earth.
Did God create me anew today? Did He make up for his neglect of so
many years? The one who was plain suddenly blossomed into a beauty. The
one who was ordinary suddenly perceived the glory of the entire land
within herself. Sandipbabu wasn’t just one man. He alone symbolized the
overflowing hearts of millions in the nation. Hence when he designated me
as the Queen Bee of the beehive, I was crowned that very day amidst the
whispered hymns of praise by all those who served the country. After that,
in one corner of our home, my elder sister-in-law’s silent disregard and my
second sister-in-law’s strident mockery didn’t affect me at all. My
relationship with the whole world changed.
Sandipbabu had successfully convinced me that the entire nation needed
me badly. That day I had no trouble believing those words. I have the
ability—the ability to do anything as I am now blessed by a divine strength.
It was something that I’d never experienced before. There was no time for
me to stop and try to comprehend the nature of this colossal wave of
emotions that rose in my heart; it was as if it was mine always and yet not
quite my own; as if it were somewhere beyond me, belonging to the entire
nation. It was like a deluge and no backyard pond was answerable for it.
Sandipbabu consulted me about every little matter pertaining to the
country. At first I was very hesitant, but that soon disappeared. Whatever I
said, Sandipbabu’s reaction was amazement. He’d always say, ‘We, men,
can only think but you can plumb the depths of Truth and so you don’t need
to think anymore. God created women from inspiration but the men, He
beat into shape with a hammer in hand.’ Listening to him, I’d begun to feel
that both natural intellect and power were innate parts of me in a way that I
myself hadn’t realized before.
Many letters came to Sandipbabu from different parts of the country
regarding various matters. I read each and every one of them and none was
answered without a consultation with me. On some days, Sandipbabu and I
would disagree over something. I never argued with him. But a couple of
days later, he’d have a realization as it were and calling me out from the
inner chambers he’d say, ‘Look, what you said the other day was absolutely
right and all my arguments were wrong.’ Sometimes he’d say, ‘I’m really
sorry I didn’t take your advice then. Really, can you explain to me the
mystery behind this?’
Gradually I began to feel more and more that at the time all that was
happening in the country had Sandipbabu at its root and behind him lay the
common sense of an ordinary woman. My heart was filled to the brim with
the sense of a glorious duty.
My husband had no place in all these discussions that we had.
Sandipbabu’s manner towards my husband was like that of an older brother
who loved his younger brother very much but didn’t really trust his
judgement on important matters. He’d often laugh patronizingly and imply
that in these matters my husband was quite childish and his opinions were
really quite contrary. He made it clear that he loved my husband all the
more because there was a quaint humour in these strange opinions and
erroneous beliefs that he held. Hence, out of this exceptional fondness for
my husband, Sandipbabu kept him out of doing any work for the country.
Nature, the physician, has several ways of dulling one’s pain. When a
profound relationship gradually starts slipping away, one doesn’t even know
when those antidotes start working within oneself. Suddenly one day we
wake up and realize a great chasm has opened up. When the scalpel was
cutting away at the most important relationship of my life, my mind was
thus shrouded by the vapours of emotion and I didn’t even know about the
cruel turn of events. Perhaps this is a woman’s nature. When our heart is
involved in one arena, we lose all our senses of other spaces. This is why
we are devastating; we cause havoc through our innate nature and not
through logic. We are like flowing water—when we flow between two
shores, we nurture with all our might and when we overflow the banks, we
destroy with equal vehemence.
 Sandip

I COULD FEEL THAT SOMETHING WAS AMISS. THE OTHER DAY I

GOT A WHIFF of it.
Since my arrival, the drawing room in Nikhilesh’s home had turned into
an ambiguous space, neither indoors nor outdoors. From the outside I had
access to it and from within, the Queen Bee did. If we had used this
privilege in some moderation, perhaps people would soon have got used to
it. But when the dam bursts, the flow of the water is at its highest. Our
meetings in the drawing room continued with such gusto that neither of us
was aware of anything else.
Whenever the Bee came into the drawing room, I could somehow sense it
from my room. There’d be some sounds of tinkling bangles and some other
noises. She opened the door perhaps a little too loudly, needlessly. Then the
door of the bookshelf, which was a little stiff, made a lot of noise when it
was opened. As I came into the room, I’d find the Bee intently picking a
book from the shelf, her back to the doorway. When I’d offer to help her in
this arduous task, she’d be startled and protest, and then some other topic
would come up.
The other day, on a Thursday afternoon, I started from my room after
hearing some of the usual noises. On the way, in the corridor I found a
guard standing duty. I proceeded without glancing at him. But he stood in
my way and said, ‘Babu, please don’t go that way.’
‘Don’ t go! But why!’
‘The mistress is in the drawing room.’
‘Fine. Tell the mistress that Sandipbabu would like to see her.’
‘No, that’s not possible. Those are the orders.’
I was very angry. I raised my voice a little and said, ‘I am ordering you to
go and ask her.’
 The guard was a little daunted by all this. So I pushed him aside and
proceeded towards the room. When I was almost at the door, he ran up to
me and grabbed me by the hands, ‘Babu, please don’t go.’
What was this! How dare he touch me! I snatched my hand away and
slapped him hard on the cheek. At this point, the Bee came out of the room
and found the guard on the verge of retaliating.
I’ll never forget the look on her face. It was I who discovered the beauty
of the Bee. In our country most people wouldn’t look at her twice. She was
tall and lissome, a quality which connoisseurs of beauty would mock as
‘lanky’. It was this litheness of hers that I admired the most, as if in making
her a fountain of life had emanated from the cavernous heart of the maker
and shot upwards animatedly. Her colour was dark, but it was the dark of a
sword of steel—powerful and razor-sharp. That power blazed in her eyes
and face that day. Standing on the threshold, she raised her index finger and
said, ‘Nanku, go away.’
I said, ‘Please don’t be angry. Since there are orders, I’d better leave.’
In a trembling voice, the Bee said, ‘No, please don’t leave. Come inside.’
This wasn’t a request, it was an order. I came into the room, sat down and
began to fan myself with a hand-held fan. The Bee wrote something on a
piece of paper with a pencil and handed it to the bearer saying, ‘Give this to
the master.’
I said, ‘Please forgive me, I was impatient and I hit the guard.’
The Bee said, ‘Serves him right.’
‘But that poor man did nothing wrong. He was following orders.’
At this point Nikhil came into the room. Hastily I got up, turned my back
to him and went and stood by the window.
The Bee said to Nikhil, ‘Today Nanku, the guard, has insulted
Sandipbabu.’
Nikhil pretended to be such a simpleton as he said, ‘Why?’ that I could
no longer control myself. I turned around and looked at his face steadily
and thought, ‘So the truthful person does lie to his wife, if she is the right
sort.’
 The Bee said, ‘Sandipbabu was coming this way and he stopped him
saying that he has orders.’
Nikhil asked, ‘Whose orders?’
The Bee retorted, ‘How should I know that?’
Anger and frustration almost brought tears to her eyes.
Nikhil sent for the guard. He said, ‘Sire, I am not at fault. I was following
orders.’
‘Whose orders?’
‘The elder and second mistresses called me and gave me instructions.’
For a few moments all of us were silent.
After he left, the Bee said, ‘Nanku has to be sacked.’
Nikhil was silent. I knew his moral and ethical senses were strained. He
was under great stress. But the problem was a difficult one. The Bee was no
simple woman. On the pretext of sacking Nanku, she wanted to take
revenge on her sisters-in-law.
Nikhil continued to be silent. The Bee’s eyes were showering sparks of
fire. Her hatred towards Nikhil’s good-heartedness knew no bounds.
Without saying another word, Nikhil left the room.
From the next day, that guard was not to be seen anywhere. Upon inquiry
I learnt that Nikhil had transferred him to a position in some village—the
guard’s losses were compensated amply.
Over this small matter, I could tell, that a few storms had blown over the
house. At every point I couldn’t help feeling one thing—Nikhil is strange,
an absolutely insane person.
The upshot of this incident was that for the next few days the Bee started
coming into the drawing room daily and sending the bearer for me to spend
some time chatting with me; she didn’t even bother to use any excuse of
coincidence or necessity.
In this fashion the friendship, through words and gestures, spoken and
unspoken, progressed. This was the lady of a household who is usually like
a star in a sky, beyond an outsider’s reach. There were no trodden paths
here. Through this nameless vacuum we navigated our way: the gradual
tension, knowing and awareness, each veil of inhibition ripping away into a
formless sky and suddenly exposing nature in its naked form—this was a
strange, victorious journey of Truth!
Of course this is Truth! The force of attraction between a man and a
woman is a very tangible one. From the dust particle on the ground to the
stars in the sky, all material things support it. And man would like to keep it
shrouded by a few words, to make it his domestic property by some rules
and regulations ! As if it’s a demand to fashion a watch-chain for one’s son-
in-law out of the solar system. Then, when reality awakens to the call of
matter, and in an instant, brushes aside all pretense of man’s words and
takes its own place, neither faith nor morality can stop its progress. So
many charges, regrets and commands come forth! But you need more than
mere words to grapple with a storm. It doesn’t answer to you, it only shakes
you up—it is reality.
Hence, I am really enjoying this palpable revelation of Truth before my
eyes. So much shame and fear, so many dilemmas! But without that what’s
the charm of Truth? This tremble in one’s step, this turning away every now
and then—it’s all very sweet. And the deception is more against oneself
than others. When reality wages war on the artificial, deception is its
primary weapon because the enemies of matter mock it by calling it coarse.
Hence, it needs to either keep itself hidden or use a masquerade. The way
things are, it can’t say boldly, ‘Yes I am coarse, because I am Truth, I am
corporeal, I am instinct, I am hunger, shameless and heartless—just as
shameless and heartless as the gigantic boulder that’s dislodged from the
mountainside by the rains and comes rolling onto the heads of human
habitation, irrespective of lives lost or saved.’
I can clearly see everything. There, the curtain is drifting in the wind and
preparations are being made to set off on a journey of destruction. That tiny
flash of red ribbon peeping from the masses of dark hair, washed and
cleaned: it’s the greedy tongue of the nor’wester, scarlet with the secret zeal
of lust! I can clearly perceive the heat off that slight gesture of the sari-
border, the little hint of the blouse.Yet, all this groundwork is taking place
in a clandestine matter, unknown even to the one who is doing it.
 Why doesn’t she know? Because, man has destroyed with his own hands
the capacity to know and understand reality fully, by always covering it up.
Man is ashamed of reality. Hence, it has to work surreptitiously, from
beneath the piles and swathes of wrapping that man has constructed; that’s
why we never come to know of its workings and then when it comes upon
us suddenly, there is no way of denying it. Man wanted to evict it and called
it Satan, which is why it entered Eden masquerading as a snake and made
woman rebel by just whispering into her ears and opening her eyes to the
Truth. Since then, there has been no time to rest, there has been only death
and nothing else!
I am materialistic. The naked reality has broken free of the prison of
sentimentality today and come into the open. My joy stalks every footstep.
Whatever I desire should come very close to me, I’ll receive it fully, I’ll
hold it tight and not let it go at all; all that comes in-between will shatter
into little pieces, roll in the dust, flutter in the wind—this is joy, this is
pleasure, this is the destructive-dance of reality; after this life and death,
good and bad, joy and sorrow, all is vain—mere trifles! Trifles!
My Queen Bee is walking in a trance and she doesn’t know which way
she’s headed. It wouldn’t be safe to let her know and wake her suddenly,
before the time is right. It’s better to let her feel that I haven’t noticed
anything at all. The other day as I was eating, Queen Bee stared at my face
fixedly, totally unaware of what that look can possibly imply. When I
looked up suddenly and met her eyes, she blushed and looked away. I said,
‘You must be really surprised by the way I eat. I can conceal many traits,
this greed isn’t one of them. But look here, since I am not ashamed of
myself, please don’t feel embarrassed for my sake.’
She turned her head, blushed some more and began to say, ‘No, oh no,
you—’
I said, ‘I know women adore greedy people because that’s the way they
win their hearts. I am a glutton and that’s why, I’ve always received so
much care from women that today I am in this state, where I don’t feel the
least bit of shame. So , please feel free to stare your eyes out as I am eating;
it doesn’t bother me one bit. I will chew up every one of these drumsticks
and leave nothing to them—that’s my nature.’
A few days ago I was reading a contemporary English book, which
contained explicit details of the union between a man and a woman. I’d left
it behind in the drawing room. One afternoon I walked into the room for
some reason and found Queen Bee reading the book; as she heard footsteps
she covered it with another book and stood up. The book she used to cover
the first one was a collection of Longfellow’s poems.
I said, ‘Look here, it beats me why you feel embarrassed about reading
poetry. It should be the men who feel shy because some of us are lawyers
and some engineers. If we must read poetry, it has to be late at night behind
closed doors. You, women, are the closest to poetry. The God who created
you is the poet of all poets and it is at His feet that Jaidev has composed his
Lalitalabangalata.’
The Queen Bee didn’t reply; she just laughed and blushed and made as if
to leave. I said, ‘No, no, that won’t do. Please sit and read. I’d left behind a
book; I’ll just take that and clear out.’
I picked up my book off the table and said, ‘Thank goodness this book
didn’t fall into your hands, or you might have beaten me up.’
The Bee asked, ‘Why?’
I replied, ‘Because, this isn’t poetry. What this contains is the most basic
facts about human beings, spoken quite bluntly too, without any artifice. I
really wanted Nikhil to read this book.’
With a slight frown, the Bee asked, ‘And why is that?’
I said, ‘Since he is a man and he’s one of us. He loves to see this raw
world through a blur and that’s why he and I argue so often. You can see,
that’s the reason why he has taken our swadeshi issue to be like
Longfellow’s poetry—he’d rather we tread gently on the rhythm for every
little topic. We are more prosaic than prose, we’re the destroyers of
rhythm.’
The Bee asked, ‘How is this linked to swadeshi?’
I said, ‘You’ll know if you read it. Whether it’s swadeshi or any other
matter, Nikhil would rather go with illusory views; hence, at every step he
collides with human nature and then he resorts to calling nature all sorts of
names. He refuses to accept that long before views and opinions, our
natures were created and they will continue to be, long after all beliefs die.’
The Bee was silent for a while; then she asked solemnly, ‘Isn’t it in our
nature to want to rise above our innate nature?’
I laughed to myself and thought, ‘Oh princess, dear one, this isn’t you
speaking. You’ve learnt this from Nikhilesh. You are a hale and hearty
person, bursting with the juices of Nature; the moment you’ve heard the
clarion call of Nature, your flesh and blood has responded to it—why would
the illusory web of all that they’ve preached to you be enough to hold you
back? Don’t I know that your veins are alive with the powers of life’s fire?
How much longer can the wet towel of moral lectures keep you cold?’
I said, ‘In this world, there are more weak people than strong; in order to
save their lives, they chant those refrains into the ears of the world and
drive the strong ones crazy. Only those who have been deprived by Nature
and weakened, tend towards enervating other people’s nature.’
The Bee said, ‘We, the women, are weak too. So we should join the
conspiracy of the weak.’
I laughed and said, ‘Who says you’re weak? Men have cajoled you into
thinking that you are helpless and weakened you with shame. I believe that
you are the strongest. I can give it to you in writing that women will break
free of the fort of chants, take on a devastating form and gain their freedom.
Men only show off their strength, but deep down they are caged beings.
Until today they have bound themselves by writing their own
commandments. They’ve huffed and puffed and turned womankind into
golden chains and wrapped themselves within and without. If man didn’t
have this amazing capacity to trap himself with his own snares, he’d be far
ahead today. The traps built by his own hands are the biggest deities for
him. Man has adorned them variously, painted them in different hues and
worshipped them with varied names. But women? You have desired reality
in this world with your heart, soul and body, given birth to reality and
nurtured it.’
 The Bee was an educated woman and she didn’t give up easily. She said,
‘If that were the truth, would it be possible for man to love woman?’
I said, ‘Women are well aware of that; they know that men, by nature,
appreciate deceit. Hence they borrow words from men, mask themselves
and try to entice men. They know that the naturally inebriated menfolk are
more inclined towards drink than food; hence, through devious means and
tricks and gestures, they try to pass themselves off as liquor and desperately
hide the fact that they are actually victuals. Women are materialists and they
do not need any accessory illusions; those are set out only for the benefit of
men. Women have become enchantresses under duress,’
The Bee said, ‘Then why do you wish to shatter the illusion?’
I said, ‘Because, I want freedom. I want freedom for my country as well
as for relationships between human beings. My nation is very real to me
and hence I simply cannot look at her through the misty veils of moral
ethics. I am very real to me, you are very real to me and hence I do not
condone the business of making two people mysterious and enigmatic to
one another simply by scattering a few words between us.’
I had to keep in mind that startling a sleepwalker suddenly wasn’t
desirable. But my nature is so aggressive that it was impossible to tread
softly. I know that my words that day were a little too strong; I know that
the first impact of those words could be a little harsh. But women welcome
the brave. Men love the ethereal; women adore the tangible. That’s why
men rush to worship the avatars of their own Idea and women gather their
heart’s prayers at the feet of the powerful.

Just as our conversation showed signs of warming up, Nikhil’s childhood

teacher Chandranathbabu came into the room. On the whole, the world was
a fairly nice place but the havoc caused by these teachers made one want to
quit it. People like Nikhilesh would rather his world remained a school till
the end of his life. We were old enough, and yet the school has to tag along;
even when we’ve started living adult lives, the school won’t let us go. It’d
be quite right to drag the teacher to the pyre with us when we die. That day,
the symbol of school interrupted our conversation at an ill-timed juncture. I
suppose there’s a student-mentality embedded deep inside all of us. Bold as
I am, even I was a little taken aback. And our Bee—from her face it was
apparent that in an instant she’d turned into the best student in the class and
solemnly taken her place in the front bench. It’s as if she had remembered
suddenly that she had a responsibility to do well in her exams. Some people
sit by the roadside like the points-men of the railways; they switch the train
of thoughts from one track to another for no good reason whatsoever.
As soon as he entered the room, Chandranathbabu was embarrassed and
was about to leave, ‘I’m sorry, I—.’ Even before he finished the sentence,
the Bee knelt down and touched his feet and said, ‘Sir, please don’t leave;
do have a seat.’ She spoke like she was drowning in mid-sea and needed his
help. Coward! Or perhaps I am wrong. Maybe there was a ploy here—a
way of increasing her worth. Perhaps the Bee wanted to let me know in an
elaborate fashion that, ‘You may think you’ve overwhelmed me, but I have
far greater respect for Chandranathbabu.’ So, go ahead. After all, one has to
respect one’s teachers. I am not a teacher and so I do not want empty
respect. I’ve already made it clear that unsubstantial things do not satiate
me—I need matter.
Chandranathbabu brought up swadeshi. I decided I’d let him babble non-
stop and not reply to a single comment. It’s good to let old people talk; it
makes them feel that they’re running the world and the poor souls never
find out how distanced they are from the actual running of the world. At
first, I held my tongue; but even his worst enemies wouldn’t accuse
Sandipchandra of being a patient man. When Chandranathbabu said, ‘Look,
we have never done any farming and if we expect we’ll reap a harvest so
soon after sowing the seeds, we—’
I couldn’t help it; I said, ‘We don’t want a harvest; we say, Ma phaleshu
kadachana—work without expectation of the result.’
Chandranathbabu was stunned, ‘Then, what do you all want?’
I said, ‘Poisoned weeds—it costs nothing to grow them.’
The teacher said, ‘Poisoned weeds don’t just hinder others, it’s an
encumbrance to itself too.’
 I said, ‘That’s the moral value meant for schools. We’ re not writing out
maxims on a board. Chalk in hand, our hearts are burning and for now
that’s the most important thing. Right now we’ll scatter thorns on the path,
keeping the soles of other people in mind. Later, when it’ll hurt our own
feet, there’s enough time to repent at leisure. Is that too much? When we’re
old enough to die, the fires will have died down and now that we’re young
they’re burning furiously, as they should.’
Chandranathbabu laughed a little and said, ‘If you want to rave and rant,
I guess you will. But please don’t pat yourself on the back saying that it’s
the brave thing or the best thing to do. On this earth, only those civilizations
have saved themselves that have worked hard—not the ones that have raved
and ranted. Those who have always feared hard work like the devil are the
only ones who wake up suddenly and believe that they’ll get somewhere
through the blind alley of wrongdoings.’
I was just getting ready to furnish a severe reply when Nikhil entered.
Chandranathbabu rose, looked at the Bee and said, ‘I’ll take leave today,
Ma. I have work to do.’
After he left, I showed my English novel to Nikhil and said, ‘I was telling
Queen Bee about this book.’
Ninety nine per cent of the people on this earth have to be fooled by lies,
but this perpetual student of the schoolteacher is most easily fooled by the
truth. He is best deceived when you do it openly, telling all. It’s better to
play the game of truth with him.
Nikhil looked at the name of the book and kept quiet. I said, ‘Man has
cluttered up this earth, where he lives, with many unwieldy words and
thoughts. So, writers such as this one have set forth, broom in hand, to
remove the cobwebs and clearly expose the substance beneath it all. So, I
was telling the Bee that you should read this book.’
Nikhil said, ‘I have read it.’
I asked, ‘What do you think of it?’
Nikhil said, ‘For those who learn a lesson from such books, it’s good; for
those who want to use it for escape, it’s like poison.’
I asked, ‘What does that mean?’
 Nikhil said, ‘ ‘Look, in this day and age if someone says nobody has any
right over his own property, it makes sense only if the speaker is a totally
selfless man; but if he’s a greedy thief, the words are a He on his lips. If
one’s appetites are strong, he wouldn’t really be able to make sense of this
book.’
I said, ‘But appetite is that gas-lamp of Nature which guides us on these
roads. Those who deny the appetite wish to achieve a third eye by plucking
out both their eyes.’
Nikhil said, ‘I accept appetite or proclivity only when I accept
renunciation at the same time. If I try to see something by stuffing it right
into my eyes, I hurt my eyes and also fail to see it. When people try to
realize everything through their appetite, they distort their desires without
realizing the truth.’
I said, ‘Look Nikhil, it is self-indulgence to see the world through glasses
framed by moral ethics; that’s why in a crisis you cannot see reality clearly
and you cannot complete any task with vigour.’
Nikhil said, ‘I don’t think a job is successful only if it’s done vigorously.’
‘Then?’
‘What’s the use of arguing in vain? These matters lose their charm if
they’re discussed to no avail.’
I really wanted the Bee to join our discussion. Till this point she sat there
without saying a word. Perhaps today I’d really shaken her mind quite
deeply and so she was unsure, wanting to revalidate her lessons from the
schoolteacher.
Was the dose too strong today? But the jolt was important. At the outset
one must realize that something which the mind always accepted as fixed
can be shaken.
I said to Nikhil, ‘It s a good thing I spoke to you. I was about to let
Queen Bee read this book.’
Nikhil said, ‘What’s the harm in that? Bimal should read any book that
I’ve read, I’d just like to clarify one matter though; nowadays Europe is
intent on analysing all things human in terms of science and all discussions
rest upon premises like man is merely physiology or biology or psychology
or at best, sociology. But, please, I beg you to remember that man is not just
a logos, he’s made up of all sciences and he goes beyond them all,
stretching himself towards eternity. You accuse me that I am the
schoolteacher’s student; I’m not, but you are. You wish to find man through
your science teachers and not through your inner beings.’
I said, ‘Nikhil, why are you so excitable these days?’
He said, ‘It’s because I can see quite clearly that you are denigrating man,
humiliating him.’
‘Why do you say that?’
I see it in the environment, through my own pain. You are intent on
tortuously killing Him who is the noblest in man, the Beautiful, the
Ascetic.’
‘This is some mad rambling of yours!’
Abruptly Nikhil stood up and said, ‘Look Sandip, I firmly believe that
man can suffer endless agony and he’ll still be alive; hence I’m prepared to
tolerate everything knowingly.’
He finished speaking and walked out of the room.
I watched this display in amazement. Then I heard a sudden sound and
turned to see that some books had dropped noisily to the floor, and Queen
Bee was walking away hurriedly, keeping a distance from me.
Strange man, that Nikhilesh! He can feel distinctly that dark clouds have
gathered over his home. Yet, why doesn’t he just throw me out? I know he
is waiting to see what Bimala does. If Bimala tells him, ‘You are not the
right partner for me,’ only then will he lower his head and say, ‘I see that
there’s been a mistake.’ He doesn’t have the strength to realize that the
biggest mistake is in calling a mistake by that name. Nikhil is a perfect
example of just how Idea enervates a man. I have never seen another man
like him. He is an eccentric product of Nature. It’ll be difficult to even
construct a story or a play around him, let alone a family.
Then of course the Bee—it was obvious that the spell has broken today.
She has understood the force of the tide which had her in its thrall. Now,
fully aware, she has to either move forward or turn back. Not really; from
now on, she’ll go forward and turn back alternately. I’m not worried about
that. When your clothes are on fire, you may run around as much as you
please and it’ll only serve to stoke the flames some more. The jolts of fear
will make her emotions stronger. I have seen so many of them by now. That
widow, Kusum, finally came and surrendered to me, trembling with fear.
And the foreign girl who lived near our hostel—on some days when she
was upset with me I felt she’d tear me to pieces. I remember that day very
well, when she screamed, ‘Go, go’ and threw me out of her room; the
moment I stepped over the threshold, she came running back, fell at my
feet, cried and banged her head on the floor and fainted. I know these ones
very well—call it anger, fear, shame or hatred, these only act as firewood
within their heart and burn to cinder after stoking the fire in it. The only
thing that can contain this fire is Idea. But women don’t possess an ounce of
it. They do their good deeds, go to pilgrimages, bow piously before the holy
man, just as we men go to office—but they stay far away from Idea.
I won’t say much to her myself; but I’ll offer her some contemporary
English books. Let her gradually realize that it’s ‘modern’ to admire and
accept desire as a reality. It’s not ‘modern’ to revere control as the greater
and desire as the lesser virtue. If she only takes refuge in the word modern
she’d gain a lot of courage, because women need a pilgrimage, a holy man,
some set traditions; mere Idea alone is unappealing.
Anyway, let’s see this play through till the fifth act. I cannot proclaim
that I am a mere spectator sitting on a royal seat in the balcony and clapping
occasionally. My heartstrings feel stretched and the veins throb from time to
time. At night when I switch off the lights and retire to bed, the slightest
touch, the smallest look and the tiniest word resounds in the dark. When I
wake up in the morning, my heart sparkles with joy and I feel as if a
pleasant refrain is flowing in my veins.

In the photo-frames on this table, there was a photograph of Nikhil and one
of the Bee. I’d taken her picture out of it. Yesterday I showed her the empty
space and said, ‘The miser’s stinginess makes the thief steal. Hence, it’s
only fair that the thief and the miser share the blame for the theft. What do
you say?’
 The Bee smiled a little and said, ‘That picture wasn’t a good one.
I said, ‘Can’t be helped. A picture cannot improve upon itself. I’ll have to
be happy with whatever it is.’
The Bee opened a book and began leafing through it. I said, ‘If you’re
upset, I’ll fill that empty space somehow.’
Today I’ve done it. This photo of mine was taken when I was younger;
my face was more innocent then, as was my heart. I still believed in life
beyond the here and now. Although such beliefs often cheat you, they have
one good feature—they cast a soft glow on your soul.
My photo is placed beside Nikhil’s—the two friends.
 Nikhilesh

I NEVER USED TO THINK OF MYSELF BEFORE. NOWADAYS I TRY

TO SEE MYSELF from the outside quite often. I wonder how I look
through Bimal’s eyes. Too stern, perhaps; I have the bad habit of taking
everything too seriously.
It’s just that it is better to laugh away your troubles than drown them in
buckets of tears. That’s what I am trying to do. Only because we brush
aside all the sorrows that lie scattered at home and in the world, like a
shadow or some illusion, that we can continue to eat and sleep; if we held
onto them even for an instant as a reality, could we have swallowed a
morsel or slept a wink? But I can’t see myself as a part of that brushing
aside or flowing away. It feels as though the earth is laden with my sorrows
which are accumulating like an eternal burden. Hence the grimness, and
hence a close look at myself makes me want to burst into tears.
Well, wretched one, why don’t you stand in the world’s marketplace and
compare yourself with the crores of people collected over centuries and
beyond and then decide what Bimal is to you? She is your wife! Whom do
you call a wife? You have puffed up that word with your own breath and go
around carefully protecting it; do you know that one pinprick from outside
and it’ll all deflate in a trice?
My wife, and hence she is all mine! If she wants to say, ‘No, I am
myself’, immediately I’d say, ‘Impossible; you are my wife!’ Wife! Is that a
reason! Is that a truth! Can you actually bind a person into that one word
and lock her into it?
Wife! I have nurtured that word within my heart, lavished all that is
gratifying, all that is pure upon it and never set it down upon the dusty
earth. So many sacred incense sticks, musical flutes, spring blossoms and
autumnal shefalis have gone into that name! If it suddenly drowns into the
murky waters of the drain like the paper boats we played with, then along
with it all my—
There I go, the same old seriousness! What are you calling the drain and
which the murky waters? That was just spoken in anger. Something won’t
change into something else just because it’d upset me, would it? If Bimal is
not mine then she simply isn’t mine and all the persuasion and outbursts
will only serve to make that clearer. My heart is bursting! Let it. It won’t
make either the world or me a poor man. Man is far greater than all that he
loses in one lifetime; salvation awaits him even at the end of all the oceans
of tears; that’s why he weeps, otherwise he wouldn’t.
But in the eyes of society—oh, let society bother with all that and do
what they please. I weep for myself and not for society. If Bimal says she is
not my wife, then whether society considers her my wife or not, I must
abdicate.
Of course I am sad. But one particular misery will be quite untrue and I’ll
stop myself from feeling it at all cost. Like a coward, I refuse to feel that
rejection has reduced the value of my life. My life is valuable; I wasn’t born
to use up that worth to merely buy up the inner chambers of my home. A
time has come for me to realize that a business venture the size of mine will
never run short of funds.
Today, as I look at myself, I should also look at Bimal as an outsider.
Until now, I had adorned her with some ideals of my own imagination. My
ideal woman didn’t quite match with the Bimal of real life at all points; but
still I have worshipped her through my fantasy.
It’s not my greatness, it’s my biggest drawback. I am greedy; I wanted to
romance my perfect fantasy image in my mind and the actual Bimal only
became an excuse. Bimal has always been what she is. She never really had
to turn into the image of perfection for my sake. Obviously, the Maker does
not work to meet my demands.
In that case, today I need to take clear stock of several things; I must
firmly erase all the colourful doodles I have splattered with the colours of
illusion. Until today, I have willingly turned a blind eye towards many
things. Today it is obvious to me, that in Bimal’s life I am incidental; the
person whom Bimal’s entire being can truly complement, is Sandip.
Knowing this alone is enough for me.
This is not a day when I can be modest even to my own self. Sandip has
many great qualities, which are attractive and they used to attract me too
until recently; but, even on a modest scale, I’ll have to admit that on the
whole he is in no way greater than me. If a swayamvara is held and the
garland goes to Sandip and not to me, then through this rejection the gods
would’ve judged the one who made the choice and not me. I say this today,
not out of pride. Now, if I do not realize my own worth truly within myself,
if I think this injury is the ultimate humiliation, then I’ll end up in the
world’s garbage-dump like a piece of trash; I’ll be truly fit for nothing else.
Let the joy of freedom raise its head within me in spite of all the
unbearable misery of this day. It’s good that I understood; I got to know the
inner and the outer. After all the debit and credit, whatever remains is all of
me. It’s not a physically handicapped me or an indigent me or even a feeble
me raised on a convalescent’s diet in the inner chambers of the home; it is
the I who has been fashioned by the strong hand of Fate. Whatever had to
happen has happened and nothing worse could be in the offing.
Just now my teacher came up to me, placed his hand on my shoulder and
said, ‘Nikhil, go to sleep, it is one o’clock.’
It’s rather difficult for me to go to bed until Bimal is fast asleep, very late
in the night. During the day I see her and even speak to her, but alone in the
stillness of night in our bed, what can I say to her? My entire being shrinks
in discomfiture.
I asked my teacher, ‘Why haven’t you gone to bed yet?’
He laughed ever so slightly and said, ‘My days of sleep are over, now it’s
time to stay awake.’
I’d written thus far and was about to retire to bed when suddenly the
thick clouds seen through my window parted a little and a lone star
glimmered brightly through them, I felt it was saying to me, ‘So many
relationships sever and tear, but I still remain; I am the eternal flame of the
wedding night’s lamp, the everlasting kiss of a lovers’ night.’
 At that moment my heart was full and I felt that behind the curtain of this
worldly life, my perpetual lover sat still. In so many lives, in so many
mirrors I have seen her face—so many broken, distorted, dusty mirrors. The
moment I say, ‘Let me possess the mirror and put it inside a box,’ the face
disappears. Let it be—how does my mirror or that reflection matter! Dear
heart, your faith stays intact, your smile will never fade; the sindoor with
which you’ve covered your hairline, glows bright every day with the sun’s
rays.
A devil stood in a corner in the dark and said, ‘Your imagination is
fooling the child in you !’ So be it, a child needs to be fooled—one lakh
children, one crore children, one child after another—children cry so hard!
Is it possible to fool so many children with anything but the truth? My love
will not betray me—she’s Truth, the Truth—that’s why I see her again and
again and will continue to see her always; I’ve seen her through my
mistakes and through the mist of tears. In the midst of the marketplace of
life I’ve seen her, lost her and found her again and when I slip through
death’s jaws, I’ll see her again. Oh heartless one, don’t mock me anymore.
If I have lost the way to the path on which you have walked, the breeze with
the scent of your hair, please don’t punish me forever for that single
blunder. That star whose veil has slipped, is telling me, ‘No , oh no, don’t
be afraid. Whatever is eternal will always be there.’
Now let me go and take a look at my Bimal; she’s sprawled on the bed, in
deep slumber. Let me place a kiss on her forehead without waking her. That
kiss is my offering of devotion. I believe after death I’ll forget everything—
all mistakes, all tears—but the evocative resonance of this kiss will stay
somewhere, because through life after life these kisses are being strung into
a garland to be thrown around my lover’s neck.
At this time my second sister-in-law entered my room. The clock in our
hall chimed two o’ clock in strident tones.
‘Thakurpo, what are you up to? Please, dear brother, go to sleep—don’t
torment yourself like this. I cannot bear to look at the state you are in.’
As she spoke, tears trickled down her cheeks.
Silently, I bent down, touched her feet and proceeded to my room.
 Bimala

INITIALLY, I DIDN’T SUSPECT ANYTHING OR FEEL ANY

APPREHENSION; I thought I was surrendering myself to the work of the
country. There’s such terrible exultation in total surrender! That day I
discovered for the first time that the greatest pleasure lay in wrecking one’s
own self.
I don’t know if this obsession would have evaporated amidst some vague
emotions. But Sandipbabu couldn’t wait, he made himself very clear. His
tone of voice seemed to caress me like a touch, his glances seemed to fall at
my feet, pleading.Yet, it held such furious desire, as if it wanted to drag me
by my hair and tear me away like a heartless brigand.
I’ll be honest: the destructive image of this rampant desire attracted me
day and night. I began to feel there’d be a strange thrill in ruining myself
totally. It’d bring such shame, such fear and yet, it was a bittersweet treat.
There was also unbridled curiosity—the mystery of his livid lust, of a
person whom I don’t know very well, a person whom I wasn’t sure of
having, a person whose powers were immense, whose youth burned in a
thousand flames—it was great, it was immense ! I had never ever dreamed
of this. The ocean, which was far away and of which I’d only read in books,
suddenly swelled up in a ravenous flood, overcame all barriers and laid
itself down in all its timelessness, foaming at my feet in the backyard pond
where I wash utensils and draw water.
To start with, I’d begun to revere Sandipbabu. But that reverence soon
washed away. I don’t even respect him—in fact I disrespect him. I have
understood very clearly that he cannot compare with my husband. And
gradually, if not at the very outset, I have even come to believe that the
quality which one tends to mistake for manliness in Sandip is nothing but
flightiness.
 Yet, this veena of mine made of flesh and blood, thoughts and ideas,
began to play in Sandip’s hands alone. I’d like to hate those hands and this
veena—but yet, it has sung for him! And when those tunes filled my days
and nights, I didn’t have any mercy anymore. Each throb of my veins and
each surge in my blood repeated to me, ‘You and all that you possess should
now sink to the nadir of that tune and revel in it.’
There is no denying it anymore: I have something that—what should I
say? Something for which, it’s best for me to die.
Whenever the teacher has some time to spare, he comes and sits by me.
He has a strength: in an instant he can take your mind to such a great height
that you can clearly see the entire range of your life spread out before your
eyes—what I’ve always considered to be the limit suddenly doesn’t appear
to be the limit any longer.
But what’s the use! I don’t want to see things that way. I can’t even say
that I want to be free of the seduction that has me in its grip. Let the home
suffer, let the Truth within me grow darker by the minute and die, but I
can’t stop myself from wishing that my addiction should continue forever.
When my cousin Munu’s husband got drunk, he beat her and later repented
for it and wailed and vowed never to touch that stuff again; he’d reach for
the liquor the very next day and I used to seethe with rage. Today I find that
my liquor is far more dangerous than his—this alcohol doesn’t need to be
bought from the store or poured into a glass—it spawns by itself in my
blood. What should I do! Is this how I’ll spend my whole life?
At times, startled, I look at myself and feel that all of this is a nightmare;
this me isn’t the real one. This is a terrible contradiction; there is no
connection between the beginning and the end; this is dark disgrace painted
in the shades of a rainbow by an illusory magician. I can’t understand what
happened and how it all happened.
One day my second sister-in-law came in, laughed and said, ‘Our
Chhotorani is very hospitable. She takes such good care of her guest that he
doesn’t want to budge from the house. In our times too, there were guests
coming and going, but they never got so much care. In those times there
were some customs, husbands needed some care as well. Just because
Thakurpo was born in these times, he’s been swindled. He should have
come to this house as a guest—then perhaps he’d have stayed awhile—now,
one wonders. Little brute, don’t you even have the heart to glance at his
face once and see what he’s become?’
There was a time when these accusations didn’t bother me in the least. I
used to think they didn’t have the capacity to understand the vow that I’d
taken. There was a shield of emotion around me then; I’d thought that since
I was giving up my life for my country, I had no room for shame and
dishonour.
For some days now, there’s been no talk of the country. Now the
discussion revolves around the relationship between men and women in the
modern times and other varied subjects. Under that pretext, there’s also an
exchange of English and Vaishnav poetry. The tenor of those poems is a
very coarse one. I’d never had a taste of this tune in my home; I began to
feel, this was the strain of manliness, of the powerful.
But today there are no shields anymore. I have no answer for queries like
why Sandipbabu is staying on thus for days on end and why I hold forth
with him for no reason whatsoever. So, that day, I was very angry with
myself, my second sister-in-law and the entire establishment and I said,
‘No, I’ll not go into the sitting room again; not even if I die.’
For two days I didn’t step out. In those two days it became clear to me
just how far I’d gone. I felt all the joy had gone from my life. I felt like
throwing away everything that came my way, within my reach. My entire
being seemed to wait for someone; the blood in my veins seemed to be
waiting for a response from out there.
I tried working very hard. The floor of my room was clean enough; yet, I
personally supervised it and had it scrubbed clean with pots and pots of
water. Everything was arranged in one way in the almirah; I took it all out,
needlessly, dusted it and rearranged everything. That day it was nearly two
in the afternoon when I had my bath. That evening I didn’t tie my hair. I just
put it up in a bun and managed to hassle everyone into reorganizing the
pantry. I found that a lot has been stolen from there in this time. But I didn’t
dare scold anyone for it, in case someone, even in their mind, retorted,
‘Where were your eyes all these days?’
I went through the hustle-bustle of the day like one possessed. The next
day I tried reading. I don’t remember what I read, but suddenly I found
myself, absent-minded and book in hand, standing in the corridor leading
outside and silently peering through the blinds. Through it, a row of rooms
outside on the north side of our yard was visible. Of those, I felt one room
had slipped far away from the ocean of my life and ships couldn’t ply there
anymore. I looked and looked! I felt I was a ghost of the day before
yesterday, there in all the places and yet not there.
At one point Sandip stepped out into the balcony, newspaper in hand. I
could clearly see the impatience stamped on his face. It felt as though he
was getting angry at the yard, at the railings of the balcony. He hurled the
newspaper away. If he could, he’d perhaps have torn away a bit of the sky.
My vow almost broke down. Just as I was about to turn towards the sitting
room, I found my second sister-in-law standing behind me.
‘Well, well, quite a show!’ She threw the comment in the air and walked
away. I didn’t go outside.
The next day Gobinda’s mother came and said, ‘Chhotoranima, it’s time
you handed out the food that’ll be cooked today.’
I said, ‘Ask Harimati to do it.’ I threw down the bunch of keys and
continued with the needlework that I was doing. At this time, the bearer
came and handed me a letter and said, ‘Sandipbabu gave it,’ Look at his
nerve: just imagine what the bearer must have thought! My heart was
fluttering. I opened the note and found there was no greeting; just these
words: ‘Urgent need. Country’s work. Sandip.’
Forget sewing! Hurriedly I checked my hair before the mirror. I changed
my jacket and not the sari. I knew that in his eyes this jacket of mine had a
special identity.
My second sister-in-law was sitting and cracking betel nuts on the
balcony, which I had to cross on my way out. Today I didn’t hesitate in the
least. She asked, ‘Where to?’
I said, ‘To the sitting room.’
 ‘So early? Morning games, is it?’
I went my way without replying. She started singing,
‘My Radha keels over as she walks,
Like the crab of the deep sea,
And oh, she doesn’t know of the sticky sugar.’

When I walked into the sitting room, I found Sandip lost in a book listing
the paintings exhibited at the British Academy, his back to the door. Sandip
considered himself quite a connoisseur of art. One day my husband said to
him, ‘If artists are in need of a tutor, they won’t have a problem finding a
suitable one as long as you are alive.’
It was unlike my husband to speak so derisively; but these days his
temperament had changed. He never missed a chance to hurt Sandip’s ego.
Sandip said, ‘Are you of the opinion that artists don’t need any further
instruction?’
‘People like us will always have to learn new lessons from the artists
themselves because there are no fixed rules in art.’
Sandip scoffed at my husband’s humility and laughed heartily; he said,
‘Nikhil, you believe that indigence is the biggest wealth and the more you
invest it, the richer you grow. I claim that if someone doesn’t have an ego,
he’s like moss in the rapids, floating about aimlessly.’
My state of mind was a strange one. On the one hand I wished that my
husband would win the argument and Sandip’s ego would get a jolt, yet it
was this same aggressive ego in him that attracted me—like the sparkle of
an expensive diamond which nothing could put to shame. Even the sun
couldn’t outshine it—instead, it seemed to gain a surge of defiance from
every challenge.
I entered the room. I knew Sandip had heard my footsteps but he
pretended he hadn’t heard it and continued reading. I was afraid he’d
broach the topic of art. I still felt shy about the kinds of pictures and the
kinds of things Sandip liked to discuss with me on the pretext of art. To
overcome that shyness I had to pretend that there was nothing to be shy
about.
 So, for an instant I was tempted to just go back when suddenly Sandip
heaved a great sigh, looked up and seemed startled to see me. He said, ‘Oh,
there you are!’
There was a covert censure in his words, both in his eyes and his tone of
voice. I was in such a state that I even accepted this censure. Thanks to the
claims that Sandip had acquired over me, it was as if my absence of two or
three days was also a crime. I knew that Sandip’s resentment was an insult
to me; but I was too weak to be incensed.
I didn’t respond and just stood there silently. Although my eyes were
elsewhere, I was aware that Sandip’s accusing eyes laid siege to my face
and refused to budge. What was this all about! If he spoke something, I
could at least hide behind those words and gain some respite. When my
embarrassment became unbearable I said, ‘Why did you send for me?’
Startled, Sandip said, ‘Does there have to be a purpose? Is it wrong to be
friends? Why this disregard for that which is the greatest in this world?
Queen Bee, must you drive away the heart’s adulation from the door, like a
stray dog?’
My heart was fluttering. Dark clouds seemed to gather around me and
there was no way to stop them. Fear and excitement struggled equally for
mastery. Will I be able to bear the weight of this catastrophe or will it break
my back? Perhaps I’d fall flat on my face on the dusty wayside.
My hands and legs were trembling. I stood very firmly and said to him,
‘Sandipbabu, you sent for me saying there’s some urgent work of the
country and hence I dropped my household chores and came here.’
He smiled a little and said, ‘My point exactly. Do you know that I have
come here to worship? Haven’t I told you that I clearly perceive the power
of my country in you? Geography is not a Truth. One can’t lay down one’s
life for a map. Only when I see you before me I realize how beautiful the
country is, how dear, how full of power and life. I will know that I’ve
received my country’s command only when you anoint my brow yourself
and wish me luck. When I’ll fall to the ground, mortally wounded as I fight
bravely, I’ll remember this and never think I’ve fallen on a piece of land in
geographical terms, but instead on an anchal—do you know which kind?
It’s the anchal of the sari you wore the other day, red as the earth and its
border as red as a stream of blood. Can I ever forget it! This is what makes
life dynamic and death attractive.’
As he spoke, Sandip’s eyes burnt bright. I couldn’t figure out if it was the
fire of reverence or hunger that burnt in his eyes. I remembered the day
when I first heard his speech. That day, I’d forgotten if he was a live flame
or a human being. It’s possible to behave humanly with ordinary humans—
there are rules and codes in place for that. But fire belongs to a different
genre altogether. In an instant it can dazzle your eyes, turn destruction into
an object of beauty. You begin to feel that the truth that lay hidden among
the neglected driftwood of everyday life, has taken up its radiant form,
rushing to scorch the reserves stashed away by the misers everywhere.
After this, I didn’t have the power to speak. I was afraid that at any
moment Sandip would run to me and grab my hand, because his hands were
shaking just like the trembling flames and his gaze rested on me like sparks
of fire.
‘Are you determined to privilege the trivial domestic rules and codes?’
Sandip spoke up. ‘You women have so much energy, the very whiff of
which can make life or death a trifling matter to us; is that to be wrapped in
a veil and kept indoors? Today, please don’t hesitate, don’t listen to the
wagging tongues around you; today you must snap your fingers at mores
and margins and come rushing into freedom.’
When the adulation for the country mingled thus with the adulation for
me in Sandipbabu’s words and the cords of reticence were sorely strained,
then did my blood throb and dance! The discussions of art and Vaishnav
poetry, of the relations between man and woman and various other real and
intangible subjects, clouded my heart with guilt. But today the gloom of the
embers caught fire again and the blaze of light from it veiled my shame. I
felt that it was a wondrous, divine marvel to be a woman.
Alas, why didn’t that marvel in all its visible brilliance flash through my
mass of hair at that very instant! Why didn’t a word come forth from my
lips, which could, like a chant, instantly take the nation through a fiery
initiation!
At that moment, the maid Khemadasi appeared, wailing and screaming
loudly. She said, ‘Please settle my accounts and let me go. Never in my
entire life have I been—’ The rest of her words was drowned in sobs.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
Apparently my second sister-in-law’s maid, Thako, had unnecessarily
quarrelled with Khema and called her unmentionable names.
I tried to pacify her saying that I would look into it and she would get
justice but it was impossible to get her to stop wailing.
It was as if someone had poured a bucket of dirty water on the musical
piece that was moving towards a crescendo that morning. The muck that
was inherent in woman, beneath the budding lotus, was dredged up. In
order to cover that up in front of Sandip, I had to rush indoors immediately.
I found my second sister-in-law sitting in the balcony, as before, cracking
betel nuts with her head lowered; a small smile lingered on her lips and she
hummed, ‘My Radha keels over as she walks’—nothing about her indicated
that anything had gone wrong anywhere.
I said, ‘Mejorani, why does your Thako abuse Khema for no reason
thus?’
She raised her brows and said, ‘Oh really, is that true? I’ll take the broom
to that vixen’s back and throw her out. Just look at that: so early in the day
she has gone and spoilt your session in the sitting room. And I’d say,
Khema is also quite a fool—can’t she see that her mistress is chatting with a
babu outside? She just landed up there with her tales—I see she’s lost all
sense of shame and decorum! But, Chhotorani, you don’t have to trouble
yourself over these domestic issues. Why don’t you go on outside and I’ll
resolve the matter a$ best I can.’
The human mind is a strange thing; how suddenly the wind changes and
the sail turns around. I felt it was so out of place in my usual domestic
routine for me to go and converse with Sandip in the morning, leaving all
my domestic duties undone, that I just walked back to my room without a
word.
I knew for a fact that at the right time my second sister-in-law must have
urged Thako to pick a fight with Khema. But I stood on such unstable
grounds myself that I couldn’t say anything on these matters. Just the other
day, in the heat of the moment I’d fought so defiantly with my husband to
sack Nanku, the guard, but I couldn’t sustain it till the end. Gradually my
own agitation made me feel embarrassed. To add to that, my sister-in-law
came and said to my husband, ‘Thakurpo, I am to blame. Look here, we are
traditional women and your Sandipbabu’s ways don’t really seem very
proper to us—so, I thought it was for the best and I instructed the guard—
but I didn’t ever think that this would be an insult to Chhotorani; in fact I
thought the opposite—alas for my Fate, more fool I!’
Thus, whenever I tried to look at something in glorious terms, from the
perspective of the country or worship, and it curdled from the bottom in this
way, my initial reaction would be anger, followed by guilt.
Today I came into my room, shut the door, sat by the window and began
to think, if only one stayed within the bounds of the preordained rules, life
could be so simple. Looking at my sister-in-law sitting cheerfully on the
balcony, cracking betel nuts, made me realize how inaccessible the task of
sitting on a simple seat and doing everyday chores had become to me.
Every day I asked myself, where will it all end! Shall I die, will Sandip
leave, will I recover one day and forget all this like a febrile delirium—or
will I break my neck and sink into such a disaster that I’ll never be able to
recoup from it in my lifetime? If I couldn’t effortlessly accept the good
fortune that Fate had sent my way, how could I tear it to shreds thus?
The walls, ceiling, floor of this room, which I’d stepped into as a new
bride nine years ago, were all gazing at me in amazement on this day. When
my husband passed his MA and returned from Calcutta, he had bought a
vine of some island in the Indian Ocean for me. It had just a few leaves, but
the long bunch of flowers that bloomed in it were so beautiful, as if a
rainbow was born in the lap of those few leaves and swung in its cradle.
The two of us took that vine and hung it up by the window here, in our
bedroom. The flowers bloomed just that once and never again; I have the
hope that it’ll bloom again. It is amazing that I still water the plant
routinely; it is strange that the thick twine binding the vine hasn’t loosened
one bit—the leaves are still as green.
 About four years ago, I framed a photo of my husband in an ivory frame
and put it up on the mantlepiece. Occasionally when my gaze rests upon it,
I can’t look away. Till six days ago I used to bow before that picture, place
flowers around it after my morning bath. So many days my husband had
argued with me about this.
One day he said, ‘In worshipping me you make me bigger than I am and
this embarrasses me.’
I said, ‘Why should you feel embarrassed?’
He said, ‘I’m not just embarrassed, I’m also envious.’
I said, ‘Listen to you ! Who are you jealous of?’
He said, ‘That fake me. This makes me feel that you aren’t satisfied with
the ordinary me and you want an extraordinary someone who’ll overwhelm
your senses. That’s why your imagination has created an ideal me and
you’re playing a game of make-believe.’
I said, ‘I feel so angry when you say such things.’
He said, ‘No point getting angry with me, instead you should be mad at
your destiny.You didn’t really pick me out in a swayamvara; you had to take
whatever you got with your eyes shut. Hence you’re trying to rectify as
much of me as you can, with spirituality. Since Damayanti had a
swayamvara she could pick out the man over the god and since all of you
haven’t had a swayamvara, every day you ignore the man and garland the
god.’
That day I was so angry with what he said, tears sprang to my eyes. The
memory of it stops me from raising my eyes and looking at the picture on
the mantlepiece.
There’s another picture inside my jewel box.The other day I pretended to
dust and clean the sitting room and picked up the photo-stand in which
Sandip’s photo is right beside my husband’s, and brought it inside. I don’t
worship that photo and there’s no question of bowing before it either; it
stays covered up amidst my precious stones and jewellery and it brings such
a thrill only because it is a secret. I shut all the doors of the room before I
open the box and look at it. At night, I slowly enhance the light of the
kerosene lamp and hold the photo before it and look at it silently. Every day
I think that I should just consign him to that flame, turn him to ashes and
finish it off for all times; and again, every day, I heave a sigh, slowly cover
him up with my precious stones and jewellery and keep the photo under
lock and key. But wretched, hapless soul: who was it that gave you these
precious gems and jewels? So many caresses are intertwined with these.
Where will they hide their face now? I’d be happy to just die.
Once Sandip said to me, ‘It’s not the inherent nature of women to
vacillate.They don’t have a left or right, they can only go ahead.’ He always
says, ‘When the women of the country will rise, they’ll speak much more
lucidly than its men: “I want”—on the face of that want, no good or bad, no
possible or impossible will be able to stand its ground. They’ll just have
that one claim: “We want”, “I want”. These words are the core chant of
creation. This chant burns tempestuously in the fire of the sun and the stars.
Its predilection of love is extreme; since it has desired man, for ages untold
it has been sacrificing thousands of living things to that desire. That terrible
chant of “I want”, of the devastation of creation, is alive only in the women
today. That’s why the cowardly men are trying to raise dams on the way of
that primitive flood of creation, so that it doesn’t wash away their frail-as-
pumpkin-creeper-frames as it roars with laughter and dances on its way.
Men think they have raised these dams for all times to come. It’s collecting,
the water is collecting—today the body of water in the lake is quiet and
sombre; today it neither moves nor speaks; silently it fills the pots and pans
in man’s kitchen. But the pressure will mount and the dam will burst; then
the dumbstruck powers of all this time will roar “I want, I want” and rush
forth.’
These words of Sandip strike up a drumming in my head. So , whenever
there’s a conflict with my self within me, when shame swears at me, I think
of his words. Then I realize that this shame I feel stems from the fear of
social repercussions, which takes the form of my second sister-in-law who
sits on the balcony cracking betel nuts looking at me mockingly. Do I even
care about her! My complete fulfilment is in being able to say ‘I want’
promptly, unwavering, with all the strength I possess. Failure lies in not
being able to say it. What’s with that vine or the mantle—do they have the
power to insult or mock the radiant ‘I’?
I had a strong desire to throw the vine out the window and bring the
photo down from the mantle: let the shameless nudity of the destructive
forces unfold. My hand did go up, but my heart ached and tears came to my
eyes—I threw myself on the floor and began to weep. What, oh what will
become of me? What is in store for me!
 Sandip

WHEN I READ MY OWN WORDS I FIND MYSELF ASKING, IS THIS

SANDIP? AM I made of words? Am I a book with covers of flesh and
blood?
The earth is not a dead creature like the moon; it breathes and its rivers
and oceans send up vapours—it’s enveloped by that vapour and dust rises
all around it. It is covered by this film of dust. If someone looked at this
earth from the outside, he’d only see the reflection of this vapour and dust;
would he catch a clear glimpse of the countries and continents?
The same way, when a person is alive the sighs of Idea rise from within
him and so he becomes misty through that haze. The spots where he is
clear, with land and water, where he is peculiar, cannot be seep: it feels as
though he is a sphere of light and shade.
I have begun to feel that like the living planet, I too am tracing that
sphere of Ideas in me. But I am not entirely just what I desire, what I think
or what I decide. I am also that which I don’t like, which I don’t desire. I
was created even before I was born; I haven’t been able to select myself. I
have to make do with whatever fell into my hands.
I know this very well that the mightier one is also the cruel one. The law
is for the commoners and the extraordinary ones are above it. The earth is a
level ground and the volcanic mountain prods through it with its horns of
fire and rises up above it. It doesn’t mete out justice to others around; it
only looks to its own self. It’s only by successful malevolence and
unfeigned brutality that anyone has ever become rich or powerful, be it a
man or a race. Only by blithely swallowing one, will ‘two’ be able to come
into its own or the unbroken line drawn by ‘one’ would have continued
unscathed.
 Hence, I preach the practice of the unlawful. I tell everyone, crime is
moksha, crime is the burning flame; when it doesn’t burn it turns to ashes.
Whether race or man, crimes must be committed to get somewhere in this
world.
But still, this is only my Idea and not the entire me. However much I
extol crime, there’re some holes, some gaps in the cloak of Ideas and some
things slip out through it, which are indeed naive and gentle. It is because
most of me was already created even before I became myself.
Sometimes I put my followers to the test of heartlessness. Once we went
to a garden for a picnic. A goat was grazing there and I asked who’d be able
to cut off its hind leg with a machete. When everyone faltered, I went and
did it myself. The man who was the most merciless in the entire group,
fainted when he saw this sight. My calm, serene face made everyone bow
down and pay homage to me as a great man, above mortal feelings. That
day everyone glimpsed only the vaporous sphere of my Idea. But it was
best to hide those spots where I was weak and merciful—whether this was
my own doing or that of Fate—and where my heart was weeping within
me.
Many things have also been covered up regarding this chapter in my life
that has evolved around Bimala-Nikhil. It wouldn’t have been hidden if I
didn’t have anything to do with Ideas. My Idea is moulding my life in its
own fashion, but there’s a lot of my life that is outside of it. My desires and
those other bits of my life don’t coincide entirely; hence I like to keep them
stashed away, hidden in a corner, or else they would end up spoiling
everything.
This thing called ‘life’ is abstract; it is made up of such diversity. We,
men with Ideas, wish to pour it into distinct moulds and view it clearly in
perceptible forms; the success of life depends on that clarity. From the
famous conqueror Alexander the Great to the contemporary billionaire of
America, Rockefeller, each has poured himself into a precise mould, be it of
the sword or of money, and only then has he been able to call himself a
success.
 This is the point on which Nikhil and I start arguing. Both he and I claim
that one should know oneself. But from what he says, all that becomes
apparent is that not knowing oneself is all that’s there to knowing oneself.
He said, ‘What you call “getting the results” is actually a result that
excludes one’s own self. The soul is greater than results.’
I said, ‘That is an ambiguous one.’
Nikhil said, ‘I have no choice. Life is more obscure than a machine; if
you take life to be a machine, that won’t help you to know life. Similarly,
the soul is more nebulous than results; but I wouldn’t say you are really
seeing the soul for what it is, if you see it realized fully in results.’
I asked, ‘So , where do you see the soul? Under which nose or between
which brow?’
He replied, ‘At the point where the soul knows itself to be eternal, where
it leaves results far behind and goes beyond it.’
‘So what would you say of your country?’
‘The same thing. When the country says, “I’ll only look to myself”, it
may well get results, but it loses its soul; but when it can see Truth as
greater than itself, it can perhaps lose all results and yet achieve its own
self.’
‘Where in history have you seen that happen?’
‘Man is so great that he can dispense with examples as much as he can
overlook results. Perhaps there are no instances, just like there are no traces
of a flower inside the seed; but still the seed does contain the flower. Yet,
are there no instances at all? Was it a desire for results that made Buddha
inspire India for so many centuries with his aspirations?’
It’s not that I can’t make any sense of what Nikhil says. That perhaps, is
precisely my problem. I have been born in India; the toxin of religiosity
permeates my blood. I may loudly assert that the path of denunciation is a
crazy one. But I’m not able to brush it aside absolutely. That’s why, today,
such strange things are happening in our country. The chant of religion and
patriotism, both are being sung heartily—we want the Bhagavad Gita as
well as Vande Mataram—not recognizing that this makes both equally
obscure, the result being like a clash between the ill-matched drums and the
shehnai. The task of my life is to put an end to this discordant cacophony.
I’ll keep the drums intact, but the shehnai has been our ruin. We will uphold
the flags of want and desire, which has been handed to us by Mother
Nature, Mother Shakti and Mother Mahamaya when they sent us into the
battlefield. Desire is beautiful and as pure as the fresh blossom, which
doesn’t run to the powder-room at the drop of a hat to scrub itself with
Vinoliya soap.
One question has been bothering me for a few days: why am I letting my
life get entangled with Bimala’s? My life isn’t just a banana-boat drifting
around hitting the shore where it wishes. This is what I meant when I said
that I wish I could mould my life on the lines of one Idea, but it spills over.
From time to time, people slip and slide. This time I’ve slipped away a bit
too far.
I am not ashamed of the fact that Bimala has become the object of my
desires. I can see quite clearly that she desires me: she is my very own. The
fruit hangs on the tree by its stem, but does that mean we’ll have to accept
that stem’s rights on it as eternal! All the thirst, all the sweetness that she
has was meant to fall into my hands alone; her triumph lies in submitting
herself to that. That is her religion and that is her integrity. I will pluck her
and bring her there, I won’t let her life go in vain.
However, I am worried that I’m getting entangled and I feel that Bimal
may become a huge burden on my life. I have come into this world to be a
leader; I shall lead people with my words and in their work. Those masses
are the horse for my crusade. My seat is on its back, its reins in my hands; it
doesn’t know its destination—only I know it. I will not let it pause and
think when thorns will make its feet bleed or mud will splatter it all over,
I’ll only make it gallop.
That horse of mine is at the door today, impatiently pawing the earth with
its hooves; the skies tremble with its neighing and what am I doing? What
am I doing with my time? My auspicious moments are almost slipping
away.
I had the impression I could run like the storm; I could pluck a flower,
throw it away and it wouldn’t slow down my pace one bit. But now I seem
to be hovering around the flower like the honeybee and not like the storm.
Obviously when I colour myself with my own Ideas, the colour isn’t as
fast at all the spots and suddenly I can glimpse that ordinary mortal. If some
omniscient God were to pen down the story of my life, I’m sure it’d be seen
that there isn’t much difference between me and that Harry there—or even
Nikhilesh for that matter. Last night I was leafing through my diary written
at the time when I’d just passed my BA and my head was fairly bursting
with philosophy. Ever since then I’d vowed that I wouldn’t allow any
illusions, other people’s or mine, into my life, and I’d make my life entirely
real. But from then until now, what do I see in the story of my life? Where
is that tightly woven fabric? This is more like a net; the threads are all there,
but there are as many gaps. I have tried to fight those weaknesses, but failed
to conquer them. For a while now I was surely moving at a good pace;
today again I find a large gap in myself.
It hurts. ‘I want it, it’s near my fingers and I’ll pluck it’—this is a clear
declaration, the shortest route. I have always said that those who can walk
this path vehemently are the ones who succeed. But Lord Indra didn’t allow
this penance to be a simple one; from somewhere, he sent the angel to cause
suffering and blur the ascetic’s vision with the vaporous mesh.
I see Bimala thrashing about like a trapped deer; such fear, so much
pathos in those large eyes, her body lacerated by her attempts to free herself
—the hunter should be happy at this sight. I do feel joy, but I also feel pain.
That’s why I’m not able to tighten the noose properly while time flies past.
There have been moments when, had I rushed up to Bimala, pressed her
hand and drawn her into my bosom, she wouldn’t have been able to protest;
she too felt that any moment now something was about to happen, which
will change the significance of her entire world—standing before that
elemental ambiguity, her face was pale, her eyes filled with fear as well as
excitement as if the heavens and the world were holding their breath and
standing still, waiting for a decision to be made. But I let those moments
pass; I didn’t allow the imminent to become definitive, with unabashed
strength. From this I can tell that those constraints that were innate to my
nature have now come out and stand there blocking my way.
 Ravana, whom I respect as the primary protagonist of the Ramayana,
also died in this fashion. Instead of bringing Sita into his chamber, he kept
her in Ashokavana. Thanks to that tiny bit of naive quandary that persisted
in that great hero, the burning of Lanka was in vain. If he didn’t have the
dilemma, Sita would have given up her chaste airs and worshipped Ravana!
In the same way, this hesitation always made him pity and disregard
Vibhishana whom he should have killed; instead he himself lost his life.
This is the tragedy of life. It hides in a corner of the heart, curled up into
a little ball and then in an instant it overcomes the giant. Man is not what he
knows himself to be and that is why so many unpleasant things happen.
Although Nikhil is so weird and I laugh at him so often, deep down I
can’t squash the knowledge that he’s my friend. In the beginning I didn’t
think of him at all. But as the days go by, I feel shame before him, and pain
too. Some days, as always, I venture into an argument with him in the
course of our conversation, but the enthusiasm flags suddenly—so much so,
that I even do what I’ve never done before, that is, pretend to agree with
him on some things. But this hypocrisy doesn’t go down well with me and
it doesn’t suit Nikhil either—here too, we have something in common.
So , these days I try to avoid Nikhil and my day is made if I don’t bump
into him. These are signs of weakness. The moment one acknowledges the
spectre of culpability, it turns into something very real; then, even if you do
not believe in it, it catches hold of you. I simply want to let Nikhil know
this very frankly, that we must look at these things in larger, more realistic
perspectives. A genuine friendship shouldn’t get messed up when faced
with the Truth.
But I can’t deny the fact that this time I have been weak. This weakness
hasn’t impressed Bimala one bit; she is the moth that singed her wings in
the flame of my unreserved masculinity. When the haze of emotions sways
me, Bimala is also swayed by it, but she feels revulsion; at that moment,
although she cannot take back the garland she has thrown around my neck,
the sight of it makes her feel like closing her eyes.
For both of us there is no turning back. I don’t have the strength to leave
Bimala now. But neither will I let go of my own path. My way is that of
throngs of people, not this backdoor to the inner chambers, I’ll not be able
to abandon my own country now, especially not in these times; at present
I’ll merge Bimala with my country. The same westward storm that has
snatched away the veil of right and wrong from the face of the motherland,
will raise the bridal veil off Bimala’s face—there is no disregard for her in
that nakedness. The ship will sway on the waves of the ocean of people, the
victory flag of Vande Mataram will flutter at its helm, roars and foaming
waters all around—that ship will be our vessel of strength as well as that of
love. There, Bimala will perceive such immense freedom that on its face, all
her inhibitions will drop away without shame, unknown to her. Fascinated
by this visage of destruction she won’t hesitate to turn cruel. In Bimala I
have seen the face of that gorgeous ruthless, which is the natural strength of
Nature. If women could free themselves of the phony binds placed on them
by men, I’d have truly witnessed Kali on this earth—she is the brazen
goddess, she is heartless. I am a devotee of the same Kali; one day I’ll drag
Bimala amidst that devastation and invoke Kali, Let me make preparations
for that.
 Nikhilesh

EVERY CORNER IS FLOODED BY THE MONSOON TORRENTS;

THE GLOW OFF the young rice stalks is like that from the body of a child.
There was water all the way up till the gardens in our house. The morning
sun poured down on this earth unimpeded, matching the passion of the blue
sky.
If only I had music in my voice ! The water in the streams shimmered,
the leaves on the trees glistened and ever so often, the paddy fields trembled
and sparkled—in the morning music struck up on this July day, I alone was
dumb! The tunes are locked within me; all the brightness of this world
coming at me gets imprisoned within and cannot go back. When I look at
this lacklustre, gloomy self I can understand why I am deprived. No one can
endure my company day and night.
Bimal is so full of life. That’s why, in all of these nine years, she has
never ever seemed boring to me. But if there’s anything in me, it is just
mute profundity and not rippling surges. I am only capable of receiving but
I cannot stir. My company is like starvation; when I see Bimal today I can
understand what a famine she has survived all these years. Who is to
blame?
Alas—

Monsoon floods, July and August,

My temple lies vacant!

My temple is built to stay empty; its doors are closed. I failed to

understand all these years, that my idol was waiting outside the door. I’d
thought he had accepted the prayers and also granted the boons—but, my
temple lies vacant, my temple lies vacant.
 Every year in the month of July when the earth was in all its glory, we
toured the lake in Shyamaldaha in our barge. When the moonlight of the
Krishnapanchami waned and hit rock bottom, we returned home. I used to
tell Bimal that a song always had to return to its refrain; the refrain of union
in life lay here amidst open nature; on these swelling waters where the wind
blew gently, where the dusky earth drew the veil of shadows over her head
and eavesdropped all night from one bank to another in the silent moonlight
—this was where man and woman first united, and not within four walls.
So, we returned here to the refrain of that first primal union, the union
between Shiva and Parvati in the lotus gardens of Manasarovar in Kailash.
After my marriage, two years were wasted in the hassle of examinations in
Calcutta; since then for seven years now, every July, the moon has played
its silent conch in our watery haven beside the blooming lotus garden. The
first seven years of that life went thus; now the second phase begins.
I cannot possibly forget the fact that the full moon of July is here. The
first three days have passed; I don’t know if Bimal remembers, but she
hasn’t reminded me. Everything is quiet and the song has stopped.

Monsoon floods, July and August,

My temple lies vacant!

When a temple falls vacant from absence, the flute plays even in that
vacuum. But the temple that falls vacant from parting lies very still and
even the sound of weeping is discordant there.
Today my sobs are out of tune. I have got to stop this weeping. I
shouldn’t be cowardly enough to restrain Bimal with these tears. Where
love has turned into a lie, tears shouldn’t try and bind it. As long as my pain
expresses itself, Bimal will not be totally free.
But I have to free her completely or I will not be free of the lie. Today,
keeping her tied to my side is the same as shrouding myself in illusions. It
doesn’t help anyone, let alone bring any joy. Let me go, let me go—grief
will be a jewel in the heart if only you can free yourself from lies.
 I feel I have come close to grasping something. People have exaggerated
the love between a man and a woman to such an extent that now I’m unable
to bring it under control even for the sake of humanity. We’ve turned the
lamp of the room into the fire on the hearth. Now the day has come when it
should no longer be pampered but instead, disregarded, Having received the
invocations of desire, it has taken the form of a goddess; but we won’t
accept the kind of prayers that require that a man sacrifice his manliness
and have her drink his blood. We must rip apart the mesh of illusions that
she has woven through looks and adornment, songs and tales, laughter and
tears.
I have always felt a sort of revulsion for Kalidasa’s poem Ritusamhar.
How can man bring himself to thus belittle the joyous rhythm of Nature?
All the flowers and fruits of this world simply lie at his lover’s feet as
objects of the veneration of desire. What was this intoxicant that clouded
the poet’s vision? The one that I was drunk on for all these years may not be
so red in colour, but its effect was just as strong. It was this intoxication that
made me hum that strain all day today—

Monsoon floods, July and August,

My temple lies vacant!

Vacant temple! I should be ashamed of myself. What has made this

colossal temple of yours so empty all of a sudden? I have known a lie for
what it is and that has taken all the meaning out of every truth I’ve ever
known?
This morning I d gone in to pick up a book from the shelf in the
bedroom. It’s been so long since I entered my room in the day. Seeing the
room in daylight, I felt very strange. Bimal’s sari lay crinkled up on that
same rack and her discarded blouse and jacket lay in a corner waiting to be
washed. Her hair pin, hair oil, brush, perfume bottles and even the sindoor
box lay on the dressing table. Her tiny, zari embroidered slippers stood
under the table—in the days when Bimal firmly refused to wear shoes, I’d
had this made with the help of a Muslim friend of mine from Lucknow. She
nearly died of shame just walking from the bedroom to that corridor there,
in these slippers. Since then Bimal has gone through several slippers but she
has kept this aside with special care. I’d joked with her and said, ‘Every day
you worship me by touching my feet when I sleep and today I have come to
revere my living goddess by keeping the dust off her feet.’ Bimal had said,
‘Please don’t say such things or I’ll never wear those shoes.’ This was my
familiar bedroom. This room has a fragrance, which my heart knows
intrinsically and which is perhaps not known to anyone else. My lovelorn
heart has spread so many fine roots into these little and insignificant things:
I have perceived this today in a way in which I never did before. The heart
isn’t free if the core root alone is destroyed. Even those slippers tend to
draw him back. Even if Lakshmi deserts you, the mind hovers around the
strewn petals of her lotus-seat. Suddenly my glance rested on the mantle. I
saw that my picture stood on it as before and some dried, blackened flowers
lay before it. The face in the photo was unchanged although the veneration
was distorted. Today, from this room, these dry, black flowers were all I
deserved. The reason they were still here was that even the need to discard
them was gone. Anyway, I have accepted Truth in this stark and dreary
form of it—when will I be able to achieve the indifference of that picture on
the mantle?
At this point suddenly, Bimal entered the room from behind me. Quickly
I looked away and walked towards the shelf, saying, ‘I’ve come to take
Amiel’ s Journal.’ I don’t know why this explanation was necessary. But I
felt as if I was an offender here, as if I had no rights and had come in here to
steal a look at something that was hidden, something that should stay
hidden. I couldn’t look her in the eye and quickly left the room.
When it became impossible to sit and read the book in the sitting room,
everything in life began to seem difficult—I didn’t have the slightest wish
to see or hear anything, to say or do anything—exactly when all the days of
my future had congealed into that one single moment and weighed down on
my heart like a colossal weight, Panchu brought some ripe coconuts in a
basket, kept them before me and touched my feet.
I asked, ‘What’s this, Panchu? Why this?’
 Panchu was a subject of my neighbouring landlord, Harish Kundu; I
knew him through my teacher. Firstly, I wasn’t his landlord and then he was
extremely poor—I had no right to accept any gifts from him. I thought, the
poor fellow must be desperate and has thought of this novel manner to gain
a few rupees’ tip to take him through the day.
I dipped into the moneybag in my pocket, took out two rupees and was
about to give it to him when he folded his hands and said, ‘No sire, I can’t
take that.’
‘Why, Panchu?’
‘No sire, let me come clean. At a time when I was very hard up, I’d
stolen some coconuts from your private gardens. I don’t know when I’ll die,
and so I’ve come to repay the debt.’
Today, Amiel’ s Journal wouldn’t have served me in any way, but these
words from Panchu cleared up my mind in a trice. This world extended far
beyond the sorrows and pleasures of unity and separation with one woman.
Human life was substantial; I should take stock of my own mirth and tears
only as I stand amidst that immensity.
Panchu was a devotee of my teacher. I know how his home runs itself.
Every morning he wakes at dawn and takes a basket filled with paan,
tobacco, coloured strings, mirrors, combs etc. which appeal to the farmer
women, wades through the knee-deep pond and goes to the area where the
lower castes live. Over there, he trades his wares for paddy, which fetches
him a little more than a purely monetary exchange. On the days he can
return early, he finishes his meal quickly and goes to make sweetmeats at
the sweet shop. When he returns from there, it’s late at night. Even after
working so very hard, he and his family get two square meals a day only a
few months of the year. His manner of eating is thus: at the very outset he ll
fill his stomach with a jug of water and a large portion of his meal consists
of the cheap variety of banana. At least four months in a year, he only gets
to have one meal a day.
There was a time when I wanted to give him some financial aid. My
teacher said, ‘You may spoil people with your charity, but you can’t end
their misery. In Bengal, Panchu is not alone. The breasts of the entire land
are dry. You will never be able to pour in money from the outside and make
up for the milk which isn’t there.’
It was food for thought. I’d decided to sacrifice my life to this kind of
thinking. The other day I’d gone to Bimala and said, ‘Bimal, let’s devote
our lives to banishing misery from our land.’
Bimal laughed and said, ‘You seem to be my prince Siddhartha. See that
you don’t walk away one day and leave me stranded.’
I said, ‘Siddhartha’s penance didn’t include his wife. I need my wife’s
presence.’
Thus the conversation ended in jokes and banter. Actually, by nature
Bimal is what they mean by a ‘gentlewoman’. Although she comes from a
poor family, she’s a princess. She believes that the standard of measuring
the joys and sorrows in the lives of the people from the lower classes is also
lower. They will obviously be needy but it is of no consequence. They are
protected by the confines of their inferiority just as the waters in a tiny pond
are contained within its shores. If one were to dig and extend those bounds,
the water would run out and the muck below would rise up. Bimal had more
than her fair share of that pride in her class, which is present in small
sections circling independent seats of pride, within which resides, in spite of
one’s inferiority, a sense of pedigree and class befitting one’s individual
status. She is indeed a descendant of Manu. I suppose the blood of Guhak
and Eklavya flows stronger in my veins. I’m not able to push away those
who are below me as someone who is beneath me. My India doesn’t belong
to gentlemen alone. I’m fully aware that the further the lower classes slide
down, it’s India that is deteriorating and the more they die, it’s India that is
dying.
Bimal hasn’t joined me in my struggle. In my life, I have given her such
a large place that my cause has become smaller in comparison. I have
pushed aside the goals of my life in order to make room for Bimal. The
consequence of that is that I have only decked her up and adorned her day
and night; my life is revolving only around her. I failed to keep in mind just
how vast is man and how noble is life.
 Yet, amidst all this, my teacher has protected me; as far as possible, he is
the one who has guided me towards all that is great. Without him, I’d be
sunk in the depths of despair on this day. He is an amazing human being. I
call him amazing because there is a great difference between him and the
age and times in which we live. He has been able to perceive God within
him, and so nothing can distract him anymore. Today when I sit down to
balance the books of my life, I can see a gross error, a great loss on one
side; but I should always be able to add that there is also a reward that
outweighs all losses.
I had already lost my father and come into my own by the time my
master finished educating me. I said to him, ‘Please stay here with me and
don’t seek work elsewhere.’
He said, ‘Look here, I have already received my wages for what I have
given you. If I charge you for the extra that I gave you, it’ll be like cheating
my God.’
Rain or shine, Chandranathbabu has come to teach me from his house.
I’ve never been able to make him use our cars or vehicles. He said, ‘My
father always walked to work from Bot tulla to Lal dighi and he never even
rode a shared car. Walking to work runs in our family.’
I said, ‘Fine, then take up a job with us handling our business or
something.’
He said, ‘Oh no, my boy, don’t trap me in these rich folks’ business. Let
me remain free.’
His son has now completed his MA and is looking for a job. I said that
there’s a possibility of working for me. His son too wants the same. At first
he’d mentioned this to his father. But when he received no response there,
he dropped some hints to me in his father’s absence. That’s when I
mentioned it to Chandranathbabu. He said, ‘No, he will not work here.’ His
son was very angry that his father deprived him of such an opportunity. In
response, he left his widower father alone and took a job and left for
Rangoon.
My master always said to me, ‘Look Nikhil, you are not indebted to me
and I am not obligated to you—that is our relationship. If a beneficial
relation is bound in terms of money, it is an insult to greater powers.’
Now he is the headmaster of the Entrance School here. Until now, he
wasn’t even staying at my place. For a while now, I would go over to his
house in the evenings and spend time there until late at night. Perhaps he
thought that his tiny, damp room was not good for me in the heat of summer
and so he has taken up residence at my home. It is amazing how he feels as
compassionately for the rich as for the poor—he doesn’t ignore the troubles
and sorrows of the rich man or those of the poor.
Why is it that the closer you look at reality, the more it affects you?
When we see Truth as formless, we can be free. Today Bimal has made the
reality of my life so glaring that the Truth seems obscure. Hence, I am not
able to hide my misery in this entire world. And so I have spread my tiny
bit of despair amidst the people of this earth and sat down to hum:

Monsoon floods, July and August,

My temple lies vacant!

When I can glimpse the Truth from the window of Chandranathbabu’s

life, the meaning of the song is transformed into:

Vidyapati says how will you spend

Your days and nights without Hari?

All misery, all mistakes come from eluding that Truth. If I don’t fill my
life with the Truth, how will my days and nights pass? I can’t take this
anymore; Truth, fill my vacant temple now.
 Bimala

I CAN’ T EXPLAIN WHAT HAPPENED SUDDENLY TO THE HEARTS

AND MINDS of the people of Bengal in those days. It was as if the waters
of the Bhagirathi came and instantly initiated the sixty thousand sons of
Sagar. The ashes of many centuries lay hidden beneath; no spark would
light them up, no feelings could stir them and then, on this day, they
suddenly woke up and said: ‘Here I am.’
I’ve read in books that in Greece a sculptor brought his sculpture to life
by the grace of some gods. There was a gradual evolution from beauty into
life there, a quest. But in the ashes of this crematorium of a country, where
was that exquisite harmony? I’d have understood it if the ashes were a hard,
stone-like object—the petrified Ahalya had also turned into a human being
one day. But this was all scattered, they constantly slipped through the fist
of the Maker, fluttered around in the wind, sat in a pile but never became
one. Yet, all of a sudden, that thing came into our yard and growled in a
thunderous voice: ‘Ayamaham Bhoh!’
On that day we felt all this was magical. The present moment fell into our
palms like a solitaire from the crown of an inebriated god; there was no
logical connection between our past and this present. This day was like
being on medication which we didn’t seek out, didn’t buy, didn’t receive
from a doctor but instead brought on through a dream.
That is why we felt all our sorrows and problems would dissolve by
themselves in this mantra. The boundaries of the possible and impossible
vanished. We kept feeling that at any moment now, it’s about to happen.
That day we felt history has no conduit, it arrives on its own heavenly
chariot. At least its mahout didn’t have to be paid, there were no costs for
its upkeep; its champagne glass needed to be topped up from time to time
and then, it was straight to heaven with this mortal body.
 It wasn’t as if my husband was indifferent. But it seemed like an anguish
burned within him through all the excitement, as if he could see something
beyond all that lay before him. I remember, one day while arguing with
Sandip he’d said, ‘Good fortune arrives suddenly and yells out before our
door only to show us that we don’t have the strength to welcome him and
we haven’t made any arrangements to invite him in.’
Sandip said, ‘Look Nikhil, you don’t believe in God and so you speak
like an atheist. We can clearly see that the goddess has come to grant us a
boon and you are doubting it?’
My husband said, ‘I believe in God and that’s why I know deep in my
heart that we haven’t been able to arrange for His puja. God has the power
to grant us a boon, but we must have the strength to receive it.’
Such words from my husband always made me angry. I said to him, ‘You
think this fervour in the land is only an intoxication. But isn’t there a power
in inebriety?’
He said, ‘There’s power, but no weapons.’
I said, ‘God grants power and that is hard to come by. Weapons—even an
ordinary blacksmith can provide those.’
My husband laughed and said, ‘The blacksmith won’t give it for free,
he’ll charge you.
Sandip proudly thrust out his chest and said, ‘We’ll pay, my dear, we’ll
pay him.’
My husband said, ‘When you do, I’ll call in the musicians for the
festivity.’
Sandip said, ‘We’re not waiting for you to call them. There’s no need to
buy our priceless festivity for a price.’ He started singing in his hoarse,
intense voice:
‘My penniless admirer wanders in the garden
And plays the penniless flute most melodiously.’

He looked at me, laughed and said, ‘Queen Bee, this was just to prove
that when a tune throbs in your throat, you sing even if you are totally out
of tune. If you sing heartily, it doesn’t matter if the song is perfect or not.
Now a tune has taken our country by storm. Let Nikhil sit and practise the
notes. Meanwhile, we will sing ourselves hoarse and set everything on fire.
My home says where will you go,
You’ll lose everything when you venture out.
My heart says, let all that you have,
Burn and perish quite merrily.

‘What is the worst that can happen to us—we’ll be destroyed, right?

Fine, I’m ready for it.
If it has to go, do let it go,
I’ll lose everything with a smile,
I’m on my way to drink
From the fountain of death.

‘The truth, Nikhil, is that we are energized. We can no longer stay within
the bounds of all that is right and smooth. We have to set off on the path
that is difficult and impossible.
The dear ones who draw us close
Know naught of this nectar.
The friend of the wild path
Has called out to me.
Now let the straight bend to the wild
And fall apart in pieces.’

I felt that my husband had something to say. But instead he just walked
away.
This tumultuous emotion that was crashing on the shores of the country,
came into my life on a different note. The juggernaut of my Fate was
approaching and the distant sound of its wheels was making my heart beat
louder and faster. Every second I felt a strange and sublime phenomenon
was almost upon me, and I wasn’t at all responsible for it. Sin?The path that
moved away from the spaces of sin and chastity, fair and legitimate, pity
and sympathy had already opened up on its own. I had never desired this,
never waited expectantly for this; if you look at my entire life, I was in no
way answerable for this. All my life I had devoutly prayed and when it was
time to grant the boon, a different God had come and stood in front of me!
Just as the nation suddenly woke up, looked ahead and said ‘Vande
Mataram’, my heart and soul and every nerve in my body today woke up to
say ‘Vande’ to some unknown, exotic—something that defied explanation!
This was the peculiar similarity between the song in the heart of the
country and in my own heart! Many a days I crept out of my bed silently,
and went and stood on the terrace. Just beyond the boundary of our house
lay the half-ripe paddy fields. To the north, the glistening river could be
seen through the thick cover of trees in the village. Beyond that lay the
forest. It was formless like the foetus of impending creation, sleeping
nestled in the womb of the immense night. I looked ahead and saw my
country standing there—a girl just like me. She used to be content in her
own corner of the house. But suddenly she heard the call of the wild. She
didn’t have time to think. She just walked blindly into the dark. She didn’t
wait to light a little lamp. I knew, on that slumberous night, just how her
breast heaved and fell. I knew that the distant flute called her thus, that she
felt she was there already, she had found it and now she could even walk
with her eyes closed and not be afraid anymore. This wasn’t the mother
who would remember that the house had to be swept, the lamps lit and the
child fed. Today she was the lover. This was our nation in the days of the
Vaishnava Padabalis. She had left her home and forgotten her duties. All
she had was endless passion; fired by that passion she walked on, heedless
of the road. I too was a traveller on the same tryst. I too had lost my home
and my way. The goal and the means were both misty before me—all I
knew was the passion and the journey. Oh nocturnal one, when the night
would melt into the crimson dawn, you wouldn’t even see a sign of the road
back home. But why should I return—I’d rather die. If the darkness that
summoned me with its flute destroyed me totally and left me with nothing,
all my worries would be over. Everything would be destroyed; not a trace of
me would remain. All my sins would mingle in the darkness; after that—
what mattered laughter or sorrow, good or bad?
In those days, the time machine was in full steam in Bengal. Hence, even
the impossible was becoming a reality in the blink of an eye. It began to
feel as if even in that corner of Bengal where we lived, nothing could be
stopped anymore. Until then, in those parts, the speed of events was a little
slower than in the rest of Bengal. The main reason for that was that my
husband didn’t like to put any pressure on anyone. He used to say, ‘Those
who sacrificed for the country, are the great souls. But those who troubled
others in the name of the nation, are the enemies. They want to hack away
at the roots of freedom and nourish its trunk and leaves.’
But when Sandipbabu came and settled here, his followers began to
move around and sometimes there were speeches in the marketplace and in
public. The waves began to sway these parts too. A group of local youths
joined up with Sandip. Many of them were notorious in the village for
deeds best untold. But the flame of enthusiasm ignited from within and
without and they glowed. It became clear that when there was elation in the
nation’s air, people’s foibles disappeared on their own. If there was no joy
in the country it was difficult for people to be healthy, straight and strong.
At this time, everyone noticed that imported salt, sugar and cloth were
not yet banned from my husband’s land. So much so, that even my
husband’s employees began to grow restless and mortified on this account.
But , a few months ago when my husband had brought in the home-grown
goods into this area, everyone here had laughed at him, either to themselves
or openly. We had scoffed at them when the indigenous goods had no link
with our heroism. Till date, my husband sharpened his home-grown pencil
with the indigenous knife, wrote with the quill pen, drank from the brass pot
and in the evening he read by lamplight. But this colourless brand of
swadeshi didn’t inspire us. On the contrary, I always felt ashamed of the
lacklustre furniture in his living room, especially when the magistrate or
any other foreigner came to visit. He always laughed and said, ‘Why do you
let such little things get to you?’
I said, ‘But, they’ll go away thinking we are uncouth and uncultured.’
He said, ‘If they think that, I am free to think that their culture extends
only till the polish of the fair skin and doesn’t reach the red bloodstream of
the world’s humanity.
There was a common brass pot on his desk which he used as a vase.
Often, when a British visitor was expected, I hid that pot and replaced it
with a colourful ceramic vase and placed flowers in it.
My husband would say, ‘Bimal, my brass pot is as un-selfconscious as
these flowers. But your foreign flower vase doggedly lets you know that it
is a vase. I’d rather keep artificial flowers in it than real ones.’
My second sister-in-law gave my husband a lot of encouragement on this
matter. Once she came up to him in a real rush and said, ‘Thakurpo, I’ve
heard that they’ve come out with an indigenous soap—of course, our days
of using soap are over. But if it doesn’t have animal fat, I’d like to use it.
This is one bad habit I have picked up after coming to this house—I gave it
up long ago, but still a bath doesn’t feel complete without soap.’
That was enough to cheer up my husband. Crates of home-made soap
began to arrive. Was that soap or lumps of clay? It was obvious that the
foreign soaps that Mejorani used earlier, were still in use. These homemade
soaps were just for washing her clothes.
Another day she came and said, ‘Thakurpo, I believe they’ve come out
with locally made pens. I really must have some. Please, I beg of you, get
me a bunch of those—’
Thakurpo was thrilled to bits. All the sticks that were being passed off as
pens in those days began to gather themselves in Mejorani’s room. But that
didn’t matter to her because she was hardly into any form of writing. The
daily accounts could have been written with a breadstick for all she cared. I
noticed that the ancient ivory pen was still in her writing box and on the
rare occasion when she wanted to write something, that was what she
reached for. As a matter of fact, she used to enjoy these antics only to
highlight the fact that I did not encourage my husband’s whims. But there
was no way I could explain this to my husband. If I tried, his face became
so sullen and thunderous that I realized it was having the opposite effect.
Trying to protect such people from being fooled only resulted in getting
cheated yourself.
Mejorani loved sewing; one day when she was sewing, I spoke my mind
to her, ‘What is this! On one hand you drool when your Thakurpo mentions
some locally made scissors; but when you sew, you have to have the foreign
ones?’
 Mejorani said, ‘What’s wrong with that? See how happy it makes him! I
have grown up with him and I cannot hurt him as cheerfully as you can.
He’s a man and he doesn’t have any other passion—one of them is playing
around with all these indigenous things and the other deadly passion is you
—that’ll be the end of him!’
I said, ‘All said and done, I don’t think it’s a good thing to say one thing
and believe in something else.’
Mejorani laughed and said, ‘Oh my simpleton, you seem to be as straight
as a headmaster’s cane. Women can’t be that straight—simply because they
are soft, they bend a little and there is no harm in that.’
I will never forget what she said—one of his deadly passions is you and
that’ll be the end of him.
Now I firmly believe that a man needs a passion, but it’s best if it isn’t a
woman.
The market in Sukhsayar was the largest in our district. Every day there
was a market on this side of the river and on the other side a big
marketplace was set up every Saturday. This marketplace began to grow
really busy only after the rains. The waters of the pond merged with the
river and made the crossing easy. At that time the import of thread and
warm clothes stepped up.
In those days there was a wave of revolt against foreign clothes, salt and
sugar in the markets of Bengal. All of us were up in arms. Sandip came to
me and said, ‘Since we have this huge marketplace within our jurisdiction,
we should turn it into a totally home-grown one. We must exorcise the
foreign evil from this region.’
I agreed vehemently and said, ‘Yes , we must.’
Sandip said, ‘I have had many arguments with Nikhil on this score—I
simply couldn’t convince him. He says speeches are fine, but there should
be no coercion.’
With a trace of self-importance, I said, ‘Fine, leave that to me.’
I knew just how deep my husband’s love was for me. If I had the least bit
of sense, I’d have died of shame rather than go to him on that day and make
demands on that love. But I had to prove to Sandip how powerful I was. In
his eyes I was Shakti—the goddess of power! With his powers of
articulation, he had explained to me time and again that the supreme Shakti
revealed itself to different people in the form of a special person. He said,
‘We are all wandering fervently in search of the “Radha” of the Vaishnava
Idea. Only when we truly find her do we understand clearly the meaning of
the flute that plays in our heart.’ As he spoke, sometimes he began to sing,
‘When you didn’t show yourself, Radha, the flute did play.
Now that I have looked into your eyes, my tune has washed away.
Then, in many beats and tunes
I had cried for you all over the place.
Now, all my tears have taken Radha’s form and turned into smiles.’

As I heard all this constantly, I forgot that I was Bimala. I was Shakti, I
was rasa, I had no ties and all was possible for me; whatever I touched was
recreated by me—my whole world was created anew by me. The autumn
sky was not so golden before my heart touched it. Every single moment I
rejuvenated that brave, that mystic—my devotee—that remarkable genius
enlightened by knowledge, fired by courage and blessed with passion. I
could palpably feel that I was infusing new life into him every moment; he
was my creation. One day Sandip brought one of his favourite followers,
Amulyacharan, to me after much persuasion. Within a second I saw his eyes
lit by a different light; I realized he had glimpsed Mother Shakti and I knew
that my creation had begun its process in his bloodstream. The next day
Sandip came to me and said, ‘What kind of a mantra is this—that boy is not
the same anymore. Within minutes the flame within him has lit up. No one
will be able to keep this fire of yours under a bushel. One by one they will
come and light their lamps until the country will be ablaze in a festival of
lights.’
I was intoxicated by this sense of my own glory and I decided to grant
my disciple a boon. I also knew very well that no one could stop me from
doing what I wanted to do.
That day I loosened my hair, combed it afresh and tied it again. My
British teacher had taught me to draw the hair from around my neck and
pile it high up into a knot, which was a favourite with my husband. He
would say, ‘God has chosen to reveal to me, a non-poet, instead of to
Kalidasa, just how beautiful are a woman’s neck and shoulders. Perhaps the
poet would have likened it to the lotus stem. But I feel it is a burning torch
with your dark knot raising its black flame upwards.’ And he would reach
for my naked shoulder—but alas, why bring that up now.
Then I sent for him. Long ago I used to send for him thus on many
pretexts, true or false. Lately all such excuses had come to a stop and I had
run out of fresh ideas.
 Nikhilesh

PANCHU’ S WIFE WAS STRICKEN BY TUBERCULOSIS AND SHE

DIED. PANCHU would have to atone for it. The society did its calculations
and came up with a cost of twenty-three and a half rupees.
I was angry and I said, ‘So what if you don’t atone for it—what are you
afraid of?’
He raised his patience-laden eyes, tired as a cow’s, and said, ‘I have a
daughter; she has to be married off. Besides, my wife’s last rites will also
have to be done.’
I said, ‘If there has been a sin, there has also been enough atonement in
the last few months.’
He said, ‘Well sir, that there has been! Some of my land had to be sold
and some mortgaged to pay the doctor’s bills. But if I don’t give the
necessary alms, and feed the Brahmins, there is no release.’
There was no point in arguing. I said to myself, ‘When will those
Brahmins, who are being fed, atone for their sins?’
Panchu had always lived on the edge of starvation. But his wife’s illness
and the subsequent expenses for the rituals threw him in at the deep end. He
became a follower of a local hermit perhaps for some consolation. This
offered him a new drug to dull the pain of his children being unfed and
starving. He realized that life was nothing. Just as there was no joy, the
sorrows were also mere dreams. Eventually, one night, he left his four
children in the hovel and renounced his material aspirations.
I had no knowledge of any of this. My mind was fraught with the combat
between accord and discord. My teacher didn’t even tell me that he had
taken in Panchu’s children and was raising them alone. At the time his own
son and daughter-in-law were in Rangoon. He was alone at home and all
day he had to be at the school.
 When a month had passed thus, one morning suddenly Panchu appeared.
His ‘renunciation’ was a thing of the past. When his two elder children
squatted at his lap, on the floor, and asked, ‘Father, where did you go?’, his
youngest took over his lap and the third child, a girl, hugged him from
behind and rested her cheeks on his back, he broke down. They just
wouldn’t stop. He said, ‘Master-babu, I don’t have the strength to feed them
two square meals a day, and I don’t have the strength to leave them and
walk away. Why do I get beaten like this? What have I done to deserve
this?’
Meanwhile his trade, the faint thread on which his survival depended,
had gone to pieces. The first few days that he took refuge in the professor’s
home, turned into a permanent arrangement. He began to while away his
time there and never mentioned going back to his own home. Finally
Chandranathbabu said to him one day, ‘Panchu, why don’t you go on
home? Your house will soon fall apart. Let me lend you some money. You
can start a clothing business and pay me back gradually over a period of
time.’
At first Panchu was a little upset. He felt the world was a place devoid of
human sympathy, and when the professor made him sign a handnote before
giving the money, he felt, ‘What’s the point of such help when I have to
return the money in the end?’
The professor hated the idea of giving alms to someone and making them
feel encumbered. He always said, ‘Loss of dignity is equal to a loss of
pedigree.’
After taking the money thus, Panchu couldn’t really bring himself to
really bow down low at the professor’s feet. The professor smiled to
himself. He always wanted a short greeting anyway. He says, ‘I would like
to respect and be respected in turn. That is my ideal relationship with
others. I do not deserve any veneration.’
Panchu bought some clothes and winter-wear and began to sell it to the
farmers. He got his payment in instalments. But similarly, the rice, jute or
other crops that he got when he made the exchange, were a bonus. Within
two months he was able to pay back the professor one instalment of the
interest and also a part of the principal. This payback obviously also
affected the length of the greeting once again. Panchu began to feel that it
was a mistake to take the teacher for a great soul. He actually had his eye on
the good old silver.
Thus Panchu’s days passed. At this point, the wave of swadeshi swept
through the countryside. The young boys from our village or the
neighbouring ones, who went to school or college in Calcutta, came back
for the holidays, some of them already having abandoned their studies.
They appointed Sandip as their chief and wholeheartedly lent themselves to
the task of spreading the swadeshi-message. Many of these boys had passed
out of the free school run by me; a lot of them had scholarships borne by
me. One day they came up to me in one big group and said, ‘You’ll have to
ban foreign threads and clothes from the Sukhsayar market.’
I said, ‘That is impossible.’
They said, ‘Why? Will it affect your profits?’
I realized the barb was meant to hit home. I was about to retort, ‘Not
mine, but certainly the poor people’s.’
My teacher was present. He exclaimed, ‘Of course it will; that will never
be your loss.’
They said, ‘For the sake of the country—’
Chandranathbabu overrode what they were saying by exclaiming, ‘The
country is not just this land and soil, it is also the people. Have you ever
bothered to spare these people a second glance? Today, suddenly you have
woken up to the fact that you must decide what they’d eat and what they’d
wear. Why should they tolerate that and why should we let them tolerate
that?’
They replied, ‘But we ourselves have also taken to indigenous salt, sugar
and cloth.’
He said, ‘You are all angry on a whim and that has given you the strength
to do all this happily. You have the money and if you use a few paise more
to buy homespun goods, they don’t come and stop you. But what you want
them to do is sheer abuse of power. They are caught in the fray of life every
single day of their lives, struggling to just stay afloat—you cannot even
imagine the value of a few paise to them—you have nothing in common
with them. You spend your days in a different section of the palace of life;
today you want to transfer your burden onto their shoulders, you want to
use them to take the edge off your anger? I believe this is cowardice. You
are free to take it as far as you wish, as far as you can go, even till death. I
am an old man. I am ready to salute you as the leaders and follow in your
footsteps. But if you trample on these poor people’s freedom and sing songs
in praise of liberty, I will personally stand in your way, even if it kills me.’
They were, nearly all of them, ex-students of the professor and so they
couldn’t retort to his face. But their blood was on the boil. They looked at
me and said, ‘Look, are you going to be the only one resisting the vow that
the entire nation has taken today?’
I said, ‘It is not my place to resist. On the contrary, I’ll do my best to
encourage it.’
An MA student smiled slyly and asked, ‘How are you encouraging it?’
I said, ‘I have stocked the homespun cloth and threads in our markets; we
also send these out to other markets in the area—’
The student shouted, ‘But we went to your market and saw that no one is
buying these.’
I replied, ‘For that, neither I nor the market is to blame. The only reason
for that is that the whole country has not yet taken the same vow as you.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘Moreover, even those who have taken the vow
seem more intent on causing havoc. You would like to force the uninitiated
to buy the thread, weave the cloth and also buy the fabric. By what means?
By force and the use of the zamindar’s henchmen and their lathis. In other
words, the vow is yours, but the ordinary people are the ones who’ll fast
and you will celebrate that fasting.’
A student of science asked, ‘Fine, then go ahead and explain which part
of the fasting have you yourselves undertaken?’
My teacher said, ‘Do you want to know? Fine then, hear this: it is Nikhil
who has to buy that thread from the indigenous mills. He sponsors the
weavers who weave the cloth and conducts classes to train them. Given his
business sense, by the time a towel is woven from those threads, it’ll be
worth the same as a piece of expensive silk. So he will buy that towel
himself and hang it up as drapes in his drawing room; it wouldn’t even
cover the half of it. By that time if you are through with your vow, you’d be
the first to laugh at the rustic designs on his curtains. If at all that coloured
fabric is appreciated anywhere, it is by the British.’
I had been with him for so long, but never had I seen my teacher quite so
upset. I realized that the grievance had been collecting in his soul over the
past months, simply because he loved me so much. It was that pain that had
chipped away at the dam of his patience, and finally given way.
A student of medicine spoke up, ‘You are all elders and so we shan’t
argue with you. So, in a word you are saying that you will not ban the
foreign goods from your markets?’
I said, ‘No, I will not do that, because it is not mine to ban.’
The MA student smiled derisively and said, ‘You won’t because that’ll
cut into your profits.’
My teacher confirmed, ‘Yes it will, and so it is entirely his business.’
Thereafter all the students shouted ‘Vande Mataram’ and walked out.
A few days later, Chandranathbabu brought Panchu to me. What was up?
‘His landlord, zamindar Harish Kundu had fined Panchu a hundred
rupees.’
‘Why, what did he do?’
‘He sold foreign cloth. He went to the zamindar and fell at his feet saying
that he had bought this cloth with money taken on loan and once these were
sold off, he would never do such a thing again. The zamindar said,
“Impossible. Burn the cloth in front of me and only then will I let you go.”
Panchu couldn’t take it. He shouted, “I cannot afford it, I am poor; you have
enough. Why don’t you buy the cloth and then burn it?” At this the
zamindar flared up and said, “You bastard, your tongue wags too much—
give him the shoe.” One round of humiliation followed and then he was
fined a hundred rupees. These are the kind that follow Sandip around,
shouting Vande Mataram. These are the so-called servants of the land.’
‘What happened to the cloth?’
‘Burnt.’
 ‘Who else was there?’
‘Hordes of people. They began to shout Vande Mataram, Sandip was also
there. He picked up a handful of ash and said, “Brothers, this is the first
time the pyre of foreign commerce has been lit in your village. These ashes
are sacred. You will have to smear these ashes on yourselves in order to
work towards ripping away the shroud of Manchester and turning into
naked saints.”’
I said to Panchu, ‘Panchu, you’ll have to go to court.’
Panchu said, ‘No one will bear witness.’
‘No one—Sandip, Sandip, come here.’
Sandip came out of his room and said, ‘What is the matter?’
‘This man’s bag of cloth was burnt by his zamindar in front of your eyes.
Won’t you bear witness?’
‘Of course I will,’ Sandip laughed, ‘But I am a witness for his zamindar.’
I said, ‘How can you be a witness for someone? You’ll be a witness for
the Truth.’
Sandip said, ‘And the Truth is merely what has taken place, is it?’
I asked, ‘What is the other Truth?’
Sandip said, ‘That which should take place. The Truth that we need to
formulate. Many lies are needed to make the Truth just as many illusions
are needed to make the world. Those who have come into this world solely
to create, they do not accept Truth, they formulate it.’
‘Hence—’
‘Hence, I will be a witness for that which you call a lie. Such false
witness has been proudly presented at the courtroom of your Truth by those
that have colonized, built empires, formed societies and framed religions.
Those who will rule need not fear lies. The iron shackles of Truth are meant
for those who will be ruled. Haven’t you read history? Don’t you know that
in the largest kitchens of the world where the mishmash of politics and
civics is cooked up, the ingredients are all lies?’
‘That may be true of history, but—’
‘Oh no, why should you cook that mishmash, instead you’ll be forced to
gobble it, right? They’ll split up Bengal and claim it is for you; they’ll close
down the doors of education and claim that it is with every good intention
towards you; you will be saintly and shed tears and we shall be evil and
build fortresses out of lies. Your tears won’t stay, but our forts will.’
Chandranathbabu said to me, ‘Don’t argue over this, Nikhil. If a man is
incapable of comprehending that the great Truth within us all is the root of
everything, he cannot ever comprehend that man is finally meant to unveil
that Truth from all its shrouds and not to create a debris outside oneself.’
Sandip laughed and said, ‘You have spoken like a true teacher. These
words are fit for the pages of a book. But my eyes tell me that it is man’s
aim to make a huge pile of things outside oneself. And the people who have
achieved that aim successfully are telling lies in bold letters on commercial
advertisements every day. They fill in fake figures in the ledgers of civic
management, their newspapers are full of lies and just as flies are carriers of
the dengue fever, these people’s followers spread the message of deception.
I am their disciple. When I was with the Congress, I didn’t hesitate to to add
ninety per cent water to the ten per cent Truth, in accordance with the
market conditions. Today I have left the party and I still believe in the
principle that it is success and not Truth that is the goal of mankind.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘The fruit of Truth.’
Sandip said, ‘Yes, it takes many a lie to grow that fruit. The ground
beneath one’s feet has to be mashed into a pulp before that fruit can grow.
And the Truth, that which grows by itself, is the weed, the wild flower.
Those who expect fruits from that plant are the biggest fools of all.’
Sandip finished speaking and stormed out of the room. Chandranathbabu
smiled a little, looked at me and said, ‘Do you know something, Nikhil?
Sandip is not a-religious, he is anti-religion. He is the new moon; no doubt,
he is the moon, but circumstances have forced him to rise opposite the full
moon.’
I said, ‘That is why he and I have never agreed on anything. He has
harmed me a lot and will do more harm to me. But I cannot bring myself to
disrespect him.’
He said, ‘I am beginning to understand that. I have often wondered how
you have tolerated Sandip for so long. In fact, at times I have suspected that
you are weak in doing so. But now I can see that the two of you may not
speak the same words, but you have the same rhythm.’
I spoke in jest, ‘Friends in amity have caused enmity. Perhaps Fate has in
store another epic in blank verse for our lives.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘Now what should we do about Panchu?’
I said, ‘You had once told me that the land on which Panchu’s house
stands, is ancestral property and has come to belong to him. His zamindar
has been trying to get him off that land for a while. Why don’t I buy that
land and make him my subject?’
‘And the hundred rupees’ fine?’
‘How can they realize that? The land belongs to me now.’
‘And the bag of cloth?’
‘I will send for more. As my subject he will be allowed to sell whatever
he wants, wherever he wants.’
Panchu folded his hands and said, ‘Sire, in the battle of kings there’ll be a
crowd of policemen, lawyers and many such vultures, watching the fun. But
I’ll be the only one to die,’
‘Why, what will they do to you?’
They’ll set my house on fire and I’ll die, along with the children.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘All right, let your children stay with me for the
next few weeks. Don’t be afraid. You are free to do business from your own
home, no one will lay a finger on you. I will not allow you to run away,
defeated by a wrong done to you. The more you bear, the more the burden
grows.’
That same day I bought Panchu’s land, registered it and laid my claims
on it. Then the squabble started.
Panchu’s property belonged to his maternal grandfather. Everyone knew
that Panchu was his sole heir. But suddenly a maternal uncle’s wife
materialized, laying claims to the inheritance, and settled down in his house
with her bags, bundles, sacred books and a young widowed daughter.
Surprised, Panchu said, ‘But my aunt died long ago.’
Her reply was, ‘Your uncle’s first wife may have died, but the second one
came soon enough.’
 ‘But my aunt died long after my uncle’s death and so there really
wouldn’t have been time for a second wife.’
The woman admitted that the second marriage had taken place before and
not after death. She didn’t want to share space with her co-wife and so
she’d stayed in her father’s house. When her husband died, she renounced
the material world and went to Vrindavan. Some of the officers of the
zamindar, Kundu, were aware of all this and perhaps some of the subjects
knew about it too; if the zamindar hollered loud enough, then even some of
the people who had eaten the wedding feast would surely crawl out of the
woodwork.
That afternoon, when I was thoroughly preoccupied with this new hassle
in Panchu’s life, suddenly Bimala sent for me from her chambers. I was
startled. I asked, ‘Who has called?’
The bearer said, ‘Ranima,’
‘The eldest one?’
’No, the youngest.’
The youngest one—I felt as if a hundred years had passed since she had
last sent for me.
I left everyone sitting in the drawing room and went into the inner
chambers. In the bedroom I was even more surprised to see Bimala had
cared to dress up a little. For a while now this room had begun to look quite
untidy; everything was so cluttered up that it felt like the room was also
preoccupied. Today, I noticed that the room looked a little like its old self.
I stood silently looking at Bimala. She blushed a little, twisted the
bangles on her left wrist with her right hand and said, ‘Listen, in all of
Bengal our market is the only one stocking foreign cloth; does it look
good?’
I asked, ‘What will be the best thing to do?’
‘Why don’t you tell them to throw those things away?’
‘But those things do not belong to me.’
‘But the market is yours.’
‘It belongs much more to those people who come there to buy and sell.’
‘Why can’t they buy indigenous goods?’
 ‘I’d be happy if they do buy it, but if they don’t?’
‘What? How can they dare to? You are after all—’
I don’t have much time; what is the point of arguing over this? I cannot
bring myself to exploit people.’
‘The exploitation is not for your gain, it is for the sake of the country—’
‘I suppose you won’t understand that torturing for the sake of the country
is the same as torturing the country itself.’ I left. Suddenly, I felt the whole
world was alight in front of my eyes. The weight of the earthly world lifted
from my shoulders. Suddenly I perceived how, for an eternity, the earth
hurtled through the skies by a strange force, turning night and day like a
sacred chant in spite of nurturing the life forms placed on her and
maintaining a balance between all the changes and evolution that she
undergoes. Responsibilities were endless, but so was freedom. No one, but
no one, will ever tie me down. Suddenly, a deep fount of joy sprang from
my mind like a swollen wave from the ocean’s breast, and reached for the
clouds.
I asked myself again and again, what was the matter with me? At first
there was no clear answer. And then it became quite clear: the impasse that
had tortured me all these days had suddenly ended. As clearly as the glass
on a photograph, I could see all of Bimala’s actions in my mind’s eye. It
became obvious that Bimala had dressed herself up to get something from
me. Until this day, I had never learnt to see Bimala’s dressing up as separate
from her. But today her western-styled chignon seemed a mere pile of hair;
moreover, there was a time when this chignon was priceless to me and
today I realized it was ready to be sold for a lot less.
Sandip and I argued about patriotism every step of the way. Those were
real differences. But the words that Bimala spoke in the name of the
country, were coming from Sandip’s mouth and not from a greater Idea. If
Sandip changed his words, so would Bimala. I could see all this very clearly
—all traces of the fog had lifted.
As I left the broken nest of my bedroom and emerged into the open air of
the autumn noon, I saw a bunch of mynahs chattering in great excitement in
my garden. To the south of the garden lay the cobbled path, lined by rows
of kanchan trees that overwhelmed the skies with the scent of their pink
blossoms which were in abundance. In the distance, by the winding village
road the empty bullock cart lay upturned and the two cows, no longer
yoked, were roaming free. One was chewing grass and the other basked in
the sun while a crow sat on its back, pecking away at its hide as the cow
closed its eyes in sheer bliss. At this moment I felt I had suddenly come
very close to the soul of this universe which was very simple and yet so
profound; its warm breath fanned my heart as the fragrance of those
kanchan flowers. I felt that I did exist, and so did everything else; this
created a feeling—deep, munificent and indescribably beautiful within me.
The next moment I remembered Panchu, stuck in the mire of poverty and
cunning. I thought I saw Panchu amidst that pensive grassland in the
autumn noon, lying with his eyes closed, just like the cow—not from bliss
but from sheer exhaustion, weariness and starvation. He seemed to
personify all the poor farmers of Bengal. I caught a glimpse of the severely
religious Harish Kundu, forehead marked with sacred sandal paste. He was
no mean feat. He was huge too. He was like a layer of oily green floating on
the ancient, rotting pond beneath the bamboo clump, covering it entirely
and giving out toxic vapours by the second.
Eventually I would have to fight with those shadows that lay emaciated,
tired and blinded by ignorance on the one hand, and on the other hand those
that had thrived on the blood of the poor and was crushing the earth under
its own immovable weight. This task had been kept aside for many hundred
years. Let my trance break, my daze disappear and my manhood be freed
from the ineffective mesh of the inner chambers. We are men, freedom is
our goal, we shall hark the call of the Ideal and rush forth, we must scale
the walls of the demon king and rescue the goddess trapped within. The girl
who makes the victory badge for us with her deft fingers is our true partner.
We must see through the masquerade of the girl who sits by the door and
weaves her spells on us, we must see her true form without illusions—we
shouldn’t dress her up in the colours of our own dreams and desires and
send her out to distract us. Today I felt I shall be a winner. I stand on the
straight road; I can see everything clearly. I have been freed and I have also
freed—my salvation lies where my work is.
I know there will come a day when my heart will be wracked by pain
again. But now I am familiar with that pain. I can no longer respect it. I
know it is mine and mine alone—does it really have any value? The pain of
the world will grace my brow. Oh Truth, save me, help me. Don’t let me go
back to that fake world of illusion and artifice. If you must make me a lone
traveller on a solitary journey, let the road lead to you. Today I have heard
your drums within my soul.
 Sandip

THAT DAY THE DAM OF TEARS WAS ON THE VERGE OF GIVING

WAY. BIMALA sent for me, but she was silent for a while, her eyes
glistening with unshed tears. I knew she had failed with Nikhil. She had
been certain that she would somehow get the results, though I had no such
hopes. Women know the weak spots of men, but sometimes find it hard to
fathom their strengths. In reality, men are a mystery to women and vice
versa. If that wasn’t the case, the difference between the two sexes would
have been a superfluous creation of Nature.
Indignation! It was not about the important task not being fulfilled. The
indignation was all about not being granted what she asked for so plainly.
There is no end to the shades of gestures, tears, games over this demand of
the ‘I’ that women have. That is what makes them so sweet. They are much
greater egoists than we are. When the Maker made us, He was the
schoolteacher, His tools were theories and notes. But when their time came,
He had resigned from his job and become an artist; His tools were a brush
and paints.
Hence, when Bimala stood there on the edge of the setting sun like a
tearful, fiery red cloud coloured by that melancholy distress, I found her
very sweet. I went close to her and took her hand. She trembled but didn’t
take her hand away. I said, ‘Bee, we are co-workers, we have the same
goals. Now sit down.’
I sat her down on a stool. Wonderful. All that emotion and it took just
this to clamp it shut. The monsoon-floods of the Padma that were rushing
forth, seemingly not prepared to stop for anything or anyone, suddenly
appeared to change its course and began to flow smoothly between its
banks again. I took her hand in mine and pressed them, every nerve end in
my body playing like the strings of a bow; but why did it have to stop at the
first two notes, why couldn’t it complete the aria? I realized that the
bottomless depths of the flow of life are formed by many years of conduct.
When the flood of desire gushed briskly enough, in places it was strong
enough to erode that course and in places it met its match. There was a
deep-rooted restraint within me, what was it? It was not just one thing, but
many things tangled together. So I could never figure it out, but I knew it
was an impediment. What I really was would never stand a court inquisition
and be a writ of law. I was a mystery to myself and that’s why I loved
myself so much; if I knew that ‘I’ completely, it would be so easy to root it
out, discard it and reach a state of nirvana.
As Bimala sat on the stool watching me, her face paled. She knew in her
heart that one of her problems no longer existed. The comet had zoomed
past her, but the whiplash of its tail left her feeling enervated for a while. In
order to get her out of the stupor, I said, ‘There are obstacles, but we
shouldn’t regret them. We will fight, won’t we, Queen?’
Bimala coughed a little to clear her throat and then just said, ‘Yes.’
I said, ‘Let us work out the details of the plan for our actions in the
future.’
I took out a pencil and paper from my pocket and began to discuss how I
would delegate work amongst the boys who had come to join us from
Calcutta. Suddenly Bimala said, ‘Not now, Sandipbabu, I’ll come again at
five o’clock; we can talk then.’ She got up and quickly left the room.
I realized that she simply couldn’t bring herself to concentrate on what I
was saying; she needed to be alone with herself for a while. Perhaps she’d
have to throw herself on the bed and weep for some time.
When Bimala left, the atmosphere in the room became headier. My mood
seemed to get tipsier just as the sky is tinged with more pink after the sun
actually sets. I began to feel I had let the moment pass. What kind of
weakness was this? Perhaps Bimala went away disgusted with my
inexplicable hesitation. Possible.
At this time, when my blood was throbbing with the effects of this
inebriation, a bearer came and informed me that Amulya wanted to see me.
For a moment I wanted to send him on his way, but before I could make up
my mind, he came into the room.
Then it was back to news of the battle of salt-sugar-cloth. The heady
feeling evaporated. I felt like the dream had snapped. I got ready for battle
and off to the battlefield it was.
The news was this: Kundu’s subjects who used to bring stuff to the
market had finally come around. The officers in Nikhil’s employ were all
secretly on our side. They were supplying the inside information. The
Marwaris were begging to be allowed to sell the foreign cloth in exchange
for a fine, or they’d go bankrupt. The Muslims were refusing to give in.
A farmer had bought some cheap German shawls for his children. Some
of our boys from the local villages had grabbed the shawls from him and
burnt them. That had caused a furore. We offered to buy him some desi
warm clothes. But there were no cheap desi warm clothes to be found.
Obviously we couldn’t buy him Kashmiri shawls. He came and put his case
before Nikhil. He ordered him to lodge a complaint against the boys. The
local officers had taken the responsibility of seeing to it that the complaint
didn’t go through smoothly; their chief was also on our side.
The point was, if we had to buy desi cloth for those whose things we
burnt, and then also pay for the court case, where were we supposed to get
that kind of funds from? And all this burning would hot up the market for
foreign fabrics. When the nawab was so taken with the sound of breaking
glass that he went around smashing all his chandeliers, the glassblowers had
the time of their lives.
The second question was: there weren’t any cheap desi warm clothes to
be had. Now in winter, should we allow the foreign shawls, wrappers and
merino to stay or not?
I said, ‘We will not gift desi clothes to the man who wants to buy foreign
clothes. He is the one to be punished, not us. If they went to court, we
would set their crops on fire; the gentle approach wouldn’t work. Hey
Amulya, don’t look so shocked. I don’t get my kicks out of setting the
farmer’s crops on fire. But this is war. If you are afraid to hurt, go and have
fun, be genteel and keel over with love.’
 And the foreign warm clothes? Whatever the inconvenience, those will
not be allowed to stay. We cannot have a compromise with the foreign stuff
under any circumstances, in any condition. When there were no foreign
wrappers to be had, the farmer s children double-wrapped their cloth and
kept themselves warm. That’s what they’d have to do again. I know that
wouldn’t satisfy them, but this wasn’t the time for satisfaction.
We had somehow, by hook or by crook, managed to bring around some
of those who brought the shipments to the markets by boat. Mirjan, the
most powerful of them all, refused to give an inch. We asked Kulada, the
chief-clerk here, if Mirjan’s boat could be sunk. He said, of course it could,
but the blame would eventually come to rest at his door, I said the blame
shouldn’t be kept so loose that it could come to rest anywhere; but if at all it
came to that, I’d come forward and take it.
At the end of the market-day, Mirjan’s empty boat was docked at the pier.
There were no boatmen in it. The chief-clerk had cleverly invited them to a
show nearby. That night the boat was set adrift with a hole in it and bags of
rubbish piled into it.
Mirjan understood. He came to me, weeping and with folded hands,
‘Sire, I was wrong. Now—’
I said, ‘How did you come to figure it out so clearly just now?’
He didn’t answer that, but said, ‘Sire, that boat was worth two thousand
rupees, if not more. Now I have come to my senses, if you please forgive
me this one time—’
He fell at my feet, I told him to come again in another ten days or so. I
could buy his loyalty for two thousand rupees. We needed to have people
like this on our side, I needed to get hold of some money quickly.
That evening when Bimala came into the room, I stood up and said,
‘Queen, the work is almost done; now we need money.’
Bimala said, ‘Money? How much?’
I said, ‘Not much, but I need the money somehow.’
Bimala asked, ‘Tell me how much money you need.’
I said, ‘Right now, about fifty thousand would do.’
 Bimala was shaken to hear the amount, but she hid it well. How could
she say she wasn’t up to it, again and again?
I said, ‘Queen, you can make the impossible happen. You have done it
too. If I could show you what you have achieved, you’d have seen it too.
But this is not the time for it; perhaps another day. Now we need the
money.’
Bimala said, ‘I’ll get it.’
I knew that she had decided to sell her ornaments. I said, ‘Don’t touch
your ornaments now. You never know what might come up in future.’
Bimala stood there staring at me.
‘You’ll have to get this money from your husband’s funds.’
Bimala was struck speechless. A little later she said, ‘How can I take his
money?’
‘But isn’t his money yours too?’
With anguished emotion she said, ‘No.’
I said, ‘In that case it isn’t his either; it belongs to the country. When the
country is in need of it, Nikhil has kept it away from her, stolen it from her.’
Bimala asked, ‘How will I get that money?’
‘By hook or by crook; you can do it. You will bring the money back to its
rightful owner. Vande Mataram. Today this chant of “Vande Mataram” will
break open the iron chest, bring down the walls of the store room and it
would pierce the hearts of those who, in the name of faith, refuse to bow
down to its power. Bee, say it with me: Vande Mataram.’
‘Vande Mataram.’
We are men, we are kings, we have the right to collect tax. Ever since we
have stepped onto this earth, we have been looting it. The more we have
demanded from her, the more homage she has paid us. We are men: since
the beginning of time we have plucked and plundered, chopped down trees,
dug up the soil, killed animals, birds and fish. From the depths of the ocean,
the womb of the earth and from the jaws of death, we have only ever seized.
We are the male species. We have not spared a single iron chest ordained by
God; we have pillaged and seized.
 The earth takes pleasure in satisfying the male of the species. Day in and
day out, the earth has met our demands and thus grown greener, more
beautiful and more fulfilled; or else, she would have stayed shrouded in
woods and forests and never found her true self. All the doors to her heart
would have been locked, her diamonds would have stayed buried in mines
and the pearls of the oyster would never have seen the light of day.
By the sheer force of our demands, we the men, have discovered the
women today. In the process of giving themselves to us constantly, they
have found themselves more fully, more completely. Only when they come
to submit the solitaires of their joy and the pearls of their sorrow to our
treasury do they get a true sense of those jewels. Thus, for men to take is
the best charity and for women to give is most profitable.
I have placed a tall order before Bimala. At first I had a doubt: was this in
my nature or was it just a petty squabble with my own self? I felt this was a
bit harsh. Just once I thought of calling her back and saying forget it, don’t
go into all this. Why should I stir up your life like this? For that moment I
forgot that this was the reason why the male species was an active one: we
are meant to stir up the lives of the passive ones and make it a life worth
living. If we hadn’t made the women weep for so many years, the door to
the vast treasury of their grief would have stayed shut forever. The male
was meant to make the universe weep and gratify it thus. Why else would
his hands be so strong, his fist so powerful?
Bimala’s very self desired that I, Sandip, should make a heavy demand
on her, call upon her to stake her life. She wouldn’t be fulfilled otherwise.
She had been waiting for me only because she hadn’t been able to express
her emotions through tears all these years. She had been so happy for so
long that the moment she looked at me, the blue clouds of grief moved over
her horizon. If I took pity on her and tried to dry her tears, then I would not
be doing my duty.
Actually the reason for my slight hesitation was that this was a demand
for money. Money belonged to men. Asking for it brought an element of
beggary into it all. Hence I had to make the amount a hefty one. If it were a
few thousand, there’d be a strong stench of pilfering. But fifty thousand was
a veritable raid.
Moreover, I should really have been very rich. All these years I have had
to stifle many desires for the sheer lack of money. This was something that
didn’t sit well on me of all people. If this was a fault of my Fate, I’d have
let it pass; but this was indecent, tasteless. If I have to scrounge to pay my
rent and dip into my moneybag only to come up with the fare for an
intermediate class when I travel by train, it was not just pathetic but
ludicrous. It was clear to me that for someone like Nikhil the ancestral
property was quite superfluous. Poverty would have suited him just as well.
He would have, quite easily, kept his Chandranathbabu company in a
decrepit old buggy.
Just once, I want to have fifty thousand rupees in my hands and blow it in
two days, on my own comforts and a few deeds for the country. I want to
shed this poor man’s disguise and look at the real me, the rich me, in the
mirror just once.
But I don’t think Bimala would be able to procure the money easily.
Perhaps eventually it’ll come down to the few thousand after all. Well, so
be it. ‘It is wise to forego half’—so they say. But since the sacrifice is not
by my choice, the wisdom lies in foregoing eighty or even ninety nine per
cent.
All that I have written so far are vital matters; I will go back to it in detail
again later when I have the time. Now there is none. The chief-clerk of this
place has asked me to meet him immediately; I’ve heard something has
gone wrong.

The chief-clerk said that the police suspect the man who drowned the boat.
The man was a veteran and he was how in custody. It would be difficult
getting him to talk. But it was a matter of time and since Nikhil was upset,
the clerk couldn’t do anything too obvious. He said, ‘Look, if I get into
trouble, I’ll drag you with me.’
I asked him, ‘Where are the ropes by which you’ll hang me?’
 The clerk said, ‘I have one letter written by you and three written by
Amulyababu.’
Now I understood why the clerk had written to me and got me to send a
reply; it served no other purpose. These wiles were new to me. The clerk
had enough respect for me to know that I could drown my friend as easily
as I did my foe. The respect would have increased if I had answered the
letter verbally rather than given a written reply.
Now the point was, the police had to be bribed. If the matter worsened,
then we’d have to settle out of court and offer compensation to the man
whose boat we drowned. It was also clear to me that in this vile mesh being
woven, the clerk would come by his fair share of the profits. But I couldn’t
say any of this. On the face of it, I was saying ‘Vande Mataram’ and he was
also saying ‘Vande Mataram’.
The fixtures that one has to deal with to do this work are often below par.
I suppose a conscience is so ingrained within us, that at first I felt very
angry with the chief-clerk. I was about to write some very harsh words in
this diary regarding the fraudulence of our countrymen. But if there is a
God, I owe him this debt of gratitude: he has given me a clear mind.
Nothing, both within and without, ever remains unclear to me. I may fool
others but never could I fool myself. And that’s why I couldn’t stay angry
for too long. The truth is never good or bad, it is merely the truth and that is
empirical. Water bodies are formed only by the water that remains after the
earth has sucked up as much water as it wants to. The layer of soil below
our ‘Vande Mataram’ was bound to absorb some water and both the clerk
and I were a part of that process. What will remain after that absorption,
will be the true Vande Mataram. We may curse it and call it deceit, but this
is the Truth and it has to be accepted. At the bottom of every noble deed in
this world, there is a layer of pure filth, even at the bottom of the ocean.
Hence, in doing noble deeds, one must take into account this filth and its
demands. So, the clerk would grab some and so would I: it was all a part of
the greater need. Feeding the horse some grains wasn’t enough, the wheels
also have to be oiled.
 Anyway, money was sorely needed. I couldn’t wait for the fifty thousand.
I’d have to collect whatever I could, right now. I know that on the face of
such pressing needs one has to let go of the larger goals of the future. A bird
in hand is worth two in the bush after all. That’s why I tell Nikhil that those
who walk the road of surrender never have to curb their greed; but those
who choose the path of greed have to surrender it every step of the way. I
had to forego my fifty thousand—this was something Nikhil’s
Chandranathbabu never had to do. Of the seven deadly sins, the first three
and the last two are common to man and the two in the middle are for
cowards. Lust is fine, but there should be no greed and no envy. Otherwise
lust turns to dust. Envy clings to the past and the future. It can waylay the
present with ease. Those who cannot concentrate on the immediate present,
those who dance to a different drummer’s beat, they are like the sad lover,
Shakuntala: they fail to attend to the guest at hand and the curse makes
them lose the distant one for whom they yearn.
Today I had held Bimala’s hand and she was still under that spell. I too
was bound by that spell. This echo had to be kept alive. If I were to repeat it
often and bring it down to the level of the mundane, then today’s symphony
would turn into a cacophony tomorrow. Now Bimala was incapable of
questioning any of my demands. Some people need illusions to survive—
why cut down on it? Right now I have a lot of work; so for now, let this cup
of love skim the mere surface. Drinking the last dregs now would only stir
up trouble. When the right time comes, I shall not gainsay it either. Oh
lustful one, forfeit your greed and master the instrument of envy, playing it
like the maestro.
Meanwhile, our work was on a roll. Our group had infiltrated deep inside
and set up a stronghold. A lot of cajoling and sweet talk made me realize
one thing: the Muslims were not going to come round by coaxing. They’d
have to be subdued and shown who was the boss in no uncertain terms.
Today they bare their fangs at us; but one day we’ll make them dance to our
tune.
Nikhil says, ‘If India is a true entity, then Muslims are a part of it.’
 I say, ‘That may be so. But we need to know which part of it they are and
then squash them right there, or they’d be bound to revolt.’
Nikhil says, ‘Do you think you can quell the revolt by stepping it up?’
I say, ‘What is your plan?’
Nikhil says, ‘There is only one way to resolve the difference.’
I know that every one of Nikhil’s arguments is bound to end in a moral,
just like the didactic writings of a philosopher. The strange thing is that
even after fiddling around with these maxims for so many years, he still
actually believes in them. No wonder I say that Nikhil is a born pupil.
Fortunately, he is made of genuine stuff. Like Chand-saudagar of the
Manasamangal, he has initiated himself into the mantra of fantasy; the bite
of reality may kill him but he won’t accept it. The problem is that for people
like this, death is no final proof. They have closed their eyes and decided
that there is something beyond it.
For a while now, I have formulated a plan. If I can bring it to fruition, the
entire country will be ablaze. The people of our land won’t wake up to her
unless they can actually see her. They need a goddess with a form to denote
the country. My friends liked the idea. They said, ‘Fine, let us build an
idol.’ I said, ‘Our building it won’t work. We’ll have to use the idol that has
always been in worship and make her the symbol of the country. The
channels of devotion run deep in our land and we’ll have to use the same to
channelize the devotion towards the country.’
Nikhil and I had an argument over this a while back. He said, ‘If I
consider a task to be true and genuine, I cannot use illusions as a means.’
I said, ‘Yes , but sweetmeats do win you friends; the common man has to
have his illusions and three-fourths of this world is made up of common
men. It is to keep these illusions alive that every country has formulated its
own gods. Man knows himself.’
Nikhil said, ‘Gods are for breaking illusions; only demons keep them in
place.’
Fair enough, let them be demons, but they are essential to get the work
done. The problem is, in our land, all the illusions are in their place. We pay
homage to them and yet, do not put them to good use. Take the Brahmins
for example: we bow to them, give them alms and yet we never utilize
them. If we used their superiority to the fullest, we could take the world by
storm because there is a bunch of people in this world who are doormats
and they are the largest in number. They cannot accomplish much in life
unless they get trod upon. Illusion is a means to make these people work.
All this while we have sharpened these people as weapons and now the time
has come to put them to use—I can’t put them away now.
But it was impossible to get Nikhil to see this point. Truth was lodged in
his mind as firmly as a prejudice, as though Truth was an absolute,
empirical given. I have told him many a time, in situations where falsehood
was the Truth, it was the Truth. It was because our country knew this for a
fact that it was said in olden days that for the ignorant the lie was the Truth.
If he moved away from it, he would be deflecting the Truth. The man who
could accept an idol as the symbol of the country would actually be
working on that as the Truth. Given our nature and culture, it wasn’t easy
for us to accept the nation in its abstraction, but we could easily accept the
symbol. Since this was a fact, the ones who wanted results would work on
this premise and work effectively.
Nikhil got very agitated and exclaimed, ‘Just because you have lost the
capacity to strive for the Truth, you want an instant reward to fall into your
lap. That’s why for hundreds of years, when all the work is left undone, you
have turned the nation into a goddess and sat in front of her praying for a
boon.’
I said, ‘The impossible must be achieved and that’s why the nation has to
be a goddess.’
Nikhil said, ‘In other words, you are not interested in achieving that
which is attainable but must be striven for. Everything should stay as it is
and the consequences alone should be miraculous.’
I said, ‘Nikhil, your words are mere advice. It may be a good thing at a
certain age, but not when a man’s teeth are itching to bite. I can see it right
before my eyes: the harvest that I have never sown is flourishing and
growing. On what basis? It is because I can see my nation as a goddess.
Turning this into an eternal symbol is the need of the day. A genius doesn’t
argue, he creates. I will give shape to what the nation thinks today. I will go
from one house to another saying the goddess has appeared in my dreams
and she wants homage. We will go to the Brahmins and say you are the true
priests of the goddess and since you’re not giving her her dues, you have
lost your status. You’d say I am lying. No, this is the truth. Millions of
people all over the country are waiting to hear these words from my lips
and that is why it is the truth. If I can successfully spread my own message,
you’d see the miraculous results for yourself.’
Nikhil said, ‘But how long would I live? Even after the results you would
hand to the nation now there may be other far-reaching consequences,
which may not be so apparent now.
I said, ‘I want the consequences of here and now, only those are mine.’
Nikhil said, ‘I want the consequences of tomorrow, only those belong to
everybody.’
Fact of the matter is, perhaps Nikhil had his fair share of that gift so
common to Bengalis: imagination. But a parasite of a plant called morality
grew around and over it and nearly crushed the life out of it. The worship of
Durga or Jagatdhatri that the Bengali had initiated in India was an amazing
display of his true nature. I am very certain that this goddess is a political
being. These two goddesses are different forms of that spirit of the nation to
whom people prayed at the time of the Mughal rule, asking for strength to
overthrow the enemy. No other people of India have been able to come up
with such external manifestations of their enterprise. It was apparent that
Nikhil’s imagination had died entirely when he said to me, ‘At least when
the Muslims took up arms against the Marathas or the Sikhs, they held their
own weapons and wanted victory. Bengalis placed the weapons in the hands
of the goddess, mumbled some mantras and hoped for victory; but the
nation is not a goddess and the only victory was the sacrifice of some goats
and of bulls. The day we will work for the welfare of the nation, is the day
we will get our reward from the true deity.’
The problem is that on paper Nikhil’s words sound very nice. But my
words are not meant for paper; they are to be engraved on the nation’s heart
with a branding iron. It is not the kind of farming the pundit theorizes about
in books but the kind of dreams the farmer etches out on the earth’s bosom
with his plough.
When I met Bimala I said, ‘Is it possible to realize that deity, the one for
whose homage we have come into this world after a thousand births, until
She appears before me in tangible form? How many times have I told you
that if I hadn’t seen you, I would never have visualized my nation as one
entity? I don’t know if you understand me. It is very difficult to explain that
gods may stay hidden in the heavens, but they are visible on this earth.’
Bimala looked at me strangely and said, ‘I have understood you very
well.’ For the first time, she addressed me with the informal ‘you’ as
opposed to the formal equivalent.
I said, ‘Krishna was not just Arjun’s charioteer; he had a more colossal
form and when Arjun perceived that, he realized the whole Truth. In this
entire land I have perceived that colossal form of yours. Ganga-
Brahmaputra are the strands of pearls gracing your neck; in the line of
forest on the distant banks of the blue river I have glimpsed the lashes of
your kohl-black eyes; the young rice fields undulate with the shadow of
your striped sari rippling through them; I have glimpsed your cruelty in that
raging summer sky, panting like a desert lion with its red tongue lolling.
When the goddess has deigned to grant her devotee such a miraculous
vision, I have decided to spread the word of her homage in the entire land
and only then will my countrymen come alive. “It is your form that I build
in every temple.” But everyone hasn’t quite understood it yet. So I have
decided to create the statue of my deity with my own hands, before all the
people of this land and worship her in a way that will help everybody
believe in her. Grant me that boon, give me that strength.’
Bimala’s eyes were half closed. She sat still like a statue, almost one with
her seat. Had I spoken some more, she would have fainted. A little later she
opened her eyes and said, ‘Oh voyager of destruction, you have set out on
the road and there is no one who can stop you. I can see that no one can
come in the way of your desires. The king would come to lay down
his sceptre before you, the rich would come to donate all his wealth to
you and even those who do not have anything, would be gratified to lay
down their lives at your feet. Ethics and principles, morals and values
would all fly away. Oh my Lord, my God, I do not know what you have
seen in me, but I have just glimpsed your colossal form in the midst of my
heart. It reduces me to nothing. Lord, oh Lord, what a tremendous force it
is. It will not rest until it has destroyed me completely; I cannot take it
anymore, I cannot bear this pain.’ She fell to the ground, reached for my
feet and lay there sobbing, sobbing and sobbing.
This was hypnotism! This was the way to win the world. This magic
spell was better than any other method. Who said Truth wins the day?
Victory to illusion! Bengalis have realized that and hence they started
worshipping the goddess with ten hands and placed her astride a lion. The
same Bengali will build another goddess today and win the world with
mesmerism. Vande Mataram!
I picked her up gently and made her sit on the stool. Before the weariness
hit her after all this excitement, I quickly said, ‘The goddess has assigned
me to reinstate her in this land, but I am a poor man.’
Bimala’s face was still red, her eyes misted with tears. She spoke in an
emotion-laden voice, ‘You and poor. Everything that anyone has belongs to
you. Why do I have a box full of jewellery? Please seize all my jewels and
gems for your work—I don’t need any of them.’
Once before too, Bimala had offered me her jewellery. I baulk at nothing
but this was my limit. It bothered me because traditionally it was the man
who decked the woman with jewellery and hence, taking it from a woman
would feel like a blow to my manhood.
But I had to get beyond myself. I wasn’t the one taking it. It was for the
worship of the Mother and all of it would go for that. The puja would be so
glamorous that no one ever would have seen anything like it. In the history
of the new Bengal, this would be enshrined for all times to come. It would
be my greatest gift to the country. The fools of the land worship the deity;
Sandip creates the deity.
So much for the big talk. The small talk was also required. As of now I
had to have at least three thousand, five thousand would be even better. But
could I possibly broach the topic of money at an emotional time like this?
Time was running out. I trampled upon my hesitations and spoke up,
‘Queen, the treasury is almost empty and the work is grinding to a halt.’
Immediately Bimala’s face crumpled in pain. I realized that she thought I
was demanding the fifty thousand. It was probably weighing on her mind;
perhaps she had worried about it all night and yet had found no solution.
After all, she had no other way to show her love—she couldn’t possibly
give her heart to me overtly and so she wanted to bring this money to me as
a mark of all her covert caresses and desires. But the lack of a way to do so
was stifling her. Her pain struck me to the quick. She was now all mine.
There was no need to worry about uprooting her; now I needed to tend to
her and keep her alive.
I said, ‘Queen, that fifty thousand won’t be needed right now. I have
worked it out and just five thousand, or even three will do for now.’
Bimala was overwhelmed by the pressure lifting so suddenly. Like a song
she sang, ‘I will bring you five thousand.’
This was the tune to which Krishna’s lover Radha had sung,

For my love I’ll don flowers in my hair,

The likes of which has never been seen in all the world,
The notes of the flute played in the wind,
Not for every ear is it meant,
Oh look at that, Yamuna has overflowed her banks.
It was the same tune, the same song and the same words: ‘I will bring
you five thousand.’ ‘For my love I’ll don flowers in my hair.’ The flute
played so sweetly because the wind had a narrow passage, there were so
many restrictions in its way. If my greed had forced me to break the flute
and flatten it, I would have heard, ‘Why? What do you need this money
for? I am a woman, where shall I get so much money, etc. etc.’ It wouldn’t
have a single syllable in common with Radha’s song. That’s why I say,
illusion is the king, it is the flute and without illusion, it is the flute cracked
open—I think Nikhil has got a taste of that pure emptiness these days. I feel
sorry for him. But Nikhil boasts that he wants the Truth and I boast that I’d
never let illusion slip through my fingers. ‘Jadrishi bhabana jasya
siddhirbhabati tadrishi.’ One must act on one’s own desires. So there was
no point regretting it.
In order to keep Bimala soaring in those lofty heights, I finished the
matter of the five thousand quickly and got back to the adulation of that
fierce goddess. When and where would we have the puja? The fair in
Hosaingaji that was held in September at Ruimari under Nikhils
jurisdiction, had thousands attending it and that would serve as a good
locale. Bimala was excited. She felt this wasn’t about burning foreign cloth
or burning down homes; Nikhil would surely not object to this. I laughed to
myself—how little did they know each other, even after nine years spent
together. Their knowledge was limited to the bounds of the home. The
moment the world came into it, they were all at sea. For nine years they sat
and believed that the home and the world matched in spirit. Today they are
beginning to feel that some things that have never been coordinated could
not suddenly complement harmoniously.
Anyway, let the ones who do not understand one another gradually
stumble and find their way around; I don’t have to waste too much time on
it. But I couldn’t leave Bimala in this heightened state, like a flying kite for
too long and so I had to get my work done as quickly as possible. When she
rose and walked towards the door, I asked, quite nonchalantly, ‘Queen,
about the money—’
Bimala turned around and said, ‘At the end of this month, when the
monthly revenue comes in—’
I said, ‘No, that would be too late.’
‘When do you want it?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow you’ll have it,’
 Nikhilesh

THE DAILIES HAVE STARTED RUNNING A COLUMN ABOUT ME

AND LETTERS are pouring in; I believe a limerick and cartoons are also in
the pipeline. The channels of mockery have opened up, as have the
floodgates of lies and everyone is delighted. They know that in this game of
mudslinging, the slings are all in their hands, I am just a gentleman walking
by the road, my clothes will be mud-stained.
They write, in my area every single individual is eager to participate in
swadeshi and all that holds them back is the fear of retribution from me.
The handful who dare to sell desi goods are harassed by me in true
zamindari style. I am in cahoots with the police, I correspond with the
magistrate regularly and the daily had been informed by reliable sources
that all this was aimed at earning myself some titles in addition to the ones
inherited by me. They have written: ‘A man should earn his own name, but
we also know that his own fellowmen have demanded that he be
dethroned.’ Although my name isn’t mentioned, it is quite obvious from all
they have said. On the other hand, the paper is also flooded by letters in
praise of the patriotic Harish Kundu. They write that if there were more
such diehard patriots in this land, then by now the factory chimneys of
Manchester would also have taken to singing Vande Mataram in tuneful
submission.
Meanwhile, I have received a letter written in red ink detailing the
number of zamindars whose offices have been burnt down because their
loyalties lay with Liverpool. It says that the fire of God has now embarked
on this mission of cleansing; steps will be taken to evict those from the
mother’s lap, who were never her children in the first place.
It is signed, ‘A humble claimant to the mother’s love, Ambikacharan
Gupta.’
 I knew that all this was the handiwork of local students. I called a few of
them and showed them the letter. Solemnly, the BA said, ‘We have also
come to know that there is a group of desperados in the land who would do
anything to rid the land of the enemies of swadeshi.’
I said, ‘If even a single person buckles down under their unfair pressure
tactics, it is a shame for the entire nation.’
The MA in history said, ‘I don’t understand.’
I said, ‘Our country quakes under every gaze, be it God’s or the
constable’s. Now, in the name of freedom, if you bring back that terror with
a new name to it, if you want to plant your victory flag through oppression,
then the ones who love the country would never bow down to that rule of
terror.’
The history MA said, ‘Is there a country where the law of the land is not
one of terror?’
I said, ‘The limit of that terror determines how free the people of that
land are. If it is used solely to curb violence on others then it’s obviously
there to protect every individual from the cruelty of another individual. But
if the reign of terror determines what one should wear, where he should buy
his goods, what he should eat, with whom he should have his meal, then it
denies the basics of individual freedom. And that is tantamount to denying
man his human rights.’
The history MA asked, ‘Isn’t there such a system of denying the
individual’s freedom from the roots in other countries as well?’
I said, ‘Of course there is. The existence of slavery in any country is
proof of that.’
He said, ‘In that case slavery is also a part of man’s objective and that is
also humanism.’
The BA said, ‘ We have really appreciated the example raised by
Sandipbabu the other day: if you were to sweep up the entire estate of
Harish Kundu or the Chakravartys of Sankibhanga, you wouldn’t find an
ounce of foreign salt. Why? Because they have always ruled with an iron
hand. For the masses, who are meek by nature, the greatest danger is in not
having a ruler.’
 The young man who had failed his FA piped up, ‘I’ve heard this from
someone: the Chakravartys had a Kayasth tenant. He refused to obey them
over an issue and it went to the courts. The situation came to this that he
had hardly enough to eat. After two days of starvation, he set off to sell his
wife s jewellery. It was his last resort. But no one bought them from him,
fearing retribution from the zamindar. The chief-clerk offered to buy them
for five rupees. They must have been worth nearly thirty. Desperate, he
agreed to five rupees. The clerk took the bundle of ornaments from him and
informed him that the five rupees would go towards paying off his tax
arrears. When we heard this, we told Sandipbabu that we should boycott
Chakravarty. But he said, if you boycott such vibrant people, who would
you work with—the dead ones? They are the masters because they desire
with a passion. Those who cannot crave so passionately, would either go
along with others’ wishes, or die for others. He drew a comparison with you
and said, today there isn’t a single person in Chakravarty’s area who would
dare to oppose swadeshi. But Nikhilesh wouldn’t be able to do that,
however hard he tried.’
I said, ‘Of course I wouldn’t, because I want greater things than
swadeshi, I do not want a lifeless post, I want a live tree. My work will take
time.’
The historian laughed and said, ‘You’ll get neither, because, I agree with
Sandipbabu: to have is to seize. It took us a while to learn this lesson,
because these are the antithesis of textbook wisdom. I have seen with my
own eyes: Gurucharan Bhaduri, the Kundu family’s clerk, went out to
collect taxes. A Muslim subject had nothing to sell or give. He only had his
young wife. Bhaduri said you’ll have to marry off your wife and raise the
money. A candidate for this nikaah soon turned up and the debt was paid
off. I can tell you, that husband’s tears almost robbed me of my sleep; but
whatever the misery, I have learnt this, that when it comes to collecting
money, the man who can make the debtor marry off his wife and raise the
debt is a greater human being than I am. I cannot do it, tears come to my
eyes and so all is lost. If anyone can save my country, it’ll be people like
this clerk, this Kundu and this Chakravarty.’
 I was dumbfounded. I said, ‘If that is so, then it is my job to save the land
from these clerks, these Kundus and Chakravartys. Look here, when the
poison of slavery that runs in the blood begins to come out it take horrible
shapes. The one who is tortured as the daughter-in-law, turns into the
greatest tormentor when she is the mother-in-law. A man may walk with his
eyes lowered but when he goes as the groom’s party, the bride’s household
is hard pressed to meet his random demands. You have unequivocally
accepted the rule of fear, known that as the right path, and so now you
choose to terrorize everyone and bend them to your will. My battle is with
this brutality inherent in weakness.’
My thoughts are very simple and any common man would understand
them in a minute. But for these MAs who were flexing their historians’
brains in this land, the point was to trounce out Truth.
Meanwhile, I was bothered about Panchu’s fake aunt. It would be
difficult to prove. It was difficult, and almost next to impossible, getting
witnesses for the truth. But for something that hasn’t happened, one could
easily rally forth a whole host of witnesses. This was a ploy to spoil my
purchase of the original deeds from Panchu. I was cornered and I even
considered giving Panchu some land in my own area and setting him up.
But Chandranathbabu said he wasn’t keen on letting evil defeat him so
easily. He wanted to try himself.
‘You will try?’
‘Yes, I.’
I couldn’t understand what a teacher hoped to achieve in these matters of
legal twists and turns. That evening he failed to keep our daily appointment.
I went looking and found that he had left with his clothes and things; he had
left a message with the servants that he’d be back in a few days. I figured he
may have gone to Panchu’s uncle’s home in the hope of rounding up some
witnesses. If that was the case, I knew nothing would come of it. His school
was closed for a few days on account of Jagatdhatri Puja and Muharram. So
there was no news of him there either.
When the autumn evenings draw to a close, turning the light into a muted
yellow, the shades in one’s mind also turn colour. Many people live their
mental lives indoors—they can totally ignore the ‘outside’. My mind seems
to reside under a tree, exposed to every nuance, every gust of wind from the
outside, resonating every single aria of the sunlight. When the sun was high
in the sky and a host of chores jostled for space all around me, I felt I
needed nothing more from life. But when the sky grew dimmer, my heart
seemed to feel that dusk came upon this world only to draw a curtain over
life; at this time solitude would fill up the endless darkness. The life that
blossomed amidst others in the day was supposed to withdraw within itself
at dusk and that was the true essence of light and shade. I could scarcely
turn my back on this profound truth. Hence, when dusk began to glow on
this earth, like the glittering dark eyes of a lover, my heart kept repeating,
‘It’s untrue, the true meaning, the true purpose of a man’s life is not work;
man is not merely a labourer, be it the labour of Truth, or the labour of life.
Nikhilesh, have you lost sight of that man, who lives and rests in the
starlight, away from all his work? The man who is completely alone in that
space where all the world’s multitude cannot give him company, must be so
truly alone.’
That day, when the evening had just reached the crossroads of dusk, I had
no work; neither did I feel like working. Chandranathbabu wasn’t there
either. When my empty heart yearned to cling to something, I went to the
garden indoors. I love chrysanthemums. I had planted many of them in clay
pots and when they all bloomed together, it looked like waves of colour in a
sea of green. It was a while since I’d visited the garden. So I smiled to
myself, ‘Let me lighten up the mood of my bereaved chrysanthemums
today.’
When I stepped into the garden the sickle moon just peeped over the
walls of our house. Dark shadows lay pooled at the base of the wall and the
moonlight arched over it to cast its radiance on the western side of the
garden. I suddenly felt the moon had tiptoed up from behind, covered the
eyes of darkness and was smiling mischievously.
When I approached the gallery-like steps on which rows and rows of
chrysanthemum plants rested, I spotted someone lying quietly beneath the
steps, on the grass. My heart missed a beat. She also stood up, startled.
 I was in a quandary. I wondered if I should go back; perhaps Bimala also
considered leaving. But staying and leaving, both were equally difficult.
Before I could come to a decision, Bimala stood up, covered her head with
her sari and started walking back to the house. In that one instant, Bimala’s
unbearable grief stood before me, personified. My own grief and grievances
vanished in a second. I called out, ‘Bimala.’
She stopped, startled. But she didn’t turn towards me. I came and stood in
front of her. She stood in the shadow, the moonlight fell on my face. She
stood there, hands bunched in fists, eyes shut tight. I said, ‘Bimala, my cage
here is walled from all sides—how can I keep you here? You cannot live
like this.’
Bimala kept her eyes closed and didn’t say a word.
I said, ‘If I keep you here like this, my life will turn into iron shackles.
That’s hardly likely to bring me any joy.’
She was silent.
I said, ‘I speak the truth, here and now—I release you. If I can be nothing
else to you, at least I won’t be the handcuffs on your wrists.’
I walked away towards the house. No, this wasn’t my magnanimity and
hardly my indifference. It’s just that if I didn’t let go, I wouldn’t be free
myself. The garland of my heart could not be a burden on it forever. I only
pray to the Omnipotent One, that if He doesn’t give me any joy, or only
saddle me with grief, I would take it all, but never should he keep me
shackled, bound and tied. Trying to hold onto the lie as a Truth was like
strangling your own self. Please, spare me from killing myself thus.
I came into the living room and found Chandranathbabu sitting there. My
heart was swelling with emotion at that point. The moment I spotted him, I
burst out saying, ‘Professor, freedom is man’s greatest possession. Nothing
else can compare, nothing at all.’
He was surprised at this excited outburst. He just stared at me.
I said, ‘Books don’t tell you anything. I have read in the shastras that
desires bind you; it binds itself and also others. But they were empty words.
The day I truly let the bird fly from the cage, I felt that the bird has really
left me and not the other way round. When I keep something chained, I am
actually chained by my own desires, stronger than iron shackles. I tell you,
this is the Truth people fail to understand. Everyone thinks the cure lies
elsewhere; nowhere, nowhere else—just set your desires free.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘We think that freedom lies in getting in your
hands whatever you have wished for. But in reality, freedom comes from
giving up within yourself whatever you have desired.’
I said, ‘Professor, if you put it in mere words it sounds so bald, like a
moral. But when I get even a glimpse of it, I feel this is the elixir of life.
This is what the gods drink, and conquer death forever. We fail to perceive
beauty until we set it free. If I claim that it was Buddha who conquered the
world and not Alexander, it sounds like a lie. When will I be able to sing
these words? When will these truths of the universe leap out of printed
textbooks and flow like the eternal spring of Truth?’
Suddenly, I remembered that the professor had been gone some days and
I didn’t know where he had been. A trifle embarrassed, I asked, ‘Where did
you go?’
He said, ‘To Panchu’s house.’
‘Panchu’s house? You were there all these days?’
‘Yes. I figured I would talk to the woman who is posing as his aunt. She
was surprised to see me at first. This was unexpected behaviour from a
gentleman. But then I stayed on. So finally, she began to feel a little
ashamed. I told her, “Ma , you won’t be able to insult me and send me
away. And if I stay, so does Panchu. I won’t allow him and his motherless
children to be thrown out into the streets.” For two days she heard me
quietly, neither concurring nor disagreeing. Eventually, today I found her
packing her bags. She said, “We will go to Vrindavan; give us some
money.” I know she won’t go to Vrindavan, but she’ll have to be given a
big amount as a sendoff. So I have come to you.’
‘Certainly, I’ll give whatever is needed.’
‘The old lady isn’t all bad. Panchu wouldn’t let her touch the water jug
and always kicked up a ruckus if she so much as walked into the room; but
when she heard that I don’t mind eating food cooked by her, she took very
good care of me. She’s a good cook. The little respect that Panchu had for
me, vanished altogether. Earlier he thought I was at least a simple man. But
now he believes the reason I ate food cooked by this woman was simply to
manipulate her. Manipulation may have its place in life—but to
compromise your caste over it? If I could have outwitted her as a false
witness, he may have understood. Anyway, I’ll have to stand guard over
Panchu’s house for a while even after the old woman leaves, or Harish
Kundu may cook up more mischief, I believe he has said to his subjects, “I
got him a fake aunt and he has gone one up on me and got himself a fake
father. Let’s see how his father saves his skin.’”
I said, ‘His skin may or may not be saved. But if we even lose our lives
fighting these various traps these people are designing for our countrymen,
in the shape of religion, society, business, etc., I would be a happy man.’
 Bimala

IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE SO MUCH CAN HAPPEN IN ONE

LIFETIME. I FEEL I HAVE lived seven times over, as if a thousand years
have lapsed in these few months. Time was galloping so fast that I scarcely
felt it moving. That day I got a jolt and came to my senses.
When I went to speak to my husband about abolishing foreign goods
from our markets, I knew we’d have an argument. But I somehow believed
that I would have no need of dissembling dissent. There was magic in the
very air around me. The fact that an immense ocean of maleness like
Sandip came and crashed at my feet like waves, when I had not called out
to him, was proof of the fact that this magic existed. And the other day I
saw Amulya—young and simple as the tender bamboo reed—come and
stand before me, gradually a colour emerging from within him like the river
at dawn. That day, a glance at Amulya’s face told me just how impressed
the goddess could be when she looked upon her devotee. Thus, I had
already seen how my magic wand worked.
So, that day, I went to my husband like a bolt of lightning, heading an
army of clouds with immense faith in my powers. But what happened? In
all of these nine years, I had never seen such indifference in his eyes. It was
like the desert sky without a drop of moisture, draining all colour from the
object it chanced to look upon. I’d have been happier if he had at least
shown some anger. I couldn’t touch him anywhere. I felt I was a lie, a
dream: and when the dream ended, I was just the dark night.
All these years I had envied my beautiful sisters-in-law their beauty. I
knew in my heart that Fate had deprived me of powers and all my power lay
in my husband’s love for me. Today, I had drained the cup of power to the
dregs and I was inebriated. Suddenly, the cup fell to the ground and
shattered. How was I to live?
 Quickly, I sat down to tie up my hair. Shame. Oh the shame. As I walked
passed Mejorani’s room, she called out, ‘Hey there, little princess, the
topknot is leaping out over your head; is your head still in the right place?’
The other day, my husband told me so easily in the garden: I release you.
Is it so simple: giving release or being released? Is freedom tangible? It’s
empty. Like the fish, I had always swum in the waters of love. All of a
sudden if I am held up to the sky and told, here is your freedom, I cannot
survive.
Today, when I came into my bedroom, I found mere furniture—racks,
mirrors, bed. The heart was missing. There was only release, freedom,
emptiness. The water had dried up, exposing the rocks and pebbles. No
love, just furniture.
When I was so badly hit by doubts about where exactly Truth resided in
this world for me, I ran into Sandip again. As the heart slammed into
another heart, the fires burned the same as before. Where was the lie? This
was Truth brimming over. These people walking around, talking, laughing,
Bororani counting her beads, Mejorani laughing with her maids, singing
songs—the awakening within me was a far greater Truth than all of this.
Sandip said, ‘I need fifty thousand.’
My drunken soul sang out, ‘That’s nothing. I’ll get it for you.’ It didn’t
matter how, and from where. Here I was, rising above everything from the
depths of nothing in a matter of seconds. Just like that, things would happen
with just one gesture. I can, I can, I can. No doubts about it.
So I walked away. But then I looked around me—where was the money?
Where was that magic tree showering currency? Why did the world shame
the heart so? But I had to have the money. By hook or by crook—there was
no shame in it. Crime stalked guilt. True power was exempt from all fault.
The thief steals, but the victorious king loots. I began to look into where the
treasury was, who guarded the money and whose hands it came into. At
night I stood on the veranda gazing fixedly at the office room. How was I to
snatch away fifty thousand from within these iron bars? I had no mercy. If a
spell could make the guards of the room drop dead in that instant, I would
have rushed in like a crazed soul. Within the heart of this family’s queen, a
gang of robbers, rapiers in hand, began to dance before their goddess,
begging for a boon. But the world remained silent, the guards changed
every few hours and the clock chimed every hour—the huge mansion slept
on, fearless and undaunted.
Finally, one day, I called Amulya. I said, ‘The country needs money.
Won’t you be able to get it from the treasurer somehow?’
His chest swelled with pride and he said, ‘Why not?’
Alas, I too had spoken thus to Sandip, ‘Why not?’ Amulya’s confidence
didn’t give me the slightest hope.
I asked, ‘Tell me what you’ll do?’
He began to lay out such outlandish plans that they were only fit for the
monthly magazines and nothing else.
I said, ‘No Amulya, don’t be so naive.’
He said, ‘Fine, I’ll bribe the guards.’
‘Where is the money for that?’
He replied nonchalantly, ‘I’ll loot the market.’
I said, ‘There’s no need for that, I have my jewels and that will do.’
Amulya said, ‘But the treasurer can’t be bribed. There’s a simpler plan.’
I asked, ‘What?’
‘You don’t have to hear that. It’s very simple.’
‘Tell me still.’
First he fished out a small edition of the Gita from his shirt pocket, kept it
on the table and then placed a pistol on it; he didn’t say anything.
Oh my God—he didn’t blink twice before contemplating the murder of
our old treasurer. His face was so cherubic that it was hard to imagine him
even harming a fly; but appearances are so deceptive. The fact of the matter
was, that the old treasurer wasn’t real to him—in his place there was a
blankness: it held no life, no pain, just a sloka, ‘Na hanyatey hanyamane
sharirey’. The soul does not die, only the body does.
I exclaimed, ‘No, Amulya. Our treasurer has a wife, children, he is—’
‘Where in this country would you find a man who doesn’t have a wife
and children? Look here, what we call mercy is only a kind of self-
indulgence: so that our weak minds are not hurt, we refrain from hurting
others. This is the depth of cowardice.’
Sandip’s words coming from the lips of this child sent a chill down my
spine. He is a so raw, so young, he should still believe that goodness exists.
Poor thing, this was his time to live, time to grow. The mother in me
awakened. For me, there was neither good nor evil—there was only death
in alluring shapes; but when this eighteen-year-old could so easily decide
that killing an innocent old man was the right thing, I shuddered in terror.
When I realized that he had no sense of sin, the sin hidden in his words took
a fierce shape before my eyes, as if the sins of the ‘father’ were visiting the
child.
As I looked at those large, ingenuous eyes, brimming with faith and
fervour, my heart wept. He was on his way to hell—who could save him?
Why wasn’t my country taking the form of a true mother and drawing this
boy to her bosom? Why didn’t she tell him, ‘Do not lose yourself in the
process of saving me’?
I know that the greatest powers on earth have reached their summit only
by selling their soul to the devil; but the mother stands alone, only to lock
horns with this very devil. The mother doesn’t want results, however
glorious; she only wants to save. Today my heart cried out to reach out and
draw this boy into safety.
Just a few minutes ago I had asked him to steal. Now whatever I said to
the contrary, he was bound to laugh it off as female weakness. That is
something they give in to only when it entertains or ruins the world.
I said to Amulya, ‘Go on, you don’t have to do anything. It’s my job to
get the money.’
When he was at the door, I called him back and said, ‘Amulya, I am your
elder sister. I bless you and pray that God keeps you safe and sound.’ He
was taken aback at these words of mine. But then he bent low and touched
my feet. When he stood up, his eyes were moist.
‘Dear brother, I am headed for disaster; let me take on all your troubles—
let me never plant fresh thorns on your path.’ I said to him, ‘You’ll have to
gift your pistol to me.’
 ‘What will you do with it, Didi?’
‘I’ll practise death.’
‘That’s what is needed—women too have to die and kill.’ Amulya
handed me the pistol.
Amulya’s youthful face and the glow on it left a trail in my heart like the
first streak of light at dawn. I held the pistol to my heart and said, ‘This here
is my last resort to salvation, a gift from a brother to his sister.’
The window in the heart that guarded the tender spot of maternal feelings
flew open just this once. I thought it would stay open from now on. But
good always loses out. The lover-woman came and obstructed the mother’s
way to liberation. The next day I ran into Sandip again. A crazy madness
gripped my heart and began its wild dance all over again. But what was all
this—was this my true self? Never. Never before had I set my eyes upon
this brazen, this audacious self. The snake charmer came suddenly and
unwrapped this snake within me. But this snake had never been within me
—it was brought by the snake charmer himself. The devil seemed to have
me in his thrall. Whatever I did now, was not my doing, but all his.
That same devil came to me one day, blazing torch in hand, and said, ‘I
am your country, I am your Sandip, you have nothing that matters more
than me, Vande Mataram.’ I folded my hands and said, ‘You are my
religion, you are my heaven, I will sacrifice my all for the love of you,
Vande Mataram.’
You want five thousand? Fine, you shall have it. Tomorrow? I’ll bring it
tomorrow. The scandalous insolence of the act will make that five thousand
froth and foam, like heady liquor. Then there would be the inebriated dance.
The motionless earth would sway beneath the feet, the eyes would burn
with hidden fire, a fiery wind would blow past the ears and everything
before my eyes would seem blurred; tottering, I shall stumble to my death;
in a moment, the fire would extinguish, ashes would fly in the wind—
nothing would be left.
I was totally at a loss as to where the money could come from. Then, the
other day, in the throes of extreme excitement, I saw the money right before
my eyes.
 Every year, for the Durga Puja, my husband gifted his sisters-in-law three
thousand rupees each. That money lay in the bank, gathering interest. This
year too, the money had been gifted. But I knew that it hadn’t gone into the
bank yet. I also knew where the money was. There was an iron chest in the
ante-room adjoining my bedroom where I changed my clothes. The money
was in that chest.
Every year my husband went to Calcutta to deposit this money in the
bank there. But this year he couldn’t make the trip. This is why I believe in
Fate. The country needed this money and that’s why it was still there. Who
would dare to take this money to the bank? And would I dare not take this
money? The death-goddess has reached out her begging bowl, she says I am
hungry, feed me. I would bleed myself to death, for that five thousand
rupees—oh Mother, the one who has lost this money hasn’t lost much. But
you have drained me of all virtues.
So many times have I called Bororani and Mejorani thieves in my heart;
they were looting my trusting husband, only taking money from him—this
was my grievance. Many times have I told my husband that after their
husbands’ death they had stolen many things that didn’t belong to them, He
always held his peace and never answered me back. This irked me; I would
say, ‘If you wish to donate, do so openly. Why would you allow them to
steal?’ The Fates must have heard my allegations and smiled to themselves;
today I was about to steal money belonging to my sisters-in-law.
At night my husband changed his clothes in that same ante-room. The
keys to the chest were in his pocket. I took them and opened the chest. The
slightest sound seemed loud enough to wake the whole world. A sudden
chill stole over me, petrified me from head to toe, giving me the shivers.
Inside the chest, there was a drawer. I pulled it open and found that there
were no notes, only guineas wrapped in paper. There was no time to count
how many there were in each wrapping, how much I needed, etc. There
were twenty in all and I piled them all into my anchal and tied the knot. It
was no mean weight. The burden of guilt dragged me down to the earth. If
they’d been wads of notes instead, I may have felt less guilty. This was all
gold.
 That night, when I had to enter my own room feeling like a thief, the
room no longer seemed my own. I had the strongest claim on this room. But
my fraud had made me forfeit it.
I muttered to myself, ‘Vande Mataram, Vande Mataram. Country, my
motherland, my golden land—all this gold belongs to her and to nobody
else.’
But in the dark of night the heart is weak. My husband slept in the next
room. I closed my eyes and passed through his room. I went straight to the
open terrace in the inner courtyard, placed that bundle of guilt under my
heart and lay on the floor—the packets of coins hurt my soul. The silent
night sat near my head, pointing fingers at me. I had failed to separate my
home from the world. Today I have robbed my home, and therefore robbed
the land; for this sin, my home was lost to me in the same instant that my
land slipped away from me. Had I gone begging in order to serve the
country, and even lost my life before completing my service, that
incomplete service would have been accepted by God as obeisance. But
theft was no worship—how would I hand this to my country? The boat
would sink with the weight of this burden. Just because I was headed for
death, I didn’t have to drag my motherland into the muck, did I?
There was no way of returning this money into the chest. I did not have
the strength to go back into that room, open the chest and put the money
back this very night. If I tried, I would surely faint at the threshold of my
husband’s room. Now there was only the road ahead and no other.
I was too ashamed to even sit and count how much money there was. Let
it stay hidden, the way it was. I could not possibly calculate the value of
theft.
In that dark winter night, the sky didn’t hold a single drop of moisture.
The stars glittered blindingly. I lay on the terrace thinking: if I had to steal
those stars, one by one, in the name of the country, pluck them from the
heart of the sky, then the following night the sky would be a widow; the
dark sky would go blind and the theft would be from the entire universe.
This theft of mine, today, was not merely about money: it was also like
stealing the light from the sky, stealing Truth and faith from the entire
universe.

The night crept away as I lay on the terrace. In the morning, when I realized
my husband must have left the room by then, I got up slowly, wrapped
myself in a shawl and walked towards my room. At that time, Mejorani was
watering her plants in the corridor. The moment she spotted me, she said,
‘Hey there, little one, have you heard?’
I stopped short; my heart quaked within me. I felt the guineas tied in my
anchal were sticking out a mile. I felt any moment now that my sari would
give way and the gold coins would clatter to the floor all around me; today,
the thief who has stolen her own wealth would stand exposed before all and
sundry in this house.
Mejorani said, ‘That gang of robbers has written to Thakurpo, warning
him that they’d raid his treasury.
I stood there silent as a thief.
‘I told Thakurpo he should go to you; goddess, smile upon us and save us
from your vengeful followers. We will dutifully chant your mishmash
Vande Mataram. So much has been happening lately; now for God’s sake,
don’t let them break into the house.’
I walked to my room quickly without another word. Once you step onto
the quicksand there is no way out—the more you struggle, the deeper you
drown. I would be so glad to take this money from my anchal and drop it
into Sandip’s hands. I cannot bear this weight any more, it’s breaking my
back.
Early in the day I got the message that Sandip was waiting for me. Today
I didn’t bother decking up; just wrapped the shawl tight around me and
walked out quickly.
I stepped into the room and found Amulya sitting there with Sandip. The
little self-respect I had remaining seemed to shudder through my entire
frame like a lightning bolt and drained out through my feet, straight into the
earth. Today, in front of that youth, I would have to unmask the woman in
her ugliest form. My crime was being discussed in the group today—they
didn’t spare me the thinnest of veils.
We will never understand men. When they decide to pave the way to
their goals, they never hesitate to break the heart of the whole universe and
scatter it as pebbles all along the way. When they are drunk on the pleasure
of creating with their own hands, they take great joy in shattering His
creations. They wouldn’t spare my terrible shame a second glance, their
hearts know no mercy, they only have eyes for the Ideal. Alas, who am I to
them? I am a mere wildflower in the path of a turbulent deluge.
But what did Sandip gain by snuffing me out thus? Just the five thousand
rupees? Did I have no greater value than that? Surely I did. I had heard all
about it from Sandip himself and that is what made me ride roughshod over
everything in my world. I would give light, I would give life, I would give
strenght and elixir—the sheer exultation made me overflow my own shores.
If someone had fulfilled those promises, I would have been happy even in
death; I’d have felt it was worth losing everything.
But did they mean to tell me today that all of it was a lie? The goddess in
me didn’t have the power to set her devotees’ fears at rest? The eulogy I
heard, the one that brought me from heaven unto this dust: wasn’t it meant
to turn this dust to heaven? Was it meant just to turn heaven into earth and
soil?
Sandip cast a sharp glance at me and said, ‘We need the money, Queen.’
Amulya stared at my face, that boy who wasn’t born from my mother’s
womb, but came forth from his mother’s womb—that mother, oh it was the
same mother. What a youthful face, such serene eyes, oh the sheer youth of
the boy, I am a woman, the same as his mother. If he says to me, hand me
some poison, would I do it?
‘We need money, Queen.’
Anger and shame made me feel like hurling that bundle of gold coins
straight at Sandip’s head. I simply couldn’t untie the knot of my anchal. My
fingers trembled. And when the paper wrapped bundles rolled onto the
table, Sandip’s face grew dark. He must have thought those wrappers held
copper coins. What hatred. His face reflected such crude disdain for failure.
He looked as if he would hit me. Sandip thought I was here to bargain with
him, that I would try to palm off a few hundred rupees against his demand
for five thousand. For a moment he looked as if he’d throw those bundles
out of the window. He was no beggar—he was the king.
Amulya asked, ‘Is that all, Ranididi?’
His voice dripped sympathy. I felt like bursting into tears. I gripped my
heart and slowly nodded. Sandip was silent; he didn’t touch the bundles or
say a single word.
I wanted to leave, but my feet wouldn’t move. If only the earth had split
into two and sucked me in, this lump of clay would have been so happy to
return to dust. The young boy felt my terrible mortification. He pretended to
be greatly thrilled and said, ‘Well, this is a lot too. This would be enough.
You have really saved us, Ranididi.’
He unwrapped one of the bundles and the gold coins sparkled!
In an instant Sandip’s face came out of the shadow. He glowed with joy.
Scarcely able to control this sudden emotional turnaround of his heart, he
jumped off the seat and leapt towards me. I do not know what his intentions
were. I shot a lightning glance at Amulya’s face and saw that it had turned
pallid, as if struck quite suddenly. I gathered all my strength and pushed
hard at Sandip. He fell and his head hit the corner of the marble table; he
didn’t stir for a while. After this mammoth effort, I had no strength left in
me. I collapsed on the chair. Amulya’s face was bright with elation. He
didn’t spare a second glance for Sandip, but touched my feet and sat on the
floor at my feet. Oh dear brother, dear child, this veneration of yours is the
last drop in my empty cup today. I could no longer hold back my tears. I
buried my face in my anchal and sobbed my heart out. The occasional,
sympathetic touch of Amulya’s fingers on my feet from time to time only
brought forth fresh bouts of tears.
A little later I composed myself, opened my eyes and found Sandip
sitting by the table, tying up the guineas in his handkerchief, looking as if
nothing had happened! Amulya stood up from his place at my feet; his eyes
were bright with unshed tears.
 Sandip looked up at our faces without the slightest trace of
embarrassment and declared, ‘Six thousand.’
Amulya said, ‘Sandipbabu, we don’t need so much. I have done some
calculations and I think three and a half thousand would be enough for us
right now.’
Sandip said, ‘Our work is not just the here and now. There is no limit to
how much we need.’
Amulya said, ‘Whatever. In future, I take responsibility for gathering
funds. For now, please return the two and a half thousand to Ranididi.’
Sandip looked at me. I said, ‘No, no, I don’t even want to touch that
money. Go and use it as you please.’
Sandip looked at Amulya and said, ‘Men can never give the way women
can.’
Amulya was enchanted, ‘Woman is the goddess herself.’
Sandip said, ‘We, men, can at the most give our strength, but women give
themselves. They nurture a child in their body, give birth, and raise him, all
from within. This is the true gift.’ He now looked at me and said, ‘Queen, if
your gift today had been mere money, I wouldn’t have touched it—but you
have given me something greater than life itself.’
Perhaps we have two minds. One of my minds told me I was being
fooled, but the other one was happy to be fooled. Sandip lacked integrity,
but he had power. Hence, he nourished life and destroyed it at the same
instant. He had the divine scabbard, but the weapon in it was the devil’s.
Sandip’s handkerchief was too small to hold all the guineas; he asked,
‘Queen, could I borrow one of your handkerchiefs?’
I handed it to him and he immediately raised it to his brow in a salute.
Then he dropped down at my feet and touched my feet devoutly, ‘Goddess,
I had rushed towards you to offer you this very salute. But you pushed me
away; I shall take that as my blessing—I have anointed my brow with it.’
He pointed to the scar on his temple.
Was I wrong then? Did he really rush towards me, arms outstretched, just
to touch my feet? But I thought even Amulya had winced at the sudden
inebriated lust that had glistened on his face. But Sandip had fine-tuned the
art of eulogizing so well that I could never argue; the eyes seeking Truth
always drifted shut, as if drugged. Sandip returned the wound inflicted by
me twice over and my heart wept. When I received his obeisance, my act of
theft was raised to glorified heights. The guineas lying on the table could
then overlook all the shame, the ethical violation, the pain, and sparkle in
their laughter.
Just like me, Amulya was also waylaid. The slight loss of respect that he
had felt for Sandip in that one instant, seemed to have been replaced by
renewed veneration and his eyes glowed with respect for both Sandip and
me. It filled the room with a sense of innocent trust as pure as the lone star
at dawn. I paid homage, I received homage and my sins glowed bright as
embers. Amulya gazed at me, folded his hands and said, ‘Vande Mataram.’

But the strains of eulogy fade as time passes. I had no ways and means to
salvage some self-respect from within myself. I couldn’t enter my bedroom.
That iron chest frowned upon me, our bed seemed to raise an accusing
finger. I wanted to run away from this deep humiliation that rose from
within. All I wanted to do was rush to Sandip and listen to him sing my
praise. From the nadir of guilt that ran deep inside, that was the one shrine
that was alive. Beyond that, wherever I turned there was only oblivion. So I
wanted to cling to that shrine day and night. Applause, applause, my soul
thirsts for applause. If the level in that wine glass went down by a notch, I
gasped for breath. And so, all day long I yearned to go to Sandip and talk to
him; I needed Sandip so desperately today, if only to perceive my own
worth on this earth.
When my husband came home for lunch, I couldn’t go and stand before
him; but not to go would be so much more shameful, that I couldn’t do that
either. So I sat at an angle from him, such that I wouldn’t have to meet his
eyes. The other day, I sat in that same fashion as he was eating, when
Mejorani came and sat down. She said, ‘Thakurpo, you are always laughing
off all those dares and anonymous letters about a raid, but I feel very scared.
Have you sent our gift-money to the bank yet?’
My husband said, ‘No, I haven’t had the time.’
 Mejorani said, ‘Be careful, you are so callous sometimes; that money—’
My husband smiled and said, ‘But it is safe in the iron chest in the
anteroom next to my bedroom.’
‘If they get their hands on it? You never know.’
‘If burglars can get all the way into my room, then they can even steal
you away one day.’
‘Oh dear, no one would take me, don’t worry. Whatever is worth taking is
in your room, not mine. But seriously, don’t keep cash in the house.’
‘In about five days or so the estate-taxes would be sent to the bank and I
will send that money along with it to the bank in Calcutta.’
‘Make sure it doesn’t slip your mind—you can be so absent-minded
sometimes . . .’
‘If the money gets stolen from my room, it will be my loss, Bourani; your
money will be safe.’
‘Thakurpo, when you talk like this, I feel so angry. Am I making a
distinction between mine and yours? Would your loss be any less painful
for me? Vicious Fate may have taken everything from me and left me with
just a devout brother—but I do know his value. Look here, I cannot stay
lost in all those prayers like the eldest queen. I value what God has given
me more than God himself. What is it, little princess, you look stiff as a
board. Know something, Thakurpo, the little one thinks I curry favour with
you. I guess if it came to that, I would have too. But you aren’t that kind of
brother, whose ego one has to pander to. If you were like Madhav
Chakravarty, even the eldest queen would have forgotten her gods and hung
onto him like a leech, begging for the odd half penny. But I do believe that
would have been for the good, because then she wouldn’t have had so much
time to go making up stories about you.’
Mejorani babbled on, interspersed with her attempts to draw her
Thakurpo’s attention to the curry or the fish. My head was spinning. There
was no time. Something had to be done, and soon. As I was frantically
trying to figure out what could be done, Mejorani’s incessant babble
seemed intolerable to me. Especially when I knew that her eyes missed
nothing. Her glance was flicking at me from time to time—I didn’t know
what she saw, but I felt the whole truth was writ large on my face for all to
read.
Audacity can be unbounded. I forced a seemingly amused laugh to my
lips and said, ‘The fact of the matter is that Mejorani doesn’t trust me—all
that prattle about thieves and burglars is an eyewash.’
Mejorani gave a snide smile and said, ‘You’ve got it right there—a
woman burglar is deadly. But of course, I will catch you out—I am not a
man. How would you fool me?’
I said, ‘If you are so afraid, then let me keep all my belongings in your
care as a deposit; if I ever cause you to lose anything, you can deduct it
from there.’
Mejorani laughed and said, ‘Just listen to the little one talk. There are
losses that can’t be retrieved through deposits in this life or another.’
My husband didn’t say a single word in this whole exchange. He went
out as soon as he finished his lunch; these days he never went into the room
to rest.
Most of my expensive jewellery was entrusted to the treasurer. Still, the
price of whatever little I had with me would be no less than thirty to thirty-
five thousand rupees. I took the box of jewellery and opened it up in front
of Mejorani and said, ‘Here’s my jewellery; let it be with you. From now on
you can breathe easy.’
Mejorani’s brows rose in surprise, ‘Oh dear, you really amaze me
sometimes. Do you think I can’t sleep at night worrying about you stealing
my jewellery?’
I said, ‘There’s no stopping the worries. Besides, what do we ever know
about our fellow beings?’
She said, ‘And so you have come to teach me a lesson by trusting me so
much? Please, I can barely keep track of my own jewellery, what with all
this hired help swarming the place. Keep your own jewels with you.’
I left Mejorani’s room, went into the living room and sent for Amulya.
But Sandip came in along with Amulya. I had little time to lose; so I said to
Sandip, ‘I need to speak to Amulya about something, could you please—’
 Sandip gave a crooked smile and said, ‘Do you see Amulya as different
from me? If you want to take him away from me, I guess I won’t be able to
stop it.’
I just stood there silently. Sandip said, ‘Okay fine, once you have finished
your special discussion with Amulya, do spare some time for a talk with me
too, or I would stand defeated. I can take anything except defeat. I have to
have the lion’s share. I have always fought with Fate over this—I’ll conquer
Fate and never be defeated.’
Hurling Amulya a fierce glance, he walked out of the room. I said to
Amulya, ‘Dear child, you’ll have to do something for me.’
He said, ‘Didi, I will do your every bidding with all my heart.’
I drew out the jewellery box from the folds of my shawl and placed it
before him, ‘Either by pawning or selling these jewels, you have to bring
me six thousand rupees as quickly as you can.’
Amulya was pained, ‘No Didi, no, not pawn or sell your jewellery—I
will get you six thousand rupees.’
Exasperated, I said, ‘Oh, forget all that—I have no time. Take this box
and leave for Calcutta by the train tonight; by day after tomorrow you must
get me the six thousand rupees.’
Amulya took out the diamond necklace from the box, held it up to the
light and put it back with a pained expression. I said, ‘All these diamond
pieces won’t sell easily. That’s why I have given you jewellery worth nearly
thirty-five thousand rupees; I don’t mind if all of it goes, but I have to have
the six thousand rupees.’
Amulya said, ‘Look here, Didi, I have fought bitterly with Sandipbabu
for taking the six thousand rupees from you. Oh, the unbearable shame of it.
Sandipbabu says for the motherland you have to sacrifice all sense of
shame. Perhaps that is so. But this is a little different. I am not afraid to die
for my country and I have the strength to show no mercy while killing; but I
cannot get over the shame of taking this money from you. In this,
Sandipbabu is far stronger—he suffers no such shame. He says one has to
transcend the illusion that money belonged to the person whose purse it was
in, or the mantra of Vande Mataram is in vain.’ Amulya was inspired as he
spoke. With me as an audience, his fervour always doubled. He continued
to speak, ‘According to the Gita, Lord Krishna has said that the soul cannot
be killed. Killing someone is a mere phrase. Stealing money is the same.
Whose money is it? No one creates money, no one carries it in death, it is
not linked to anyone’s souls. It belongs to me today, to my son tomorrow
and to the money-lender the day after. If this whimsical money theoretically
belongs to nobody, then if it goes towards serving the country instead of
falling in the hands of my worthless son, what is the harm in it?’
Every time I heard Sandip’s words from the mouth of this innocent boy,
my heart quaked. Let the snake charmer play his tune and fiddle with
snakes; he is aware of the dangers. But for pity’s sake, these are the youth—
all the world’s blessings should go in keeping them safe; when they, in all
ignorance of the snake’s venom, reach for it with a smile, I realize just how
poisonous a curse this snake is. Sandip was right in thinking that—I may be
killed by him but I must snatch this boy away from his grip and save his
soul.
I laughed and said, ‘So, the money is also needed to serve those who are
serving the country, right?’
Amulya raised his head proudly and said, ‘Of course. They are our kings,
and poverty would only take away their strength. Do you know, we never
let Sandipbabu travel in anything less than first class. He never feels
embarrassed to have lavish meals. He has to maintain his status, not for his
sake, but for ours. Sandipbabu says, that the greatest weapon in the hands of
the rulers of this world is the lure of lucre. If they welcome poverty, it won’t
just be a sacrifice, it’ll be suicidal.’
At this point, Sandip slipped into the room silently. Hurriedly I dropped
my shawl on the jewellery box. Sandip’s voice dripped sarcasm as he asked,
‘You still haven’t finished your special business with Amulya?’
A trifle embarrassed, Amulya said, ‘Oh, we have finished talking. It’s not
much, really.’
I interrupted, ‘No Amulya, we aren’t done yet.’
Sandip said, ‘So it’s exit Sandip once again?’
I said, ‘Yes.’
 ‘But what about the re-entry of Sandipkumar?’
‘Not today, I don’t have the time.’
Sandip’s eyes flashed; he said, ‘So you only have time for special work
and no time to waste, eh?’
Jealousy. Where the mighty have exposed themselves, the weak can
hardly resist a jaunty swagger. So, in a firm voice I said, ‘No, I don’t have
the time.’
Sandip went away with a glum face. Amulya was a little disturbed,
‘Ranididi, I think Sandipbabu is upset.’
I spoke vehemently, ‘He has no reason, or the right, to be upset. Let me
tell you one thing Amulya, you are not to mention the job I have trusted you
with, to Sandipbabu, even if it costs you your life.’
Amulya said, ‘I won’t tell him.’
‘Then why wait? Leave by the night train.’ I left the room along with
him. But outside, on the veranda, I found Sandip waiting. I knew he would
catch hold of Amulya. In order to stop him doing that, I had to intervene,
‘Sandipbabu, what did you want to talk about?’
‘Oh, my chatter is not important, it’s mere idle talk, and since you don’t
have any time to spare—’
I said, ‘I have the time.’
Amulya left. Sandip stepped into the room and said, ‘I saw a box in
Amulya’s hand, what was it?’
So it hadn’t escaped his eyes. I spoke a trifle harshly, ‘If I wanted to tell
you about it, I’d have given it to him in front of you.’
‘Do you think Amulya won’t tell me?’
‘No, he won’t.’
Sandip’s anger was palpable now. He burst out saying, ‘You think you
will score over me. You can’t. That Amulya—If I crushed him underfoot
and killed him he’d think it was heaven. And you think you can take him
away from me? Over my dead body.’
The anger of weakness—at last Sandip had understood that his power
failed when compared to me. Hence the untrammelled outburst. He knew
that his force wouldn’t work against my strength and one condemning
glance from me could shatter the walls of his citadel. Hence this show of
power today. I smiled silently. At long last I was in the rung above him; I
hope to God I never lose it or come down from it. I hope that even amidst
my greatest misfortune, I am left with a modicum of self-respect.
Sandip said, ‘I know that was your jewellery box.’
I said, ‘You may guess as you like, but I won’t tell you.’
‘You trust Amulya more than me? Do you know that he is the shadow of
my shadow, the echo of my echo, and without me at his side, he is
nothing?’
‘In that space where he is not your echo, he is Amulya and there I trust
him more than I trust you.’
‘Don’ t forget that you have promised me all your jewellery for the
initiation of the Mother’s puja. You have already donated your jewels.’
‘If the gods spare me any jewellery I will give it to them willingly. But
how can I promise to give the jewellery that has been stolen?’
‘Look here, don’t think you can give me the slip. Right now I am busy;
let me finish the work first and then there’ll be time for all your elaborate
feminine wiles and games. I may even join in them myself.’
The moment I had stolen my husband’s money and handed it to Sandip,
the last bit of melody had gone out of our relationship. I had certainly
cheapened myself and reduced my worth but Sandip too had lost his powers
over me. You can’t shoot arrows at something that is already within your
fist. So, today Sandip lacked his brave warrior charm. His words held the
despicable, harsh echoes of squabbling.
Sandip went on staring at me with his bright eyes and gradually they
grew as dark and thirsty as the afternoon sky. His feet moved restlessly. I
realized he was about to rise and any moment now he would rush forward
and take me in his arms. My heart lurched, my nerves jangled and ears
buzzed—I knew that if I continued to sit a moment longer, I would never be
able to get up. I called on my entire reserve of strength, tore myself from
the seat and ran towards the door. Sandip’s choked voice vibrated dully,
‘Queen, where do you run?’
 The next moment he jumped up after me but the sound of footsteps
outside made him return to his seat. I turned towards the bookshelf and
stared at the names of books.
As soon as my husband entered the room, Sandip said, ‘Hey Nikhil, don’t
you have Browning in your collection? I was telling Queen Bee about our
college-club—you do remember the row amongst the four of us over
translating that poem by Browning? What, you don’t remember? You know,
it went—
She should never have looked at me
If she meant I should not love her!
There are plenty . . . men you call such.
I suppose . . . she may discover
All her soul to, if she pleases,
And yet leave much as she found them:
But I’m not so, and she knew it
When she fixed me, glancing round them.

‘I had somehow managed a Bengali translation, but it was mute

unreadable. There was a time when I’d thought of being a poet—any
moment the inspiration would grip me. But God was kind enough to let that
whim pass. But our Dakhinacharan, if only he wasn’t an inspector with the
British today, would surely have made an excellent poet; he did a brilliant
translation—it read like it was written originally in Bengali, and not in the
language of a country that doesn’t exist geographically:
If she had known that she would never love me
Was it right that she’d cast her eyes upon me?
Many are the men that walk this earth
(Though I don’t know what they are worth)
To whom if she had laid her soul bare
They’d still have stood straight and bare.
But she knew that I am not of that class
So why did she pierce me with her glance?

‘Oh no, Queen Bee, you search in vain; Nikhil gave up reading poetry
when he got married. Perhaps he had no need of it anymore. I had also
given it up from too much work, but I do feel that crazy fever is about to
grip me once again.’
 My husband said, ‘Sandip, I have come to give you a warning.’
Sandip said, ‘About the crazy fever of poetry?’
My husband didn’t join in the joke and continued, ‘For some time now,
maulavis from Dacca have started visiting regularly, trying to provoke the
Muslims in this area. They are not too happy with you and something may
happen if you don’t watch out.
‘Are you advising me to escape?’
‘I have come to inform you, not to advise you.’
‘If I was the zamindar here, the Muslims would have to worry, not I. It
would be better for both you and me if you put some pressure on them
instead of coming and getting me apprehensive. Do you know that your
weakness has even robbed the neighbouring zamindars of their true
powers?’
‘Sandip, I didn’t offer you advise and it would be nice if you returned the
favour. It’s pointless. There’s one more thing: for some time now your
followers have been ganging up and terrorizing my subjects. This has to
stop; you’ll have to leave my territory.’
‘For fear of the Muslims or are there other threats too?’
‘Sandip, there are such threats that it’d be cowardly not to be scared, and
being aware of those threats I am asking you to leave. I am headed for
Calcutta in another five days or so. I want you to leave with me.You could
stay in our house in Calcutta, that’s not a problem.’
‘Good, at least I get five days to think. Meanwhile, Queen Bee, let me
start humming songs about having to leave your beehive. Oh poet of this
day, unlock your doors, let me loot your songs—actually you are the thief,
you stole my words and made them yours—the name may be yours but the
songs are mine, he started singing in his slightly off-tune, baritone voice a
song set in Bhairavi:
‘The sweet season is here to stay in your land of honey,
The smiles and tears of coming and going drift in the air.
The one who leaves is all that goes, the flowers still bloom and thrive,
The ones meant to go, droop at the day’s end.
When I was close, so many songs I gave:
Now I go away, is there a reward to have?
 In the shade of the flowery grove I leave behind this hope—
That the rains would drench in tears this fiery spring of yours.’

His unbounded audacity had no veils, naked as the flames. It didn’t wait
to be stopped; trying to do so was like denying the thunder, which the
lightning laughed and brushed aside. I left the room. As I was heading
towards the inner sanctum, suddenly Amulya appeared before me,
‘Ranididi, don’t worry at all. I’m leaving now. I won’t come back empty-
handed.’
I looked upon his sincere, young face and said, ‘Amulya, I don’t worry
about myself—but let me always worry for you all.’
As he was leaving, I called him back and asked, ‘Amulya, is your mother
alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sisters?’
‘No. I am my mother’s only son. My father died when I was very young.’
‘Go Amulya, go back to your mother.’
‘Didi, here I see my mother as well as my sister in the same person.’
I said, ‘Amulya, before you leave tonight, have your dinner over here.’
He said, ‘No time, Ranididi. Give me your blessing to carry with me.’
‘What do you like to eat, Amulva?’
‘If I was with my mother, I’d have gorged myself on sweetmeats this
time of the year. When I come back, Ranididi, I’ll have sweets made by
you.’
 Nikhilesh

I WOKE UP SUDDENLY AT THREE IN THE NIGHT AND FELT THAT

MY LONG-familiar world had died and was sitting like a spectre, guarding
my bed, my room, all my things. I understood now why people were afraid
of ghosts, even those of their close ones. When the eternally familiar turned
unfamiliar in an instant, it was a nightmare. When your entire life was
running along a certain track and you had to change tracks and make it run
a course that wasn’t even marked, the task was a difficult one. Even being
yourself became a challenge; one felt that he himself was also perhaps a
changed being.
For a while now it was clear that Sandip and his gang were terrorizing
people. If I’d been my normal self, I would have firmly told him to leave
the area. But all this trouble had made me lose my footing; my path was no
longer straight and narrow. I felt ashamed to ask Sandip to leave—
something else cropped up between us. And that made me feel very small.
Marriage was private and personal; it wasn’t merely a duty or about a
structured family life. It was the expression of my life. And that was why I
couldn’t put any pressure on it from without. If I did, I would be insulting
the God within. I cannot explain this to anyone. Perhaps I am different and
that’s why I’ve been cheated. But how could I cheat everything within me
to stop being cheated from without?
I am initiated into the mantra of Truth—that which creates the world
outside through the heart. That is why today I had to rip apart all the mesh
of the world like this. My inner deity would release me from the slavery, the
bondage of the world. I would gain that freedom by bruising my heart. But
when I gained it, the kingdom of the heart would be all mine.
I could already taste that freedom. Every now and then, the sound of the
birds chirping at dawn burst through the all-permeating darkness of my
heart. The man within me reiterated from time to time: there is no harm in
letting go of the dream that was Bimala, the illusion.
Chandranathbabu informed me that Sandip had joined up with Harish
Kundu and they were preparing to host a puja of Mahishamardini Durga,
with great pomp and grandeur. Harish Kundu had already begun to raise the
cost for this puja from his subjects. Our court poet and pundit were
employed to write an eulogy that could be read in two ways. Sandip and
Chandranathbabu had also had a debate over this. Sandip claimed that God
has an evolution: if we do not modify the God constructed by our
forefathers to suit our needs, it would be an act of atheism. It was Sandip’s
mission to give the old gods new colours, release them from the shackles of
the past: he was the salvation for the gods.
I have seen this from our childhood days—Sandip was the magician of
Ideas; he was never interested in discovering the Truth, because juggling
with it gave him greater pleasure. If he had been born in central Africa, he
would have taken great pleasure in proving that human sacrifice and
feeding on human flesh was the best way to bring human beings close to
one another. The one who truly thrived on illusion, could scarcely escape
being deluded himself. I believe that every time Sandip created a novel web
of illusion with his words, he himself believed ‘I have found Truth’,
however disparate his one Truth was from another.
Anyway, I was loath to offer any assistance in building up this tavern of
illusion over my motherland. I would rather not have a hand in getting the
young lads, who wanted to serve the country, into the addictive habit right
from the beginning. To those who want to cast a spell on young minds and
get some results, it is the end that justifies all and those spellbound minds
have no intrinsic value. If I could not save the country from frenzied
intoxication, then her puja would lay the foundation of her downfall and
every action meant to serve her would return back to her bosom to wound
her.
I ordered Sandip to leave my house in front of Bimala. I suppose both
Sandip and Bimala would read my intentions wrong. But I need to be free
of this fear of being misunderstood. Let Bimala misunderstand me too.
 The maulavis from Dacca were swarming the place. The Muslims in our
area bore as much hatred for cow-slaughter as the Hindus did. But now
there had been a few instances of cow-slaughter here and there. I heard
about it first from a Muslim subject and he too, voiced his dissent. I realized
that it’d be difficult holding them back. There was a false sense of obduracy
at the root of the matter. Resistance would only give it credence. That was
precisely what the opposition wanted to achieve.
I sent for some of my influential Hindu subjects and tried to talk to them.
I said, ‘We are free to practice our own religion but others’ religion is out of
bounds. Just because I am a Vaishnav doesn’t mean the Kali worshipper
should give up bloodshed. There is no choice. The Muslims should be
allowed to practice their religion in their way. Don’t create a problem over
this.’
They said, ‘Raja, all these demonstrations were not there before.’
I said, ‘They weren’t, but that was their wish. Try to find ways to desist
them of their own free will. That is not the violent way.’
They said, ‘No Raja, those days are gone. Now you have to snub them or
you cannot control them.’
I said, ‘Snubbing will not put an end to cow-slaughter, but only increase
a desire to kill humans as well.’
One of them had studied English and learnt to chant the language of
modern times. He said, ‘Look here, this is not only about a tradition; our
country is primarily agricultural and for us the cow—’
I said, ‘In this country, buffalo-milk is also drunk and that animal also
ploughs the land. But when we all slaughter it and dance about with its
head, it looks strange if we fight the Muslims over this, using religion as
our excuse. Religion ridicules us and violence increases. If it’s only the cow
that shouldn’t be killed and not the buffalo, then it isn’t about religion, it’s
about superstition.’
The British-educated said, ‘Can’t you see who is behind this? The
Muslims now know that they won’t be taken to task. Have you heard what
they have done in Pachurey?’
 I said, ‘That a day has come when the Muslims can become weapons
against us, is a result of what we have fashioned with our hands. This is
how Fate brings justice. What we have heaped over the ages, is now going
to be wreaked on us.’
The British-educated said, ‘Fine, then let it be wreaked. But there’s a joy
in it for us—we have won a victory. The law that they held so dear to
themselves has been razed to the ground by us: so long, they have ruled but
now we will make them robbers. This will not be recorded in history, but
we will remember this forever.’
Meanwhile, I became notorious through the many mentions in
newspapers. I came to know that ‘patriots’ had made my effigy and burned
it with great pomp in a cremation ground by the river, in Chakravarty’s area.
There were plans for more humiliation. They had come to me, to get me to
buy shares into a joint enterprise in opening a cloth-mill. I said, ‘If it was
just my money that would go, I wouldn’t hesitate. But along with it several
poor people would lose money and so I won’t buy the shares.’
‘Why, pray? Don’t you want the country to progress?’
‘A business may eventually benefit the country, but setting off to serve
the country doesn’t make for good business sense. When we were all calm
and peaceful, no business took off and now that we are excited, do you
think business would suddenly boom?’
‘Why don’t you simply say that you won’t buy the shares?’
‘I’ll invest when I truly feel your business is worth its salt. The fires in
your heart may or may not light up your hearths—I don’t know that yet.’
They think I am a calculating miser. Sometimes I feel like showing them
my books with the accounts of my work for the country. I suppose they are
ignorant of the fact that I once tried to improve the quality of crops
harvested in our motherland. I tried to get the farmers to grow sugarcane by
importing seeds from Java and Mauritius; I left no stone unturned, as per
the advice of the agriculture department of the government. But finally,
what was the result? Just the sneaky snigger of the farmers in my area. To
this day it has remained sneaky and covert. Later when I tried to translate
the governmental agro-journals and went to speak to them about growing
Japanese beans or foreign cotton, I realized that the covert snigger was in
danger of becoming overt. At the time there was no support from the
‘patriots’ and the Vande Mataram mantra was silent. And my shipping
business—oh, what’s the point of harking back to all that? The fires they
have lit in order to serve the country, should hopefully be banked by
burning my effigy and spread no further.
What is this I hear? Our treasury in Chakua has been looted. Last night
the estate taxes worth seven and a half thousand rupees were deposited
there and it was supposed to leave for this office by boat at dawn today. The
clerk, in order to facilitate sending it, had changed the money into tens and
twenties and kept them in bundles. Late in the night a gang of robbers
looted it with guns and pistols. Quasim Sardar had taken a bullet and was
wounded. The strange thing was that the robbers only took six thousand
rupees and left the remainder strewn on the floor. They could easily have
taken all the money. Anyway, the robbers have left and now the police
processes would start. The money has already gone, but there won’t be any
peace either.
I went indoors and found they had all heard the news. Mejorani came and
said, ‘Thakurpo, how terrible.’
I tried to make light of it, ‘Terrible is still a long way off. There’s still
enough to clothe and feed us for a few more years.’
‘Oh no, don’t joke about this: why are you their sole target always?
Thakurpo, why don’t you try to appease them a little? How can you fight all
the people—’
‘For the sake of the people, I cannot let the country go to hell.’
‘Just the other day I heard they’ve done something by the river—it’s an
insult to you. Shame on them. I am so scared. The little princess has studied
with a British woman—she is quite fearless. I can only rest if you let me
call the priest and do some pujas to ward off the evil. For God’s sake,
Thakurpo, go away to Calcutta; if you stay here, they may do something
any day now—’
Mejorani’s fears and concern were like a balm on my soul. Fair mother,
your kindness will always be upon us.
 ‘Thakurpo, keeping that money next to your bedroom is not a good idea.
Lord knows, they may hear of it somehow and eventually—I am not
worried about the money, but who knows—’
I tried to calm her fears, ‘Okay, I’ll take out that money right now and
send it away to our treasury. Day after tomorrow I’ll go and deposit it in the
bank in Calcutta.’
I went into the bedroom and found the ante-room locked from within.
When I knocked on it, Bimala answered from within, ‘I am changing.’
Mejorani said, ‘Early in the morning the little one has started her toilette
—strange, that one. I guess today there’ll be one of those Vande Mataram
meetings of theirs. Ahoy there, Devi Choudhurani, are you busy gathering
the loot?’
‘I’ll come back later and straighten it all out,’ I came outside and found
the police inspector waiting for me. I asked him, ‘Did you find anything?’
‘We have our suspicions.’
‘On?’
Quasim Sardar.’
‘What? But he has been wounded?’
‘No real wound that one: just a grazed foot, slight bleeding, he could
have done it himself.’
‘I cannot suspect Quasim, he is trustworthy.’
‘Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean he cannot steal. I have seen such things
like an employee of twenty-five years, totally faithful, has suddenly one day
—’
‘If that is the case, I cannot send him to prison.’
‘Why should you send? It’ll be done by those in charge of the job.’
‘Why would Quasim take six thousand and leave the rest behind?’
‘Just so that you don’t suspect him. Whatever you may say, that man is
shrewd. He guards your treasury, but I’m sure he’s behind all the looting
and raids on the treasuries in this area.’ The inspector quoted many
instances of how robbers can loot treasuries twenty to thirty miles away and
come back the same night to report to the master’s office.
I asked him, ‘Have you brought Quasim here?’
 He said, ‘No, he is at the police station; the deputy would be here any
moment to investigate.’
I said, ‘I want to see him.’

The moment he saw me, Quasim fell at my feet, weeping, ‘I swear on my

God, sir, I haven’t done this.’
I said, ‘Quasim, I do not suspect you. Don’t be afraid, I won’t let them
punish you if you are innocent.’
Quasim couldn’t describe the robbers very well; he simply muttered
away, ‘Four-five hundred people, such huge guns, swords, etc.’ I realized
this was all rubbish. Either fear lent wings to his imagination, or the shame
of defeat made him exaggerate. He was of the opinion that since there was
bad blood between Harish Kundu and me, this was done by him. In fact, he
believed that he had clearly heard the voice of Ikram Sardar, one of
Kundu’s men.
I said, ‘Look Quasim, don’t you dare drag someone else’s name into this
just on the basis of conjecture. You are not responsible for fabricating
proofs of whether Harish Kundu is involved or not.’
At home, I sent for Chandranathbabu. He shook his head and said, ‘Now
there is no peaceful way. We have moved aside ethics and placed the
country on that pedestal; now all that is bad in the land would shamelessly
raise its ugly head and reveal itself.’
‘Do you think this was done by—’
I don’t know. But crime is on the rise. Go ahead, send them all away
from your area.’
‘I have given them another day’s time. Day after tomorrow they will all
leave.’
‘Listen, let me tell you just one thing: you take Bimala with you to
Calcutta. From here, she is getting a narrow vision of the world, she cannot
place every person, every object in their right perspectives. Let her truly see
the world; let her, for once, see man and his space of work in its true
magnitude.’
‘I was thinking the same thing myself.’
 ‘But don’t wait any longer. Look Nikhil, human history has evolved
along with all the races and all the countries and that’s why even politics
shouldn’t sell out on ethics to establish itself or the country. I know that
Europe doesn’t truly believe this, but neither can I accept that we have to
look to Europe for our guidelines. Man dies for Truth and gains immortal
fame and if the same is done by a country or a race, it will have the same
results. We must strive to let that perception of Truth become all-important
and the ultimate in this India of ours, amidst the roaring laughter of the
devil himself. What is this foreign failing that has taken the whole nation by
storm?’
The whole day passed in taking care of all these problems. Exhausted, I
went to bed at night. I decided to take out that money from the iron chest
the next day.
At some point in the night I woke up. The room was pitch dark. I could
hear a noise, like someone weeping. Every now and then, a tearful sigh
floated in the room, like gusts of wind on a cloudy night. I felt the room
was sobbing its heart out. There was no one else in my room. For some time
now, Bimala slept in another room. I left the bed. Outside, on the veranda, I
found Bimala lying on the floor.
These things are difficult to write. It is known and felt only by Him, who
sits amidst the kernel of the universe and absorbs all the pain of the earth.
The sky was mute, the stars silent, the night was still—and in the midst of it
all, this sleepless weeping.
I could perhaps take all my joys and sorrows, compare and contrast them
to the world at large, to the written word, and give it a fancy name, thereby
ending the matter. But could I give a name to this source of pain welling up
and flooding the bosom of this darkness? That solitary night, when I stood
in the midst of those millions of silent stars and gazed upon her, a voice
fearfully asked me, ‘Who am I to stand judgement?’ Oh life, oh death,
endless creation and the Lord of it all—I salute the mystery contained
within you.
For a moment I thought I should go back. But I couldn’t. Silently I sat
near her and gently stroked her hair. At first her entire body stiffened up and
the next instant it began to break apart and disintegrate into sobs. I could
scarcely comprehend how the human heart could hold so many tears.
I stroked her head gently for a while. And then, at some point she groped
around and took my feet in her hands. She pressed it so hard to her heart
that I felt it would break from the burden of my feet.
 Bimala

AMULYA WAS EXPECTED BACK IN THE MORNING. I

INSTRUCTED THE BEARER to inform me the minute he arrived. But I
couldn’t sit still. Finally I went and waited in the living room.
When I sent Amulya to Calcutta to sell my jewellery, I had no thought for
anyone but myself. It never occurred to me that he was so young and if he
went to sell such expensive jewellery anywhere, he’d be under suspicion.
Women are so helpless that we seem to have no other option than to pass
our problems on to someone else. When we die, we drag five other people
with us.
I had said with great pride, ‘I shall save Amulya.’ But how could one
drowning person save another? Oh Lord, perhaps I have already pushed
him into hell—little brother of mine, I am such an unfortunate sister that the
day I prayed for you in my heart must have been the day Yama smiled to
himself. Today, I was a burden of ill omens.
I feel sometimes a plague of crime grips people and its sudden arrival
brings death that much closer. At these times isn’t it possible to keep it far,
far away from the world? I could clearly see how damaging its claws were.
It was like the torch of danger, burning away merrily only to set the world
alight.
The clock struck nine. I began to feel Amulya was in trouble, he was in
police custody: my jewellery box was raising a storm of questions, whose
was it, how did he get it, questions which eventually I alone could answer.
What would I say in front of the whole world? Mejorani, I had really held
you in very low esteem all these years. Now it’s your turn. Today, you’ll
take the form of the whole wide world, and have your revenge. Dear God,
please help me now, I’ll quit all my pride and lay it willingly at Mejorani’s
feet.
 I couldn’t be still. I rushed indoors and went towards Mejorani’s room.
She was fixing herself some betel leaves, sitting in the veranda with Thako
beside her. At the sight of the maid, I hesitated for a moment; but I brushed
it aside and bent down to touch Mejorani’s feet. She exclaimed, ‘Hey there,
little one, what’s the matter with you? Why the sudden surfeit of respect?’
I said, ‘Didi, it’s my birthday today. I may have done you many wrongs
—please bless me, that I may never hurt you again. I am so mean-minded.’
I quickly touched her feet again and left. She started saying, ‘Listen, little
one, if it’s your birthday why didn’t you tell us earlier? You’re invited to
lunch in my room. Sweet sister, don’t forget.’
God , please do something so that it really becomes my birthday today.
Can I not be born anew? Wipe the slate clean and test me afresh, oh Lord.
As I was about to enter the living room again, Sandip appeared. Hatred
burned acrid in my soul. The face that I saw in the bright light of day today,
didn’t hold an ounce of genius. I said, ‘Please go away from here.’
Sandip laughed and said, ‘Amulya is not here. Now it’s my turn to talk
business.’
Hell and damnation. How could I refute the very rights that I once
granted him? I said, ‘I need to be alone.’
‘Queen, the presence of another person doesn’t get in the way of being
alone. Don’t push me into the throngs of other people. I am Sandip, alone
even in a crowd.’
‘Please come another day; today I am—’
‘Waiting for Amulya?’
Irritated, I was about to leave the room when Sandip fished out my
jewellery box from the folds of his shawl and placed it on the table.
I was startled, ‘So Amulya didn’t go?’
‘Go where?’
‘To Calcutta?’
Sandip smiled a little, ‘No.’
Thank God for small mercies. I am a thief and the punishment should
stop at me—let it not harm Amulya.
 Sandip saw my expression and mocked it, ‘So thrilled, Queen? Is the
jewellery box worth that much? Then how did you promise all of this to the
goddess? You have already given it away—are you going to take it back
from the deity’s feet?’
Pride doesn’t quit, even when you’re gasping for breath. I felt like
showing him how little those jewels were worth to me. I said, ‘If you have
your eyes on these jewels, you’re welcome to take them.’
Sandip said, ‘I have my eyes on all the wealth in the whole of Bengal.
There is no greater virtue than greed. For the lords of this earth, greed is the
vehicle. So then, all this jewellery is mine?’
Sandip picked up the box and covered it with his shawl. At this point
Amulya rushed into the room: his eyes were bloodshot, face pallid and hair
dishevelled. He seemed to have shed his youthful innocence in a single day.
My heart was stricken at the sight of him. Amulya didn’t spare me a second
glance, walked up to Sandip and said, ‘You have taken that jewellery box
from my valise?’
‘Does the jewellery box belong to you?’
‘No, but the valise does.’
Sandip laughed out loud. He said, ‘I can see you have a strong sense of
possession where your valise is concerned, Amulya. I guess you will also
turn a moralist before you die.’
Amulya dropped down on the chair, covered his face and rested his head
on the table. I went up to him, stroked his hair gently and asked, ‘Amulya,
what’s the matter?’
He shot up on his feet and said, ‘Didi, I wanted to bring this jewellery
box to you myself and Sandipbabu knew that; so he quickly—’
I said, ‘What use is that box of jewellery to me? Let it go, who cares?’
Stunned, Amulya said, ‘Why should it go?’
Sandip said, ‘These jewels are mine—it’s a gift from the Queen.’
Amulya went crazy, ‘No, no, never. Didi, I have brought it back for you
—you cannot give it away to anyone.’
I said, ‘Dear child, your generosity will stay in my heart forever, but let
the jewels go to those who lust after it.’
 Amulya looked at Sandip as a wild animal surveys its prey, ‘Look here
Sandipbabu, you know that I’m not afraid of capital punishment. If you take
this box of jewellery—’
Sandip tried to give a mocking smile, ‘Amulya, you should also know by
now that your threats do not scare me. Queen Bee, I have not come here
today to take these jewels. I came to give them to you. But I couldn’t
tolerate the injustice of your accepting something that belonged to me, from
Amulya’s hands and hence I made sure you accepted they were mine first.
Now I am gifting my possession to you—here it is. You may sort things out
with that child, I am going. For some days now you two have been
discussing special matters and I want no part in it. If something “special”
happens, do not blame me. Amulya, I have sent your valise, books and all
other belongings to your rooms in the market. You may no longer keep your
things in my room.’
Sandip rushed out.
I said, ‘Amulya, ever since I gave my jewellery to you for selling, I have
lost my peace of mind.’
‘Why, Didi?’
‘I was scared you may be in trouble because of this, they may suspect
you of stealing it and take you away. I do not need the six thousand rupees.
Now, you must obey this one instruction: go home, go back to your
mother.’
Amulya brought out a bundle from under his shawl and said, ‘Didi, I
have brought the six thousand rupees.’
I said, ‘Where did you get it?’
He didn’t answer me. Instead he said, ‘I tried and tried to get guineas but
I couldn’t. So I brought notes instead.’
‘Amulya, for pity’s sake, tell me where you got the money.’
‘I cannot tell you.’
I felt the world was drained of all light. I said, ‘What have you done
Amulya? Is this money—’
Quickly Amulya broke in, ‘I know you will say I have got this money by
crime—all right, I’ll accept that. But you pay the price of your crime and I
have paid that price. Now this money belongs to me.’
I had no wish to hear all the details about getting the money. My nerves
were cringing and my entire body felt as if it was wilting under pressure. I
said, ‘Take it back, Amulya, put it back wherever you got this money from.’
‘That is very difficult.’
‘No, child, it’s not difficult. Cursed is that moment when you came to
me. I have done you more harm than even Sandip did you.’
Sandip’s name seemed to set something off in him. He said, ‘Sandip. It’s
because I came to you that I could recognize him for what he is. Do you
know, he hasn’t spent a single paise of the six thousand rupees that he took
from you the other day? He went from here, locked his room, poured out all
the guineas on to the floor and stared at them in bemused wonder. He said,
“This isn’t money, it is heavenly wealth, notes from the eternal flute that
hardened as they fell to earth—these cannot be changed into banknotes.
They desire to adorn the throat of a nymph—oh Amulya, don’t you boys
cast your visceral eyes on these—the smile of the goddess, the grace of the
deity; no, oh no, these weren’t meant to fall into the uncouth hands of that
head-clerk. Look Amulya, he has been lying, the police have no news of
any boats being stolen and he wants to use it to his own purposes. We must
get hold of those three letters from that man.” I asked him, “How?” Sandip
said, “By force, by threats.” I said, “I’m game. But these guineas must be
returned.” Sandip said, “We’ll see about that.” How I threatened the clerk
and got those letters from him and burnt them is a long story. That same
night I came to Sandip and said, “The danger is past. Now give me the
guineas, I’ll return them to Didi tomorrow.” Sandip said, “What is this
foolishness that has gripped you? I suppose now your motherland is
shrouded under Didi’s anchal. Say Vande Mataram, let your illusions go.”
You know Didi, how Sandip works his magic. The guineas stayed with him.
I spent the dark night sitting by the pond and chanting Vande
Mataram.Yesterday, when you gave me the jewellery to sell, I went to him
again in the evening. I could tell he was furious with me. But he didn’t
show it. He said, “Look, if I have those guineas anywhere in my
belongings, you are free to take them.” He hurled his bunch of keys at me.
They weren’t there. I asked, “Tell me where you have kept them?” Sandip
said, “I’ll tell you only when you are free of your trance. Not now. I realized
he wouldn’t give in and so I had to take another way. Even so, I tried to
give him these six thousand rupees in banknotes and get back the guineas.
He said he’s getting them, kept me waiting, went to his room, broke into my
valise and brought the jewellery box to you. He didn’t let me bring this box
to you. And he claims these jewels are his gift to you? How can I say how
much he has cheated me? I will never forgive him. Didi, I am totally free of
the hold he had over me.You have done it.’
I said, ‘Child, that gives me great joy. But there’s more. Freeing yourself
isn’t enough, you have to wash your guilt away. Don’t wait Amulya, go
now—put this money back where it came from. Can you do that, dear
brother?’
’With your blessings I can, Didi.’
‘This is not only your success; it is mine too. I am a woman and the way
to the world is closed to me, or I would never let you go—I’d go myself.
This is the greatest punishment for me, that you are having to pay for my
sins.’
‘Don’ t say that, Didi. The path that I took was not your way. It was
challenging and so it seemed alluring. Now you have called me to your path
—even if this is a thousand times more difficult, I shall win with your
blessings; I’m not afraid. So you would like me to return this money where
it came from, right?’
‘It’s not what I’d like, child, but what He’d like.’
‘I don’t know all that: it’s enough for me that His wishes have come from
your mouth. But Didi, you owe me a meal. ‘I’ll go only after you have fed
me. Then I’ll try and finish the work by tonight.’
I tried to smile and my eyes brimmed over; I said, ‘All right.’

The moment Amulya left, my heat sank. I felt I had pushed him into murky
waters. Dear God, why do my sins have to be expiated so elaborately, with
others’ blood? Wasn’t my own enough? Must you lay the burden on so
many shoulders? Oh, why should that poor soul suffer for it? I called him
back, ‘Amulya.’ But he had left, ‘Bearer, bearer,’ I called.
‘Yes, Ranima?’
‘Send Amulyababu in.’
Perhaps the bearer wasn’t familiar with Amulya’s name; so a little later
he brought in Sandip. He stepped into the room and said, ‘When you sent
me away, I knew you’d call me back. The high and the low tide are both
caused by the same moon. I was so certain you’d call me that I was waiting
right by the door. The minute I saw your bearer I spoke before he could say
anything, “Fine, fine, I’m coming right now.” The rustic fool stood
openmouthed, certain that I knew magic. Queen Bee, the greatest power in
this world is of this mantra. Hypnosis can conquer anything. It works by
sound alone, and often even soundlessly. At long last Sandip has met his
match in this duel. Your quiver holds many arrows, my dear. In this whole
wide world, you are the only one who has been able to turn Sandip away at
your will and call him back the same way. So now your prey is here. Now
what would you like to do to it—finish it off or keep it caged? But let me
warn you, Queen, killing this being is as difficult as holding it captive. So
don’t hesitate to use whatever celestial weapons that are within your powers
to use.’
Sandip rambled away in this manner only because today he was plagued
by a fear of defeat. I believe he was well aware that I had sent for Amulya;
the bearer must have given his name. But he cheated and came over himself
instead. He didn’t even give me the time to set him right. But now I had
glimpsed the weak and the swagger was in vain. Now I wasn’t ready to give
up even an inch of my hard-won ground.
I said, ‘Sandipbabu, how can you jabber so much so fast? Do you come
prepared?’
Sandip’s face turned crimson with rage. I said, ‘I have heard that
raconteurs have a ready stock of long, descriptive paragraphs that they use
whenever the occasion arises. Do you also have a notebook full of these?’
Sandip chewed over each word as he spat it out, ‘The Fates have blessed
you women with enough graces and then the tailor, the jeweller, are all in
league with you; why should we, men, be without our own weapons—’
I said, ‘Sandipbabu, go and look up your notebook—these are not the
right words. I have noticed that you get mixed up sometimes. That is the
problem of learning by rote.’
Sandip lost his temper and roared in outrage, ‘You! How dare you insult
me? Just think how much I know about you. You are—’ He was lost for
words. Sandip was a seller of spells and the minute his spells failed, he was
left with nothing—from a king he turned into a beggar in an instant. Weak,
oh so weak. The more he turned nasty and spoke rudely, my heart danced
with joy. He was done with tying me up in his spells; I was free. Oh thank
God, thank God. Insult me, abuse me, that is your true form. Don’t raise me
on a pedestal—that’s a lie.
At this moment my husband came into the room, Today Sandip didn’t
have the strength to control himself, as he did on other days. My husband
saw his expression and looked a little surprised. Earlier this would have
caused me embarrassment. But today I was glad. I wanted to take a good
look at this weakling.
Since we were both silent, my husband sat on the stool after some
hesitation. He said, ‘Sandip, I was looking for you and heard that you are
here.’
Sandip spoke with extra vigour, ‘Yes, the Queen Bee sent for me early in
the day and since I am a mere working bee in the hive, I had to drop
everything and rush at her command.’
My husband said, ‘I am leaving for Calcutta tomorrow, you’ll have to
come with me.’
Sandip said, ‘But why? Am I your valet?’
‘All right then, you go to Calcutta and I’ll come along as your valet.’
‘I have no work in Calcutta.’
‘Which is why you have to go there—you have too much work here.’
‘I am not budging.’
‘Then you’ll be made to budge.’
‘By force?’
‘Yes, by force.’
 ‘Fine, I’ll budge. But the world doesn’t consist of two poles—Calcutta
and your area. There are other places on the map.’
‘Looking at you one would think there is no other place in the world
besides my area.’
Sandip stood up and said, ‘There comes a time for every man when the
whole world shrinks into a tiny space. I have perceived my world amidst
this living room of yours and that’s why I wasn’t moving. Queen Bee, these
people won’t understand what I say and perhaps you wouldn’t either. I
worship you and I will continue to do so. Ever since I have seen you, my
mantra has changed; no longer Vande Mataram, it’s now Vande Priyam,
Vande Mohinim. The mother protects us, the lover destroys—and there is
beauty in this destruction. You have raised a storm of tinkling anklets—the
death-dance—in my heart. The image of this land of mine used to be
‘komala sujala malayajashitala’; you have changed this in the eyes of your
devotee. You have no mercy; you have come, oh temptress, with the cup of
poison in your hands; I shall drink that poison, be ripped apart by it and
either die or conquer death. The days of the mother are gone. Lover, oh
lover—gods, heavens, ethics, Truth: you have turned them to dust. All else
are mere shadows, all bonds of control, order all torn away. Lover, oh lover
—I can set fire to the rest of the world and dance exultantly on the ashes at
the very spot where you have laid your feet. These are good men, they are
very good, they want what is good for all—as if it is the Truth. Never, there
is no other Truth in the whole world; this is my only Truth. I worship you.
My loyalty for you has made me ruthless. My devotion for you has lit the
fires of hell within me. I am not good, I am not devout, I do not accept
anything in this world—all I accept is the one whom I have perceived
tangibly.’
Strange, surprising. A short while ago I had hated him with all my being,
What seemed like ashes suddenly blazed into life. This was true fire. Why
does God make us such mixed beings? Was it just to show off his magical
prowess? A half hour ago I was quite certain that the man I had once taken
for a king was nothing but a mere actor in a play. But no—sometimes a true
king may lurk in the guise of an actor. He has much lust, much greed and
much that is fake, that he hides within layers of flesh; but yet—it’s best to
accept that we do not know, we never know the whole truth, not even our
own selves. Man is a strange being; only the omnipotent one knew the
sublime mysteries that are woven around man. In the process, I am scalded,
scarred. Storm. Shiva is the Lord of storms, He is the Lord of joy and he’ll
set me free of my ties.
I have been feeling for quite some time now, that I have two minds. One
is fully aware of the destructive powers of Sandip; the other finds it ever so
sweet. When a ship sinks, it drags with it all those who were swimming
close to it; Sandip was like that deadly ship. Even before fear gripped me,
his magic pulled at me—in the blink of an eye it wanted to swallow me
whole, drag me away from all light, everything good, the freedom of the
sky, the waft of breath, away from a lifetime’s reserves, every day’s little
thoughts. He was like the spirit of the dreaded piper, walking the streets
with his unholy chants, pulling all the youths of the land to him like a
magnet. The mother at the heart of the land wailed aloud. Desecrating her
stash of nectar, they drink on sinful liquor. I understand it all, but magic
can’t be kept at bay. This was the test of Truth—drunken brazenness danced
before the ascetic and said: ‘You are a fool; penance wouldn’t set you free,
it’s a long and hard road to travel. The heavens have sent me, I am the
temptress, I am the madness, in my embrace you will achieve moksha in an
instant.’
After a moment’s pause, Sandip spoke to me again, ‘Goddess, the time
has come for me to say goodbye. This is for the best. My purpose for
coming to you has been fulfilled. If I overstay, all the good will be undone
gradually. If you are greedy and cheapen the greatest thing in this world, it
can be disastrous. That which is endless in the space of an instant should
not be dragged over time or it will be constrained. We were about to destroy
that eternal, and at that point you raised your warning hand, saved your own
worship as well as that of your devotee. Today, this parting is the greatest
proof of my devotion for you. Goddess, on this day, I too set you free. In
my earthen temple your formless form was hardly contained; it threatened
to fall apart every moment; I take your leave to worship you in your greater
form in the midst of greatness—I shall truly perceive you when I am away
from you. Here I got your indulgence, but there I shall have your boon.’
My jewellery box was on the table. I held it out to him and said, ‘I have
given these jewels to the country. Please reach these to the feet of the
goddess where they belong.’
My husband stood there silently. Sandip left the room.

I was making some sweets for Amulya, when suddenly Mejorani came in:
‘Well hello, little one, are you cooking up a feast for yourself on your own
birthday?’
I said, ‘Can’t I be cooking for someone else?’
Mejorani said, ‘Today we will cook for you. I was all set to enter the
kitchen when the news all but threw me; apparently some five or six
hundred burglars raided one of our treasuries and looted six thousand
rupees. Rumours are that they are now headed this way, towards the estate.’
This piece of news set my mind at ease. So it was out money then. I
wanted to call Amulya immediately and tell him to return the money to my
husband right here and now. Later I would give him my explanations.
Mejorani saw the play of emotions on my face and exclaimed, ‘You
surprise me—aren’t you even the least bit scared?’
I said, ‘I can’t believe they’d actually come to loot our home.’
‘And why not? Who could ever imagine they’d actually loot a treasury?’
I didn’t answer her. Instead I bent my head and continued to fill the
stuffing into the sweetmeats. She gazed at my face a little longer and finally
said, ‘Let me send for Thakurpo—our six thousand rupees must be sent off
to Calcutta immediately, without further ado.’
The minute she left, I dropped my shawl on the floor and rushed into the
ante-room which had the iron chest. My husband was so absent-minded that
his shirt with the keys to the chest still hung on the rack in that room. I took
the bunch from the pocket, extracted the keys to the chest and hid it in my
clothes.
At this point there were knocks on the door. I said that I was changing. I
heard Mejorani say, ‘Just now she was making sweets and now suddenly
she’s getting dressed. The things I have to see. I guess they’ll be having one
of those Vande Mataram meetings today. Ahoy there, Devi Choudhurani,
are you busy gathering the loot?’
Something made me open the iron chest slowly. Perhaps I was wishing
the whole thing would be a dream and I’d open the tiny drawer and find the
paper wrapped bundles right there. But alas, it was as empty as the trust
betrayed by the traitor.
Without any reason, I had to change my clothes, I tied my hair anew.
When I ran into Mejorani and she asked why I was so dolled up, I said,
‘Birthday.’
She laughed and said, ‘You need the smallest excuse to go and dress up.
I’ve never seen another creature as whimsical as you.’
I was looking for the bearer to go and fetch Amulya, when he came and
handed me a piece of paper with a note scribbled in pencil, Amulya had
written, ‘Didi, you’d invited me, but I couldn’t wait, I am off to do your
bidding first and then I’ll have the meal. I’ll be back by dusk.’
Where had Amulya gone, to what new traps? I could only always shoot
him like an arrow, but if I missed my mark, I couldn’t ever bring him back.
This was the right moment for me to go and own up my own part in this
whole fiasco. But in this world, women survived on trust—it was their
whole world. It would be very difficult for me to live in this world after
revealing how I had cheated that same trust. I’d have to keep standing on
the very thing I’d broken—the jagged pieces would poke and stab me every
now and then. It wasn’t difficult to err. But nothing was more difficult than
to atone for one’s sins, especially for women.
For a while now, the channels of normal conversation with my husband
were closed to me. Hence, I simply couldn’t figure out when and how to
suddenly broach such a big issue to him. Today he was late for lunch; it was
nearly two o clock. He was so preoccupied that he hardly ate anything. I
had lost my right to plead with him to eat some more. I turned away and
brushed away the tears.
For a moment I wanted to overcome my hesitation and say to him, ‘Go
and rest in the room—you are looking very tired.’ I cleared my throat and
was about to say it when the bearer came with the news that the police
inspector was here with Quasim Sardar. My husband looked worried as he
got up and left.
Soon after he left, Mejorani came and said, ‘Why didn’t you let me know
when Thakurpo came to eat? Today he was late and so I went for my bath.
But in the meantime—’
‘Why, what’s the matter?’
‘I heard you are all leaving for Calcutta tomorrow? In that case I cannot
stay on here. The elder queen won’t leave her idols and deities. But what
with all these burglaries I refuse to guard this empty house of yours and
keep jumping out of my skin at the slightest sound. Is it fixed for
tomorrow?’
I said, ‘Yes.’ I thought to myself: Lord knows what events and intrigues
will transpire in this short while between now and then. After all that,
whether I go to Calcutta or stay here, it won’t matter to me. Who knows
after that what the world would look like, how life would seem. It was all
bleary, a dream.
Couldn’t someone drag out, by the day, these few hours that were left
before my Fate became a reality? I could use the time to tie up the loose
ends. At least I could prepare myself and my world for the forthcoming
pain. As long as the seeds of destruction stayed underground, they took so
much time that one’s fears can be lulled. But the moment the tiny shoot shot
up above the ground, it grew rapidly and it was impossible to cover it with
your heart, your life or your soul. I wanted to blank out, lie in a stupor and
wait for whatever tumbled on my head. It would all be over before the day
after tomorrow—the knowing, the mockery, the tears, questions and
answers—all of it.
But Amulya’s face, that innocence that glowed with the light of sacrifice,
would not let me rest. He didn’t wait around for his Fate—he rushed into
the thick of things. I, unworthy even of womanhood, saluted him. For me he
was God in the form of a child; he’d come to take my burden of sins quite
playfully on to his own shoulders. How could I possibly tolerate this terrible
mercy of God, that Amulya would take the punishment for my sins? Oh my
child, I salute you. Oh brother dear, I salute you. You are pure, beautiful,
brave, fearless and I salute you. I pray with all my heart that in the next life
I have you on my lap as my son.

In the meantime, rumour was rife, policemen swarmed the place and the
maids and servants were anxious. Khema, the maid, came to me and said,
‘Chhotoranima, please put my gold chain and armlet away in your iron
chest.’ How could I tell her that it was I who had kicked up this storm of
anxiety in the entire household and was now stuck in its eye? Like a good
little mistress I had to take Khema’s jewellery, Thako’s savings. Our
milkman’s wife left a Benarasi sari and some other precious valuables with
me in a tin box. She said, ‘Ranima, this sari was given to me on your
wedding.’
Tomorrow, when the iron chest will be opened, this Khema, Thako,
milkman’s wife—anyway, what’s the point of dwelling on that? Instead let
me think that a year has passed after tomorrow, another 3 January was here
—would the sores and wounds of my family still be as raw?
Amulya had written that he’d be back by tonight. Meanwhile, I could
hardly sit alone in my room, doing nothing. So I went to make sweets again.
What I had made earlier was actually enough, but I made some more. Who
would eat all this? I’ll feed all the maids and servants in the house. I must
do that tonight. My days were numbered. Tomorrow was no longer in my
hands.
One after another I made the sweets, tirelessly. Every now and then I felt
there was some commotion in the general direction of my rooms. Perhaps
my husband had come to open the iron chest and found the keys missing.
So Mejorani was summoning all the maids and raising hell over it. No, I
wouldn’t hear it, I’d keep the door firmly closed. I was about to shut the
door when I saw Thako rushing towards me. Out of breath, she panted,
‘Chhotoranima—’
I said, ‘Go away, don’t disturb me now.’
Thako said, ‘Mejoranima’s nephew Nanda has brought a weird machine
from Calcutta—it sings like a person. So Mejoranima sent me to fetch you.’
 I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. A gramophone in the middle of
all this. Every time it was wound up, it emitted the nasal tones of theatrical
songs. It had no worries. When machine imitated life, it resulted in this
terrible irony.
The sun set and dusk crept in. I knew whenever Amulya arrived he’d
send for me. But I couldn’t be at peace. I called the bearer and said, ‘Send
word to Amulyababu.’
The bearer came back a little later and said, ‘Amulyababu is not there.’
It was just a few words, but my heart heaved with fear. Amulyababu is
not there—in the melancholy dusk the words rang out like a wail. Not there
—he’s not there. He appeared like the golden ray of the sunset and then he’s
not there. I began to imagine many scenarios, both possible and impossible.
It was I who pushed him to his death. That he didn’t think twice was his
greatness, but how would I live with this?
I didn’t have a single memento of his; all I had was his loving gift to his
sister—the pistol. It seemed like a divine intervention. My own personal
God, in the shape of a child, had placed the tool to wipe out the blot that
soiled the roots of my life and then vanished into thin air. What a loving gift
—what an overtly pure signal.
I opened the box, took the pistol out and touched it to my forehead
reverently. At that very moment, the bells and cymbals from our temple
courtyard rang out to signal the evening arati. I bowed low on the ground
and prayed.
That night I fed the sweets to everyone. Mejorani came and said, ‘You
went to all this trouble for your own birthday—why didn’t you leave
something for us to do?’ She began to play a host of stage artistes on her
gramophone, raising high voices in stretched decibels. To me it sounded
like the neighing of the horses from the stables.
The meal took a while. I wanted to touch my husband’s feet tonight. I
went into the bedroom and found him fast asleep. The whole day he had
been roaming around, plagued by endless troubles. I moved aside the
mosquito net very carefully and softly lay my face on his feet. As my hair
touched his feet, unconsciously he pushed my head away with his feet.
 I went and sat in the veranda. In the distance a silk-cotton tree stood in
the dark like a skeleton; it had shed all its leaves and the sickle moon
gradually sank out of sight behind it. Suddenly I felt all the stars in the sky
were afraid of me and the huge nocturnal world looked at me askance,
because I was all alone. A lonely human is perhaps the biggest anomaly of
Nature. Even the person who has lost every relation to death is not truly
alone—he has company from beyond the grave. But when a person has
everyone near and yet far away, who has simply fallen away from the daily
rhythm of life, a glance at her face in the depth of night would send a chill
down the spine of the universe. I am not present at the spot where I stand, I
am far away from the people in whose company I stand, I walk, talk and
live right on the face of a fissure, like the dewdrops on a lotus leaf.
But, when a person changes, why doesn’t everything about her change?
When I look to my heart I find everything there as before, only the positions
altered. What was once neatly kept is now a muddle, what was once strung
on a thread now lies scattered in the dust. That’s why my heart was
breaking and I wanted to die. But all of it still lived in my heart and so
death didn’t seem to be an end. I felt death would bring a more terrible
sorrow. I would have to clear the accounts by living—there was no other
way.
Oh my Lord, please forgive me this once. All that you had once handed
to me as the fortune of my life, I have now turned into a burden. Today I
can neither bear it nor relinquish it. Just once more, play the tune on the
flute that you once played by the pink sky of my dawn and all this will be
resolved; only that tune from your flute can possibly join all that is broken,
turn the sullied into pure again. Play the flute and recreate my life all over
again. I do not see any other way open to me.
I lay face down on the floor and wept my heart out; some pity was
needed, some refuge, a hint of mercy, some consolation that all this may yet
be resolved. I said to myself, ‘I’ll lie like this night and day, oh Lord, I’ll
fast, I won’t drink water until your blessings reach me.’
At this point I heard footsteps. My heart swayed. Who says gods never
show themselves? I did not look up, in case he found my gaze repulsive.
Come, come, come—let your feet touch my head, come, stand on my
swaying heart, oh Lord—let me die this very instant.
He came and sat near my head. Who? My husband. In my husband’s
heart that Lord of mine was touched, who could no longer bear my pain. I
felt I’d faint. And then the floodgates of tears opened, my nerve ends burst
and let loose a storm of sorrow. I pressed his feet to my heart—wouldn’t
they get imprinted there for all eternity?
Now I could have easily confessed everything. But after this, could there
be any words? Let my confessions be.
Gently, he stroked my head. I was blessed, I would be able to take my
cup of hemlock and humbly touch my Lord’s feet on the face of the
humiliation that lay before me the next day.
But it broke my heart when I realized that the shehnai that had played
nine years ago will never be played again, in my entire life. I came into this
room, a new bride. Which gods do I have to pray to, so that the bride could
come back, dressed in red and stand on that ceremonial threshold once
again? How much longer, how many aeons, before I could go back to that
day nine years ago? The gods may be able to create a new, but did they
have the power to recreate a broken piece of creation?
 Nikhilesh

TODAY WE ARE LEAVING FOR CALCUTTA. A MEANINGLESS

ACCUMULATION of joys and sorrows only increases one’s burdens.
Sitting idle is pointless and accumulation is a futile activity. It is a mere
construction that I am the lord of this house; my true identity is of a
traveller on the journey of life. Therefore, the lord of the house would be
repeatedly injured until the final injury—death. My union with you was
along the way—as far as we could go together, it was for the good; beyond
that, stretching and pulling would only make a noose of it. Let that noose
be, I am setting off today. As we walk along, the little shared glances, the
brush of the hand is all very well. And then? Then there is the way of the
eternal, the unbounded force of life—how much can you cheat me of, my
beloved? If I pay heed to the tune playing ahead of me, I can hear the
sweetness dripping through every crevice of our parting. The goddess’s
infinite cup would never run dry and so she sometimes shatters our cup,
makes us cry and laughs at our misery. I shall not go about picking up the
broken pieces. I shall carry my regrets in my heart and carry on.
Mejorani came and said, ‘Thakurpo, your books have all been packed
into cases, loaded on to bullock carts and sent off. What does that mean?’
‘It means that I still haven’t been able to give them up.’
It’s good to be attached to some things. But are you planning not to
return?’
‘There will be visits and trips, but no dwelling here anymore.’
‘Is that so? In that case come with me once and take a look at all the
things I am unable to give up.’
I went to her room and found bundles and bags of all sizes. She opened
one box and said, ‘Look here, Thakurpo, the things I need to make my
paan. I have powdered the dry lime and stored it in a bottle. These jars here
each contain a masala. Here are the cards, I haven’t forgotten those—even
if you don’t play with me, I’ll find people. This comb here is the
homegrown one that you gave me, and this— ’
‘What is all this, Mejorani? Why have you packed your things into
boxes?’
‘Because I am coming to Calcutta with you two.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t worry, dear brother—I shan’t try to be friends with you or
squabble with the little princess. Death is inevitable and so the sooner one
reaches the Ganges the better. When I think of the barren banyan tree under
which you’ll cremate me here, I shudder to even die—why do you think
I’m troubling you all for so long?’
It was as if this house of mine had spoken up at long last. Mejorani came
to this house when she was nine and I was six years old. I have sat in the
shade of the high walls of the terrace and played with her. I have climbed
mango trees, plucked the raw fruit and hurled them down as she gathered
them from below, chopped them up, mixed them with salt and chilly and
made tasty tidbits. I was entrusted with the grave duty of stealing all those
things from the pantry that were necessary for the wedding of the dolls,
because in Grandma’s eyes I could do no wrong. Later, when she wanted
my brother to indulge her fancies, I was the messenger boy; I always
badgered Dada until he gave in and she got her way. I also remember: in
those days the local doctor had strict orders for a fever—three days on a
diet of lukewarm water and cardamom seeds. Mejorani couldn’t bear my
predicament and she often smuggled food into my room; many a times she
was caught and severely reprimanded. As we grew older, our joys and
sorrows plumbed deeper shades; so often we fought. The issues of property
and finance also caused some rifts, jealousy and bitterness. Then Bimal
came into it all, and sometimes it felt like the rifts would never heal. But
then it was always obvious that the bonds of childhood surpassed the
superficial wounds. Thus, a genuine relationship had been nurtured from
those early days into the present times. This relationship spread out its
branches into this huge mansion, into the rooms, courtyards, verandas,
gardens and its shadows lurked all over. When I found Mejorani had packed
all her belongings and was ready to leave the house with us, this eternal
relationship in my heart was shaken down to its very roots. It became
apparent to me why Mejorani, who had never stepped out of this house
since the day she was nine, was actually prepared to let go of her familiar
world and surrender to the unfamiliar. But she simply couldn’t utter those
words, and made so many other trivial excuses. This woman, betrayed by
Fate, without a husband or a child, had nurtured just this one relationship
with her heart and soul. As I stood that day, amidst all her possessions
strewn around the room in various stages of packing, I felt her pain in a way
I had never felt it before. I realized that the many petty squabbles that Bimal
and I had with her, together or individually, were not really about
materialism. It was because she had never been able to establish her claim
over this one relationship. Bimal appeared from nowhere and she paled into
insignificance—it pained her ever so often but she had no grounds for
complaint. Bimal had also understood that Mejorani’s claims over me went
beyond mere social norms, and that’s why she was so resentful of this
childhood bond of mine. Today, my heart stood shocked with a realization; I
sat down on a trunk. I said, ‘Mejoranididi, I feel like going back to those
days when you and I first met in this house.’
Mejorani sighed heavily and said, ‘Oh no, this time not as a woman, not
again. All that I have borne is enough for one lifetime, never to be
repeated.’
I said, ‘The liberation that comes through sorrow is greater than the
sorrow itself.’
She said, ‘That’s possible, Thakurpo. Liberation is for you men. We
women want to bind, we want bondage—you won’t get your liberation
from us so easily. If you want to spread your wings, you’ll have to take us
with you; you can’t throw us away. Why do you think I have set out this
medley of baggage? You men shouldn’t be left light and airy.’
I laughed, ‘That is obvious. It s easy to see what a burden it is. But since
you tip us generously for carrying this burden, we don’t complain half as
much.’
 Mejorani said, ‘Our burdens are of trivia; whatever you want to leave out
will protest “I am trivial, I don’t really weigh much”—and thus with trivial
weights we load your back. What time are we leaving, Thakurpo?’
‘Eleven thirty at night—there’s still a lot of time.’
‘Thakurpo, please promise me one thing—you’ll have an early lunch and
take a nap this afternoon. You won’t get much sleep in the train at night.
Your health is in such bad shape that you look just about ready to collapse
any time. Come now, go and have your bath.’
At this point Khema came forth and murmured, ‘The inspector has
brought someone with him and he wants to see his majesty,’
Mejorani flared up, ‘His majesty is not a thief or burglar that the
inspector is always after him. Tell him he has gone to have his bath.’
I said, ‘Let me go and have a look—it may be something urgent.’
Mejorani said, ‘Not on your life. I will send some of the sweets that the
little one made yesterday and that ought to keep him busy for a while.’ She
dragged me by the hand, pushed me into the bathroom and bolted the door
from outside.
From inside I said, ‘But my clean clothes—’
She said, ‘I’ll see to that. You finish your bath.’
I did not have the strength to go against such indulgent torture. It was one
of the precious things of life. Let the inspector have sweets, let there be a
slight neglect of my duties. In the last few days, the inspector had been
routinely rounding up suspects in connection with the robbery. Every so
often he’d drag an innocent man to the estate and have a circus. Today was
probably a repeat performance. But would the inspector have all the sweets
himself? No! I banged loudly on the door from inside.
Mejorani spoke up, ‘Pour some water on your head, quick, your temper is
shooting up.’
I said, ‘Send enough sweets for two people. The man whom the inspector
has dragged in as a suspect deserves them more—tell the bearer to give him
the bigger share.’
I finished my bath as quickly as possible and came out. At the door I
found Bimal sitting on the floor. Was this the same Bimal, my Bimal—
proud, arrogant, stubborn? With what prayer in mind could she have come
to my door? As I stalled in surprise, she stood up, bent her head down and
spoke softly, ‘I need to speak to you.’
I said, ‘Come into our room.’
‘Are you going somewhere for some urgent work?’
‘Yes, but let that be. First let’s talk—’
‘Oh no, you finish your work. We can have our talk after you’ve had your
meal.’
Out in the living room, I found the inspector’s plate was empty and the
suspect whom he had brought in was still eating the sweets.
I was amazed, ‘What’s this—Amulya?’
He looked up with a mouth full of sweets and said, ‘Yes, sir. I have eaten
my fill and if you don’t mind, I’ll take the rest with me.’ He bundled the
remaining sweets into his handkerchief.
I looked at the inspector, ‘What is going on?’
The inspector laughed and said, ‘Your majesty, the mystery of the thief
still remains unsolved and now I am puzzling my head about the mystery of
the stolen loot.’ He spread out a torn bundle that held a bunch of notes,
‘Here is your majesty’s six thousand rupees.’
‘Where did it come from?’
‘Right now, from Amulyababu’s hands. Last night he went to the head
clerk of your treasury in Chakua and said to him that the stolen loot had
been recovered. The clerk was more frightened at this development than
when the actual robbery took place. He was afraid that everyone would
suspect him of hiding the money and now when the noose was tightening,
he’d cooked up this improbable story to return it. He made an excuse of
bringing something for Amulyababu to eat and rushed to the police station.
I went there on horseback and since dawn I have been with him. He says he
won’t tell me where he got the money. I said then he wouldn’t be allowed to
go. He said he’d lie, I said, fine, give it to me. He said he found it hidden in
the bushes. I said lying is not so easy—you have to give me all the details
of where the bush is and what you were doing there. He said he’d have
plenty of time to make up all those stories.’
 I said, ‘Haricharanbabu, what’s the point of dragging this gentleman’s
name in the mud?’
He said, ‘Not just any gentleman, he’s the son of Nibaran Ghoshal who
was my class-friend. Sire, let me tell you the real story. Amulya came to
know who has stolen the money. He knows him well through this Vande
Mataram nonsense. He wants to take the blame on himself and spare this
other person. Herein lies his bravado. Son, we too were once eighteen years
old, just like you; I was studying in Ripon College. Once, on the Strand, I
wanted to save a bullock-cart driver from the wrath of a policeman and
nearly landed up in jail myself. It was a narrow escape. Sire, now it’s almost
impossible to catch the thief, but I can tell you who it is.’
I asked, ‘Who is it?’
‘Your head-clerk Tinkori Dutta and that Quasim Sardar.’
The inspector left, after giving many justifications to support his
conclusion. I asked Amulya, ‘If you tell me who had taken this money, no
harm will come to anyone.’
He said, ‘I took it.’
‘But—they said a gang of robbers—’
‘I was alone.’
Amulya’s tale was a strange one. After finishing his dinner, the head-
clerk was rinsing his mouth outside, where it was dark. Amulya had a pistol
in each pocket. One was loaded with bullets and the other with blanks. Half
his face was covered by a black mask. He held up a lantern to the clerk’s
face and fired a shot from the pistol with blanks. The clerk screamed in
terror and fainted. A few of the guards came running and he fired shots over
their heads. They ran into rooms and slammed shut the doors. Quasim
Sardar came forward with his lathi. Amulya shot him in the leg and he fell
down. He then got the clerk to open the iron chest, grabbed six thousand
rupees and borrowed a horse from our estate. He rode all night long, left the
horse somewhere in the night and was back here at dawn.
I asked, ‘Amulya, why did you do this?’
He said, ‘I had a great need.’
‘Then why are you giving it back?’
 ‘If you send for the person who has ordered me to return it, I’ll confess
everything.’
‘Who is that person?’
‘Chhotoranididi.’
I sent for Bimala. She had draped a white shawl around her head and she
walked into the room slowly. Her feet were bare. I felt I had never seen her
quite like this before. Like the moon at dawn, she seemed to have hid
herself in the morning light.
Amulya bent down low at Bimala’s feet and took her blessings. He stood
up and said, ‘I have obeyed you, Didi. I’ve returned the money.’
Bimala said, ‘Thank you, my child.’
Amulya said, ‘I had you in mind and so I didn’t tell a single lie. My
Vande Mataram chants lie here at your feet. The minute I entered this
house, I have also received food blessed by you.’
Bimala didn’t quite get the last part. Amulya took the handkerchief from
his pocket, untied the knot and showed her the sweets, ‘I didn’t eat them all
—I wanted you to put them on my plate with your own hands and so I
saved these.’
I realized I was no longer needed here; I left the room silently. I said to
myself, I could only talk and make speeches and they in turn made my
effigy and burnt it by the river. But could I really pull someone back from
the clutches of death? The one who can, did it without words. My words
did not hold that flawless signal. We are not flames, we are embers, dying
ones. We would never be able to light a lamp. The story of my life is living
proof of that—I failed to light the lamp I wanted to light.
Slowly, I walked back to the inner chambers. Perhaps my heart raced
towards Mejorani’s rooms once again, because I needed to feel that my life
too has been able to strike a true and pure note in another life. The quest for
one’s identity seldom led inwards—it lay somewhere out in the world.
The moment I came before Mejorani’s room, she came out and said,
‘There you are, Thakurpo, I wondered how much longer you will be. Your
lunch will soon be here, so hurry up.’
I said, ‘Let me just go and take that money out.’
 As I walked towards my room, Mejorani asked, ‘So what happened about
the inspector—has that matter been resolved?’
I somehow didn’t feel like talking to Mejorani about the recovery of the
six thousand rupees. So I said, ‘Still going on.’
I went into the ante-room, took out the bunch of keys from my pocket
and found the one to the iron chest missing. I am so careless—all day long
I’ve been opening so many boxes and doors with the same bunch of keys
and I never noticed that one is missing.
Mejorani asked, ‘Where’s the key?’
Without answering her, I groped around in each pocket, looked high and
low and gradually it became obvious that the key wasn’t lost, but someone
had slipped it off the ring. Who could it be? In this room—
Mejorani said, ‘Relax and have your lunch first. I believe Chhotorani
must have put it away safely since you are so careless.’
The whole thing confused me. It wasn’t like Bimala to take a key from
my key ring without telling me first. Today Bimala wasn’t present when I
ate. At the time she had sent for rice from the kitchen and supervised
Amulya’s lunch as he ate it. Mejorani was about to send for her, but I
stopped her.
I was almost done when Bimala came there. I hadn’t wanted to discuss
the matter of the missing key in front of Mejorani. But that was a lost cause.
As soon as she saw her, Mejorani asked, ‘Do you know where the key to
Thakurpo’s iron chest is?’
Bimala said, ‘It’s with me.’
Mejorani said, ‘That’s what I said. In these troubled times, Chhotorani
wears a brave face but she is careful nonetheless.’
Something in Bimala’s face made me doubt that remark. I said, ‘Fine, let
the key be with you for now. I’ll take the money out in the evening.’
Mejorani exclaimed, ‘Why wait till evening, Thakurpo, take that money
now and hand it to the treasurer.’
Bimala said, ‘I have taken that money.’
I was startled.
Mejorani asked, ‘And where did you keep it?’
 Bimala said, ‘I spent it.’
Mejorani said, ‘Oh lord, listen to her talk. Where did you spend so much
money?’
Bimala didn’t answer her, I did not ask her anything either. I just stood at
the door quietly. Mejorani was about to say something to her, but she
stopped. She looked at my face and said, ‘Fair enough; whenever I could, I
too stole all of my husband’s money that I could lay my hands on. I knew
it’d be wasted in the wrong places. Thakurpo, you are in the same boat. So
many whims and fancies. Your money will be safe only when we steal it
away. Now go and rest a little.’
Mejorani dragged me towards my room. I wasn’t conscious of where I
was or of anything around me. She perched on the side of my bed and said,
‘Hey there, little one, can you give me a paan? You youngsters are so lazy
these days—don’t you have any here? Why don’t you send someone to get
me some from my room?’
I said, ‘Mejorani, you haven’t even eaten yet.’
She said, ‘Of course I have.’
This was a blatant lie. She sat beside me and began to prattle about this
and that. The maid came and spoke from the door. She said Bimala’s lunch
was getting cold. Bimala was silent. Mejorani said, ‘Oh dear, haven’t you
had lunch yet? It’s way past time.’ She pulled her by the hand and dragged
her away.
I understood that there was a link between the six thousand rupees that
was robbed from the treasury and this money that was in the iron chest. I
didn’t even feel like delving into it. Never, ever would I ask that question.
The Almighty sketched the lines of our Fate with a blurred pen—He
wanted us to make some changes here and there, draw some afresh and
realize it in our own ways. I have always felt the ache to take His signal and
make my way myself, to pour all of me into expressing one larger Idea.
I have spent my life attempting that. Only the God within me knows how
much I have curbed natural impulses, suppressed my baser instincts. The
difficult part was that one’s life wasn’t entirely one’s own. If the creator
does not include all that is around him, his creation is in vain. Hence, my
innermost desires were to draw Bimala into this creative process. I strongly
held that since I loved her with all my heart, it was more than possible.
At this point it became apparent to me that I was not the kind of person
who could recreate oneself and others around him with ease. I had initiated
myself, but I couldn’t initiate another person. The ones to whom I laid my
soul bare had taken everything from me except this one cherished detail.
My test had been hard. Where I had really needed the most support I was
most alone. But I vowed to succeed even in this test. Until the last breath I
draw, my way would be mine alone.
Today I began to feel that there was coercion deeply ingrained in me. I
was hell bent on moulding my relationship with Bimala in one set, perfect
mould. But life is not to be poured into moulds. And goodness, if mistaken
for an inanimate object, dies on you and takes a cruel revenge. I never knew
it, but this oppression gradually took us away from one another. Bimala
could have been someone else, but my pressure suppressed her
effervescence and forced her to remain at the bottom—the harsh cement of
life tore away at her person. Today she had to steal this six thousand rupees.
She could not be frank with me because she sensed that somewhere I stood
apart from her. The ones who matched with stubborn idealists like us,
harmonized with us, and the ones who didn’t cheated us. We corrupt the
innocent. In creating a partner we destroy the woman.
Was it possible to go back and begin at the beginning? Then I could walk
the simple way. This time I wouldn’t want to bind my fellow traveller in the
chains of idealism. I would merely play the flute of my love and say, ‘Just
love me. In the light of that love, may you blossom in your truest form, let
my demands disappear, may the Almighty’s desires in you win the day—let
my desires be shamed into oblivion.’
But would it be possible for Nature to work its healing balm on the
wound that has manifested itself today, festering in our severance from one
another? The veil that shields the workings of healing Nature has been
ripped to shreds. Wounds need salves and I shall soothe this one with my
love. I shall wrap the pain with all my heart and shield it from the eyes of
the world, A day will come when there won’t be a sign of this wound. But
is there time? It took me so long to learn my mistake, today I have
understood it, how much longer will it take until I can correct it? And then?
The wound may heal, but will there be any recompense?
There was a sound at the door. I turned and found Bimala leaving.
Perhaps she had stood at the door all this while wondering whether to come
in or not, and now she was going. I got up quickly and called, ‘Bimal.’
She stopped, her back towards me. I held her hand and pulled her into the
room.
In the room she fell to the floor, pressed a pillow to her face and wept.
Without a word, I held on to her hand and sat by her side. When her tears
dried and she tried to sit up, I tried to pull her into my arms. She forced my
hands away, knelt before me and repeatedly touched her forehead to my
feet. As I made to move my feet, she pulled them back with both hands and
spoke with emotion, ‘No, no, no, don’t take your feet away, let me offer
homage.’
I was silent. Who was I to stop this reverence? If the puja was true, so
was the deity—why should I be hesitant when I was not that deity?
 Bimala

COME NOW, LET’S LEAVE FOR THAT HOLY SHRINE WHERE

UNIVERSAL LOVE joins the ocean of devotion. In the depths of that
untainted blue, all murky patches will disappear. I am no longer afraid, of
myself or anyone else. I have walked through fire; whatever had to burn has
burnt to ashes and what remains is eternal. I have bestowed myself at his
feet—of he who has absorbed all my crimes deep within his own sorrow.
Tonight we leave for Calcutta. So long I was absorbed with such turmoil,
within and without, that I could hardly concentrate on packing our things.
Now I pulled out the boxes and began to pack. A little later I found my
husband had joined me. I said, ‘No, no, that won’t do. You promised you’d
take a little nap.’
He said, ‘I may have promised, but sleep did not. There is no sign of it
yet.’
I said, ‘Oh no, you go and rest.’
He said, ‘How will you manage all alone?’
‘I’ll manage very well.’
‘You may want to show off how well you can do without me, but I can’t
do without you and so sleep eluded me in that room all by myself.’ He
began to sort through things with me. At this time, the bearer came and
said, Sandipbabu is here. He sent me to inform you.’ Neither of us could
ask who the information was for. In an instant the light went out of the sky
for me and I turned into a shrivelled vine.
My husband said, ‘Come Bimal, let’s go and hear what Sandip has to say.
He had bid goodbye and left. If he has come back, it must be something
urgent.’
Since it would be more embarrassing not to go, I went with him. In the
living room Sandip stood gazing at a portrait. The minute we entered he
said, ‘You must be wondering why this man has come back. Until the last
rites are duly completed the spirit cannot leave in peace.’ He fished out a
bundle from under his shawl and placed it on the table—it held those
guineas. He said, ‘Nikhil, don’t get me wrong; I haven’t turned ethical in
your company. Sandip is not such a wimp that he’d weep tears of regret as
he returns these guineas worth six thousand rupees. But—’
Sandip didn’t finish the sentence. After a brief pause he looked at me and
said, ‘Queen Bee, after all these years a “but” has entered Sandip’s
immaculate life. Every night I have woken up at three and tussled with it;
finally I realize that it isn’t an empty sound; Sandip isn’t free until his debt
has been paid off. So, in the hands of my terminator “but” I lay these
guineas as a final mark of respect. I thought long and hard and realized that
this “but” is the only being in this world from whom I cannot accept wealth
—I can only bid you goodbye if I am penniless before you, oh goddess.
Here, take it.’
He took out the jewellery box as well and placed it on the table and tried
to rush out of the room. My husband called out to him, ‘Come here,
Sandip.’
Sandip spoke from the door, ‘I don’t have time, Nikhil. I’ve come to
know that the Muslims want to loot me like the Kohinoor and bury me deep
in their burial grounds. But I must live. The train bound northwards leaves
in twenty-five minutes and so, for the time being, I say goodbye. Later, if I
have a chance, I’ll finish the rest of our conversation. If you take my advice,
you’ll not waste any time either. Queen Bee, hail the queen of hearts, the
harbinger of storms.’
Sandip almost ran out of the room. I stood there, turned to stone. Never
before had I felt just how meaningless the guineas and the jewellery were.
Just a little while ago I had been thinking how much I’d take with me, how
to fit it all in and now I felt nothing was important, except just walking out.
My husband rose from the chair, came up to me, held my hands and said,
‘There isn’t much time left; we should get the work done now.’
At that moment Chandranathbabu walked in. My presence threw him in a
bit of a quandary. He said, ‘Ma, forgive me, I didn’t give notice before
coming in. Nikhil, the Muslims are enraged. They have looted Harish
Kundu’s treasury. That is not so fearful by itself. But the way they are
treating the women—it is unbearable.’
My husband said, ‘I’ll be off then.’
I grasped his hands and said, ‘What can you do there? Professor, please
stop him.’
Chandranathbabu said, ‘My dear, this isn’t the time to stop him.’
My husband said, ‘Don’t worry, Bimal.’
I rushed to the window and saw him galloping away on horseback. He
wasn’t carrying a single weapon.
Mejorani ran into the room and said, ‘What have you done, little one,
what crazy calamity have you brought on? Why did you let Thakurpo go?’
She ordered the bearer, ‘Go, quickly, call the estate manager.’
Mejorani had never appeared before the estate manager. But today she
had no shame. She said, ‘Quick, send out forces to bring back his majesty.’
The manager said, ‘We have all tried to stop him; he wouldn’t listen.’
Mejorani said, ‘Go and tell him Mejorani has collapsed, she is dying.’
Once the manager left, Mejorani began to curse me, ‘You witch, you
siren. You sent Thakurpo to his death.’
The daylight waned. Standing at the window I saw the sun set behind the
flowering tree in the west, near the milkmen’s colony. Till this day, every
line of that setting sun is engraved on my heart. With the setting sun in the
centre, a rush of clouds had spread their wings to the north and south like
the wings of a huge bird. Its flame-coloured feathers unfurled in layers. I
felt the day was flying swiftly to cross the ocean of the night. Gradually
darkness crept in. Intermittent sounds of hubbub rent the air, just as the
occasional flames would lick the dark sky if there was a fire in a distant
village. The temple bells sounded for the evening arati. I knew Mejorani
was there with folded hands, praying. I couldn’t take a step away from the
window by the street. My eyes blurred over the road ahead, the village, the
distant field empty of crops and the line of trees further afield. The huge
lake of the estate stared at the sky like a sightless eye. The ballroom to the
left stood on its toes as if peering at something.
 There was no end to the masquerades that nighttime sounds indulged in.
If a twig swayed close by, it felt like someone running away in the distance.
The sudden noise of a door banging shut felt like the entire sky missing a
heartbeat. Sometimes I spotted lights beneath the row of trees by the
roadside. Then there was nothing. I heard the sound of horses’ hooves, only
to find the rider galloping out of the estate gates and vanishing in the
distance.
All the time I felt if I died, all troubles would cease. As long as I lived,
the world would be plagued by my sins. I remembered the pistol that lay
nestled in the box. But my feet wouldn’t budge from this window, even to
go and fetch the pistol—you see, I awaited my Fate.
The clock tower of the estate gonged away—ten o’clock.
A little later, there were many lights on the streets, a big crowd had
gathered. In the darkness, the throng of people seemed like a huge black
snake slithering in through the estate gates.
The manager heard the noise and rushed towards the gate. At that
moment, a rider came up and the manager asked him nervously, ‘Jatadhar,
what’s the news?’
He said, ‘Not too good.’
I could hear every syllable clearly from up here.
Then there were some whispers, which I couldn’t hear very well.
A palanquin and a doolie drew into the gates. Doctor Mathur walked
beside the palanquin. The estate manager asked, ‘Doctor, what do you
think?’
The doctor said, ‘Can’t say for sure. Serious head injury.’
‘And Amulyababu?’
‘He took a bullet in the chest. He is no more.’
C H AT U R A N G A

 
(Quartet)
 Uncle

1
I CAME UP FROM THE COUNTRY AND ENTERED COLLEGE IN
CALCUTTA. Sachish was studying for his BA then. We were roughly the
same age.
In appearance Sachish gives the impression of a celestial being. His eyes
glow; his long, slender fingers are like tongues of flame; the colour of his
skin is more a luminescence than a colour. As soon as I set eyes on him I
seemed to glimpse his inner self; and from that moment I loved him.
Amazingly, many of his classmates harboured deep resentment against
him. The fact is, those who are like everyone else arouse no hatred unless
there is a reason. But when a resplendent inner self pierces the grossness
that envelops it, some, quite irrationally, extend it heartfelt adoration;
others, just as irrationally, try heart and soul to insult it.
The students I boarded with realized that I secretly admired Sachish. This
became such a thorn in their sides that they didn’t let a single day pass
without reviling him in my hearing. I knew that if sand gets in the eye
rubbing makes things worse; it was best not to respond to unpleasant words.
But one day such calumny was poured on Sachish’s character that I couldn’t
keep quiet any more.
I was at a disadvantage because I hadn’t yet got to know him. On the
other hand some of my opponents came from his neighbourhood, others
claimed some sort of distant kinship with him. ‘It’s absolutely true!’ they
declared with great vehemence; with even greater vehemence I declared
that I didn’t believe an iota of it. At which they all belligerently rolled up
their sleeves and called me a very impertinent fellow.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I lay in bed that night. Between classes the
next day, I went up to Sachish as he reclined with a book on the shaded
grass by the circular pond and without a word of introduction launched into
an incoherent torrent of words. He closed his book and gazed at me for a
while. Those who haven’t seen his eyes can never understand what lies in
their gaze.
‘Those who slander others,’ Sachish said, ‘do so because they love
slander, not because they love truth. It’s pointless therefore to struggle to
prove that a piece of slander is untrue.’
‘But if they’re lying . . .’
Sachish stopped me. ‘But you see, they’re not liars. There’s a poor boy in
our neighbourhood who has palsy and shakes in every limb. He can’t do
any work. One winter I gave him an expensive blanket. That day my
servant Shibu indignantly complained to me that the illness was a pretence.
Those who deny any virtue in me are like Shibu. They believe what they
say. An expensive extra blanket has fallen to my lot and all the Shibus in
the land have decided I have no right to it. I would find it embarrassing to
quarrel with them over this.’
Without responding to that I asked, ‘But they say you’re an atheist—is it
true?’
‘Yes, I am an atheist,’ Sachish said.
My face fell. I had argued violently with my fellow boarders that Sachish
could not be an atheist.
Indeed I suffered two nasty shocks at the very outset of getting to know
Sachish. As soon as I saw him I decided he was a Brahmin’s son. After all,
his face was like a god’s image carved out of marble. I had heard that his
family name was Mullick; a kulin Brahmin household in our village bore
the same name. But I discovered that Sachish was of the goldsmiths’ caste.
Ours was a devout kaystha family—for the goldsmiths’ caste we felt
profound contempt. And as for being an atheist, I knew it to be a greater sin
than murder, or even eating beef.
I stared speechless at Sachish’s face. Still the same luminescence there—
as if prayer-lamps were shining in his soul.
No one would have thought I would ever share a meal with one of the
goldsmiths’ caste and in my fanatical atheism outdo my guru. But with time
even this came to pass.

Wilkins was professor of literature at our college. His impressive learning

was matched by his contempt for the students. To him teaching literature to
Bengali boys in a colonial college was tantamount to menial labour; and so
if he came across the word ‘cat’, even in the course of teaching Milton or
Shakespeare, he would gloss it with the explanation, ‘a quadruped of the
feline species’. But Sachish was excused from taking down such notes.
‘Sachish,’ he would say, ‘I’d like to compensate you for having to sit in this
class. Come to my house—there you’ll get back your taste for literature,’
The incensed students claimed that the sahib was fond of Sachish
because Sachish was light-complexioned and had beguiled him by showing
off his atheism. The more cunning students rallied together and went to the
sahib to ask to borrow a book on positivism; he dismissed them, saying,
‘You won’t understand it.’ The imputation that they were unfit even to be
atheists merely increased their rage against atheism and against Sachish.

2
I HAVE LISTED THE ASPECTS OF BELIEF AND BEHAVIOUR THAT
PROVOKED condemnation in Sachish’s life. Some of these I came to
know before my acquaintance with him, some after.
Jagmohan was Sachish’s uncle. He was a celebrated atheist of those
times. It would be an understatement to say he didn’t believe in God; he
believed in ‘no-God’. A battleship commander’s occupation has more to do
with sinking ships than with navigation; similarly, Jagmohan’s theological
enterprise lay in torpedoing manifestations of faith wherever he got a
chance. This is how he marshalled his arguments before a believer:
‘If God exists, then my intelligence is his creation. My intelligence says
there is no God. Therefore God says there is no God. Yet you contradict
Him to His face and say that God exists! Thirty-three billion godlings will
twist your ears to make you atone for this blasphemy.’
 Jagmohan had married when still a boy. His wife died in his youth, but he
had read Malthus in the meantime. He never married again.
His younger brother Harimohan was Sachish’s father. Harimohan’s
character was so strikingly antithetical to his elder brother’s that if I write
about it readers will mistake it for fiction. But it is fiction that must be
chary in order to seduce the reader. Since Truth is not under such
constraints it doesn’t balk at being strange. And so, just as dawn and dusk
are opposed in Nature, human society doesn’t lack instances of similar
opposition between elder and younger brother.
Harimohan had been a sickly child. He had to be protected from harm by
all sorts of amulets and charms; rites of exorcism; water sanctified by
washing sadhus’ matted locks; dust from prominent holy places; food-
offerings to deities and the ambrosial water that has washed their feet; and
above all, the blessings obtained from priests at great expense.
Harimohan’s illnesses left him when he grew up, but the belief that he
was very delicate persisted in the family. Nobody wished of him anything
more than that he should just stay alive somehow. He didn’t disappoint
anyone in this regard and went on living quite satisfactorily. But he kept
everyone on tenterhooks by pretending that his health was always on the
verge of collapse. Taking advantage of the apprehensions roused by his
father’s early death, he appropriated the doting attentions of his mother and
aunts. He was served his meals before anybody else; his diet was specially
prepared; he had to work less than others, but was entitled to more rest. He
never forgot that he was in the special care not only of his mother and aunts
but of the gods as well. He extended deference, in proportion to the quantity
of favours he might expect in return, not only to the gods but to worldly
powers—he held such personages as the OC of the police station, rich
neighbours, highly placed civil servants, newspaper editors, not to mention
Brahmin priests, in awed reverence.
Jagmohan’s apprehensions were of a contrary sort. He avoided the
powerful, lest anyone suspect him of currying favour. A similar attitude
underlay his defiance of the deity: he simply refused to bow before any
power, be it earthly or divine.
 In due course, that is to say well before due time, Harimohan’s marriage
took place. After three daughters and three sons came Sachish. Everyone
said he bore a striking resemblance to his uncle. Jagmohan too became
deeply attached to the child, as if it were his own son.
At first Harimohan was pleased at the thought of the advantages accruing
from this. For Jagmohan had taken on responsibility for the boy’s
education, and he was well known for his exceptional mastery of English.
In the opinion of some he was the Macaulay of Bengal, to others he was
Bengal’s Dr Johnson. He seemed to be encased within a shell made up of
English books. Just as a line of pebbles shows the course of a mountain
stream, the parts of the house where he spent his time could be recognized
by the English books lining the walls from floor to ceiling.
Harimohan lavished his paternal affection on his eldest son, Purandar. He
could never say no to Purandar’s demands. His eyes always appeared to
brim with sentimental tears for this son; he feared that Purandar would
simply cease to live if thwarted in anything. Purandar’s education came to
nothing. He had married very early, and no one had managed to bind him to
his marital vows. When his wife protested vigorously, her father-in-law
turned on her angrily and declared that her nagging had driven his son to
seek solace elsewhere.
Observing such goings-on, Jagmohan sought to protect Sachish from the
hazards of paternal love by never letting him out of sight. It wasn’t long
before Sachish, still at a very early age, acquired a sound knowledge of
English. But he didn’t stop there. With his brain cells kindled by Mill and
Bentham, his atheism began to glow like a torch.
Jagmohan behaved with Sachish as if he was of the same age. He
considered reverence for age an empty convention that confirmed the
human mind in its servitude. A young man who had married into the family
wrote to him, addressing the letter in traditional style, ‘To your auspicious
feet’. He replied with the following advice:
My Dear Naren
What it means to describe the feet as ‘auspicious’, I do not know; nor do you; it is therefore
sheer nonsense. Then again, you have completely ignored me and addressed my feet instead.
 You ought to know that my feet are a part of my body and cannot be seen as separate from me
as long as they are not severed. Further, they are neither hand nor ear; to make an appeal to
them is sheer madness. Finally, your choice of the plural number over the dual with reference
to my feet may express reverence, given that a certain quadruped is an object of devotion to
you, but it bespeaks an ignorance of my zoological identity that should, I feel, be removed.
Things that others sweep under the carpet Jagmohan openly discussed with Sachish. If
anyone complained about this he would say, ‘If you want to get rid of hornets, break up their
nest. In the same way, removing the embarrassment that attaches to certain topics dispels the
cause of embarrassment. I am breaking the nest of embarrassment in Sachish’s mind.’

3
SACHISH COMPLETED HIS DEGREE. HARIMOHAN NOW
MOUNTED A CAMPAIGN to rescue him from his uncle. But the fish had
swallowed the bait and was caught on the hook. The more one tried to pull
it free the more firmly attached it became. Harimohan’s anger at this was
directed more at his brother than at his son. He strewed the neighbourhood
with colourful slander about him.
Harimohan wouldn’t have minded if it was only a question of opinions
and beliefs; even eating forbidden chicken was tolerable—it could be
passed off as goat. But his brother and son had gone so far in their
behaviour that nothing could cover it up. Let me narrate the event that gave
most offence.
Service to humanity was an important aspect of Jagmohan’s atheistic
creed. The chief delight in such altruism lay in the fact that it brought
nothing save financial loss—no award or merit, no promise of baksheesh
from any scripture—nor did it placate any irate deity. If anyone asked,
‘What is there for you in the greatest good of the greatest number?’ he
would say, ‘The greatest thing for me is that there’s nothing in it for me.’
He would say to Sachish:
‘Remember, my boy, our pride in being atheists requires us to be morally
impeccable. Because we don’t obey anything we ought to have greater
strength to be true to ourselves.’
Sachish was his chief disciple in seeking the greatest good of the greatest
number. In their neighbourhood there were some hide-merchants’
warehouses. The social work of uncle and nephew brought them into such
intimacy with the Muslim tanners and traders that Harimohan’s caste mark
positively blazed, and threatened to turn his brain into an inferno. Knowing
that invoking scripture would have the opposite of the desired effect,
Harimohan complained instead that Jagmohan was misusing their
patrimony. ‘Let my expenses reach what you have spent on fat-bellied
priests,’ Jagmohan replied, ‘then I will square accounts with you.’
One day Harimohan’s household noticed that preparations were afoot for
a huge feast in Jagmohan’s part of the house. The cooks and attendants
were all Muslim. Beside himself with rage, Harimohan summoned Sachish
and said, ‘I hear you will treat all your chamar friends to a feast here?’
‘I would if I had the means,’ Sachish replied, ‘but I don’t have any
money. They’re coming as Uncle’s guests.’
Stomping about in fury, Purandar threatened, ‘I’ll see how they dare
come to this house to eat.’
When Harimohan protested to his brother, Jagmohan told him, ‘I don’t
say anything about your daily food-offerings to your gods. So why do you
object to my making an offering to my gods?’
‘Your gods?’
‘Yes, my gods.’
‘Have you become a Brahmo?’
‘Brahmos accept a formless deity who is invisible to the eye. You accept
idols who cannot be heard. We accept the living who can be seen and heard
—it’s impossible not to believe in them.’
‘What, these Muslim chamars are your gods?’
‘Yes, these Muslim chamars are my gods. You will notice that among all
deities they are distinguished by a remarkable ability to polish off whatever
eatables are placed before them. None of your gods can do that. I love to
watch this miracle, so I have invited my gods into my home. If you weren’t
blind to true divinity you would be pleased at this.’
Purandar went up to his uncle, said many harsh things in a loud voice,
and declared that he would do something really drastic that day.
 ‘You monkey,’ Jagmohan said with a laugh, ‘you have only to lay a
finger on my gods to see how potent they are. I won’t have to do a thing.’
No matter how boastful he was, Purandar was in reality even more of a
coward than his father. He was formidable only with those who spoiled
him. He didn’t dare enrage his Muslim neighbours. He went instead to
Sachish and abused him. Sachish merely raised his exquisite eyes towards
his elder brother and didn’t utter a word. That day the feast was held
undisturbed.

4
HARIMOHAN GIRDED HIS LOINS NOW FOR A CAMPAIGN
AGAINST HIS ELDER brother. Both of them derived their income from
the trusteeship of ancestral property endowed as a religious trust,
Harimohan filed a suit in the district court in which he claimed that being
an atheist, Jagmohan was ineligible for the trusteeship. Respectable
witnesses for the plaintiff were not lacking; virtually the entire
neighbourhood was ready to testify.
There was no need to resort to pettifoggery. Jagmohan unequivocally
stated in court that he didn’t believe in gods and goddesses; didn’t care for
scriptural restrictions on diet; didn’t know from which part of Brahma’s
anatomy the Muslims had originated; nor saw any objections to dining or
mixing socially with them.
The judge found Jagmohan unworthy of the trusteeship. Jagmohan’s
lawyers assured him that the judgement would be overturned in the High
Court. But Jagmohan said, ‘I will not appeal. I cannot cheat a god, even one
I do not believe in. Only those stupid enough to believe in a god can
deceive him in good conscience.’
‘How will you live?’ his friends asked.
‘If I can’t get food,’ he said, ‘I’ll live on air,’
Harimohan had no wish to boast of his victory in the law suit. He was
apprehensive that his brother might put a curse on him. But Purandar still
smarted at having failed to turn the tanners out of the house. Now that it
was quite obvious whose gods were more potent, he hired drummers who
from dawn on shattered the neighbourhood’s peace with their din.
‘What’s up?’ said a friend who called on Jagmohan, ignorant of what had
transpired.
‘Today my god is being dunked in the water with great pomp, hence the
music,’ Jagmohan replied.
For two days Brahmins were feasted under Purandar’s personal
supervision. Everybody declared he was the glory of his family. Following
this, the family home in Calcutta was divided between the two brothers by a
wall down the middle.
Harimohan had enough confidence in human nature to assume that
everybody—no matter what he thought of religion—possessed a natural
good sense when it came to practicalities like food and clothing and money.
He fully expected his son to abandon’the impoverished Jagmohan and,
drawn by the aroma of food, slip into the gilded cage. But Sachish had
evidently inherited neither the piety nor the worldly wisdom of his father.
He remained with his uncle.
Jagmohan had become so accustomed to treating Sachish as one of his
own that it didn’t strike him as extraordinary when on the day the house
was partitioned his nephew fell to his share.
But Harimohan knew his brother only too well. He spread the rumour
that Jagmohan was scheming to secure his own livelihood by holding on to
Sachish. He put on a look of injured innocence and tearfully complained to
everyone, ‘I am not heartless enough to deprive my elder brother of food
and clothing, But I will never tolerate his diabolical effort to manipulate my
son. Let me see how far his cunning goes.’
When friends carried word of these developments to Jagmohan he was
stunned. He cursed his own stupidity for not having anticipated them.
‘Goodbye, Sachish,’ he said to his nephew.
Sachish realized that the anguish with which Jagmohan had bid him
farewell forbade any remonstrance. He would now have to end an
association that had lasted without interruption through the eighteen years
of his life.
 When Sachish put his box and bedding-roll on the roof of the hackney
carriage and was driven off, Jagmohan went up to his room, bolted the door
and collapsed on to the floor. Dusk fell, the old servant knocked to be let in
so he could light the lamp, but there was no response.
The greatest good of the greatest number, indeed! The statistical
calculations of science do not apply to the mysteries of human nature. The
person who is a single unit in a census is beyond the reckoning of statistics
in matters of the heart. Sachish could not be categorized in terms of
statistical units—one, two, three . . . He rent Jagmohan’s heart and pervaded
his whole world.
It hadn’t occurred to Jagmohan to ask Sachish why he had ordered a
carriage and loaded his belongings into it. Instead of moving to his father’s
half of the house Sachish went to a boarding-house where a friend of his
lived, At the thought that one’s own son could turn into a total stranger
Harimohan shed frequent tears. He was very tender-hearted!
Soon after the partitioning, Purandar, out of sheer bloody-mindedness, set
up a permanent altar for idol-worship in his father’s half of the house and
danced for joy at the thought that each morning and evening the noise of the
ritual cymbals and conch-shells was driving his uncle to distraction.
Sachish took up tutoring pupils privately, and Jagmohan became
headmaster of a high school. Harimohan and Purandar embarked on a
mission to rescue the children of respectable families from the clutches of
the atheist pedagogue.

5
ONE DAY NOT LONG AFTERWARDS SACHISH SUDDENLY
APPEARED IN Jagmohan’s upper-floor study. The custom of making
obeisance, or pranam, being alien to them, Jagmohan embraced Sachish and
offering him a seat on the bed, asked, ‘What news?’
There was indeed some special news.
A widowed girl called Nonibala and her widowed mother had taken
refuge in the house of a maternal uncle. She was safe as long as her mother
was with her, but the old woman had died not long ago. The girl’s cousins
were scoundrels. One of their cronies lured Nonibala out of the house and
seduced her. After some days he became prey to jealousy, suspected Noni
of betraying him, and started heaping insults on her. All this was going on
next door to the house where Sachish was employed as tutor to the children.
Sachish wanted to rescue the wretched girl. But he had neither money, nor a
place where he could take her; hence the visit to Uncle. By now the girl had
become pregnant.
Jagmohan flew into a rage. If he could have laid hands on the seducer he
would have instantly crushed the fellow’s head! He wasn’t the sort of
person to deliberate calmly on such matters. ‘Very well,’ he declared. ‘My
library is empty. I’ll put her up there.’
‘The library!’ Sachish exclaimed in surprise.’But what about the books?’
During the time that Jagmohan had been looking for a job he supported
himself by selling off his books. Those that remained could be easily
accommodated in his bedroom.
‘Fetch the girl straightaway,’ Jagmohan said.
‘I’ve already brought her,’ Sachish replied. ‘She’s waiting downstairs.’
Jagmohan went down and saw the girl cringing like a little bundle of rags
on the floor of the room by the staircase. He swept into the room like a gale
and said in his deep voice, Come, my little mother. Why are you squatting
in the dust?’
The girl buried her face in a corner of her sari and broke into sobs.
Tears didn’t come easily to Jagmohan’s eyes, but they brimmed over
now.
‘Sachish,’ he said, ‘the shame this girl has to bear today belongs equally
to you and me. Who has forced such a burden on her?’
Then to her, ‘Ma, your shyness won’t do before me. My schoolmates
nicknamed me Jagai the Madcap. I am still the same madcap.’
So saying he unhesitatingly took the girl’s two hands and drew her to her
feet. Her sari slipped from her head. Such a young and tender face, free of
the slightest taint of disgrace! She was lovely as a raintree blossom, and just
as dust on a flower cannot destroy its essential purity, so the beauty of her
sacred inner being had remained unbesmirched. Her dark eyes were fearful
like those of a wounded gazelle, her lissome frame was constricted by a
sense of shame, but her frank sorrow revealed no sign of stigma.
Jagmohan took Nonibala upstairs to his room and said, ‘Ma, look at the
state of my room. The broom hasn’t touched it in ages, everything’s
topsyturvy, and as for me I eat at no fixed time. Now that you are here, my
room will become neat and tidy again, and even Jagai the Madcap will be
able to live like a human being.’
Nonibala hadn’t known till this day what human beings could mean to
each other. She hadn’t known it even when her mother was alive, for her
mother had come to see her not simply as a daughter, but as a widowed
daughter, and this defined a relationship that was like a path strewn with the
tiny thorns of foreboding. So how could a complete stranger like Jagmohan
rend the veil of such judgements and accept her totally?
He engaged an elderly maidservant and did everything to make Nonibala
feel at home. Noni had been very apprehensive that Jagmohan wouldn’t
accept food from her hands—she was a fallen woman, after all. As things
turned out, Jagmohan was unwilling to accept food except from her hands;
he even swore that unless she cooked his meals and served them herself, he
wouldn’t eat at all.
Jagmohan knew another round of condemnation was imminent. Noni too
knew this and had no end of anxiety on this account. It started in a few
days. The maidservant had taken Noni to be Jagmohan’s daughter. Then one
day she came and after heaping abuse on Noni walked out on her job with a
display of great disgust. Noni grew despondent out of solicitude for
Jagmohan. He comforted her, saying, ‘Ma, the full moon has risen in my
house, it’s time for the flood-tide of calumny to rise. But however muddy
the waves, they can’t taint my moonlight.’
An aunt on Jagmohan’s father’s side walked over from Harimohan’s part
of the house and said, ‘How disgusting, Jagai! Get rid of this sin.’
‘You people are religious,’ Jagmohan said, ‘so you can say such a thing.
But if I get rid of the sin, what is to be the fate of the poor sinner?’
 A distant cousin of his grandmother came and advised, ‘Send the girl to
hospital. Harimohan is willing to bear all expenses.’
‘But she is a mother,’ Jagmohan replied. ‘Can I send a mother to hospital
for no reason, just because money is available for the purpose? What sort of
logic does Harimohan follow?’
‘Who do you call a mother?’ said the cousin, raising her eyebrows.
‘A person who nurtures life in her womb, who risks her own life to give
birth to her child. The heartless creature who fathered the child I’ll never
call a father. That fellow only puts the girl in trouble but doesn’t face any
trouble himself.’
Harimohan was overcome with disgust, as if his entire body had been
soaked in filth. How could one bear the thought that on the other side of the
boundary wall of a respectable home, on property that had come down from
one’s revered ancestors, a fallen woman lived so brazenly?
Harimohan readily believed that Sachish was intimately involved in this
heinous sin and was indulged in it by his atheist uncle. Wherever he went
he spread this tale with great outrage.
Jagmohan didn’t do anything to stem the tide of obloquy.
‘The religious scriptures of us atheists decree the hellfire of calumny as
the prize for good deeds,’ he pronounced.
The more varied and colourful the rumours that spread, the more
Jagmohan and Sachish gave themselves up to satiric merriment. To joke
with one’s nephew over something so sordid was unheard-of by Harimohan
or respectable citizens like him.
Purandar hadn’t stepped into Jagmohan’s part of the house since it was
partitioned. But he now swore that his prime task in life was to drive the
girl out of the neighbourhood.
Jagmohan, when he went to school, secured all entrances to his house
and, whenever during the day he could take some time off, didn’t fail to
come and check if everything was safe.
One day around noon Purandar placed a ladder against the parapet of the
roof on his father’s half of the house and descended into Jagmohan’s
portion. Nonibala had finished her midday meal and dozed off, leaving the
door of her room open.
Purandar entered the room and, seeing her, roared in anger and surprise,
‘So! You are here!’
Startled out of sleep, Noni’s face turned pale at the sight of Purandar. She
didn’t have the strength to flee or to say anything. Quivering with rage,
Purandar called her name, ‘Noni!’
Just at that moment Jagmohan entered the room from behind and
screamed, ‘Get out! Get out of my house!’
Purandar puffed up like an enraged cat.
‘If you don’t leave at once I’ll call the police,’ Jagmohan threatened;
Purandar shot a fiery glance at Noni and left. Noni fainted.
Jagmohan understood now. When he asked Sachish he found that Sachish
knew it was Purandar who had ruined the girl’s life, but had kept the
information from Jagmohan lest he became angry and created an uproar.
Sachish knew that Noni wouldn’t be safe from Purandar’s persecution
anywhere else in Calcutta; if there was any place where Purandar wouldn’t
dare intrude it was his uncle’s house.
Seized with fear, Noni trembled like a bamboo shoot for several days,
then gave birth to a stillborn child.
Purandar had literally kicked Noni out one midnight, and had then, for a
long time, looked for her in vain. On discovering her in his uncle’s house he
burned from top to toe with jealousy. He assumed that Sachish had enticed
her away to keep her for his own enjoyment and had put her up in
Jagmohan’s house in order to add insult to injury. On no account could this
be tolerated.
Harimohan came to know of all this. In fact Purandar felt no
embarrassment about letting his father find out. Harimohan looked upon his
son’s misdeeds with something like affectionate indulgence. He considered
it highly unnatural and immoral of Sachish to snatch the girl from Purandar.
It became his firm resolve that Purandar should avenge the insufferable
insult and injustice by retrieving what was rightfully his. He put up money
to hire the services of a woman who would pose as Noni’s mother and plead
with Jagmohan to give back her daughter. But Jagmohan drove the imposter
away with such a terrible look on his face that she didn’t dare go back.
Noni grew emaciated day by day, till she seemed about to fade away into
her shadow. The Christmas holiday had come. Jagmohan didn’t leave her
alone in the house even for a moment.
One evening he was reading a novel by Scott and retelling the story to
Noni in Bengali. Just then Purandar stormed into the room with another
youth. When Jagmohan rose with threats to call the police, the youth
insisted, ‘I am Noni’s brother, I have come to take her home.’
Without another word Jagmohan grabbed Purandar by the neck, marched
him to the stairs and with one shove sent him clattering on his way. To the
youth he thundered, ‘Have you no shame? When Noni needs protection you
are nowhere around, and when people try to ruin her you join them saying
you are her brother!’
The young man backed away quickly, but from a distance he shouted
back that he would seek police assistance to rescue his sister. He was indeed
Noni’s brother; Purandar had asked him along in order to make out that it
was Sachish who had brought about Noni’s ruin.
Noni prayed silently, ‘O Mother Earth, swallow me up.’
Jagmohan called Sachish and said, ‘Let me take Noni to some town
upcountry. I’ll find some sort of a job. The persecution has reached such a
pitch that the poor girl won’t survive here much longer.’
‘When my elder brother is involved the persecution will follow wherever
you go,’ Sachish replied.
‘Then what is to be done?’
‘There is a way out. I’ll marry Noni.’
‘Marry?’
‘Yes, according to Civil Law.’
Jagmohan hugged Sachish to his chest. Tears streamed from his eyes. In
all his life, he had never shed such tears.

6
SINCE THE PARTITION OF THE HOUSE HARIMOHAN HADN’T
VISITED Jagmohan even once. One day he turned up suddenly, all
dishevelled and distraught. ‘Dada,’ he said, ‘what’s this disaster I’ve been
hearing about?’ ‘Disaster was imminent, but a way has been found to avert
it.’ ‘Dada, Sachish is like a son to you—how can you let him marry that
fallen woman?’
‘I have brought up Sachish like a son, and my efforts have borne fruit
today. He has done something to gladden our hearts.’
‘Dada, I’ ll surrender to you—I’ll give up half my income to you—please
don’t wreak such terrible vengeance on me.’
Jagmohan stood up from the cot on which he was sitting.
‘Indeed! You have come to pacify the dog with the leavings on your
plate! I’m not a pious man like you, I’m an atheist, remember that. I don’t
seek revenge in anger, nor do I accept charity.’
Next, Harimohan turned up at Sachish’s lodgings. He drew him aside and
said, ‘What’s that I hear? Couldn’t you find some other way to ruin your
life? How can you dishonour the family like this?’
‘I wasn’t keen on marriage,’ Sachish replied, ‘but I’m trying to erase the
stain of dishonour from our family.’
‘Haven’t you any moral sense?’ Harimohan said. ‘That girl is virtually
your Dada’s wife, yet you. . .’
‘Virtually his wife?’ Sachish interrupted in protest. ‘Don’t you dare say
such a thing.’
After that Harimohan hurled at Sachish whatever abuse came to his
mind. Sachish made no reply.
Harimohan found himself in dire straits because Purandar was
shamelessly telling everybody that he would commit suicide if Sachish
married Noni. ‘That would end the bother,’ Purandar’s wife said, ‘but you
don’t have the guts to do it.’ Harimohan didn’t quite believe Purandar’s
threat, but neither could he stop worrying about it.
Sachish had avoided Noni’s company all these days. He hadn’t ever seen
her alone, and it was doubtful if he had exchanged even a couple of words
with her. When the final arrangements for the marriage had been made
Jagmohan told Sachish, ‘Before the wedding you ought to have a word with
Noni in private. You need to know each other’s true feelings.’
Sachish agreed.
Jagmohan set a date. ‘Ma,’ he said to Noni when the day arrived. ‘You
must dress up now to my liking.’
Noni lowered her eyes bashfully.
‘No, Ma, don’t be shy. It’s my fond wish to see you fully decked out
today. Please satisfy my whim.’
He then handed her a set of clothes he had bought himself—a gilt-
embroidered Benares sari, blouse and veil.
Noni reverently bent down to take the dust of his feet. He hastily drew
back his feet and said, ‘In all these days I’ve failed to rid you of your
reverence for me. I may be older in years, but you, Ma , are greater than I
because you are a mother.’
Then kissing the top of her head he said, ‘I have an invitation to
Bhabatosh’s—I may be a little late.’
Noni took his hand. ‘Baba,’ she said, ‘give me your blessing today.’
‘Ma, I can see very clearly that you’ll turn this old atheist, in his dotage,
into a believer. I don’t care a straw about blessings, but when I see that face
of yours I must confess I do feel like blessing you.’
He took her chin to raise her face and gazed silently at it; tears streamed
from her eyes.
That evening messengers hastened to Bhabatosh’s to call Jagmohan
home. When he came he saw Noni lying in bed in the clothes he had given
her, clutching a note in her hand. Sachish was at the head of the bed.
Jagmohan opened the note and read:
Baba,
I can’t go on. Please forgive me. All these days I have tried heart and soul for your sake, but I
can’t forget him even now. A million obeisances on your blessed feet.
The sinner Nonibala
 Sachish

1
ON HIS DEATHBED JAGMOHAN SAID TO SACHISH, ‘IF YOU
FANCY A SRADDHA have one for your father, but not for your uncle.’
This is how he died. When the plague first came to Calcutta people were
more fearful of the uniformed government employees who carted victims
off to quarantine than of the disease itself. Harimohan reckoned that the
tanners in the neighbourhood would be among the first to catch the disease;
and then his family would surely die with those wretches. Before escaping
to safety, he approached his brother with an offer. ‘Dada,’ he said, ‘I’ve
found a house in Kalna, on the bank of Ganges, If you . . .’
‘Splendid!’ Jagmohan said. ‘But how can I abandon these people?’
‘Who?’
‘The tanners.’
Harimohan made a wry face and left. He went to Sachish’s lodgings and
said, ‘Come with us.’
‘I have work to do,’ Sachish said.
‘What, playing undertaker to those tanners?’
‘Well, yes, if necessary.
‘Necessary indeed! It seems you might consider it necessary to consign
your ancestors to hell, you wicked atheist.’
Harimohan saw ominous signs of apocalypse, and returned home filled
with despair. That day, to bring himself luck, he filled a quire of paper with
the holy name of Durga in a minuscule hand.
Harimohan left Calcutta. The plague reached the neighbourhood. Victims
were reluctant to call in a doctor lest he force them to move into hospital.
Jagmohan visited the plague hospitals.
 Saying on his return, ‘Should the sick be treated like criminals?’ he
converted his house into a hospital. Sachish and a handful of us were
volunteer nurses; a doctor also joined our team.
Our first patient was a Muslim; he died. The second was Jagmohan
himself; he didn’t survive either. ‘The creed I have lived by all my life has
given me its parting gift,’ he said to Sachish. ‘I have no regrets.’
Sachish, who had never made obeisance to Uncle when he was alive,
bent down and for the first and last time reverently touched his feet.
When Harimohan next met Sachish he said, ‘This is how atheists meet
their end.’
‘Exactly!’ said Sachish with pride.

2
JUST AS THE LIGHT OF A LAMP PUT OUT BY A PUFF OF BREATH
VANISHES instantly, after Jagmohan’s death Sachish disappeared—we
didn’t know where.
It’s impossible for us to Imagine how much Sachish loved Uncle. Uncle
was Sachish’s father, friend, and even—in a sense—his son. For he was so
absent-minded about himself and so ignorant of wordly affairs, that one of
Sachish’s prime responsibilities was to keep him out of trouble. Thus it was
through Uncle that Sachish acquired what was his own and gave away what
he had to contribute of his own.
It is also futile to try to imagine how Sachish was affected by the void
left by Uncle’s death, Sachish struggled in intolerable anguish to establish
that the void could never in fact be so empty, that no emptiness was so
absolute that it left no room for truth. For if it wasn’t the case that what was
‘No’ in one sense was also ‘Yes’ in another, then through the tiny hole of
that ‘No’ the entire universe would vanish into nothingness.
Sachish roamed the countryside for two years, and I had no contact with
him. Our group continued with its activities with increased vigour. We
became the scourge of those who had any kind of religious belief, and
deliberately undertook charitable work of the sort that would not win the
approval of our more respectable contemporaries. Sachish had been the
flower in our midst; when he stepped aside only our naked thorns were
displayed.
We had no news of Sachish for two years. I don’t wish to say anything
critical about Sachish but I couldn’t help thinking then that at the shock of
bereavement the note to which he had been tuned had slid down the scale.
‘Just as a moneychanger rings a coin to test if it is counterfeit,’ Uncle had
once remarked on seeing a sannyasi ‘the world tests the quality of man by
making him experience loss, bereavement and the lure of salvation. Coins
that ring false are discarded as counterfeit; these sannyasis are like those
fake coins, useless in life’s transactions. Yet they go around saying that they
have renounced the world. If one is of any use there’s no way one can slip
out of the world of samsara. Dry leaves fall from the boughs because the
tree shakes them off—they are trash after all.’
Among so many was it going to be Sachish’s lot to end up as trash? Had
it been inscribed on the dark touchstone of grief that Sachish was worthless
in life’s marketplace?
Then we heard that Sachish was somewhere in Chittagong. Our Sachish
was with Swami Lilananda, dancing ecstatically, singing kirtans, playing
cymbals, and rousing whole neighbourhoods into a state of excitement.
Once I couldn’t imagine how someone like Sachish could be an atheist;
now I couldn’t understand how Swami Lilananda made Sachish dance to
his tune.
Meanwhile how could we not lose face? Our enemies would laugh at us.
And they were far from few.
Members of our group turned violently against Sachish. Many claimed to
have known all along that there was no real substance to Sachish; he was all
empty theory.
I realized now how much I loved Sachish. He had aimed a fatal missile at
our group, yet I couldn’t bring myself to feel any anger towards him.
I set out in search of Swami Lilananda. I had to cross many rivers, cut
across many fields, spend nights in grocers’ stalls, before finally catching
up with Sachish in a village. It was about two in the afternoon.
 I wanted to see him alone, but there was no hope of that. The courtyard
of the disciple’s house in which the Swami had halted was thick with
people. There had been kirtan singing all morning. Arrangements were
afoot to provide a meal to those who had come from afar.
As soon as he saw me Sachish rushed forward and hugged me. I was
astonished. Sachish had always been restrained in manner; with him,
silence evinced depth of feeling. Today it seemed as if he was high on
drugs.
The Swami was resting in a room. The door was slightly ajar.
He caught sight of me and called out in a deep voice, ‘Who is it?’
‘My friend Sribilash,’ said Sachish.
My name had begun to get around. A certain Englishman of intellectual
repute had observed on hearing me lecture in English, ‘The fellow’s quite . .
.’ but let me not make more enemies by going into all that. I had become
well known among students and their parents as a formidable atheist who
could drive the four-horse carriage of English conversation at twenty or
twenty-five miles an hour with amazing finesse.
I believe the Swami was pleased to hear of my arrival. He wished to see
me. I entered his room and greeted him with a namaskar. It was a namaskar
in which my joined palms rose perpendicularly to my forehead; my head
didn’t bow at all. We were Uncle’s disciples, our namaskar was like an
unstrung bow: dispensing with the nama, it stood ramrod straight.
Noticing this, the Swami said, ‘Get the hookah ready for me, Sachish.’
Sachish sat down to prepare the hookah. As the tikka lit up I too began to
burn. I couldn’t decide where to sit. The only furniture was the cot on which
the Swami had made his bed. I didn’t consider it improper to sit down on
one side of it, but I didn’t do so I don’t know why—I kept standing by the
door.
I discovered that the Swamiji knew I had won the Premchand-Raychand
scholarship. ‘Baba,’ he said, ‘the diver has to go down to the seabed to look
for pearls, but it’s fatal to get stuck there, so he comes gasping to the
surface to save his life. If you want salvation you must leave the floor of the
ocean of knowledge and come to the shore. You have won the Premchand
Raychand scholarship, now look to the Premchand-Raychand
renunciationship!’
When the hookah was ready Sachish handed it to him and sat on the floor
at his feet. The Swami at once stretched out his legs towards Sachish, who
began slowly massaging them.
The sight was so distressing to me that I couldn’t remain any longer in
the room. I realized it was in order to provoke me that Sachish had been
made to prepare the Swami’s hookah and massage his legs.
The Swami continued with his rest, the visitors finished their meal of
khichuri. At five, kirtan singing resumed and went on till ten at night.
Catching Sachish alone at night I said, ‘Sachish, from the moment you
were born you have lived in a liberated atmosphere. What strange bondage
have you got yourself into now? Can Uncle’s death be such a devastating
event?’
Partly as an affectionate joke, partly because of my appearance, Sachish
used to transpose the first two syllables of my name, Sribilash, and call me
Bisri, which means ugly. ‘Bisri,’ he said, ‘when Uncle was alive he gave me
freedom in the sphere of life’s activities, and this was like the freedom a
child enjoys in the playpen. With his death he has set me free in the ocean
of ecstasy which offers the freedom a child finds at its mother’s breast.
Having enjoyed the freedom of daylight, why should I now forgo the
freedom of the night world? You may rest assured Uncle has had a hand in
both.’
‘Whatever you say,’ I retorted, ‘Uncle’s weaknesses didn’t extend to
making others massage his legs and prepare his hookah. This doesn’t look
like liberation.’
‘Uncle trained my limbs for work and gave me the freedom of the shore,’
said Sachish. ‘Now I am in the ocean of ecstasy, where a boat’s moorings
are its guarantee of liberty. That is why the guru has bound me like this to a
life of service; by massaging his legs I am making my way across the
ocean.’
‘The words don’t sound unattractive on your lips, I said, ‘but the person
who stretches out his legs towards you like that is surely . . .’
 ‘He can do that because he doesn’t really need anyone’s service. If he did
he would feel embarrassed; the need is mine alone.’
I realized that Sachish was in a realm I had never entered. The ‘me’
whom Sachish had embraced when we met wasn’t ‘me, Sribilash’, it was
the Universal Soul that inheres in all beings, it was an Idea.
Such an Idea is like wine; whoever is drunk with it will clasp anyone to
his breast and shed tears; it makes no difference whether that one is me or
another. But I couldn’t share the inebriate’s joy; I didn’t want to lose my
power of discrimination and be a mere ripple in a flood of Sameness—after
all, ‘I’ am ‘me’.
I knew it wasn’t a question that could be settled through argument. But it
was beyond me to abandon Sachish; drawn into the Swami’s group because
of him, I too drifted from village to village. Gradually the intoxication came
to possess me as well; I too embraced everyone, shed unrestrained tears,
massaged the guru’s legs; and one day in a sudden, ineffable rapture I saw
Sachish assume an other-worldly form that could only be that of a god.

3
HAVING ROPED TWO FORMIDABLE ENGLISH-EDUCATED
ATHEISTS INTO HIS fold, Swami Lilananda’s fame spread far and wide.
His disciples in Calcutta implored him to make his base in the city. So he
went.
The Swami once had an extremely devoted disciple named Shibtosh,
with whom he would stay whenever he was in Calcutta. The pride and joy
of Shibtosh’s life was to serve the Swami and his retinue.
Before his death Shibtosh made out a will granting life-rent for his house
and other property in Calcutta to his young and childless wife, and ultimate
ownership to his guru; it was his wish that in time the house would become
the chief place of pilgrimage for his guru’s followers. This was where we
billeted.
During my delirious wanderings from village to village, I had been in one
frame of mind. After coming to Calcutta I found it difficult to sustain my
drunkenness. All these days I had been in the realm of ecstasy, where the
cosmic Female and the consciousness-pervading Male made love endlessly;
the music of that cosmic romance filled the village pastures, the peepul-
shade at the river-crossing, leisurely afternoons, and the evenings pulsating
with the chirp of crickets. It was like a dream in which I floated without
hindrance in the open sky; coming to the tough city my head suffered a
knock, I was jostled by crowds—the spell broke. Once in lodgings in this
very Calcutta I had devoted myself day and night to study; had met with
friends by the Goldighi lake to ponder the nation’s future; played the
volunteer at political conferences; nearly landed in jail in protesting against
police brutality. Responding to Uncle’s call, I had vowed to oppose the
brigandage of society with my last breath and to liberate the minds of my
countrymen from all forms of bondage. From early youth till now I had
moved through the city throngs like a sailboat travelling proudly upstream
with chest puffed out, derided by stranger and kinsman alike. Now in the
same Calcutta, I tried desperately to sustain the trance of lachrymose
ecstasy amidst crowds tossed about by hunger and thirst, pleasure and pain,
and the baffling problems of good and evil. At times I felt I was too weak, I
was straying, my devotions lacked concentration. But turning to Sachish I
saw in his face no recognition of the fact that Calcutta had a position in
geographical space; to him it was all shadow.

4
MY FRIEND AND I CONTINUED TO LIVE WITH OUR GURU IN
SHIBTOSH’S house. We were his chief disciples and he wanted us to be
constantly with him.
Day and night we discoursed with our guru and fellow disciples on the
theory of rasa, the essence of ecstasy. Amidst the obscure profundities loud
feminine laughter would suddenly reach us from the zenana. Sometimes we
would hear a loud summons to the maid, ‘Bami!’ Seen from the rare heights
of abstraction in which our minds were absorbed these were trivialities; but
it would suddenly seem as if a shower had pattered down in the middle of a
drought. Whenever such small signs of life in the hidden world on the other
side of the wall touched us like falling petals, I would be struck by the
realization that the desired partner in ecstasy was there—where the rattling
bunch of household keys was tied to a corner of Bami’s sari, where the
smell of cooking rose from the kitchen, where I could hear the sound of
sweeping, where all was trivial yet true, where the sweet and the bitter, the
crude and the subtle, were inextricably intertwined—there lay the paradise
of ecstasy.
The widow’s name was Damini. At first we would catch only fleeting
glimpses of her, but Sachish and I were so close to the guru that she
couldn’t keep herself hidden from us for long.
Damini means lightning and Damini was like the lightning in thunderous
monsoon clouds. Her outward form brimmed with youthful vitality; and in
her soul danced a restless flame.
At one point in his diary Sachish noted:
‘In Nonibala I saw one form of the Universal Feminine—the woman who
takes upon herself the stigma of sin, who sacrifices her life for a sinner’s
sake, who in dying adds to the contents of life’s cup of ambrosia. In Damini
the Universal Feminine assumes another form. She has no truck with death,
she is a celebrant of the vital force. Like a spring garden she is always
brimming with waves of lovely fragrance. She doesn’t want to renounce
anything in life; she is unwilling to play host to the sannyasi; she has sworn
not to pay a paisa in homage to the cold north wind.’
Let me say a few words about Damini’s background. Damini’s marriage
took place at a time when her father Annadaprasad’s coffers overflowed
with a sudden flood of profit from the jute trade. Till then Shibtosh had only
a good pedigree; now fortune smiled on him. Annadaprasad presented his
son-in-law with a house in Calcutta and arranged for him an income
sufficient to ensure a comfortable life. The dowry also included a large
quantity of ornaments.
He tried to train up Shibtosh in his office. But it wasn’t in Shibtosh’s
nature to take an interest in worldly matters. An astrologer once told him
that the influence of Jupiter during a certain conjunction would liberate him
from earthly attachments. Henceforth, in anticipation of his salvation, he
decided to forgo the desire for gold and other precious substances. He had
by then become a disciple of Swami Lilananda.
Meanwhile a crosswind in business had overturned the full-sailed
pinnace of Annadaprasad’s fortune. He had to sell off everything, even his
house, and was hard put to provide his family with regular meals.
One evening Shibtosh entered the zenana and told his wife, ‘Swamiji is
here—he has asked to see you to give some advice.’
‘I can’t go now. I don’t have any time,’ Damini said.
No time! Shibtosh drew closer and saw that in the darkened room Damini
had taken her jewellery out of its boxes.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I am sorting out my jewellery,’ Damini replied.
Was that why she had no time? Really! The next day Damini opened the
steel chest and found her jewellery gone.
‘Where’s my jewellery?’ she demanded of her husband.
‘You have presented it to your guru,’ her husband said. ‘That was why he
had summoned you at that moment, for he is omniscient. He has liberated
you now from desire for gold.’
Damini flared up. ‘Give me back my jewellery!’
‘Why, what for?’ her husband asked.
‘It was my father’s gift,’ Damini replied. ‘I’ll return it to him.’
‘It has fallen into better hands,’ said Shibtosh. ‘Instead of going to feed
those with earthly attachments it has been dedicated to the service of
religious devotees.’
Thus began the brigandage in the name of spiritual devotion. In order to
rid Damini of the spirits of all earthly desires, the exorcist’s raids continued
apace. While Damini’s father and young brothers starved, she cooked daily,
with her own hands, for sixty to seventy devotees. She would wilfully put
no salt in the curry, she would let the milk go off: such was her brand of
asceticism.
Just then her husband died after imposing on her a penalty for her lack of
devotion. Together with all his property he placed his wife under the
guardianship of the guru.
Throughout the house the tide of devotion rose tirelessly. People
thronged from far away to seek the guru’s blessing. Yet Damini, who could
come close to him without trying, kept this precious opportunity at bay with
continuous taunts and insults.
Whenever the guru asked to see her to impart some special advice she
would say, ‘I have a headache.’ If he questioned her about a slip-up in the
dinner arrangements she would say, ‘I was out at the theatre.’ It wasn’t true,
but it was barbed. The guru’s women devotees saw how she behaved and
raised their eyebrows in disbelief. To begin with, Damini didn’t dress like a
widow; then, she would pointedly ignore the guru’s instructions; and finally
she showed no hint of the radiance of ascetic purity that lights up body and
soul through being close to such a great man. Everybody voiced the same
opinion: ‘Some creature indeed! We have seen a lot, but such a woman—
never!’
The Swamiji would laugh and say, ‘The Lord loves to wrestle with a
strong opponent. When she eventually concedes defeat, she will be struck
dumb for ever.’
He began showing excessive forgiveness towards her. This was even
more intolerable to Damini, for it was merely a disguised form of
punishment. One day when Damini was with a female friend he overheard
her mimicking, amidst merry laughter, the exceedingly lenient manner he
adopted with her.
He said nonetheless, ‘God is using Damini as an agent for bringing about
the unexpected. She isn’t to blame.’
So far we had seen one side of Damini; now the unexpected did indeed
begin.
I don’t feel like writing any more; it’s also hard to put these things into
words. In life the web of suffering that is spun by invisible hands working
behind the scene has a pattern that is neither dictated by scripture nor made
to anybody’s order; that’s why inner and outer awkwardness forces us to
suffer so many knocks, why life explodes with such sobs.
 The brittle armour of rebellion silently shattered and fell off in the light
of an unforeseen dawn, and the blossom of self-sacrifice raised its dew-
laden head. Damini’s service now became so effortlessly splendid that it
seemed to spread a rare boon of sweetness over the devotion of the
disciples.
When Damini’s thunder and lightning had thus mellowed into a steady
glow, Sachish began to notice her loveliness. But in my opinion Sachish
saw only Damini’s beauty, he didn’t see Damini herself.
In Sachish’s sitting room a photograph of Swami Lilananda in meditation
had been placed on a slab of china. One day he found it in splinters on the
floor. Sachish thought it was his pet cat’s doing. From time to time many
such accidents occurred that would be beyond the strength of a wild cat to
bring about.
The atmosphere around us became charged with restless energy. Invisible
lightning flickered in hidden recesses. I don’t know about the others, but my
soul throbbed with pain. At times I thought I wouldn’t be able to bear the
ceaseless play of the waves of ecstasy any longer; I felt like escaping it at a
gallop. Those bygone discussions with tanners’ children on Bengali
conjunct letters, so utterly devoid of ecstasy as they were, seemed
preferable.
One winter afternoon, the disciples were tired and the guru was resting in
his room. Sachish, who needed to go there for something or the other,
stopped short in the doorway. He saw Damini prostrate, with hair let down,
repeatedly banging her forehead on the floor and muttering, ‘O stone, stone,
have mercy, have mercy on me, strike me dead!’
Sachish shivered all over with fright; he withdrew as fast as he could.

5
ONCE A YEAR, IN THE WINTER MONTH OF MAGH, GURUJI WENT
AWAY TO some remote, solitary place. The time had come round again.
‘I’ll go with you,’ Sachish said.
 ‘Me too,’ I said. The pursuit of ecstasy had left me with frayed nerves. I
badly needed a spell of fatiguing travel and solitary living.
Swamiji called Damini and said, ‘Ma, I’m setting off on my travels. As in
the past I will arrange to send you to your aunt for the duration of the trip.’
‘I will go with you,’ she replied.
‘How can you?’ Swamiji said, ‘It’ll be a hard journey.’
‘I’ll manage,’ Damini said. ‘You won’t have to worry about me.’
The Swami was pleased at Damini’s new devotion. In past years this had
been the time for Damini’s holiday; she would yearn for it all year long.
‘What a miracle!’ mused the Swami. ‘How the divine chemistry of ecstasy
softens even stone.’
Damini wasn’t to be put off; she came along.

6
AFTER WALKING SIX HOURS IN THE SUN THAT DAY WE
REACHED A promontory jutting into the sea. It was absolutely quiet and
deserted; the susurrus of leaves in a coconut grove mingled with the lazy
rumble of a nearly still sea.
It seemed to me as if a slumbering earth had stretched a weary arm over
the sea. In the hand at the end of that arm stood a blue-green hill, There
were ancient rock carvings in a cave on the side of that hill. Whether these
were Hindu or Buddhist, whether the figures were of Buddha or Krishna,
whether their craftsmanship betrayed Greek influence, these were
contentious issues among scholars.
We were supposed to return to human habitation after seeing the cave.
But that proved impossible. The sun had nearly set and it was the twelfth
day of the dark half of the lunar month.
‘We shall have to spend the night in the cave,’ Guruji said.
We went and sat on the sandy beach between the sea and the edge of the
grove. The sun was on the sea’s western rim: the departing day’s final bow
before the advancing dark. Guruji struck up a song—a modern poet’s lyrics,
which he sang in his own style:
 ‘Travelling, we meet
at day’s end.
The evening glow
vanishes when we go
towards it.’

That day the magic in the song was realized.Tears rolled out of Damini’s
eyes. Swamiji took up the middle stanza:
‘Whether or not we meet
I shall not grieve,
Just pause a moment
While I cover your feet in my loosened hair.’

When the Swami ended the song, the silence of the evening, filling sky
and sea, swelled from the lingering essence of the tune into a ripe golden
fruit. Damini prostrated herself in a pranam before the Swami. For a long
while she didn’t raise her head; her loosened hair lay piled on the sand.

7
AN EXTRACT FROM SACHISH’S DIARY:
The cave had many chambers. I spread my blanket in one and lay down.
The darkness of the cave was like a black beast—its moist breath seemed to touch my skin.
It seemed to me like the first animal to appear in the very first cycle of creation; it had no eye,
no ears, only a huge appetite. It had been trapped for eternity in that cave. It didn’t have a
mind; it knew nothing but pain—it sobbed noiselessly.
Weariness like a heavy weight bore down on my entire body, yet I couldn’t sleep. A bird,
perhaps a bat, either flew in or went out, travelling from darkness to darkness with a flailing
noise from its wings. I broke into gooseflesh at the touch of the air stirred by it.
I thought I would sleep outside the cave. But I had forgotten the way to the entrance. When
I crawled forward, in one direction my head touched the ceiling; in another direction I bumped
my head; in yet another I slipped into a small ditch filled with water that had seeped through a
crack.
Finally I gave up and lay down on the blanket. It seemed the primordial beast had thrust me
deep into its saliva-drenched maw; there was no escape. The beast was all dark hunger, it
would lick at me slowly and consume me. Its saliva was acidic, it would corrode me.
If only I could sleep; my wakeful mind couldn’t bear the close embrace of such colossal,
destructive darkness: that was possible for death alone.
 After I don’t know how long, a thin sheet of numbness spread over my consciousness. At
some point in that semi-conscious state I felt the touch of a deep breath close to my feet. That
primordial beast!
Then something clasped my feet. At first I thought it was a wild animal. But a wild animal
is hairy, this creature wasn’t. My entire body shrank at the touch. It seemed to be an unknown
snake-like creature. I knew nothing of its anatomy—what its head looked like, or its trunk, or
its tail—nor could I imagine how it devoured its victims. It was repulsive because of its very
softness, its ravenous mass.
I was speechless with fear and loathing. I began pushing the creature away with both feet. It
seemed to place its face on my feet—it was breathing heavily—I didn’t know what sort of a
face it was. I began to kick at it.
Eventually I came out of my trance. At first I had thought the creature was hairless; but
suddenly I felt a mass of hair, as from a mane, fall on my feet.
I got up quickly and sat down.
Somebody seemed to move away in the dark. A strange sound reached my ears: such as
stifled sobs!
 Damini

1
WE RETURNED FROM THE CAVE. ACCOMMODATION HAD BEEN
ARRANGED for us on the upper floor of the house of one of Guruji’s
disciples, close by the village temple.
We didn’t see much of Damini now. She cooked and served our meals
but avoided our company as far as possible. She made friends with the
village women and spent her time visiting their homes.
This annoyed Guruji somewhat. He felt that worldly life still attracted her
more than the celestial realm. She seemed to tire of the nearly religious
devotion with which she had been looking after us for some days past. She
made mistakes, the natural grace with which she did things wasn’t there any
longer.
Guruji began to be secretly fearful of Damini once again. Her brows had
for some days been darkened by a frown and her temper had become rather
unpredictable. Signs of rebellion were noticeable in her lips, the corners of
her eyes, the clumsily knotted hair on her neck, and at times in the
involuntary motions of her hands.
Guruji once more concentrated on the devotional hymns, he thought their
sweetness would draw the errant bee back to the honeycomb. The short
winter days frothed and overflowed with the intoxicating brew of music.
But there was no catching Damini. ‘God is out hunting,’ Guruji observed
with a chuckle one day, ‘and the doe by leading him a chase is adding zest
to the hunt; but die she must.’
When we first got acquainted with Damini she didn’t appear among the
disciples, but we didn’t notice that. Now her absence from our midst
became all too conspicuous. Not being able to see her affected us like being
blown about by gusts of wind. Since Guruji interpreted her absence as
pride, it hurt his pride. As for me, it’s hardly necessary to talk about my
feelings.
One day Guruji mustered enough resolve to put a mild request to her:
‘Damini, if you can make time this afternoon . . .’
‘I can’t,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve got to go to the village to help make sweets.’
‘Sweets? Why?’
‘There’s a wedding at the Nandys’.’
‘Is it absolutely essential?’
‘Yes, I’ve promised.’
Without another word Damini left like a sudden gust of wind. Sachish
was sitting with us; he was astounded. So many eminent, learned, wealthy
and wise men had come with bowed heads to his guru; yet where did this
slip of a girl acquire such brazen arrogance?
On another day in the evening, when Damini was home, Guruji began a
ponderous sermon, speaking especially carefully. After a while he became
aware of a certain blankness in our faces. He noticed that we had become
inattentive. Turning round he saw that Damini was no longer where she had
sat sewing buttons on shirts. He realized that both Sachish and I were filled
with the same thought—that Damini had got up and left. The thought that
Damini hadn’t listened to him, hadn’t in fact wanted to listen to his words,
rattled in his mind like a tambourine. He lost the thread of his discourse. He
couldn’t restrain himself any longer but got up and called from outside
Damini’s room, ‘Damini, what are you doing all by yourself? Won’t you
join us in the other room?’
‘No, I’m busy,’ Damini replied.
The Guru peeped in and saw a kite inside a cage. A couple of days back
the kite had flown into a telegraph wire and fallen to the ground, where it
had been set upon by crows. Damini had rescued it—and nursed it ever
since.
So much for the kite. Damini had also got hold of a puppy whose
appearance and pedigree matched each other perfectly. It was discord
personified. At the first sound of our cymbals it raised its muzzle towards
heaven and vociferously complained to God. It was a small consolation that
God didn’t heed the plaint, but those of us who had to hear it on earth were
driven to distraction.
One day when Damini was tending some flowering plants grown on the
roof in a broken pot Sachish went up to her and asked, ‘Why have you
stopped attending?’
‘Attending what?’
‘Guruji’s meetings.’
‘Why, what use have you people for me?’
‘None, but you have some use for us.’
Damini flared up: ‘Not at all!’
Sachish stared dumbfounded at her. ‘Can’t you see,’ he said after a while,
‘how uneasy you’ve become? If you want peace . . .’
‘You give me peace? You’ve driven yourselves crazy, forever stirring up
waves in your minds. Is that peace? I beg you, help me. I used to be at
peace, let me live in peace again.’
‘You may see waves on the surface,’ Sachish said, ‘but if you have the
patience to dive beneath and look you’ll see that all is calm.’
Joining her palms in entreaty Damini said, ‘For God’s sake don’t ask me
to dive any more. I’d feel relieved if you gave me up.’

2
I DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH EXPERIENCE TO KNOW THE SECRETS
OF THE FEMALE heart. My superficial observations led me to believe that
women are ready to lose their hearts where they are sure to be requited with
sorrow. They will string their garland for a brute who will trample it into the
horrid slime of lust; or else they will aim it at a man whose head it won’t
reach because he is so absorbed in a world of abstraction that he has
virtually ceased to exist. When they have a chance to choose their mates
women shun average men like us, who are a mixture of the crude and the
refined, know women as women—in other words, know that women are
neither clay dolls nor the vibrations of veena strings. Women avoid us
because we offer neither the fatal attraction of murky desire nor the
colourful illusion of profound abstractions; we cannot break them through
the remorseless torment of lust, nor can we forget them in the heat of
abstraction and recast them in the mould of our own fancy. We know them
as they really are; that’s why even if they like us they won’t fall in love with
us. We are their true refuge, they can count on our loyalty; but our self-
sacrifice comes so readily they forget that it has any value. The only
baksheesh we receive from them is that whenever they need us they use us,
and perhaps even respect us a little, but . . . enough! These words probably
stem from resentment, and probably aren’t true. Perhaps it is to our
advantage that we get nothing in return; at least we can console ourselves
with that thought.
Damini avoided Guruji because she bore him a grudge; she avoided
Sachish because she felt exactly the opposite towards him. I was the only
one around for whom she felt neither anger nor attraction. For this reason
whenever she got a chance Damini would chat with me about her past, her
present, what she heard in the neighbourhood—trivial things like that. I
never imagined that such an insignificant event as Damini jabbering away
as she sat slicing betel-nuts on the little veranda in front of our rooms
upstairs would affect Sachish so much in his present mood of abstraction.
Well, it might not have been such a trivial event, but I knew that in the
realm in which Sachish existed there was no such thing as an event. The
divine workings of Hiadini, Sandhini and Jogmaya in that realm were a
perennial romance, and therefore beyond historic time. Those who listened
to the whistle of the ever-steady breeze that played there on the banks of an
ever-flowing Jamuna wouldn’t, surely, see or hear anything of the transitory
events in the mundane world around them. At any rate, till our return from
the cave Sachish’s eyes and ears had been pretty inactive.
I myself was partly to blame. I had begun to play truant every now and
then from our discussions on mystic ecstasy. Sachish began to notice my
absence. Once he came looking for me and found me following Damini
with an earthen bowl of milk that I had bought from the local cowherds to
feed her pet mongoose. The task would hardly suffice as an excuse for
truancy; it could have been easily postponed till the discussion ended; and
in fact if the mongoose had been left to forage for its meals the principle of
kindness to all creatures wouldn’t have been grossly violated and my
reputation for decorum would have remained intact. Consequently, I was
quite flustered at Sachish’s sudden appearance. I set the bowl down at once
and tried to retrieve my self-esteem by sneaking away.
But Damini’s behaviour was astonishing. She wasn’t embarrassed at all,
and asked me, ‘Where are you going, Sribilashbabu?’
I scratched my head and mumbled, ‘Well . . .’
‘Guruji’s meeting has ended by now,’ Damini said, ‘so why don’t you sit
down?’
My ears tingled with embarrassment at hearing such a request in
Sachish’s presence.
‘There’s a problem with the mongoose,’ Damini said. ‘Last night it stole
a chicken from a Muslim house. It’s not safe to let it loose—I have asked
Sribilashbabu to buy a large basket to keep it in.’
Damini seemed rather keen to inform Sachish about Sribilashbabu’s
submissiveness in the matter of feeding milk to the mongoose or buying a
basket for it. I was reminded of the day Guruji had asked Sachish in my
presence to prepare the hookah. It was the same thing.
Without a word Sachish walked away quickly. Glancing at Damini’s face
I saw her eyes cast lightning shafts after Sachish. Inwardly she smiled a
cruel smile.
God knows what she made of the incident, but the practical outcome was
that she began to seek me out on the flimsiest of pretexts. One day she
cooked some sweet dish and insisted on serving it exclusively for me. ‘But
Sachish . . .’ I protested.
‘Asking him to eat will only annoy him,’ she said.
Sachish came round several times and saw me eating. Among us three,
mine was the most difficult position. The two main characters in the drama
were thoroughly self-possessed in their performance. I was conspicuous for
the sole reason that I was utterly insignificant. At times this made me angry
with my lot, but neither could I help my craving for whatever little my
auxiliary role brought me. Such dire straits!

3
FOR SOME DAYS SACHISH PLAYED HIS CYMBALS LOUDER
THAN EVER AS HE danced in the chorus of kirtan singers. Then he came
to me one day and said, ‘We can’t keep Damini among us.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘We must sever all connection with Nature.’
‘If that is so,’ I retorted, ‘we must admit there’s a grave flaw in our
spiritual endeavour.’
Sachish gave me an open-eyed stare.
‘What you call Nature is a reality,’ I said. ‘You may shun it, but you can’t
leave it out of the human world. If you practise your austerities pretending
it isn’t there you will only delude yourself; and when the deceit is exposed
there will be no escape route.’
‘I’m not interested in logical quibbles,’ Sachish replied. ‘I am being
practical. Clearly women are agents of Nature, whose dictates they carry
out by adopting varied disguises to beguile the mind. They cannot fulfil
their mistress’s command till they have completely enslaved the
consciousness. So to keep the consciousness clear we have to keep clear of
these bawds of Nature.’
I was about to continue but Sachish stopped me: ‘My dear Bisri, you
can’t see Nature’s fatal charm because you have already succumbed to it.
But the beautiful form with which it has bewitched you will disappear like a
mask as soon as she has realized her purpose; when the time comes she will
remove this very desire which has clouded your vision and made you see
her as greater than anything else in the universe. When the trap of illusion is
so clearly laid, why walk straight into it with bravado?’
‘I accept all you are saying,’ I replied, ‘but I’d like to point out that I
didn’t myself lay this worldwide trap of Nature, and I know no way of
evading it. Since we can’t deny it, true devotion in my view ought to allow
us to accept it and yet enable us to transcend it. Whatever you say, dear
Sachish, we are not doing that, and so we are desperately trying to amputate
one half of the truth.’
‘Could you spell out a little more clearly what sort of spiritual path you
wish to follow?’ he asked.
‘We must row the boat of life in Nature’s current,’ I said. ‘Our problem
should not be to stop the current; our problem is to keep the boat from
sinking and in motion. For that we need a rudder.’
‘Our guru is that rudder,’ Sachish retorted, ‘but you can’t see that
because you don’t accept him. Do you wish your spiritual development to
follow your own whims? The result will be disaster.’
So saying, Sachish retired to the guru’s room, sat down at his feet and
began massaging them. That day, after preparing the guru’s hookah, he
raised with him his complaint against Nature.
The question couldn’t be resolved over a single smoke. For days the guru
pondered the problem from various angles. He had suffered much on
account of Damini. Now it appeared that the presence of this one woman
had created a whirlpool in the current of his disciples’ devotion. But
Shibtosh had bequeathed to him the guardianship of Damini together with
the house and other property, making it difficult to get rid of her. The
problem was compounded by the fact that the guru was afraid of Damini.
Meanwhile, though Sachish continued massaging the guru’s feet and
preparing his hookah with doubled, even quadrupled enthusiasm and
increasing frequency, he couldn’t be oblivious of the fact that Sachish’s
spiritual path had been well and truly obstructed by Nature.
One day a renowned group of kirtan singers from another part of the
country were performing at the local Krishna temple. The session seemed
set to go on till late. I slipped away soon after the start, thinking my absence
wouldn’t be noticed amidst the crowd.
That evening Damini laid bare her soul. The things that are hard to say,
that stick in the throat even if one wishes to say them, were said by her with
a wonderful simplicity. As she spoke she seemed to discover many dark and
unfamiliar corners of her own mind. Quite fortuitously she had found an
opportunity to come face to face with herself.
We didn’t notice when Sachish came up behind us and stood listening.
Tears were streaming from Damini’s eyes. Not that what she said was very
serious, but that day it all seemed to flow from the deep wellspring of her
tears.
When Sachish turned up the kirtan session was clearly still a long way
from the end, I could see that he had been agitated by something for some
time.
Suddenly catching sight of Sachish standing in front of her, Damini
hurriedly wiped her tears and made to retreat into the next room. In a
quavering voice Sachish asked her to stop.‘Please, Damini, there’s
something I have to say to you.’
Damini sat down again slowly I began to fidget, looking for an escape,
but Sachish fixed me with such a stare that I didn’t dare move.
‘You don’t share our purpose in following Guruji,’ Sachish said.
‘No,’ Damini replied.
‘Then why do you remain with us?’
Damini’s eyes flashed. ‘Why? Do you think I came willingly? You
believers have kept this unbeliever in the fetters of belief. You have left me
with no choice.’
‘We’ ve decided to pay for you to live with some female relative,’
Sachish said.
‘You have decided?’
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Why, what objections do you have?’
‘For some reason or the other one of you decides one thing, while for
some other reason another one of you decides another thing; am I to be a
pawn caught in the middle?’
Sachish stared in astonishment.
Damini went on. ‘I didn’t choose to come here to please you. I won’t
budge just because you are not pleased with me now and wish me to leave.’
 As she spoke she pressed the edge of her sari to her face with both hands
and burst into tears. She hurried into her room and shut the door.
Sachish didn’t return to the kirtan session. He sat quietly on the dusty
roof. That day the sound of distant sea waves, swept by the south wind, rose
towards the stars like sobs from deep within the earth’s breast, I went out
and aimlessly wandered the dark deserted village paths.

4
THE EARTH HAD GIRDED UP HER LOINS TO DESTROY THE
PARADISE OF ecstasy in which Guruji had tried to keep us cloistered. All
these days he had been pouring the wine of his mystic moods into the cup
of metaphor for us to guzzle, but now the clash of a beautiful figure with
the figures of speech threatened to tip the cup over and spill its contents on
the ground, The signs of impending danger didn’t escape the guru.
Sachish had become rather strange lately. He was like a kite whose string
had just snapped—still airborne but at any moment liable to go into a spin
and plummet to earth. He showed no neglect in the outward forms of
devotion—jap, austerities, prayer, discussion—but looking into his eyes one
knew that inwardly he was faltering.
And as for me, Damini left nothing to conjecture. The more she realized
that Guruji secretly feared her and that Sachish was in secret agony, the
more she dragged me around. It got to a point where she would suddenly
appear near the door when, for instance, Guruji, Sachish and I were in
earnest colloquy, and then vanish after calling out: ‘Sribilashbabu, will you
please come to me?’ She couldn’t be bothered to explain why she wanted
Sribilashbabu. Guruji would give me a look, Sachish would give me a look,
and, deliberating whether to get up or not, I would turn towards the door
and suddenly get up and rush out. Even after I had gone an attempt would
be made to keep the discussion going, but the effort would be out of all
proportion to the things said; then the words would cease altogether. Thus
everything became topsy-turvy and threatened to disintegrate; things just
wouldn’t hold together any more.
 Sachish and I were the stalwarts of Guruji’s camp—one might say we
were to him what the mythic mounts, Airavata the elephant and
Ucchaisraba the horse, were to the god Indra—so he couldn’t just give up
on us. He went to Damini and said, ‘Ma , we’re going to some remote and
inaccessible places now. You must turn back.’
‘Where?’
‘To your aunt’s.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘First, because she is only a distant aunt, and second, because she is
under no obligation to keep me in her house.’
‘It won’t cost her anything. We can . . .’
‘Is it only a question of cost? It’s not her responsibility to look after me
and watch over me.’
‘Must I take care of you for ever?’
‘Is that for me to say?’
‘Where will you go if I die?’
‘Why should I have to think about that? I only know that I have no
mother, no father, no home, no money, I have absolutely nothing, and that’s
why I am such a great burden. You gladly took the burden on yourself, you
can’t now shift it to somebody else’s shoulder.’
As Damini walked away, Guruji invoked Lord Krishna with a sigh.
One day Damini commanded me to get her some good Bengali books.
Needless to say, by good books she didn’t mean devotional literature, and
she had no qualms about ordering me about. She had come to see that the
greatest favour she could show me was to make demands on me. There are
some plants that thrive if their branches are kept trimmed: in my
relationship with Damini I was like those plants.
The writer whose books I had to procure was thoroughly modern. In his
writings the influence of Man was much stronger than that of Manu. The
packet of books fell into Guruji’s hands. ‘What’s this, Sribilash?’ he said,
raising his eyebrows. ‘Why have you got these books?’
I remained silent.
 Turning over a few pages Guruji said, ‘I find no scent of piety in this.’
He didn’t like the author at all.
‘If you read with a little care you will smell the scent of Truth,’ I blurted
out.
Truth to tell, rebellion had been brewing in my soul. The intoxication of
mystic flights had given me a bad hangover. Pushing Man aside to
deliberate day and night on his emotional essence had produced in me an
aversion as strong as one can get.
Guruji gazed at my face for a while, then said, ‘Very well, I’ll read them
attentively and see.’
Saying this he put the books under his pillow. I could tell he had no
intention of returning them.
Damini in her room must have had an inkling of what had transpired. She
came to the door and said to me, ‘Those books I had asked you to order—
haven’t they arrived?’
I kept quiet.
‘Those books aren’t suitable for you, Ma,’ Guruji said.
‘How would you know?’ she asked.
‘And how would you know?’ Guruji said with furrowed brow.
‘I read them once before. I don’t suppose you ever have.’
‘So why do you need them again?’
‘Your needs are never questioned. Am I alone to be denied any needs of
my own?’
‘You know very well I am a sannyasi.’
‘And you know that I am not a sannyasini. I enjoy reading those books.
Give them back?’
Guruji took the books from under the pillow and tossed them towards
me, I handed them to Damini.
The upshot of this incident was that Damini now summoned me to read
out to her the books she used to read in the solitude of her room. Our
readings, followed by discussions, took place on the veranda. Sachish
would frequently pass by, now in one direction, now in the other, longing to
join us but unable to do so unasked.
 Once as we came to an amusing episode in a book Damini burst into
uncontrollable giggles. There was a fair going on at the temple and we
thought Sachish had gone there. But suddenly he came out through the back
door and sat down with us.
Damini’s merriment ceased instantly. I too felt discomfited. I thought I
should say something to Sachish, however trivial it might be, but couldn’t
think of anything, and silently went on turning the pages of the book.
Sachish got up and left as suddenly as he had come. After that we couldn’t
go on with our reading that day. Sachish perhaps didn’t realize that while he
envied the absence of any barrier between Damini and me, I actually envied
the barrier between him and Damini.
The same day Sachish went to Guruji with a request: ‘Master, I wish to
go alone to the seaside for a few days. I’ll be back in about a week.’
‘Excellent idea,’ said Guruji enthusiastically. ‘By all means, go.’
Sachish went away. Damini stopped asking me to read; nor did she need
me for anything else. I didn’t even see her go to gossip with the village
women. She kept to her room, her door shut tight.
A few days went by. One day when Guruji was taking a midday nap and
I sat writing a letter on the upper veranda, Sachish suddenly arrived and
without a glance at me knocked on Damini’s door and called, ‘Damini!
Damini!’
Damini at once opened the door and came out. How Sachish’s face had
changed! It gave the impression of a storm-tossed ship with tattered sails
and broken masts. A strange look in his eyes, hair awry, face haggard,
clothes dirty.
‘Damini,’ Sachish said, ‘it was wrong of me to ask you to leave. Please
forgive me.’
‘Why are you saying such things?’ Damini asked with palms joined
submissively.
‘No, really, please forgive me. I ll never again entertain for a moment the
utterly unjust thought that to preserve our spirituality we can decide to keep
you or abandon you, as the whim takes us. But I have a request that you
must keep.’
 At once bowing and touching his feet Damini said, ‘I am yours to
command.’
‘Come and join us,’ Sachish said. ‘Don’t hold yourself aloof like this.’
‘Yes, I will join you,’ Damini said. ‘I won’t break any rules.’ She bent
down again, touched Sachish’s feet in obeisance and repeated, ‘I won’t
break any rules.’

5
THE ROCK MELTED AGAIN. DAMINI’S BLINDING RADIANCE
RETAINED ITS LIGHT but lost its heat. A sweet aura pervaded her
prayers and acts of kindness. She would never miss the sessions of kirtan
singing or discussion, in which Guruji expounded the Bhagavad Gita or the
Puranas. Her dress too changed; once again she wore tussore. Whenever
one saw her during the day one felt that she had just had a bath.
Damini’s greatest trial lay in her behaviour with Guruji. Whenever she
bowed to him I would detect a flash of fierce rage in a corner of her eye. I
knew that deep in her heart she couldn’t abide any of Guruji’s commands;
but she followed all his injunctions so completely that one day he ventured
to put forth his objections to the insufferable writings of that ultra-modern
writer she had asked for. The next day he found some flowers beside the
bed on which he took his siesta, arranged on pages torn from that fellow’s
books.
I had often noticed that what Damini found most intolerable was for
Guruji to command Sachish to wait on him. She would try to thrust herself
forward to take Sachish’s task on herself, but it wasn’t always possible. So ,
while Sachish blew on the tobacco-bowl of Guruji’s hookah, Damini
desperately mumbled to her self, ‘I won’t break the rules, I won’t break the
rules . . .’
But things didn’t turn out the way Sachish had expected.. The last time
Damini had humbled herself like this Sachish had seen only the sweetness,
not the bee who produced the sweetness. This time Damini herself had
become so real to him that she jostled the words of hymns and the teachings
of scripture and made her presence felt: there was no way she could be
suppressed. Sachish became so aware of her that his mystic trance broke.
He could no longer regard her as a metaphor for a transcendental mood.
Damini didn’t embellish the songs any more; the songs embellished her.
Here I may as well add the simple fact that Damini had no more use for
me. Her demands ended suddenly. Of my few companions the kite had died,
the mongoose had fled, the puppy had been given away because its
unseemly behaviour annoyed Guruji. Unemployed and companionless in
this way, I went back to my old place in Guruji’s court, even though the
songs and the conversation I heard there had become utterly distasteful to
me.

6
ONE DAY WHILE SACHISH WAS BREWING A WONDERFUL
CONCOCTION IN THE open cauldron of his fancy, compounded of
philosophy, science, aesthetics and theology, drawn from the past and the
present of both the East and the West, Damini suddenly ran towards us and
called, ‘Please come quickly!’
I got up hurriedly and asked, ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘I think Nabin’s wife
has swallowed poison,’ Damini said. Nabin was related to one of Guruji’s
disciples. He was a neighbour and sang kirtans with our group. We found
when we got there that his wife had died. On enquiry we learned that
Nabin’s wife had brought her motherless sister to live with her. Theirs was a
kulin Brahmin family, so it wasn’t easy to find a suitable match for the girl.
She was good-looking. Nabin’s younger brother chose her for his bride. He
was still a college student in Calcutta, and it was understood that after
taking his finals, which were due in a few months, he would marry her in
the month of Ashar. Just then Nabin’s wife discovered that a mutual
attraction had developed between her husband and her sister. She asked him
to marry her sister. Not much persuasion was necessary. Now that the
nuptials were over, Nabin’s first wife had committed suicide by swallowing
poison.
 There was nothing we could do. We came back. The disciples flocking
round Guruji began singing kirtans to him; he joined in and began to dance.
The moon had risen in the evening sky. Damini sat quietly in a corner of
the roof dappled with light and shade by the overhanging branches of a
chalta tree. Sachish slowly paced up and down the covered veranda at the
back. Keeping a diary was a weakness of mine; alone in my room I
scribbled away.
The cuckoo was sleepless that night. The leaves of trees glittered in the
moonlight and at the touch of the southerly breeze seemed to want to burst
into speech. At one point, impelled by some notion or the other, Sachish
suddenly went and stood behind Damini. She was startled and, drawing the
edge of her sari over her head, she rose in a hurry—but before she could
leave, Sachish called her name.
She stopped short. With joined palms she beseeched, ‘Listen to me a
moment, Master.’
Sachish gazed at her face in silence. ‘Please explain to me,’ Damini said,
‘what use to the world are the things that engross you so day in and day
out? Who have you succeeded in saving?’
I came out of my room and stood on the veranda. Damini went on: ‘Day
and night you go on about ecstasy, you talk of nothing else. Today you have
seen what ecstasy is, haven’t you? It has no regard for morals or a code of
conduct, for brother or wife or family pride. It has no mercy, no shame, no
sense of propriety. What have you devised to save man from the hell of this
cruel, shameless, fatal ecstasy?’
I couldn’t restrain myself and blurted out, ‘We have planned to drive
Woman far from our sphere and then devote ourselves undisturbed to the
pursuit of ecstasy.’
Without paying any heed to my words Damini said to Sachish, ‘I have
got nothing from your guru. He hasn’t been able to calm my restless mind
even for a moment. Fire cannot put out fire. The path along which your
guru has been driving everyone isn’t the path of non-attachment or heroism
or peace. That woman who died today was killed on the path of ecstasy by
the demoness of ecstasy who sucked the blood out of her heart. Haven’t you
seen how hideous the demoness looks? My Master, I beseech you not to
sacrifice me to her. Save me! If anybody can save me it’s you,’
All three of us fell silent for a while. It became so still all around that it
seemed to me as if with the chirp of crickets a numbness was stealing over
the pale sky.
‘Tell me what I can do for you,’ Sachish said.
‘Be my guru,’ Damini replied. ‘I won’t obey any other. Give me a mantra
that is above all these things, something that will keep me safe. Don’t even
let my guardian deity come close to me.’
Standing in a daze Sachish said, ‘It will be so.’
Damini made a prolonged pranam with her head touching Sachish’s feet.
She mumbled over and over, ‘You are my guru, you are my guru, save me
from all sin, save me, save me . . .’

Postscript
ONCE MORE THE RUMOUR WENT ROUND, AND THE PAPERS
REPORTED IN abusive terms that Sachish’s opinions had been revised yet
again. He had once loudly denied religion and caste; then one day he had
just as loudly proclaimed faith in gods and goddesses, yoga and asceticism,
purificatory rituals and ancestor worship and taboos—the whole lot. And
yet another day he threw overboard the whole freight of beliefs and
subsided into peaceful silence—what he believed and what he denied
became impossible to determine. One thing was apparent: he had taken up
the welfare work he had done once in the past, but the caustic
combativeness was no longer in him.
The papers had many taunts and harsh words about another matter: my
marriage with Damini. Not everyone will understand the mystery behind
this marriage, nor is it necessary that they should.
 Sribilash

1
AN INDIGO FACTORY USED TO STAND HERE. IT HAD FALLEN
INTO RUINS; only a few rooms still stood. Having taken a fancy to the
spot I stopped here for some days on my way home after cremating
Damini’s remains.
The road that led from the river to the factory was lined with sissoo trees.
The gateposts of the entrance to the indigo plantation and a bit of its
boundary wall still stood, but of the plantation itself nothing was left. The
only thing one could see on the plantation lands was, in one corner, the
grave of a Muslim steward of the indigo factory. Lushly flowering shrubs of
akanda and bhantiphool grew in the cracks in its brickwork; having tweaked
the nose of death they seemed to roll with laughter in the southerly breeze,
like a groom’s sisters-in-law chaffing him in the bridal chamber. The banks
of the plantation’s large pond had collapsed and the water had dried up. On
the dry bed peasants had planted a mixture of coriander and chick-peas.
When I would sit of a morning on a mound of mossy bricks in the shade of
a sissoo tree, my head would fill with the scent of coriander blossoms.
I sat and mused that the factory which today was no more than a few
scattered bones in a charnel house had once brimmed with life. One might
have imagined that the waves of happiness and sadness it had set off were a
tempest that would never be stilled. The redoubtable sahib who on this very
spot had made the blood of thousands of poor peasants run indigo blue
would have seen me as just an ordinary Bengali youth. Yet the earth had
quietly girdled the edge of her green sari around her waist and with a liberal
plastering of clay erased all trace of him and everything of his, his factory
included; whatever vestiges of the past were still visible would be totally
obliterated by just one more wipe of her hand.
 Such philosophizing is old hat and I haven’t set out to reiterate it here.
My real feeling was this: No, my dear chap, the last word isn’t the daily
plastering of mud, morning after morning, on the courtyard of time. The
planter sahib and the terrible life of his factory have indeed been erased like
a marking in the dust—but what about my Damini?
I know no one will accept what I am saying. The demystifying verses of
Shankaracharya’s Mohamudgar spare none, ‘This world is illusion,’ etc,
etc. But Shankaracharya was a sannyasi. He had said such things as, ‘Of
what avail are wife and child?’ but without grasping their significance. I am
no sannyasi, so I know in my bones that Damini is not a dewdrop on a lotus
leaf.
But I am told even some householders speak in the same world-denying
terms. That may be so. They are only householders; they may lose their
housewives. Their houses are maya, illusion; and so are their housewives.
Both are man-made things, and vanish at the touch of the broom.
I haven’t had time to be a householder, and—thank heaven—it’s not in
my temperament to be a sannyasi. That’s why the woman I found as a
companion didn’t become a housewife; she couldn’t be dismissed as maya;
she was real. Till the end she remained true to her name, Damini, lightning.
Who would dare call her a shadow?
There are many things I wouldn’t have written, if I had known Damini
merely as a housewife. It is because I have known her in a nobler, truer
relationship that I can tell everything frankly, whatever others may say.
If I had been able to turn Damini into a regular housewife and pass my
days as others do in this world of maya, I would have had a carefree
existence, oiling my body, taking my bath, chewing paan after meals; and
after Damini’s death I would have said with a sigh, ‘Varied is the world of
samsara.’ And to taste once again its variety I would have respectfully
accepted the proposal of a matchmaking aunt. But a smooth entry into
samsara, like that of feet entering an old pair of shoes, was not for me.
From the start I forswore all hope of happiness. No, that’s not quite true—I
am human enough not to give up hope of happiness; I must have had some
hope of it, but I certainly didn’t feel I had a claim on it.
 And why not? Because I had to persuade Damini to assent to our
marriage. We didn’t exchange ritual glances under the corner of a red silk
shawl to the accompaniment of Raga Shahana. I had entered marriage in the
broad light of day, with full understanding of everything involved.
When we left Swami Lilananda we were faced with the necessity of
thinking about food and shelter. Till then, wherever we went we gorged on
food-offerings brought to our guru: indigestion was a greater worry than
hunger. We had totally forgotten that people in this world had to build
houses and maintain them, or at least rent them. All we knew was that
people had to sleep in houses. As for our householder host, where he would
find some space for himself wasn’t our concern; but he had to worry all
right about finding a place for us to sprawl luxuriously.
Then I remembered that Uncle had willed his house to Sachish. If the
will had been with Sachish it would have sunk like a paper boat in the
waves of his ecstatic devotion. But it was with me; I was the executor. My
task was to ensure the fulfilment of certain conditions, of which the most
important were: that no religious service could be held in the house; that a
night school for the children of Muslim tanners had to be set up on the
ground floor; after Sachish’s death the whole house had to be used for their
welfare. Uncle hated piety more than anything else, deeming it more vile
than worldliness. The provisions in the will were intended to neutralize the
odour of sanctity from next door. Uncle described them—using the English
term—as ‘sanitary precautions’.
‘Let’s go back to Uncle’s house in Calcutta,’ I suggested to Sachish.
‘I am not yet ready for that,’ Sachish replied.
I couldn’t see what he meant. He went on: ‘Once I tried to base my life
on intelligence and found that it couldn’t take life’s full weight. Then I tried
to build my life on ecstatic devotion and found it bottomless. Intelligence is
an aspect of my self, and so is mysticism. It is not possible to balance
oneself on oneself. Unless I find some support I can’t return to the city.’
‘Tell me what to do,’ I said.
‘You two go ahead,’ Sachish said. ‘I’ll wander alone for a while. I think I
can make out the vague outline of a shore. If I lose it now I’ll never find it
again.’
Damini drew me aside and said, ‘That cannot be. If he wanders all by
himself who will look after him? He did go away once. I shudder whenever
I remember how he looked when he came back.’
Shall I confess the truth? Damini’s anxiety roused me into anger like a
bee-sting. It irked me. For nearly two years after Uncle’s death Sachish had
wandered alone; he hadn’t died. I couldn’t suppress my feelings and I spoke
out pungently.
‘Sribilashbabu,’ Damini said, ‘I know people may take long to die. But
why should he suffer at all when we are there?’
We! At least half of the first-person plural was this wretched Sribilash. In
this world one group of people has to suffer in order to save another group
from distress. The world of samsara is made up of these two categories of
human beings. Damini well knew to which group I belonged. Still, it was
some consolation that she had drawn me into her party.
I went to Sachish and said, ‘Very well, we won’t go to the city now. We
can spend a few days in that ruined house across the river. Since it’s
rumoured to be haunted, people won’t bother you there.’
‘And you?’ Sachish asked.
‘We’ ll try to remain as unobtrusive as ghosts,’ I said.
Sachish glanced once at Damini. Perhaps there was a touch of fear in that
glance.
Damini appealed to Sachish with joined palms, ‘You are my guru. No
matter how greatly I may sin, allow me the right to serve you.’

2
WHATEVER YOU MAY SAY, I COULDN’T UNDERSTAND
SACHISH’S ENTHUSIASM for spiritual austerities. Once I would have
dismissed such things with a laugh; now—whatever else—my laughter had
ceased. I was dealing no longer with a will-o’-the-wisp, but with a blazing
fire. When I saw its flames engulf Sachish I didn’t dare behave towards it
like a disciple of Uncle’s. What phantasmagoric faith gave birth to it and
what miraculous faith would ultimately consume it? It was pointless to
approach Mr Herbert Spencer to settle such questions, I could clearly see
that Sachish was in flames, his life was ablaze from end to end.
Until now he had been in a state of perpetual excitement, singing and
dancing, shedding tears of joy, attending on his guru; and in a way he was
quite content. His mind was exerted to the utmost at every moment,
squandering all his energy. Now that he had gathered himself in stillness,
his mind could no longer be kept in check. No more did he wallow in
mystic contemplation of ecstatic union with the divine. Such a desperate
struggle to attain understanding raged within him that it was terrifying to
look upon his face.
Unable to contain myself any longer I said to him one day, ‘Look here,
Sachish, it seems to me you need a guru who can lend you the support to
make your quest easier.’
‘O shut up, Bisri, shut up,’ Sachish replied with annoyance, ‘why take
the easy way out? The easy way is a fraud, the truth is hard to attain.’
I said a little nervously, ‘It is in order to show the way to the truth that . .
.’
Sachish cut me short: ‘My dear fellow, this isn’t the truth of a
geographical description. The God within me will tread my road and none
other; the guru’s road only leads to his own courtyard.’
Words from Sachish’s lips have so often contradicted each other! I,
Sribilash, was Uncle’s follower no doubt, but if I had ever called him my
guru he would have chased me with a stick. Sachish had got me, the
selfsame Sribilash, to massage a guru’s legs, and now soon after he was
giving this lecture to the very same me! Not daring to laugh, I adopted a
sombre expression.
Sachish went on. ‘Today I have clearly grasped the significance of the
saying, “Better die for one’s own faith than do such a terrible thing as
accept another’s.” Everything else can be taken from others, but if one’s
faith isn’t one’s own it brings damnation instead of salvation. My god can’t
be doled out to me by someone; if I find him, well and good, otherwise it’s
better to die.’
 I am contentious by nature, not one to let go easily. ‘One who is a poet
finds poetry in his soul,’ I said, ‘and one who isn’t borrows it from others.’
‘I am a poet,’ said Sachish brazenly.
Well, that settled it. I came away.
Sachish hardly bothered to eat or sleep and seemed oblivious of his
whereabouts. His body seemed to grow as thin as an over-honed blade.
Looking at him one would think he wouldn’t hold out much longer. Still, I
didn’t dare interfere. But Damini couldn’t bear it and became quite furious
with God: frustrated by those who didn’t worship him, must He take it out
on those who did?With Swami Lilananda she could occasionally vent her
rage quite forcefully, but there was no chance of reaching God.
She never, though, slackened her efforts to keep Sachish fed and bathed
regularly. To bind this strange man to a routine, she resorted to countless
ruses.
For a long time Sachish made no protest against this. Then early one
morning he crossed the river to the sand flats on the other side. The sun
reached its zenith, then declined to the west, but there was no sign of
Sachish. Damini waited for him without eating her meal. When she could
no longer bear the wait she took a plate laden with food and waded across
the knee-deep water.
Emptiness all around, no sign of life anywhere. The waves of sand were
as pitiless as the sun—as if they were sentinels of emptiness, lying in
ambush.
Damini’s heart sank as she stood in the middle of an unbounded,
bleached space where no cry or query drew any response. Everything
seemed to have dissolved into primal dry whiteness. There was nothing at
her feet save a ‘No’—no sound or motion, no trace of the red of blood, the
green of plants, the blue of the sky or the brown of earth. Only the wide,
lipless grin of a gigantic death’s-head. As if under the pitiless blazing sky a
huge dry tongue was displaying its thirst like a vast petition.
Damini was wondering which way to turn when she suddenly noticed
footprints in the sand. Following them she reached a pond. The wet earth of
its edges bore innumerable footprints of birds. Sachish was seated in the
shade cast by a sandbank. The water was dazzling blue and on the bank
fidgety snipes dipped their tails and flashed their two-tone wings. A little
farther off noisy flocks of herons seemed unable to preen themselves to
their satisfaction. As soon as Damini appeared on the bank they spread
wings and took off with loud squawks.
When he saw her Sachish said, ‘Why are you here?’
‘I’ve brought some food,’ Damini replied.
‘I don’t want to eat,’ Sachish said.
‘It’s very late,’ said Damini.
Sachish just said, ‘No.’
Damini went on. ‘Let me wait a little. After a while you . . .’
Sachish cut in. ‘Oh , why do you . . .’
But suddenly catching sight of Damini’s face he stopped. Without
another word Damini got up with the plate and left. The bare sand all
around glittered like tigers’ eyes at night.
Damini’s eyes blazed more readily than they shed tears. But that day I
found her squatting with legs carelessly splayed while tears streamed from
her eyes. On seeing me, her sobs seemed to burst through a dam. My heart
felt uneasy. I sat down beside her.
When she had composed herself somewhat I said, ‘Why do you worry so
much about Sachish’s health?’
‘Tell me,’ she replied, ‘what else can I worry about? He has taken all
other worries on himself. Do I understand them or do anything about
them?’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘when the mind runs hard into something the body’s needs
automatically diminish. That’s why in a state of great joy or intense grief
one feels no hunger or thirst. Sachish’s state of mind is such that his body
won’t suffer if you don’t look after it.’
‘But I am a woman,’ Damini protested. ‘It is in our nature to devote
ourselves body and soul to caring for the body. This task is entirely the
responsibility of women. That’s why when we see the body being neglected
our hearts cry out.’
 ‘That’s why those who are preoccupied with their spirits don’t even
notice guardians of the body like you,’ I said.
Damini retorted warmly, ‘Don’t they indeed! In fact they take notice in a
way that’s quite weird.’
‘In that case,’ I said to myself, ‘the longing of your sex for the weird is
boundless . . . O Sribilash, earn enough merit in this world so that you can
be reborn as one of those weirdos.’

3
THE OUTCOME OF THE SHOCK SACHISH DEALT DAMINI ON THE
RIVERBANK was that he couldn’t erase from his memory her anxious
expression as she had gone up to him. For some days after he did penance
by paying special attention to Damini. For a long time he hadn’t even
bothered to speak politely with us; now he would often call Damini for a
chat. They talked about the results of his profound meditation.
Damini had not been afraid of Sachish’s indifference, but these attentions
filled her with dread. She knew they were too good to last, for they came at
a price. One day he would look at the balance sheet and see that the
expenditure was too high. Then there would be trouble. Damini’s heart
trembled in apprehension, a strange embarrassment overcame her when
Sachish behaved like an obedient child and had his bath and meals at
regular hours. She would have felt relieved if he had disobeyed the rules.
She said to herself, ‘He did right to spurn me that day But by paying me
attention now he is only punishing himself. How can I bear that?’ Then she
thought: ‘Damn it all. It seems that in this place also I’ll have to make
friends with the local women and spend time hanging around the village.’
One night we were woken up by loud shouts: ‘Bisri! Damini!’ It was one
or two in the morning but Sachish would have no inkling of that. What he
might be up to at such an hour I didn’t know, but clearly his activities were
driving the ghostly denizens of that haunted house to distraction.
We got up in a hurry and went out to find Sachish standing on the cement
terrace in front of the house. ‘I understand it all,’ he shouted. ‘There’s no
more doubt in my mind.’
Slowly Damini sat down on the terrace. Sachish followed her absent-
mindedly and sat down. So did I.
‘If,’ Sachish said, ‘I move in the same direction in which He is
approaching me I’ll only move away from Him, but if I move in the
opposite direction we shall meet.’
I stared in silence at his burning eyes. What he had said was correct
according to linear geometry, but what was it all about?
Sachish continued. ‘He loves form, so He is continuously revealing
Himself through form. We can’t survive with form alone, so we must
pursue the formless. He is free, so he delights in bondage; we are fettered,
so our joy is in liberty. Our misery arises because we don’t realize this
truth.’
Damini and I remained as silent as the stars. ‘Damini,’ Sachish said,
‘don’t you understand? The singer progresses from the experience of joy to
the musical expression of the raga, the audience in the opposite direction
from the raga towards joy. One moves from freedom to bondage, the other
from bondage to freedom; hence the concord between them. He sings, we
listen. He plays by binding emotion to the raga and as we listen we unravel
the emotion from the raga.’
I don’t know whether Damini understood what Sachish was saying, but
she did understand Sachish. She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap.
‘All this while,’ Sachish said, ‘I’ve been sitting in a dark corner, listening
in silence to the divine maestro’s song. As I went on listening I suddenly
understood everything. I couldn’t contain myself, so I woke you up. All
these days I’ve only fooled myself in trying to make Him in my own image.
O my apocalypse, let me forever crush myself against you! I can’t cling to
any bondage because bondage isn’t mine, and because bondage is yours you
can never escape the fetters of creation. While you concern yourself with
my form I plunge into your formlessness.’
Then saying over and over the words, ‘O Infinity, you are mine, you are
mine,’ Sachish got up and walked through the dark towards the riverbank.
 4
AFTER THAT NIGHT SACHISH REVERTED TO HIS FORMER WAYS.
THERE WAS no knowing when he would bathe or eat. It was impossible to
make out when the currents of his soul sought the light, or when they
sought darkness. Whoever takes on the responsibility of keeping such a
person regularly bathed and fed like a gentleman’s son deserves divine
assistance.
After a sultry day a violent storm burst at night. The three of us slept in
separate rooms fronting a veranda on which a naked kerosene lamp burned.
It went out. The river surged, the sky burst into torrents of rain. The
thrashing of the waves below and the noise of the rain in the sky mingled to
produce the continuous cymbal-crashes of an apocalyptic concert. We could
see nothing of the turbulence within the womb of the massed darkness, yet
the medley of noises emanating from it turned the entire sky as cold with
fright as a blind child. A widowed ghoul seemed to shriek in the bamboo
thickets, branches groaned and crashed in the mango grove, intermittently
in the distance portions of the riverbank collapsed thunderously into the
water, and as the gale repeatedly stabbed our dilapidated house with sharp
thrusts through the ribs it howled like a wounded beast.
On a night like this the bolts to the doors and windows of the mind come
loose, the storm enters and upsets the carefully arranged furniture, the
curtains flap and flutter any which way and there’s no catching hold of
them. I couldn’t sleep. There’s no point transcribing the random thoughts
that passed through my mind; they have no relevance to the story.
Suddenly I heard Sachish shout from within his dark room:
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Damini,’ came the reply. ‘The rain is getting in through your open
window. I’ve come to shut it.’
As she did so she saw Sachish get out of bed. After what appeared to be a
momentary hesitation he bolted out of the room. Lightning flashed,
followed by a muffled rumble of thunder.
 Damini sat for a long time in the doorway of her own room. But nobody
came in from the storm. The gusty wind grew more and more impatient.
Unable to restrain herself any longer, Damini went out. It was hard to
keep one’s balance in the wind. Footmen of the gods hustled her along, as it
were, with loud imprecations. The darkness began to stir. The rain tried
desperately to fill all the holes and crannies in the sky. If only she herself
could have deluged the cosmos like this with her tears.
Suddenly a lightning shaft ripped through the sky from end to end. In the
fleeting light Damini spotted Sachish on the riverbank. Mustering all her
strength she ran and fell at his feet. Her voice triumphed over the wind’s
roar as she begged, ‘I swear at your feet that I have not wronged you, so
why do you punish me like this?’
Sachish stood in silence.
‘Kick me into the river if you wish,’ Damini said, ‘but get out of the
storm.’
Sachish turned back. As soon as he got back to the house he said, ‘I am
seeking a Being whom I need desperately I don’t need anything else. Do me
a favour, Damini. Abandon me.’
For a while Damini stood in silence. Then she said, ‘Very well, I’ll go.’

5
LATER I HEARD THE WHOLE STORY FROM DAMINI, BUT THAT
DAY I KNEW nothing of it. And so when from my bed I saw the two of
them part on the front veranda and walk to their respective rooms, my
hopelessness seemed to crush my chest and reach for my throat. I sat up in a
panic and couldn’t go back to sleep all night.
I was shocked at Damini’s appearance the next morning. Last night’s
storm seemed to have left on her all the footprints of its dance of
destruction. Though ignorant of what had transpired I began to feel angry
with Sachish.
‘Come, Sribilashbabu,’ Damini said to me, you will have to escort me to
Calcutta.’
 I knew very well what agony such words were for Damini but I didn’t
probe her with questions. Even in the midst of anguish I experienced a
sense of relief. It was for the best that Damini should leave. She was like a
boat that had wrecked itself against a rock.
At the leave-taking Damini bowed to Sachish in a pranam and said, ‘I
have offended you in many ways. Please forgive me.’
Lowering his gaze to the ground Sachish said, ‘I have also done much
wrong. I will do penance to obtain forgiveness.’
On the way to Calcutta I saw clearly that Damini was being consumed by
an apocalyptic Inferno. And I too—inflamed to fury by its heat—said some
harsh things about Sachish. ‘Look here,’ Damini shot back, ‘don’t you talk
like that about him in my presence. Have you any idea of what he has saved
me from?You have eyes for my suffering only. Can’t you see how he has
suffered in order to save me? He tried to destroy Beauty, and in the process
the Unbeautiful got a kick in the chest. Just as well . . . just as well . . . it
was quite right.’ Saying this Damini began violently striking her chest. I
caught hold of her wrists.
On reaching Calcutta I took Damini to her aunt’s, then went to a
boarding-house I knew. On seeing me my acquaintances were startled into
exclaiming, ‘What on earth’s the matter with you? Have you been ill?’
The following day the first post brought a note from Damini: ‘Please take
me away. I am not wanted here.’
The aunt wouldn’t let Damini live with her. The city was apparently
buzzing with condemnation of us. Shortly after our desertion of the guru’s
party the puja specials of the weeklies came out; so the chopping blocks
were ready for us, and there was no dearth of bloodshed. The scriptures
forbid the sacrifice of female animals, but in the case of human beings
sacrificing females gives the greatest satisfaction. Though Damini’s name
was not explicitly mentioned in the papers care was taken to ensure that
there would be no doubt about the target of the slander. Consequently it
became totally impossible for Damini to live in her aunt’s house.
By now Damini’s parents were both dead. Her brothers, however, were
still around. I asked her about their whereabouts. ‘They are very poor,’ she
said with a shake of her head.
The fact was she didn’t want to put them in a difficult position. She
feared that the brothers too would say, ‘No room for you here!’ The blow
would be unbearable. ‘So where will you go?’ I asked.
‘To Swami Lilananda.’
Swami Lilananda! I was struck dumb for a while. Fortune could be so
cruelly whimsical!
‘Will Swamiji take you back?’ I asked.
‘Gladly.’
She knew human nature. Those dominated by the herd instinct prefer to
find company than to seek truth. It was quite true that there would be no
lack of room for Damini at Swami Lilananda’s. Still . . .
At this critical moment I said, ‘Damini, there’s a way out. If you’ll permit
me I’ll explain.’
‘Let’s hear,’ Damini said,
‘If it’s possible for you to accept a man like me in marriage . . .’
Damini interrupted me. ‘What are you saying, Sribilashbabu? Have you
gone mad?’
‘Let’s say I have. When you’re mad it becomes easy to solve many
difficult problems. Madness is a pair of Arabian Nights shoes; if you put
them on you can leap clear of thousands of bogus questions.’
‘Bogus questions? What exactly do you mean by bogus?’
‘For instance, what will people say? What will happen in future?’
‘And the real questions?’ Damini asked.
‘Let’s hear what you understand by real questions.’
‘For instance, what will happen to you if you marry me?’
‘If that’s the real question I’m not worried, because my condition can’t
get worse. If only I could change it completely. Even turning it over on its
side would provide a little relief.’
I refuse to believe that Damini had not already received some sort of
telepathic message about my feelings. But till now this information had
been of no consequence to her; or at least there had been no need for a
reply. Now at last the need had arisen.
 Damini pondered the matter in silence. ‘Damini,’ I said, ‘I am one of the
most ordinary men in this world. Indeed, I am less than that, I am
insignificant. Marrying me or not marrying me will make no difference, so
you needn’t worry.’
Damini’s eyes brimmed over. ‘I wouldn’t have to consider it at all if you
were really ordinary,’ she said.
After a little more thought Damini said to me, ‘Well, you know me.’ ‘You
know me too,’ I said.
That is how I put my proposal. In the exchange between us the unspoken
words outnumbered the spoken.
I have already mentioned that I had once conquered many hearts with my
orations in English. In the time that had elapsed many had shaken off the
spell. But Naren still regarded me as one of God’s gifts to the present age. A
house he owned was to remain untenanted for a month or so. We took
temporary shelter there.
The day I put the question to Damini the wheels of my proposal had
buckled and run into such a rut of silence that it seemed it would remain
stuck there, beyond the reach of both ‘yes’ and ‘no’. If only with extensive
repairs and much hauling and heaving I could get it out! But the situation
was unexpectedly saved because the psyche has been created—perhaps as a
jest—specially to deceive the psychologist. That spring month of Phalg un,
the Creator’s merry laughter over this reverberated between the walls of our
borrowed quarters.
All these days Damini had not had the time to recognize that I was of any
consequence; perhaps a more intense light from another source was
entering her eyes. Now her whole world narrowed to a point where I was
the sole presence. Consequently there was nothing for her to do but open
her eyes wide to see me. How lucky I was that just at this moment Damini
seemed to see me for the first time.
I had roamed widely in Damini’s company, by the sea and across many
hills and rivers, while ecstatic melodies and a tumult of drums and cymbals
set the air on fire. The line, ‘At your footsteps the noose of love tightens
round my soul,’ was like a flame showering sparks in all directions.Yet the
veil between us didn’t catch fire.
But what an extraordinary thing happened in this Calcutta alley! The
jostling houses seemed to turn into blossoms of amaranth. Truly, God gave
a spectacular demonstration of his powers. Brick and woodwork became
notes in his celestial melody. And with the touch of a philosopher’s stone of
some kind he instantly transformed a nonentity like me into an exceptional
being.
When something is concealed behind a screen it seems eternally
inaccessible, but when the screen is removed it can be reached in the
twinkling of an eye. So we didn’t tarry any longer. ‘I was living in a dream,’
Damini said. ‘All I needed was to be jolted awake. A veil of illusion kept us
separate. I bow to my guru in gratitude, for he removed the veil.’
‘Don’t stare at me like that,’ I said to Damini. ‘When you once before
found that this particular divine creation wasn’t attractive, I could bear it,
but it would be very difficult to bear it now.’
‘I’m now finding that same creation to be quite good-looking,’ Damini
said.
‘You’ll go down in history,’ I said. ‘Even the fame of the intrepid man
who plants his flag at the North Pole will be nothing compared to yours.
You have achieved something not merely difficult, but impossible.’
Never before did I have such an absolute realization of the extreme
brevity of Phalgun. Only thirty days, and each of them not a minute longer
than twenty-four hours. God has all eternity in his hands, and yet such
appalling niggardliness! I couldn’t see why,
‘Since setting yourself on this mad course, have you thought of your
family?’ Damini asked.
‘They wish me well,’ I said. ‘So now they will disown me completely.’
‘And then?’
‘You and I will build a new home from scratch. It will be our very own
creation.’
‘And the housewife in it will have to be trained from scratch. Let her be
entirely your own creation, let there be no fragments of the past.’
 We set a date for our wedding in the summer month of Chaitra, and made
the necessary arrangements. Damini insisted on getting Sachish to come.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘He will give away the bride.’
But there was no news of the madcap’s whereabouts. I wrote letter after
letter and got no reply. Probably he was still at that haunted house;
otherwise the letters would have come back. But I doubted whether he
opened any letter and read it.
‘Damini,’ I said, ‘you’ll have to convey the invitation in person. “Please
forgive an invitation by post”—that sort of thing won’t do here. I could
have gone alone, but I am a timid sort of fellow. By now he has probably
moved to the other side of the river to supervise the herons at their
preening. Only you would have the guts to go there.’
‘I promised never to go there again,’ Damini said with a laugh.
‘You promised not to go there again with food, but what’s the harm in
taking an invitation to a meal?’ I said.
This time there was no hitch. The two of us took Sachish by the hand and
marched him back to Calcutta. He was as delighted over our wedding as a
child is with a new toy. We wanted to get it over with quietly; Sachish
would have none of that. And when Uncle’s Muslim following got wind of
the event, they gave themselves up to such boisterous revelry that our
neighbours thought the Emir of Kabul—or at least the Nizam of Hyderabad
—had arrived on a ceremonial visit.
There was even greater excitement in the papers. The next puja specials
duly provided the altar for a dual sacrifice. We had no desire to put a curse
on anybody, though. Let Durga fill the coffers of the editors and at least this
once let readers freely indulge their addiction to human blood, we thought.
‘Bisri, I’d like you to use my house,’ Sachish said.
‘Why don’t you join us too, so that we can get to work again?’ I replied.
‘No, my work lies elsewhere,’ Sachish said.
‘You can’t leave before the bou-bhat ceremony,’ Damini insisted.
There weren’t too many guests at the bou-bhat. In fact there was only
Sachish.
 Sachish had blithely invited us to enjoy the use of his property, but what
it entailed only we knew. Harimohan had taken possession of it and rented
it out. He would have moved in himself, but those who advised him on
spiritual matters considered it unwise because some Muslims had died of
the plague there. The tenants who lived there would also . . . But they could
be kept in the dark.
How we retrieved the house from Harimohan’s grip would make for a
long tale. Our chief strength lay in the neighbourhood Muslims. I simply
gave them a glimpse of Jagmohan’s will. After that it was unnecessary to go
to any lawyer.
Till now I had always received some help from my family; it stopped.
The two of us set up house unaided, but our hardship was our delight. I bore
the badge of a Premchand-Raychand scholar, so it was easy to land a
lectureship. In addition I put out patent medicines to help students pass
examinations: voluminous notes on the text-books. I needn’t have gone to
such lengths, because our needs were few. But Damini said we must see to
it that Sachish didn’t have to worry about earning a living.There was
another thing Damini didn’t ask me to do, nor did I speak to her about it; it
had to be done on the quiet, Damini’s brothers lacked the means to ensure
that her two nieces were married well or her several nephews well educated.
They wouldn’t let us into their houses—but money has no smell, especially
when it merely has to be accepted and needn’t be acknowledged.
On top of my other responsibilities I took up the sub-editorship of an
English newspaper. Without telling Damini I engaged the services of a
servant-boy, a bearer and an indigent Brahmin cook. The next day she
dismissed them all without telling me. When I objected she said, ‘You are
always indulging me for the wrong reasons. How on earth can I do nothing
while you are working yourself to the bone?’
My work outside and Damini’s work inside the home—the two mingled
like the confluence of the Ganges and the Jamuna. Besides, Damini began
giving sewing lessons to the Muslim girls of the neighbourhood. She
seemed to have vowed not to be outdone by me.
 Calcutta became Vrindaban and our daily struggle became the nimble
Krishna’s flute, but I lack the poetic talent to express this simple truth in the
right key. Let me just say that the days that went by didn’t walk or run, they
danced.
We passed yet another Phalgun. But no more after that. Ever since the
return from the cave Damini had been suffering from a pain in the chest that
she mentioned to no one. When it began getting worse she said in reply to
my anxious queries: ‘This pain is my secret glory, my philosopher’s stone.
It is the dowry that enabled me to come to you, otherwise I wouldn’t have
deserved you.’
The doctors each diagnosed the ailment differently. None of their
prescriptions agreed. Eventually, when like Rama conquering Lanka the
blaze of their fees and medicine bills had reduced my savings to cinders, the
doctors capped their triumph by pronouncing unanimously that a change of
air was necessary. By then my resources had dwindled into thin air.
‘Take me to the place by the sea from where I brought the pain,’ Damini
said. ‘There’s plenty of air there.’
When the full moon of wintry Magh gave way to Phalgun and the entire
sea rose, filled with the aching tears of high tide, Damini took the dust of
my feet and said, ‘My longings are still with me. I go with the prayer that I
may find you again in my next life.’
 Glossary

Airavata
The white elephant, created by the churning of the ocean; became the
mount of the god Indra.
Akanda
Mauve flower growing on a small tree.
Ashar
The first of the two months of the rainy season, mid-June to mid-July.
Baba
Father; also used affectionately for a son or young boy.
Babu
A gentleman; as a suffix added to a name it is equivalent to ‘Mister’,
e.g. Sribilashbabu.
Bhantiphool
Sweet-smelling white flower with deep red spots.
Bou-bhat
Bou means bride, bhat rice. One of the many traditional Hindu
wedding feasts, organized by the groom’s family to welcome the bride.
Chaitra
The second of the two spring months in the Bengali calendar, mid-
March to mid-April; it is hot and dry.
Chalta
An evergreen tree bearing large white scented blossoms and an edible
fruit.
Chamar
Traditionally the caste of leather-workers, described as ‘untouchable’.
Dada
Elder brother, grandfather, great-uncle.
Durga
One of the fierce forms assumed by the great Hindu goddess Devi,
when she is the great protectress of humanity.
Haidini, Sandhini and Jogmaya
 All associated with Vaishnava cults based on the ideal love of Radha
and Krishna as the path to the realization of the Ultimate Being.
Hiadini, identified with Radha, manifests the power of bliss; Sandhini,
the power of existence; Jogmaya, identified with Durga, the power of
divine diffusion.
Jap
The silent recitation of prayers and mantras.
Ji
Suffix added to a name or title as a mark of respect, e.g. Swamiji.
Kayastha
Important high caste of North India, originally of scribes.
Khichuri
Dish of rice cooked with dal (pulses).
Kirtan
Religious songs celebrating the sacred romance of Krishna and Radha.
Kulin
The highest subcaste of Brahmins, traditionally said to have been
created by the twelfth-century Bengal king, Vallal Sena.
Lanka
Ancient name of Sri Lanka.
Ma
Mother; used affectionately for a daughter or young woman.
Magh
The second of the two winter months in the Bengali calendar, mid-
January to mid-February.
Manu
Orthodox Hindu law-giver, probably legendary.
Maya
Illusion; the mundane realm, considered illusory in relation to the
(transcendental) ultimate reality.
Namaskar
The Hindu salute, given by bowing (nama) and simultaneously raising
joined palms.
Paan
Betel-leaf filled with various spices, chewed as a digestive.
Phalgun
 The first of the two spring months in the Bengali calendar, mid-
February to mid-March.
Pranam
Obeisance made by kneeling and touching forehead to the floor.
Puja
Hindu worship; often used as a shorthand for Durga Puja, the chief
festival of Bengali Hindus, when magazines and periodicals publish
special numbers.
Puranas
Hindu ancient narratives with a didactic purpose about the birth and
deeds of gods and goddesses and mythological characters.
Raga
Indian musical mode, e.g. Raga Shahana, mentioned in the novella.
Rasa
Generally translated here as ‘ecstasy’. It is a key concept in Sanskrit
aesthetics as ‘mood’, of which there are nine principal ones: erotic,
comic, compassionate, heroic, terrible, disgusting, wrathful,
wonderful, calm. A work of art evokes one or more. In ordinary
parlance it means the sap/essence/juice of life. In colloquial Bengali it
can mean the sex drive.
Samsara
The world of the householder, characterized by worldly attachments.
Sannyasi
One who has renounced the world; a religious mendicant.
Sanyasini
Feminine form of sannyasi.
Sissoo
Large deciduous tree, valuable for its timber.
Sraddha
Rituals and feast marking the end of the period of mourning among
Hindus.
Tikka
Cake of charcoal paste used as fuel to light the tobacco in the tobacco-
bowl of a hookah.
Ucchaisraba
The horse of the god Indra.
Veena
Ancient stringed musical instrument, used chiefly in classical music.
Y O G AY O G

 
(Nexus)
 1

TODAY IS THE 7TH OF ASHADA. ABINASH’S BIRTHDAY. HE HAS

TURNED THIRTY-two today. Greetings, telegrams and bouquets have kept
coming all morning.
This is where the story begins. But there’s something before the
beginning too, like the rolling of cotton wicks in the morning to light lamps
in the evening.

The prehistoric stage of this story finds the Ghoshals on the fringes of the
Sunderbans and later at Noornagar in the Hooghly district. It is not very
clear if these migrations were caused by the external force of Portuguese
advancement or internal social pressures. Often, those who are able to leave
their homesteads in desperation also have the resoluteness to set up new
homes. So we find the Ghoshals at the dawn of history, in possession of
expansive landed properties, many heads of cattle and farmhands, and
celebrating all the festivals in the calendar with pomp and grandeur. There
was much transaction of money coming in and going out. Even today a ten-
acre pond testifies to their past glory—though in a voice choked with mud
from behind a veil of hyacinths. Today the pond may still bear their name
but its water belongs to the Chatterjees.

Let us now recount the decline of the Ghoshal family glory.

In the middle period of their history, one finds them scrapping with the
other zamindar family—the Chatterjees. The dispute was not over property
but over the worship of gods. The Ghoshals had dared the Chatterjees by
making the image of their goddess two cubits higher than the Chatterjees’,
who retaliated by erecting arches along the route such that the Ghoshals’
image would not be able to clear. The High-Imagers then set out to break
the arches and the Low-Archers to break their rivals’ heads. The result: the
goddess had more than her fair share of human blood that year. Murder and
mayhem led to criminal suits. By the time the litigations ended, the
Ghoshals were on the brink of ruin.
The fire went out but so did the firewood. All turned to ash. Ashen was
the face of the patron goddess of the Chatterjee household. Treaties were
concluded but they did not bring peace. The one who was still up and the
one who was down, both began to boil inside. The Chatterjees dealt their
coup-de-grace by wielding the social scimitar. They spread the rumour that
the Ghoshals were in reality, fallen Brahmins, a fact they suppressed on
coming to Noornagar. Earthworms cloaked as cobras!
The defamers had a louder voice because their pockets were deeper. So it
was not difficult to find drummers for their false campaign from amongst
the priestly scholars with their incomprehensible incantations. The
Ghoshals lacked both wealth and strong evidence to clear themselves. So
for a second time they had to move to a humble location here in Rajabpur,
harassed by a society under the thumb of the temple-crawlers.

Strikers have a short memory, but those who are hit do not find it easy to
forget. Because they are disarmed physically, they continue to wield their
clubs mentally. This mental game had been running in the family for ages,
ever since their striking arm was benumbed. Stories, tissues of truth and
untruth, of how they worsted the Chatterjees, was still their stock-in-trade.
On a rainy evening, under a thatched roof, the children would listen to
these tales open-mouthed. How scores of their musclemen captured the
notorious Dashu Sardar of the Chatterjees, brought him to the Ghoshal
court and did him in, was a story running in this family for over a century.
As the story went, when the police came to enquire, Bhuban Biswas the
Ghoshals’ naib, had no hesitation in declaring, ‘Yes , he came here on some
business of his own, and yes I did take the opportunity to snub him a bit. I
gather he could not bear the humiliation and has made himself scarce since
then.’
The magistrate was not convinced. So Bhuban added, ‘Sir, as sure as my
name is Bhuban Biswas, I promise to run him to ground before the year
ends.’ He then got hold of another scoundrel of Dashu’s size and sent him
straight to Dacca, the district headquarters. He was put to commit some
petty thievery.The police booked him as Dasharathi Mandai and duly
sentenced him to a month’s imprisonment. The day he was to be let out
Bhuban sent word to the magistrate that Dashu Sardar had been located in
the Dacca jail. Enquiry confirmed that there was indeed one Dashu in the
jail. Whilst leaving, Dashu dropped his shawl in a field across the jail. The
shawl was duly identified as belonging to Dashu Sardar. From then on, his
whereabouts ceased to be Bhuban’s responsibility.
Such stories were rather like cheques from the past on an insolvent
present. The days of glory were gone; its history like an empty vessel made
a lot of noise. Anyway, just as the lamp goes out when the oil is finished, so
does the night end in daybreak. The fortune of the Ghoshals dawned with
the extraordinary luck of Madhusudan, the father of Abinash.
 2

MADHUSUDAN’S FATHER ANANDA WAS A STORES CLERK IN

RAJABPUR. THE family barely managed to make ends meet.The women
wore simple conch-bangles and the men carried brass amulets at the end of
a thick sacred thread, well plastered with the gum of bael. The thickness of
the sacred thread counterbalanced the thinning pride of a dubious
Brahminism.
Madhusudan’s primary education was received in this moffusil school.
But his informal training ran parallel along the riverside, in the grain yards
and atop bales of jute. His holidays were spent among buyers and sellers
and the throng of bullock cart drivers in the market place. He took pleasure
in walking round a garden, rambling amidst rows of claypots filled with
jaggery, bundles of tobacco leaf, bales of imported shawls, tins of kerosene
oil, heaps of mustard seed, sackfuls of lentils and huge balances and
weighing devices.
The father reckoned that this boy would go places. He had only to
somehow clear a few exams and land himself a berth in any of the havens
of the gentlemanly class—anything from a schoolmaster to a lawyer in the
lower courts. The fateline of the other three sons seemed as if they would be
limited to nothing more than book-keeping. So they hied forth with quills
behind their ears, to be apprenticed with stockists or in a zamindar’s office.
Madhusudan, however, moved to a dormitory in Kolkata, straining the
slender means of his father Ananda.
His professors had hopes of the boy bringing credit to their college.
But it so happened that Ananda passed away rather suddenly.
Madhusudan sold all his earthly possessions, his books and even his class
notes. He was determined to earn his living. He started with buying and
selling second-hand books to the students. His mother cried her heart out.
She had great hopes that the exam-passing route would lead her son into the
charmed circle of the gentlefolk. And that the family flagstaff of the
Ghoshals would then proudly fly the standard of triumphant clerkship.
Right from his childhood Madhusudan had the knack of choosing the
right goods. His choice of friends was likewise; none of them ever let him
down. His best friend in school was one Kanai Gupta. His forbears were
agents of large commercial houses and his father Rajani Babu was well
ensconced in a reputed firm dealing in kerosene oil.
As luck would have it, the occasion of Rajani Babu’s daughter’s wedding
came up. Madhusudan did not spare himself. He put up the marquee,
decorated it with flowers, supervised the printing of the wedding invitation
in gold letters, hired carpets and chairs, received the guests and cried
himself hoarse looking after their entertainment—nothing escaped his
attention. Rajani Babu was very pleased with this demonstration of
prudence and practical sense in matters mundane. He could sense a man of
worth and felt that this boy would do well. He helped Madhusudan set up
an agency for supply of kerosene in Rajabpur and paid the deposit himself.
From then on, Mudhusudan’s race towards prosperity began; and the
kerosene depot was left behind as a dot on the horizon. His business rapidly
crossed over from the by-lanes to the main street. Large entries to his credit
account served as stepping stones in his rise from a retailer to a wholesaler.
It was like our great epic starting from an introductory chapter and ending
in the chapter on an ascent to paradise. People said ‘it is all a turn of luck’.
That was to suggest that the train of the present prosperity was running on
the steam of past merit. But Madhusudan knew that Fate would spare
nothing to trick him out. It was only because his calculations were always
right that the examiners could not fail him in the arithmetic of life. It is only
those who get their sums wrong who use the excuse of bias on the part of a
strict examiner.
Madhusudan was a man of great reserve. He never talked about his own
affairs. But one could easily see that the once dry riverbed was again
swollen with the flood of good fortune for the Ghoshals. In the domestic
milieu of Bengal one’s thoughts turn to marriage in such circumstances.
The desire to extend the enjoyment of property along the family line into
the future beyond death, becomes very strong. Fathers of nubile daughters
did everything to encourage Madhusudan in this direction. Madhusudan’s
reaction was, ‘One should feed oneself fully before taking on the
responsibility of feeding another mouth.’ From this one could guess that
whatever the size of his heart, Madhusudan’s stomach was of no mean
dimension.
By this time, Rajabpur jute had earned a name for itself in the market,
thanks to Madhusudan’s prudence. He was quick to grab all the land on the
riverside. It was going cheap. He put up a number of brick kilns, bought
huge timbers of teak from Nepal, limestone from Sylhet and wagonloads of
corrugated iron from Kolkata. People were flabbergasted. They said, ‘Look
at this. Couldn’t wait to spend the little he had saved! It is nothing but
indigestion of wealth. His business will soon come to an end.’
But this time too Madhusudan’s calculations proved right. Soon there
was a boom in the market in Rajabpur. Under its spell came brokers and
Marwari traders. Coolies were imported, factories were set up and their
chimney stacks belched spirals of smoke darkening the skies.
It did not need any great research into his books; his glory was plain to
the naked eye. Sole owner of the market place, his two-storied walled
mansion carried the apellation ‘Madhuchakra’ engraved in stone. The name
was suggested by his old Sanskrit teacher whose affection for Madhusudan
had suddenly become more pronounced than in the past.

His widowed mother at last summoned up the courage to say, ‘My son, my
days are numbered. Do you think I shall be able to see my daughter-in-law
before I go?’
Madhu’s brief reply, gravely delivered, was, ‘It is a waste of time getting
married and so is marriage itself. Where do I have the time to spare?’ Even
his mother knew better than to insist. Time was money and everyone knew
that Madhusudan never minced his words.
Days passed. The floodtide of prosperity swept the suburban office up to
Kolkata. Despairing of ever seeing the faces of grandchildren,
Madhusudan’s mother passed away. Ghoshal & Co was now known both at
home and abroad. Their business ran close to established British business
houses and they even had English managers in charge of divisions.
Establishing himself in this manner, Madhusudan himself announced that
he was free to marry now. His was the highest credit in the marriage market.
Proposals poured in from all sides for brides—beautiful, well-bred,
accomplished, rich and highly educated. Madhusudan rolled his eyes at all
these proposals and pronounced, ‘I must have a daughter of that Chatterjee
family.’
A family nursing wounded pride is rather like a wounded hyena—
ferocious in the extreme.
 3

NOW THE BRIDE’S STORY . . .

The Chatterjees of Noornagar had fallen on bad days.The branch of the
family which held a third of the share broke away and were picking at the
fringes of the other two-thirds. The more the two parties tried to finely
divide the benefice for looking after the family deity, Radhakanta Jeeu, the
more their share of crops found its way to the courtyards of their lawyers.
The functionaries had their shares too. The Noornagar family had lost its
power—there was no income but the expenses had risen fourfold. Nine
tentacles of a nine percent interest on loans had spread round the zamindari.
It was a family of two brothers and five sisters. The penalty for the crime of
having an overpopulation of daughters was still to be paid. Four sisters were
married into kuleen families whilst the head of the family was still alive.
The Chatterjees’ past reputation was vast but their current wealth was slim.
So the dowries had to be large enough to match the prestige of their high
caste and the extent of their wide reputation. It was this which added
another knot of a twelve percent interest to the already existing noose of
nine percent interest. The younger brother took a stand. He desired to go to
England, be called to the bar and start earning a living. The elder brother
Bipradas was left to bear the family burden. At about this time the fates of
the Chatterjees and the Ghoshals locked horns once more.
Let me narrate that story.
The Chatterjees owed a large sum to Tansukdas, a confectioner in
Burrabazar. Interests were paid regularly and no words were ever
exchanged. During the puja holidays Bipradas’s classmate, one
Amulyadhan, arrived apparently to renew his close ties with the family. He
was an articled head clerk in a big house of attorneys. One sidelong glance
was enough for this bespectacled young man to gauge the predicament of
this Noornagar family. He went back to Kolkata and soon enough
Tansukdas demanded his loan back. He said he wanted the money to get
into the sugar business.
Bipradas was struck dumb.
This crisis brought the two family names into unfriendly conjunction.
Madhusudan had just been conferred the title of Raja by the Hon’ble
Government. Our old schoolfriend appeared again in Noornagar at this
juncture and said, ‘The new Raja must be in a generous mood and may even
agree to a loan on easy terms.’ And that is exactly how it happened. The
diverse borrowings of the Chatterjees totalled eleven lakh rupees, and a
loan for this sum was had from Madhusudan Ghoshal at only seven per cent
interest.
Bipradas heaved a sigh of relief.
Kumudini was his youngest sister; and their fortune was on its last legs.
The thought of finding a match for her and a dowry to match, was chilling.
She was beautiful, tall and slim like the stalk of a tuberose. Her eyes though
not very large were intensely dark, and her nose, perfectly straight, was
delicate as if fashioned out of the petals of a flower. Her skin was fair and
glowing. To be served by her perfectly rounded hands was to receive with
gratefulness the favours of Goddess Kamala herself. Patience and
compassion lit her entire face with a dolorous sadness.
Kumudini felt embarrassed for herself. She believed she brought ill luck.
She believed that men ran the family with their own prowess and the
women brought prosperity with their luck. But that was not to be her lot.
From the time she could follow things, she had only seen the evil eye of
misfortune all around. And the burden of her spinsterhood was like a
millstone round the neck of the family. The pain of it and the shame! But
nothing could be done except to blame one’s own fate. The gods did not
find a way out for them except to endow them with the strength to bear
hurt. ‘Can’t there be a miracle? A godsend? A treasure trove? Or the sudden
settlement of a loan given in a previous life?’ she prayed. Some nights as
she lay awake looking over the top of the murmuring casuarina trees, she
spoke to herself.
 ‘Where are you, my prince? Where are your sparkling jewels? Come and
save my brothers. I shall be your slave for life.’
The more she blamed herself for the misfortunes of her family the more
she poured out her heart full of love to her brothers—a love wrung out of
deep unhappiness. The brothers also, conscious of their inability to do their
duty by Kumu, enveloped her in their affection. They were ever eager to
compensate this orphan girl for what the gods had deprived her of. She was
like a bit of moonlight cheering the darkness of their poverty. Sometimes
when she blamed herself as the vehicle of misfortune, Bipradas would smile
and say, ‘But Kumu, you yourself are our fortune—there would be no light
in this house but for you.’
Kumudini had her education at home, hardly aware of the world outside.
She lived in the twilight zone between the old and the new. Her world was
dimly lit, ruled by obscure goddessess like Siddheswari, Gandheswari, and
Ghentu, a world where one must not look at the moon on certain days,
where the evil eye of an eclipse had to be dismissed with conch-blowing,
where you would be rid of the dread of snakes if you sipped milk on the
holy day of ambubachi. It was a world where one dealt with good and evil
by incantations, by promising a sacrificial goat or a simpler propitiation
with betel nuts, raw rice and a five-pice measure of shirni, or by wearing
amulets of all descriptions. A hope of averting ill luck through propitiation;
a hope dashed a thousand times. One often sees for oneself that the branch
of auspicious timings does not necessarily bear the fruit of good fortune.Yet
reality has no power to dispel by reasoning, the illusions created in dreams.
In this dreamland there was no place for logic, there was only the
observance of rules and taboos. Perhaps it is this total rejection of the
harmony of reason, of the supremacy of intellect and the universality of
ethics in this world of fatality, which cast a pall of pathos over her face.
Because she knew she had been sentenced without cause, for the last eight
years she had accepted this humiliation as her wont. It had something to do
with the death of her father.
 4

THE OLD IS WELL ENTRENCHED IN THE FORTRESS OF

WEALTHY FAMILIES. THE new has to cross many halls and courtyards
to gain entrance. The inmates take ages to arrive at the new times.
Bipradas’s father too could not catch up with the changing times.
Tall, fair, with a shock of hair, his large and long eyes reflected
unchallenged authority. His booming voice struck terror into the hearts of
his followers and retainers. He was strong, used to wrestling with the pros
regularly, yet his delicate physique did not bear any sign of toil. Dressed in
a well laundered muslin kurta over the flowing folds of a farashdanga or a
dacca dhoti, the master’s arrival was heralded by the scent of Istambul attar
in the air. The khansama followed with a golden paan box, and a liveried
orderly was always at the door. At the main entrance, the old jamadar was
busy combing his long beard into two plaits and tying them behind his ears
after finishing the chore of blending the tobacco and crushing the bhang
leaves. Darwans, the next in rank, were on guard with their swords. The
walls of the guardroom displayed many types of shields, scimitars and very
old muskets and spears.
In the drawing room, Mukundalal sat on the floor on a mattress with a
bolster at his back. The courtiers sat a step below in two rows on either side.
The hookah servers were well versed in their relative ranks, and the kind
of hookah to be offered befitting the rank—gilded or plain or a simple
hubble-bubble. The master had a huge one filled with rosewater.
In another part of the mansion there was a western-type drawing room
filled with eighteenth-century English furniture. A huge mirror, slightly
pitted, faced the entrance. Two winged fairies held aloft two candlesticks on
either side of its gilt-edged frame. On a table underneath was a clock in
blackstone, decorated in gold, and a few English glass dolls. The straight-
backed chairs, the sofas and the chandelier hanging from the beam were all
draped in holland cloth. The walls carried oil paintings of the ancestors and
of some British civil servants who were patrons of the family. The entire
room was carpeted with English carpets embroidered with large flowers in
vivid colours. This room was unveiled only on special occasions when the
officials of the district were invited. This, the only modern room in this
house, appeared to be cut off from daily living. Old and haunted, a stifling
mustiness of disuse hung about it.
Mukundalal’s luxury was an essential part of the mores of the day. The
abandon of spending was a proud measure of true wealth. In other words,
their wealth was not a burden but a slave grovelling under their feet. The
display of their charities in public or their indulgence in private were both
on a grand scale. They were as impatient in dealing with insolence as they
were generous with their dependants. Once a nouveau riche neighbour
merely boxed the ears of their gardener’s son for a rather grave offence. The
money that was spent on teaching this rich neighbour a lesson, was more
than what one would spend on seeing a son through the University. Nor was
the gardener’s boy spared. He was caned mercilessly. The degree of
chastisement matched the height of anger: but it did the boy good. He won
scholarships and is currently established as a mukhtiyar.
In the tradition of the rich of those days, Mukundalal’s life also ran in
two compartments. One was devoted to serious duties to the family and the
other to merrymaking with friends. If one could be said to be the home of
ten sacred rites then the other could be the home of eleven profanities.
The inner compartment housed the family deity and the housewife. Here
pleasing gods and guests, observing festivals, fasts and feasts, feeding the
poor and the brahmins, neighbours and priests filled the space all the year
round. Right outside was the world of nabobs, the splendour of courtly
pleasures, women on the fringe of society came and went. The rich of those
times sought their company as a way of cultivating courtly manners. The
wives had a difficult time caught between the pull of two planets in
opposing orbits.
 Nandarani, Mukundalal’s wife, had her pride. She could not quite get
used to accepting the way things were. There was a reason for it. She was
sure that her husband was anchored to her, however far his fancy might
roam. So her tolerance broke down whenever he hurt his own love. And
that is exactly what happened.
 5

RASLILA WAS A TIME OF GREAT FESTIVITY. PLAYS DEPICTING

THE LIFE OF LORD Krishna were staged on the open courtyard: some
evenings were devoted to kirtans sung in praise of the young god. This was
where the neighbours and the women of the house crowded. Usually the
more profane entertainments were held in the outer court. The women,
anguished and sleepless, could only get a glimpse of the goings on, through
cracks in the door. This year the men decided to have dancing girls perform
on a boat on the river.
With no way of knowing what was happening out there, Nandarani’s
heart was bleeding in the dark. One had to carry on the daily chores at
home, looking after and feeding the household with a smiling face. But no
one knew how the heart ached, how one was being stifled inside. Outside,
the grateful subjects sang loudly the praise of their Rani-Ma.
The festivities were over at last. The house was now empty. Only the
crows and the dogs were left raucously bickering over the torn banana
leaves and broken shards of pots. The lampmen took down the chandeliers
and dismantled the marquee. The neighbourhood children fought over the
broken bits of the chandelier and the floral hangings made out of pith.
Occasionally in that crowd, bursts of slapping and screaming shot out like
rockets rending the sky. The breeze from the courtyard was sour with the
smell of leftover foodstuff, overcast with a sense of fatigue, weariness and
gloom. This emptiness became unbearable for Nandarani when Mukundalal
failed to come home. Because there was no way of getting at him, her
patience was at its end.
She called the dewan and spoke to him from behind the curtains, ‘Please
tell your master that I have to go immediately to Brindaban where my
mother is unwell.’
 Dewanjee stroked his bald pate and said softly, ‘Wouldn’t it have been
better to meet the master before you went? News has reached me that he is
due home any time.’
‘No, I cannot wait,’ was her answer.
She had also heard of his impending return. Hence the haste.
She knew for certain that a little persuasion and some tears would settle
everything. It had always been so. A proper punishment was thus adjourned
forever. But she did not want the same to happen this time as well. So the
judge had to flee as soon as the sentence was awarded. It was a wrench. She
threw herself on her bed and cried her heart out, just before leaving. But it
did not stop her from embarking on the journey.
It was two in the afternoon at the end of the rains. The air was hot under
the blazing sun. Amidst the murmur of the litte trees lined on the roadside
one could hear occasionally the voice of a koel crying itself hoarse. The
road which her palanquin took, offered a view of the river beyond the green
fields of paddy. Nandarani could not help sliding the door open a little and
looking outside. She could make out a large boat lying at anchor on the
other bank of the river, flying a pennant atop the mast. Even at that distance
the familiar outline of Goopi, their old runner, met her eyes as did the flash
of sunlight on his badge. She banged the door close, as her heart froze
inside her.
 6

MUKUNDALAL LANDED AT HIS JETTY LIKE A SHIP BATTERED

IN A STORM WITH broken masts and torn sails: his heart heavy with the
weight of guilt. The memory of the revelry was as distasteful as the
leftovers of a heavy repast. If the promoters and organizers of the revelry
were present he would have whipped them. He had resolved not to let this
happen ever again. Looking at his dishevelled hair, bloodshot eyes and
drained face, no one dared tell him about the mistress’s departure.
Mukundalal entered the house in trepidation: rehearsing to himself, ‘Please
dear wife, forgive me. This will never happen again.’ He paused for a
moment before his bedroom door and then tiptoed in. He was sure in his
mind that she was in bed, sulking. He had decided to fall straight at her feet,
but he found the room empty, His heart sank. If he had found her in bed he
could be sure that she was halfway down the road to forgiveness. But as she
was not in, he knew that expiation would be hard and long. It might have to
wait till tonight or even longer. He had made up his mind to accept the
punishment in full and not to eat or drink till he had earned her pardon. No
devoted wife could bear to see the husband without bath or food till a late
hour. He came out of the bedroom and found the maid Pyaree standing in a
corner with her head veiled in her sari. He asked her, ‘Where is your
mistress?’
She answered, ‘She left for Brindaban day before yesterday to see her
mother.’
He did not quite get the sense and asked in a choked voice, ‘Where did
you say she went?’
‘To Brindaban. Mother’s illness.’
Mukundalal gripped the railing of the veranda once and then ran to the
drawing room outside, to sit there all by himself. No one dared come near
him.
Dewanjee came and said timidly, ‘Shall we send someone to fetch the
mistress?’
He did not utter a word; simply moved his finger to say ‘no’.
When the dewan left, he sent for Radhu the khansama and ordered him to
bring some brandy.
The whole household was stunned. When an earthquake rears its ugly
head from deep within the earth it is useless to try and suppress it. It was
somewhat like that.
He lived on neat brandy for days on end with hardly any food. Such
abuse of an already ravaged body led to delirium and spitting of blood.
Doctors arrived from Kolkata and treated him with ice-packs.
Mukundalal would flare up at the sight of anyone. He suspected that the
entire household was plotting against him. Perhaps he was nursing a secret
grievance against the family which let his wife leave the house.
The only one who could approach him was Kumudini. She sat by his
bedside and he stared at her trying to find something of her mother in her.
Sometimes he would pull her head down on his chest and lie quietly with
his eyes closed, tears rolling down the corners of his eyes. Never did he ask
about her mother. Meanwhile a telegram was sent to the mistress of the
house and she was due to arrive the next day. But it was rumoured that there
was a break in the rail track somewhere on the way.
 7

IT WAS THE THIRD PHASE OF THE MOON; THERE WAS A STORM

IN THE EVENING.
The branches of the trees in the garden crackled and broke. From time to
time there was an angry, impatient splash of rain.The corrugated roof of the
shed erected for feeding people was blown into the pond. The wind lashed
the sky like the tail of a wounded tiger groaning angrily. Suddenly a gust of
wind rattled the doors and windows. Mukundalal gripped Kumudini’s hand
and said, ‘There is nothing to fear, Kumu. You have done no wrong. Listen
to them grinding their teeth. They are out to get me.’
Kumudini, gently pressing the ice-bag on his head, said, ‘No, Father;
why should anyone be after you? It is just the storm outside. It will be over
soon.’ Mukunda continued in his delirium, ‘Brindaban? Brindaban.
Chandra Chakrabarty, the priest in my father’s time, He is dead and gone—
a ghost now in Brindaban. Did someone say he is coming?’
‘Please do not talk. Try to sleep a little, Father,’ said Kumu.
‘Out there someone is warning somebody. Beware. Beware!’
‘That’s nothing, Father. The wind is shaking the trees.’
‘Why is she so angry with me? Have I been so amiss? Do tell me
Kumu?’
‘You have done no wrong, Father. Please try and sleep a little.’
‘Remember Madhu Adhikari? Used to act in plays as Bindey the go-
between for Radha and Krishna.’
And he began to hum Radha’s lines.
‘Michhey karo keno nindey
Ogo Bindey Sri Gobindey’

(O Bindey why do you blame my Krishna, for nothing?)

 ‘Kaar baanshi oi bajey Brindabaney
Soi lo soi
Gharey ami roibo kemoney?’

(Who is that playing the flute in Brindaban?

Tell me my friend, how can I stay indoors?)

‘Radhu, get me my glass of brandy.’

‘What are you saying, Father?’ Kumudini asked, leaning close to his
face.
Mukundalal opened his eyes, bit his tongue in shame and fell silent. Even
when his senses were in disarray, he did not forget that he didn’t ever drink
in presence of Kumudini. A little later he started humming again:
‘I’ve got to snatch his wretched flute away
Or I have to leave Brindaban . . .’

These rambling tunes broke Kumu’s heart. She was upset with her
mother and laid her head on her father’s feet, as if seeking forgiveness on
her mother’s behalf.
Suddenly, Mukundalal shouted ‘Dewanjee!’ and when the dewan came,
told him ‘Can’t you hear the stamping of their sticks?’
‘It’s only the wind hitting the door,’ said Dewanjee.
‘No , the old man Brindabanchandra has come with his bald pate, stick in
hand and a silk scarf on his shoulder. He is going on stomping. Is it his stick
or his clogs?’
All this time there was a respite from the vomitting of blood; but it
started again around three in the morning. Mukundalal felt about the bed
and said indistinctly ‘Borrobou, the room is dark. Isn’t it time you lit the
lamps?’ This was the first time he had addressed his wife, after his return
from the boat—and the last.
Nandarani fainted at the doorstep when she came back from Brindaban.
They picked her up and put her to bed. She lost all interest in her household.
Her tears dried up and even the children brought her no solace. The family
guru recited many slokas from the holy books but she didn’t even look at
him. She would not take off her iron bangles, as was the custom for widows
to do. Because, she claimed, ‘I was told by our palmist that I shall never
face widowhood. This has to be true.’
Kshema, a distant relation, pleaded with tears in her eyes, ‘Whatever had
to happen has happened. Now you should take a look at your household.
Remember the last words of the karta—Borrobou won’t you light the
lamps?’
Nandarani sat up on her bed, and with a faraway look said, ‘Sure I will
light the lamps. This time there will be no delay on my part.’ As she said
this her pale face suddenly lit up as if she had just started on her journey
with a lamp in her hand.
The sun had started on its journey northwards. It was nearly full moon on
that Magh night. Nandarani dressed herself in a red bridal saree, put a big
dot of sindur on her forehead and with a smile on her face, passed away
without ever looking at her household.
 8

AFTER HIS FATHER’S DEATH BIPRADAS DISCOVERED THAT THE

GIANT TREE that had given them shelter so far was rotting at the roots.All
their properties were slowly sinking in the quicksand of debt. There was no
option but to curtail their scale of social commitments and their own
lifestyle. The issue of Kumu’s marriage also raised many questions which
he avoided answering. In the end the Chatterjees had to give up the
Noornagar mansions and move to a rented house in the Bagbazar area of
Kolkata.
In her old house Kumudini’s world had been vibrant with life all around
—trees and flowers, the cowshed, the puja room, paddyfields and of course,
people. There, she had picked flowers to fill her basket, relished the
forbidden green plums with salt, mustard and coriander leaves, plucked
sour chaalta and gathered green mangoes felled by summer storms in the
months of Boishakh and Jaistha. Her favourite spot was the walled pond at
the back of the house, framed in green moss and enveloped in dark,
comforting shadows. She had swum here every day, plucked lotus stalks,
knitted or just sat on the steps all by herself, lost in thought.
The festivities of men were tied with those of Nature, with the change of
seasons, month after month—from AkshayTritiya to Doljatra, to Basanti
Puja, so many of them. Man and Nature together had made the whole year
into a work of art.
Not that all was happy and pleasant. There was a fair amount of silent
envy, or screaming accusations, whispered gossip and expressed
denouncement—all over the share of fish or on taking sides in children’s
quarrels. Worst of all was the undertone of anxiety in the midst of the daily
chores, about the troubles that could brew from the whims of the master in
his quarters. If something untoward happened it would go on for days on
end disturbing everyone’s peace—Kumudini would be at the mercy of a
trembling heart, her mother would be crying silently in her room and the
boys would be going about with long faces. This household was always
disturbed by these swings between joy and sorrow, between spells of good
and bad luck.
In the midst of all this, Kumudini came to Kolkata. It was like a vast
ocean without a drop to quench one’s thirst. At home in Noornagar, there
was something familiar in the air, in the skies.The village horizon
variegated with thick forests somewhere, sand dunes elsewhere, the silver
streak of the river water, the temple steeple, empty expanses, wild clumps
of casuarina, the towpath on the banks—all these with their many lines and
many hues, bonded the skies in a very special way, making it Kumudini’s
very own. Even the sunlight there was of a special kind. It had acquired a
very familiar tinge by the way it blended with everything that it spread over
—the pond, the paddyfields, the cane shrubs, the brown sails of the fishing
boats, the delicate new leaves of the bamboo trees, the smooth dark green of
the jackfruit tree, or the pale yellow of the sand bank on the distant shore.
But here in Kolkata, this all too familiar light was splintered by the hard
lines of the unfamiliar roofs and walls, and looked askance at her as at a
strange intruder.
Bipradas drew her close to his chair and asked, ‘Kumu, are you fretting?’
Kumudini answered with a smile, ‘Not a bit, Dada.’
‘Will you come with me to the Museum?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She said it with such eagerness, that were he not a man, Bipradas would
have realized that it was not a very natural response. As a matter of fact, she
would have been greatly relieved if she were excused from visiting the
Museum. As she was not used to crowds she had no end of hesitation in
going out. Her hands and feet got cold and she could hardly see clearly.
Bipradas taught her chess. An extraordinary player himself, he was
amused at her beginner’s game. But after many days of practice, she learnt
it well enough for Bipradas to be careful when playing with her. Because
Kumu had no girl companion of her own age, the brother and sister grew
closer, more like two brothers. He adored Sanskrit literature and Kumu took
lessons in grammar diligently. As she read Kalidas’ Kumarsambhabam, she
visualized Shiva in her daily prayers, Shiva the great ascetic who was the
desired one of Uma’s own prayers. In her maiden thoughts Kumu’s future
husband appeared bathed in divine light.
Photography was one of his hobbies, so Kumu learnt this as well. If one
took a picture the other would give it meaning. Bipradas was also an ace
shot. Whenever he was at the village home for some festival or the other he
would indulge in target practice by floating walnuts on the pond in the
backyard. He called out to her, ‘Come, why not have a try?’
Whatever was dear to her brother Kumu took care to make it her own.
She learnt to play the esraj from him so well that he had to admit that he
was no match for her.
Thus, coming to Kolkata she came closer to the brother whom she
worshipped from her childhood.The move was worthwhile for her, Kumu
was naturally lonesome. Rather like Uma of the hills who lived by the
shores of the Manas Sarovar in an imaginary world of her own. One born so
lonely, needed open skies and a diffused solitude; and in the midst of that
she also needed at least one person whom she could revere with all her
heart and soul. This distancing from the world at hand was not viewed as
natural by the women around her: in fact, they thoroughly despised such an
attitude. They thought it was either conceit or sheer heartlessness. So
Kumudini never developed any close friendship among her companions
back home.
Bipradas’s marriage was fixed when his father was alive, but the bride-
to-be died of malignant fever only a couple of days before the formal rituals
were to begin. The priests at Bhatpara then discovered from his horoscope
that there was a long wait before the evil conjuctions in the astral house for
marriage were to end. So all talk of his marriage was forgotten. Meanwhile
his father died. And after that there was never any time for matchmaking in
Bipradas’s home. A matchmaker came tempting them with the prospect of a
huge dowry. The result was quite the contrary. The matchmaker had to
leave his hookah in a hurry and beat a retreat,
 9

SUBODH THE YOUNGER BROTHER USED TO WRITE REGULARLY

FROM ABROAD. But lately there were long gaps. Kumu waited eagerly
for the mail. This time the beawrer brought the letter straight to her.
Bipradas was busy shaving in front of the mirror. Kumu ran to him, ‘Dada,
a letter from Chhorda!’
He finished shaving and opened the letter with some apprehension. After
he finished reading it, he crushed it hard, as if it was a source of sharp pain.
Kurnudini was alarmed, ‘Hope Chhorda has not taken ill.’
‘No, he is all right.’
‘Please tell me, what does he say in this letter?’
‘All about his studies.’
For some time now, he had not let Kumu read Subodh’s letters; instead,
he used to just read out bits. This time there was not even that. And Kumu
did not have the courage to ask. She fretted.
In the beginning Subodh used to be quite frugal. The sorrows of the
family were still fresh in his mind. As that memory began to fade, his
expenses rose. He now wrote, ‘Unless you spend generously you cannot
reach the top layers of the society here, and if you cannot the whole point of
having come to this country is lost.’
Bipradas had no option but to send him money telegraphically once or
twice in the past. This time the demand was for a thousand pounds sterling
—urgently needed.
Bipradas was stupefied. ‘How am I to get so much money ! We are
straining every limb only to save enough for Kurnu’s wedding. Do I have to
break into those funds? What use is Subodh’s barristership if we have to
sacrifice Kurnu’s future for it!’ So ran his thoughts.
 He was pacing up and down the balcony that night, unaware that
Kumudini was also having a sleepless night. When it became unbearable,
she ran to Bipradas, held his hand and said, ‘I beg of you, please tell me
what is wrong with Chhorda. Do not keep me in the dark.’
Bipradas realized that if he suppressed the truth she would fear the worst.
So he said, ‘Subodh has asked for more money and to send him any is
beyond my means.’
Kumu pleaded with him, ‘May I say something if you don’t take it
amiss?’
‘If it is something unreasonable I may lose my temper.’
‘No Dada, listen to me seriously . . . my mother’s ornaments . . . they are
for me aren’t they . . . if that can be used.’
‘Stop it. We can’t touch your ornaments!’
‘But I can.’
‘No , you can’t, either. No more of this talk. Please go to sleep.’
The morning dawned in the city of Kolkata with the cawing of crows and
the rumble of the scavenger carts. In the distance one heard the whistle of
steamers or the siren of the oil mills. In front of their house a man passed by
with a ladder, sticking up posters for some anti-fever pills. Two bullocks
goaded heavily by the driver were running away with an empty cart and the
row between a up-country woman and an Oriya Brahmin was constantly
rising in pitch, over who should have the priority for taking water from the
municipal hydrant. Bipradas was sitting on the balcony with the tube of the
hubble-bubble in his hand. The morning papers were lying on the floor,
unread.
Kumu came up and said, ‘Please don’t say “no” to me Dada.’
‘What, do you wish to interfere with my independent opinion? Do I have
to say “yes” instead of “no”, call night day if you say so?’
‘No, I am only asking you to take my ornaments and put an end to your
worries.’
‘This is why I call you an old woman. How could you ever think that I
could take your jewellery to solve my problems?’
 ‘I don’t know about that, but I can’t bear to see you worrying yourself to
death.’
‘My dear, the only way to end a worry is to think it through. If you try to
suppress it, it will recoil on you. Be patient for a while, I shall manage
something.’
The only way he could send money by the next mail was to dip into
Kumu’s dowry: and that was unthinkable.
In due course Subodh’s reply came. No, he would not touch Kumu’s
dowry but would suggest selling off his share of the ancestral property. He
had even sent a document regarding his power of attorney in order to
execute the partition and sale.
The letter stung Bipradas to the quick. How could Subodh bring himself
to write such a cruel letter? Bipradas sent for his old dewanjee.
‘Didn’t the Bhushan Rais want to take the Karimhati property on lease?’
he asked dewanjee. ‘How much were they willing to offer?’
‘Maybe up to twenty thousand,’ said the dewan.
‘Send for him, I want to settle it with him,’ said Bipradas.
His grandfather had bequeathed this property solely to him, for Bipradas
was his eldest grandson, Bhushan Rai had a thriving moneylending business
of over twenty to twenty-five lakhs. He was born in Karimhati, this is why
he had been trying for quite some time to take a lease on his birthplace,
Bipradas has been on the point of yielding in moments of financial crises.
But the tenants pleaded with him saying that they could never accept
Bhushan Rai as their landlord. So the proposal was aborted many times.
This time Bipradas had made up his mind. He knew for certain that this was
not the end of Subodh’s demands. Still he said to himself, ‘Let this lease-
money be for Subodh, we will face the future when it comes.’
Dewanjee dared not address Bipradas directly. He went to Kumu and
said, ‘Didi, Dada listens to you. Please ask him not to do this. It will be very
wrong to go through with this.’
The entire household was very fond of Bipradas and could not bear the
thought that he should give up his own rights.
 It was getting late. Bipradas was engrossed in the deed documents. He
had not had his bath nor eaten anything. Kumu had sent for him many
times. At last he came into the house, his face drained and worn. Kumu’s
heart bled at the sight of him.
After lunch he stretched out on his bed, the long pipe of the hubble-
bubble in hand. Kumu sat stroking his hair and said, ‘Dada, you must not
lease your property.’
Bipradas said lightly, ‘It seems you are possessed by the ghost of Sirajud-
daulah, the last Nawab of Bengal. Must you impose your will always?’
‘Don’t try to avoid the issue,’ she said. Bipradas then sat up straight and
Kumu had to face him. He cleared his throat choked with emotion, and said,
‘Do you know what Subodh has written? Read this.’ Kumu read the letter
and covered her face with both hands and whispered, ‘My God, how could
Chhorda write this.’
Bipradas said, ‘Now that he can see his property as distinct from mine,
can I treat my own legacy separately? Poor boy, he lost his father early, to
whom should he turn for help but me?’
Kumu could say nothing more. Silent tears flowed down her cheeks.
Bipradas leaned on his bolster and closed his eyes.
Kumu stroked his feet for a while and then added, ‘But my mother’s
jewellery is still there, why don’t you . . .?’
Bipradas sat up again and said, ‘Kumu darling, you have not understood
the real dilemma. If Subodh now squanders your share on theatres and
concerts, will I be able to forgive him ever, and will he be able to face up to
anyone? Why do you inflict this punishment on him?’
 10

IT WAS A CLOUDY DAY. BIPRADAS WAS NOT WELL. HE WAS

BROWSING THROUGH the morning papers, wrapped in a thin quilt.
Kumu’s pet cat had found itself an extra bit of the quilt and was curled up in
deep sleep. Bipradas’s own impudent terrier slept near the master’s feet,
occasionally grunting in its sleep.
Just then one of the matchmakers turned up.
‘Namaskar.’
‘And who may you be?’
‘Sir the masters knew me well (a lie!).You were only a child then. I am
Nilmani Ghatak, the son of Gangamani Ghatak.’
‘What brings you here?’
‘I know about a good bridegroom. Worthy of your family.’
Bipradas sat up. The matchmaker named Rai Bahadur Madhusudan
Ghoshal.
‘Has he a son?’
The man bit his tongue in embarrassment, ‘No sir, he is unmarried. He
has amassed an enormous fortune, and now that he does not have to look
after the business himself, he has turned his thoughts to matrimony.’
Bipradas silently puffed at his hubble-bubble for a while, and suddenly
spoke aloud, ‘We don’t have a girl in this family to match a man of his age.’
But the man would not give up. He went on dwelling at length on the
wealth of the prospective match, his comings and goings at the Governor’s
court.
Bipradas remained quiet and then burst out, ‘Their ages do not tally!’
The man said, ‘Do give it a thought. I shall be back in a few days.’
Bipradas went to sleep with a deep sigh.
 Kumu was about to enter the room with a cup of hot tea for her brother,
but stopped on finding outside the door a tattered wet umbrella and a
muddy pair of crude leather sandals like the ones sold in the Taltolla
market. But much of the conversation reached her ears. The matchmaker
was saying, ‘Before the year is out Rai Bahadur will become a
Maharaja.This is straight from the Lieutenant Governor himself. That is
why he is worried that the place for the Maharani can no longer be kept
vacant. Your family astrologer is a distant relative of mine and we have
seen the girl’s horoscope. It is a perfect match. There is not one girl in town
whose horoscope has escaped my scrutiny. But I have yet to come across
any like this. Take my word for it. This match is as good as fixed, ordained
by Prajapati, the god of marriage.’
Just then Kumu’s left eyelid flickered! How mysterious are the ways of
lucky omens! Kinu Acharya who read her palm on many an occasion, had
predicted that one day she would be a Rajrani. The consequences of her
palmcast had presented themselves on her doorstep on their own. Their
family planetologist had come recently for his annual dues and he had said
that in the coming month of Ashadh, the Taureans would be awarded court
honours, gain income through the ladies and overcome enemies. On the
adverse side it indicated illness or even the death of the spouse. Bipradas
was a Taurus.
There was also some talk of occasional ill health. Last night’s cold was a
clear proof. The month of Ashadh had just begun. There was no immediate
worry about the illness of the spouse. So , all in all, good times were ahead.
Kumu came and sat next to him. ‘Do you have a headache?’ she asked.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Has your tea gone cold? I could not come in as you had some visitor.’
Bipradas stared at Kumu and let out a deep sigh. Fate is at its cruellest
when it offers a golden chariot with wheels which do not move. Kumu was
hurt at this pained look of perplexity on his face. Why was he apprehensive
about this godsend? The thought that marriage has also a complication by
way of personal liking, never entered her head. From her childhood she had
seen her four sisters married one after the other. Theirs was a kuleen family
and nothing mattered but the kul—the family credentials. They lived on,
day in and day out, engrossed in their children and the rest of the family.
When they were hurt they did not protest, they could never imagine that
things could be different. Did a mother choose her son? He might turn out
to be a good or a bad son. It was the same with husbands. God had not
opened a shop for people to choose what they wanted. No one could
override Fate.
At long last, her prince had arrived in disguise, having crossed the empty
expanse of her bad days. Her heart echoed the sound of his chariot wheels
and she was not even prepared to look beyond his mask.
She quickly went to her room and opened the almanac. It was Manorath
Dwitiya—a day for the fulfilment of wishes. She called a few Brahmins
among the household staff, fed them well and gave them small gifts as well.
All of them blessed her and wished her to be a Rajrani with plenty of wealth
and many sons.
The matchmaker came into Bipradas’s drawing room a second time. The
old man entered, chanting ‘Shiva, Shiva,’ as he yawned to the snapping of
fingers. This time Bipradas thought better than to dismiss him with a
straight no. How could he take up this great responsibility on himself? How
could he be so sure that this was not the best thing for Kumudini? He
promised to give his final word the day after.
 11

KUMU HARDLY HAD ANY FURNITURE IN HER ROOM. A SMALL

COT ON ONE side, a clothes horse with a couple of twisted sarees, and a
light yellow towel. Her clothes were kept in a chest made of jackwood.
Under the bed, in a green painted tin box were all her toiletries for dressing
up, betel nut leaves and in another box things for dressing her hair. A few
books, a pen and ink and some letter paper along with a pair of her father’s
slippers knitted in wool by her mother, rested on wooden racks in a niche in
the wall. At the head of the bed hung a picture of Radha and Krishna
together. An esraj lay propped up against the corner wall.
The evening was thick with heavy rain clouds. She had not lit the lamps
yet. She sat on the wooden chest and looked out of the window, Through
the rain was dimly outlined the brick-filled carcass of Kolkata like a
prehistoric animal in thick armour. Some lights flickered now and then on
this body. Kumu’s mind dwelt on her destined future domain, where people,
houses and everything else were going to be according to her own ideals.
And in the midst of it all, she herself would be established as the
satilakshmi—the ideal wife and goddess, full of reverence, adoration and
welfare all around. Like her own mother—who had but one deep scar in her
otherwise saintly life. She lost her patience for a while at her husband’s
lapse. Kumu was determined to never make that mistake herself.
She was startled out of her reverie at the sound of Bipradas’s steps,
‘Shall I light the lamp?’ she asked. ‘No, Kumu, I don’t think so,’ said
Bipradas as he sat down next to her. Kumu got down to the floor and started
to massage his feet gently.
He said softly, ‘I didn’t send for you as I had a visitor. How long have
you been sitting like this all by yourself?’
 Kumu was embarrassed. ‘No, I was not alone, Aunt Kshema was here for
ages.’ And to get back to the topic she asked, ‘Who was it, Dada?’
‘That is what I have come to tell you. You completed eighteen last month
and are now going on to nineteen, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, but what’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing at all. Nilmani Ghatak the matchmaker had come. Please, my
dear girl, do not be shy. When our father was alive you were only ten—and
a match was almost settled for you. It would have gone through and no one
would have bothered about your views. But today I simply can’t do so. You
must have heard of Raja Madhusudan Ghoshal. Their family is no less than
ours in social standing. But he is much older. I could not agree to this
match. A word from you and I can put an end to it. Please do not be shy to
tell me what you think.’
‘No, I won’t.’
She was quiet for a while, and then spoke again, ‘My match must have
been already fixed with him of whom you speak.’ She was echoing the
matchmaker’s very words which must have made a deep impression in her
mind unknown to her.
‘How ever did it get fixed?’ asked Bipradas greatly surprised.
She remained silent.
Bipradas stroked her hair and said, ‘Don’t be childish, Kumu . . .’
‘You won’t understand, Dada, I am not being childish in the least.’
She worshipped her brother. But alas, he did not believe in oracles.
Kumudini was well aware of this shortcoming in her brother’s discernment.
Bipradas continued, ‘But you’ve never even seen him!’
‘Maybe, but I know it for certain,’ she said.
This one dark corner of her mind was altogether outside his sphere of
influence. Still he tried to reason once more, ‘Look Kumu, this is a matter
of your whole life. Do not commit to anything on a whim.’
‘It is not a whim Dada, not a whim at all. I swear to you, I cannot marry
anyone else’.
Bipradas was startled. It was useless to argue where there was no logic,
no link between cause and effect. One cannot wrestle with the obscurity of
the New Moon. He could sense that she had made up some divine message
in her own mind. This was indeed so. Only this morning she had prayed to
her deity for a sign—‘If this bunch of flowers is paired off one by one and
the remaining one is blue in colour then I shall conclude that this match is
willed by Him.’ And the last flower so remaining was in fact a blue
morning glory.
Bells were ringing in the Mallik household in the distance, announcing
the evening rituals, Kumu folded her hands in prayer. Bipradas sat silently
for a long time. With the unceasing rain there were frequent flashes of
lightning.
 12

BIPRADAS TRIED A FEW TIMES MORE TO REASON WITH HER,

BUT KUMU JUST sat quiet with her head bent, intent on picking at the end
of her sari.
So the match was fixed and all details were settled except the venue for
the wedding. Bipradas would like to have the wedding in Kolkata itself but
Madhusudan was determined to have it in Noornagar. The groom’s side
won, of course.
They had to come to Noornagar a few days ahead to make all the
necessary arrangements. There was a new breath of life in Kumu’s mind
and behaviour, in the same way as the earth turns green after the rains
following the dry summer months. She was often ecstatic with the idea of
her union with someone who existed only in her imagination until then. The
golden light of the autumn days whispered to her eternal words of
endearment. She threw puffed rice onto the balcony in front of her bedroom
for the birds to come and eat. She also kept bits of bread for the frisky
squirrels who looked around, came rushing, stood on their tails, held
themselves up on their two hind legs and nibbled away at the bread,
Kumudini watched them delightedly.
She was now full of compassion for the entire universe. In the evenings
she stood still in the pond, immersed up to her chin. The water seemed to
speak to her whole body. The curved rays of the setting sun came through
the grapefruit trees on the western end of the pool and shone like gold on
the dark stretch of water. Kumudini watched the light and shade play upon
her body and she tingled with rapture. In the afternoons she sat on the
rooftop all by herself, listening to the dove cooing on the jamun tree next
door. The image installed in the temple of her youth was sculpted in deep
emotion touched by the romance of the divine lovers, Krishna and Radhika.
 She went up to the roof with her esraj and played her brother’s favourite
tune in Raag Bhupali—
Aaju mor gharey ayilo piyaraowa
Romey romey harakhila.

(Today my beloved has come to me; every pore in my body is in

raptures.)

Every night she bowed in reverence and every morning she did the same
before she left her bed. It was not very clear who the object of this
veneration was—perhaps just the spontaneous expression of a disembodied
adoration.
But an imaginary idol cannot be kept within the closed doors of a temple
for ever. It is a sad day for the devotee when the fair image of this deity
begins to be smudged by hot blasts of gossip from outside.
In fact one day the old woman from Telenipara, Tinkari, blurted out in
front of Kumu, ‘What sort of Raja has fallen to the lot of our Kumu? Isn’t it
more like the gypsy song that goes like this—

Once upon a time there was a stretch of thorny hush licked by dogs. Our
little king cut it and made his throne out of it . . .

This Raja is more like that. After all, isn’t this fellow Modho, the son of
the clerk Ando who made his pile by importing rice from Burma, and yet
made his mother slog till her dying day?’
The women were curious. ‘Did you really know the bridegroom-to be?’
‘Did I not indeed? His mother lived in our neighbourhood, the daughter of
Chakraborty, the priest. (And then lowering her voice) To tell you the truth,
they are not acceptable in marriage by any good Brahmin family. However,
Lakshmi the goddess of wealth is no respecter of caste.’
As we had pointed out, Kumudini’s mind was not cast in the modern
mould. The sanctity of caste and family were realities for her. So the more
doubts assailed her, the more she got angry with the maligners. She would
suddenly burst into tears and leave them. Others sniggered, ‘My, my, such
touching concern even before marriage! She outdoes the legendary Sati of
Dakshayagna who fell down dead on hearing her husband-to-be
denigrated.’
Bipradas was more modern in his outlook, yet this talk of low lineage did
get him down. So he tried to suppress it. But the opposite happened; just as
fluff which billows out if one presses a torn pillow too much.
Meanwhile, an old tenant, Damodar Biswas, came out with the
information that a long time ago the Ghoshals were in fact owners of
Sheyalkuli, a village next to their present seat Noornagar. This village was
now in the possession of the Chatterjees. Damodar’s face flushed with
admiration of the Chatterjees as he related how they dispensed with the
Ghoshals in the action about the immersion of the images of Durga; and the
tactics that succeeded in not only throwing them out of the area but even
putting them beyond the pale of society. The fact that at one time the
Ghoshals were indeed equal to the Chatterjees in wealth and respectability
was good news, but at the same time Bipradas began to wonder if the
proposed marriage was also the beginning of a sequel to the old feud.
 13

THE WEDDING WAS SET FOR THE MONTH OF AGHRAN. ON THE

TWENTY-fifth of Ashwin ended Lakshmipuja and on the twenty-seventh,
an overseer from the engineering division of the Ghoshal Company
appeared with an army of upcountry labourers. Apparently, the bridegroom
and his party had decided to come a few days before the wedding and spend
their time in tents to be set up by the pond named after the Ghoshals, here in
this village of Sheyalkuli.
‘What sort of a proposal is this?’ inquired Bipradas. ‘Let as many of
them come and let them stay as long as they wish to, and we shall make all
the arrangements. There is no need for tents. We can vacate our old
mansion.’
The overseer said, ‘These are the orders of the Rajabahadur. He has also
asked for the wild growth around the pond to be cleared. So we need your
permission sir, as you are the landlord of the area.’
Bipradas went red in the face. ‘Is that fair? We can also clear the jungle
ourselves, he added.
The overseer submitted politely, ‘That was the spot where the
Rajabahadur’s ancestral home existed, so he has taken it into his head to
have it cleared himself.’
Bipradas considered this explanation. It was not an unreasonable request
altogether. But his relatives were unhappy. The tenants said that this was
only an act of one-upmanship over their Babus. The Ghoshals, they alleged,
could hardly hide the fact that their treasury was suddenly inflated and they
wished to announce it with the beating of drums. If it were the good old
days then the bridegroom and his entire gang would have been despatched
for good. Even the younger Babu would not have tolerated this and would
have seen the last of those visitors and their tents.
 They came to Bipradas and pleaded, ‘Sir, we cannot yield to them. We
are prepared to bear all expenses, whatever they may be.’
A junior share-holder of their property, Nabagopal, said, ‘We cannot let
our family pride suffer. There was a time when our ancestors made the
Ghoshals bite the dust, and now they have the temerity to flaunt their
wealth!
’Don’ t worry, Dada, I shall also pitch in. It maybe true that our property
has been divided but the same cannot be said of our family!’
Thus Nabagopal pushed himself to become the self-styled leader of the
opposition.
Bipradas had not been able to meet Kumu for the last few days. He could
hardly face her. And it was not as if people would spare her feelings and not
report the effrontery of the Ghoshals. There were no such social graces left.
On the contrary they would perhaps overdo it. The women were angry with
her. It was because of her that the family reputation was being
compromised. She wanted to be a Rani. And that too to a Raja who had
nothing to recommend him!
Kumu was ready to overlook the matter of caste and rank with her
reverence, but the meanness of this attempt to belittle the in-laws by a show
of wealth saddened her no end. She avoided meeting people. She was dying
to hear from her brother, but he hardly came indoors, not even for his meals.
One afternoon when Bipradas was supervising the setting up of a shed
for cooking the wedding feasts, he suddenly noticed Kumu on the steps of
the pond staring at the water. She came running up and said, ‘Dada, I am at
a loss to understand anything, and started sobbing into the end of her sari.
He gently patted her back and said, ‘Don’ t listen to what people say.’
‘But what are they doing? Does it not belittle us?’
‘Do think of their sentiments too. They are coming to their ancestral
home and may feel like celebrating. Look at it as distinct from the wedding
celebrations.’
Kumu kept quiet. Bipradas was desperate. He said, ‘Look, Kumu, if you
have the slightest reservation, I can cancel it—even now!’
 Kumudini shook her head strongly. ‘No no. What a shame. That is
unthinkable.’
She was already committed in her heart of hearts, the rest was only
formality.
Bipradas’s modern mind revolted at this blind devotion. He said,
‘Marriage ties become real when both parties are honest to themselves. It is
no use tuning an instrument if the player is tone-deaf. Look at our
mythology—Sita was as great as Rama, Sati matched Mahadeva as did
Arundhati and Vashist. The gentlemen of today have no merit in
themselves, that is why this one-sided clamour for chastity on the part of
the women. They cannot supply the oil but want the wick to give light. And
the wick—it simply burns itself to ashes.’
But it was no use telling Kumu this. From now on she repeated her
prayer—for better or for worse, he is my lord and master.
Duhkheshu anudwigna-mana sukheshu bigata-sprihah
Beetaraga-bhaya-spriha.

(Unperturbed in adversity, unconcerned with pleasure, devoid of fear or

desire.)

What was true of the ascetic’s code was also true of the sati—the
dedicated wife. And that transcended joy and sorrow, there was no room for
anger or fear. Love? Even that was not essential. Love needs give and take,
but devotion was beyond that. There was no appeal, there was only
submission.
The concept of sati was disembodied; what is known in English as
‘impersonal’. The man Madhusudan may be flawed but the idea called
husband is eternal and emotionless. Kumudini dedicated herself to that
shadowy being.
 14

THE JUNGLE ALONG THE GHOSHALDIGHI WAS CLEARED

BEYOND RECOGNITION. The ground was levelled. A brick-red
gravelled path, lined with lampposts, ran down the middle.The water
hyacinths clogging the pond were cleared. Two brand new English sailing
boats were tied to the pond’s edge. One had painted on its side ‘Madhumati’
and the other ‘Madhukari’. The tent in which the Rajabahadur was to stay
carried a framed sign ‘Madhuchakra’ in red silk embroidered on yellow
baize.The steps to the pond on one side were fully screened with rush mats
for the ladies to bathe. On the huge neem tree nearby was a wooden sign
‘Madhusagar’. On a small plot of land, in beds of various shapes were
displayed sunflowers, tuberoses, marigolds, balsams, cannas and coleas.
Small wooden boxes carried English season flowers of many hues. In the
middle of this garden there was a shallow brick tank with a cast iron statue
of a nude female blowing a conch-shell, which was to serve as a fountain.
This area was named ‘Madhukunja’. The entrance to the whole place was
through an ornamental iron gate on top of which fluttered a flag bearing the
legend ‘Madhupuri ‘. The name ‘Madhu’ was stamped all over.
People came in hordes to see this magic palace that had sprung up,
draped in cloth of many kinds, with tents, canopies, festoons, flowers and
Chinese lanterns of many colours. Orderlies in bright liveries, yellow
turbans with red borders and uniforms in red broadcloth with silver lining,
strutted about in patent leather shoes, sounding the gong by the hour and
firing blank shots at sunset. Some of them had long swords hanging from
belts which spiked the landlord’s ground at every step. The old guards of
the Chatterjees were ashamed to come out in their shabby old-fashioned
clothes. Their whole clan was riled at the goings on. The victory flag of the
Ghoshals was flying from a pikestaff thrust deep into the ribs of Noornagar.
Such was the prelude to the wedding!
 15

BIPRADAS CALLED NABAGOPAL AND SAID,’ NABU, TO TRY TO

OUTSHINE THE other in a show of pomp only shows poor breeding.’
Nabagopal replied, ‘Brahma, our four-headed creator, has fashioned most
people in a fit of disdain. All his four faces are only meant to mouth big
words. Ninety percent of men happen to be lowly bred and that is the only
way to behave with them.’
‘Even then, you may not rival them. It is much better for us to adopt a
simple style. That will be more dignified. Let us call a few proper priests
and follow the rites as laid down in our revered Sama Veda. They have
become Rajas, leave them to their pretentions. We are Brahmins—
saintliness is for us.’
Nabagopal replied, ‘Dada, you are far behind the times. This is not the
good old Golden Age when truth prevailed.You are trying to row a boat in a
marsh.You have your tenants like Tinu Sarkar, you have your talukdars—
Bhadu Paramanik, Kamaraddi Bishyesh, Panchu Mandal—what do they
care for your saintly vegetarian Brahminism. They are not the descendants
of Yajnabalka! It will break their hearts to suffer this.You do not have to do
anything, just keep quiet.’
Nabagopal joined hands with the tenants. Money was no consideration,
they boasted. Every one from the bailiffs to the lower orders were clad in
new uniforms, new red broadcloth wraps and new coloured dhotis. A
platform for the musicians was raised, flying gold-fringed pennants which
could be seen from afar. Both partners of the Chatterjee clan brought out
two pairs of caparisoned elephants who roamed around the Ghoshaldighi
now and then ringing loudly the bells round their necks. They slapped their
thighs and guffawed at their own dig at the Ghoshals and exclaimed
—‘After all, you cannot produce elephants out of sacks of rice.’
 The date of the wedding was set for the twenty-seventh of Aghran. Still a
good ten days ahead. Then the rumour started that the Raja was arriving
with his entire retinue. Bipradas’s men were in a great quandry.
Madhusudan had sent no word to them. Perhaps he thought such civilities
were only for the common folk: to be uncivil was the prerogative of the
kings. Would it be right then to receive them at the railway station? The
right answer to lack of notice was not to take any notice.
But Bipradas could hardly avoid distress by reason alone. His affection
for Kumu ran deep. That anything should hurt her was out of question. It
was so easy to hurt women, their feelings were so vulnerable. Society had
placed the whiphand with the hard-hearted, their rules had no regard for the
sensitive backs of the unarmed. Bipradas’s people felt it was cowardice to
save one’s pride by exposing one’s dear one to the storm of anger, jealousy
and hatred.
Unknown to anyone, Bipradas rode on his horse to the railway station.
The train drew in at five in the evening. The Raj a and his retinue got off
the saloon car. With a brief acknowledgement he said to Bipradas, ‘What a
surprise! You need not have taken the trouble of coming yourself.’
‘Indeed. You are visiting our place for the first time and should I not
welcome you?’ said Bipradas.
‘You are mistaken. I have not yet come to your place. That will happen
only on the day of the wedding,’ was the Raja’s reply.
Bipradas did not quite get it, but a crowded railway platform was no
place for a debate. So he just said, ‘The boat is ready at anchor.’ The Raja
replied, ‘There is no need for it. Our own steam launch is ready.’
Bipradas guessed something was amiss. He said, ‘But the foodstuff is all
ready waiting for you in the boat.’
‘Why did you put yourself out to do this? We do not need a thing from
you. Please remember that we have landed on our ancestral soil—not on
your land. We will be there only on the wedding night.’
Bipradas expected no softening of the mood after this. But he felt deeply
distressed inside. He went and stretched himself on the easy chair in the
railway waiting room.
 It was a winter evening and it was getting dark. The up train was
announced and the station was lit up. Bipradas let the horse ride on its own.
He reached home fairly late at night. He did not tell anyone where he had
been and what had transpired between him and Kumu’s groom-to-be.
He caught a chill that night. The cough grew worse. The more he
neglected it the worse it got. Kumu had to force him to rest in bed. So all
the arrangements were left to Nabagopal.
 16

A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER NABAGOPAL TURNED UP AND SAID

TO BIPRADAS, ‘I need your advice. Please tell me what I should do.’
Bipradas got worried. He asked, ‘Why? Whatever is the matter?’
‘They have brought along with them a few white men, must be touts or
vendors of foreign liqour. Yesterday they killed at least a couple of hundred
snipes at the Pirpur shoal. As you are well aware, during these winter
months birds come in large numbers. I think there is going to be a killing of
living creatures on a massive scale by these visitors. Enough to appease all
the demons in our mythology like Ahiravana and Mahiravana, Hidimba and
Ghatotkach right up to the huge Kumbhakarna. Even in Hell, the ten jaws of
the ten-headed Ravana would tire of chewing so much flesh.’
Bipradas was stunned. He could not utter a word.
Nabagopal continued, ‘It was your order that no one should hunt in that
marshland. You even stopped the District Magistrate from doing so. We had
feared that he might shoot you for a swan. He was a gentleman so he went
away quietly. But these people do not care if it is a deer, a cow or a
Brahmin. Still, if you just say one word . . .’
Bipradas quickly stopped him, ‘No! No, don’t say anything to them.’
Bipradas had been the best shot at tigers in the whole district, but later
once when he shot a bird he was filled with so much revulsion that he
stopped all shooting of birds within his territory.
All this while Kumu had been standing behind him, stroking his hair. As
soon as Nabagopal left she said sternly, ‘Dada, you must stop them.’
‘Stop them from doing what?’
‘From killing birds.’
‘Kumu, they will misunderstand us and then defy us.’
‘Let them misunderstand. Pride is not their monopoly.’
 Bipradas looked at her and smiled within himself. He knew how
scrupulously she was trying to follow the code of the satis—the ideal Hindu
wives. Chhayeb anugata swachchha—to follow the husband willingly like
a shadow. Should there be a split between the shadow and the body over the
life of an insignificant bird?
‘Don’ t lose your temper, Kumu. I too killed birds once. I did not realize
then that it was wrong. They are still at that stage.’
So the shooting and the picnics went on in full swing. A band played
music and there was dancing for the English guests in the evenings, tennis
in the afternoons and occasional sailing regattas. The villagers thronged to
watch the fun and sights they had never seen before. At night after dinner
there was loud singing of ‘For he is a jolly good fellow’.
What impressed the people most was that the main players in these
festivities were all English men and women. It was a rare sight to see them
with their fishing rods and sola hats.The local show put up by the
Chatterjees by way of fencing with lathis, wrestling, rowing, jatras and
amateur theatre, was nothing in comparison, even when four elephants were
thrown in to liven things up.
A couple of days before the wedding was the ritual of the holy turmeric
bath. The splendour and range of presents, from heavy jewellery to
expensive dolls, from the groom’s side, held everyone spellbound. The
Chatterjees did their best to tip the carriers handsomely.
This unspoken battle between the Ghoshals and the Chatterjees entered
its penultimate round with the feeding of the public. The entire locality was
invited by beating of drums to dinner at Madhupuri by the banks of
Madhusagar. Nabagopal was livid. ‘We are the zamindars. How dare he put
up this so-called Madhupuri here!’ he fumed.
The arrangements for the public banquet were widely visible. It was no
ordinary meal. Fish, cream and curds, sandesh, ghee, flour and sugar were
imported to Madhupur with much clamour. Huge fires were lit, cooking
utensils of all shapes and sizes from small pans to large pots, water carriers
and wide platters were spread out. Rows of bullock carts continued to bring
in potatoes, brinjals, raw plantains and vegetables of all kinds. The banquet
was to be held in the evening in a blaze of lights.
The Chatterjees, on the other hand, had arranged for lunch. The ryots had
come in large numbers and arranged everything. Separate seating
arrangements had been made for Hindus and Muslims. The Muslim tenants
were in the majority—they had started cooking at the crack of dawn.
Regardless of the menu for the feast, the cheering that went on in praise of
the Chatterjees was vociferous. Nabagopal personally looked after the
guests and did not have his own meal till five in the evening when the last
guest left. Then began the feeding of the poor. The senior ryots themselves
took charge of this distribution. The air was rent with tumultous cries in
favour of their benefactors.
At Madhupuri, cooking went on for the whole day. The tempting aroma
of food filled the air. Mountains of earthen plates and cups as well as
banana leaves were heaped up. Crows incessantly quarrelled over piles of
leftover fish and vegetables, the dogs of the area were engaged in noisy
fights. In good time the lights went up. A native orchestra from Metiaburuz
played a whole range of ragas—from Imankalyan to Kedara till nightfall.
Anxious attendants came from time to time to whisper into the
Rajabahadur’s ears, that not many guests had turned up till then. It was the
day of the weekly fair, so some of the shoppers from distant villages took
the opportunity to sit down to a free and generously given meal. There were
a few indigent beggars as well.
Madhusudan retired to his solitary tent and let out a growl: ‘Hmph.’
A younger brother, Radhu, came and said, ‘Enough is enough, Dada, let’s
go.’
‘Where to?’
‘Let’s go back to Calcutta. These people are not playing fair. There are
brides from better families who are only waiting for you to beckon them
with your little finger.’
Madhusudan roared, ‘Go away!’
A century-old event repeated itself. One party’s ostentatiousness was sky
high, but the other party waylaid the procession. However the net loss and
gain in such matters are never apparent. That domain remains very private.
The tenants of the Chatterjees had a good laugh. Bipradas was lying ill in
bed and unaware of all that had happened.
 17

THE RAJA HAD FORBIDDEN ANY CELEBRATION ON THE WAY TO

THE BRIDE’S house for the wedding. So, there were no lights, no music—
just two of their family priests and a couple of eulogists. The groom arrived
quietly in his palanquin. Nobody knew of his arrival until he alighted from
his palanquin. But in Madhupuri the groom’s party were merrymaking
noisily with food and drink. Nabagopal saw it as a retort on their part.
Usually the girl’s family welcomes the boy’s family with folded hands. But
Nabagopal did nothing of the sort. He did not even ask about the rest of the
groom’s party.
Kumudini, dressed for her wedding, came to say goodbye to her brother.
She was trembling all over. Bipradas’s fever was over hundred and five
degrees; he had a balm of mustard and rye on his chest and back. Kumudini
put her head down on his feet and broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
Aunt Kshema tried to calm her, ‘Please Kumu, you must not cry like this. It
is not done.’
Bipradas tried to sit up a little and looked at her face for a long time, tears
streaming down his own face. Kshema said, ‘It’s time to go.’
Bipradas put his hand on Kumu’s head and blessed her in a choked voice,
‘Let the all-merciful God bless you,’ and then fell back on his bed.
All through the wedding ceremony tears rolled down Kumu’s face. The
hand that she put in the groom’s hand was icy cold, and trembling. And
when the time came for the two of them to exchange glances, did she look
at her husband at all? Maybe she didn’t. The behaviour her groom’s side
had exhibited in the last few days made her somewhat frightened of her
husband. Like a bird which feels it had lost its nest for a cage.
Madhusudan was by no means ugly, but his looks were stern. The first
thing one noticed in his dark face was a long curved beak-like nose standing
guard over his lips. The wide sloping forehead seemed to have swollen till
it met the dam of a pair of thick eyebrows. The gaze of the narrow eyes
under the shadow of those eyebrows was piercing. The face was
cleanshaven, the lips pressed thin and the chin heavy. The hair was thick
and curly like an African’s, and closely cropped. A stocky build made him
look younger than his age, except for the few grey hairs near his temple. He
was short-statured, almost of the same height as Kumudini. His hands were
hairy and proportionately shorter than the body. Altogether the man seemed
to be solid, from head to toe, as if some strong resolve was for ever frozen
into his form. Rather like a cannon ball in its relentless trajectory, shot by
Destiny. It was plain to see that he had no time for useless talk, trivial issues
or small men.
Nobody from Kumu’s side was happy at the way the wedding took place
.The first meeting between the groom’s side and the bride’s produced a
clangour of dissonance which drowned the festive tune of the wedding.
From time to time, Kumu’s heart heaved. She tried her best to suppress a
doubt. ‘Has my Lord let me down?’ she wondered. In the solitude of her
closed room she often pressed her head on the floor and prayed—‘let my
mind not weaken.’ The hardest task was to keep her doubts hidden from her
brother.
Since their mother’s death Bipradas had depended totally on Kumudini’s
care. She looked after all the matters that concerned the family—clothing,
the daily expenses, the book cases, grain to feed the horses, the cleaning of
the guns, the tending of the dogs, maintaining the camera, the musical
instruments and the bedrooms. The last few days before the wedding, she
nursed her brother during his illness, taking utmost care not to let any of her
own worries cloud her face. Bipradas was very proud of her skill with the
esraj, but Kumu was too shy to play often. But these two days she played
for him, the ragas Kanada and Malkauns on her own, for him. Into that
rendering, she poured all her adoration, her prayers, her doubts and her
dedication. Bipradas listened to her music with his eyes closed and asked
from time to time for his favourite ragas—Sindhu, Behag, Bhairabi—ragas
filled with tears and the sadness of separation. The sorrows that the two of
them harboured in their hearts mingled with those tunes. Brother and sister
did not exchange any words, nor did they condole or console each other.
Bipradas’s fever, cough and chest pain showed no improvement; on the
contrary, his condition worsened. Doctors cautioned that this influenza
might even turn to pneumonia. Kumu was worried to death. It was agreed
that the normal custom of spending the night after the wedding in her own
home would be followed and that she would return to Kolkata the day after.
But it was rumoured that Madhusudan had suddenly decided to take her
back to Kolkata the day after the wedding itself. It was made clear that this
was not to meet the demands of their family custom, nor for any ‘special
need’, certainly not for love, but only just to discipline her. To ask for a
favour, in such circumstances, was unthinkable for a sensitive woman like
her.Yet she swallowed her pride and asked her husband, in a trembling
voice, to let her stay on for a couple of days more so that she could see her
brother on the way to recovery. Madhusudan’s curt reply was, ‘It’s all
settled.’ There was no room for Kumu’s deep anguish in such unilateral
rigidity. That night Madhusudan tried his best to make her talk, but she
turned her face away and slept on the other side of the bed, without a word.
She left her bed at the first sound of birds.
It was still dark. Bipradas had spent a sleepless night. Despite his fever,
he desperately wanted to attend the wedding reception, but the doctor
prevented him, with great difficulty. So he sent a messenger every now and
then to bring him the latest news; and like all news in the time of war, most
of it was made up. Bipradas asked, ‘When did the groom arrive? I didn’t
hear the band.’ Shibu the reporter said, ‘Our groom is very considerate. The
moment he heard about the illness in the house he put a stop to everything.
It was all so very quiet. You could hardly hear the footsteps of the marriage
party.’
‘And one more thing, Shibu. Did the food go round? It was one of my big
worries. After all, this is not Kolkata.’
‘Go round, did you say, sir? So much food was wasted!There is enough
left over to feed another lot.’
‘Were they pleased?’
 ‘Not a word of complaint. Not a murmur! Many a wedding have I seen,
where the groom’s party lead the bride’s party such a dance! But they were
so quiet, you could hardly tell that they were there.’
‘After all they are from Kolkata; they know how to behave. They do
realize that if the bride’s side is humiliated, it is a slur on them as well.’
‘Well put, sir. I must repeat it to them. They will be pleased to hear it.’
By the evening Kumu was aware that Bipradas’s condition was worse.
The thought that she would not be there to look after him, made her feel
like a trapped bird. She knew that to her brother, her nursing meant much
more than any medicine.
She finished her prayers with a flower at the feet of her idol, and then
went into her brother’s room. The sun was still to come up. Bipradas’s mind
was relaxed, with the kind of weariness that overtakes one for a brief spell
in the long fight against sickness. Like a harvested field, he was bereft of all
the cares of the world and passions of life. The doors and windows of his
room remained closed at night. Only now in the morning the doctor allowed
the eastern window to be opened. Beyond the dew-drenched leaves of the
peepul tree, the orange sky was slowly turning white. In the nearby river,
the patchwork sails of the trader boats ballooned out against the red sky.
The orchestra was playing the plaintive Ramkeli raga.
Kumu took her brother’s fevered hands into her own cool palms. His
terrier dog stretched sadly under the bed. As soon as she sat on the bed it
put up two paws in her lap, wagging its tail. In its own way, it was trying to
ask her something through its doleful eyes.
Bipradas, following the trail of his own thoughts, suddenly said out of
context, ‘My dearest sister, it is of no consequence as to who is bigger than
whom or who is higher and who lower. These are all make-belief. Does it
really matter which particular spot a bubble occupies in a mass of foam?
Feel free within yourself. No one can ever hurt you then.’
‘Do bless me so, Dada, do bless me,’ said Kumu, covering her face with
both her hands and trying to hold back her tears.
Bipradas raised himself on his pillows, pulled her towards himself and
gently kissed her head.
 The doctor walked in and said, ‘That’s all, Kumu Didi. He needs some
rest now.’
Kumu settled the pillows, pulled the sheet over her brother, tidied the
bedside table and whispered in his ears, ‘Come to Kolkata and see me as
soon as you get well.’
Bipradas, resting his large gentle eyes on her face, said, ‘Kumu, the wind
blows the cloud from the east to the west, and from the west to the east as
well. We have such winds in our lives too. Accept it easily, my dear sister,
as the cloud does its destiny. From now on, try to worry less and less about
us. Preside like Lakshmi the goddess of prosperity, over the house you are
about to enter. That is all that I wish for you, with all my heart. Nothing
more.’
She lay her head on his feet. ‘From today,’ she said, ‘you have nothing to
ask of me and I shall have nothing to do with the daily life here. But it is not
easy to accept such a big break.’ When a storm wrenches a boat from the
shore it clings to its anchor; in the same way Kumu held to his feet as her
last passionate link. The doctor came in again, and reminded her softly,
‘Didi , it is time,’ whilst wiping the tears off his own eyes. Kumu came out
of the room but sat down on the threshold to weep silently into the loose
end of her sari.
She suddenly remembered that she had made some roti with molasses the
previous night to feed Bessie, her brother’s pet pony. This morning the
groom had taken it to the garden at the back of the house. Kumu went there
and found the pony grazing under a tree. No sooner had it heard her
footsteps, than it pricked up its ears and started neighing. Kumu put her left
hand on Bessie’s shoulder and started feeding it with her right hand. It
glanced at her from time to time, raising its large, soft, dark eyes. When the
pony finished the meal, Kumu quickly kissed the wide space between its
eyes and ran home.
 18

BIPRADAS HAD EXPECTED A VISIT FROM MADHUSUDAN SINCE

HIS ARRIVAL IN Noornagar. But when that did not happen it was clear to
him that this marriage would prove to be a sword of separation between the
two families. The fatigue of illness made it easier for him to accept this
possibility. He asked the doctor if he could play the esraj. The doctor said
briefly, ‘Not today.’
‘Then please ask Kumu to come and play for me. God knows when I
shall hear her play again.’
‘They have to take the nine o’clock train this morning,’ said the doctor,
‘otherwise they can’t reach Kolkata before sunset. I am afraid Kumu really
has no time.’
Bipradas replied with a deep sigh, ‘True, she has no time for this place
any more. She has spent nineteen long years here, and now even an hour is
too long for her.’
The newly-wed couple came to say goodbye. Madhusudan said out of
politeness, ‘Indeed I do not find you in good health.’
Bipradas merely said, ‘God bless you.’
‘Do look after yourself, Dada,’ Kumu said, as she again touched his feet,
sobbing.
Amidst a blast of sounds—ullulation, conch shells and drums—the
newly-married couple left.
The spectacle of the two receding into the distance, tied to each other
with symbolic knots in the customary wedding scarf, suddenly appeared
obscene to Bipradas. History records that Taimur and Chenghis Khan
erected victory towers with countless human skeletons. But the edifice of
life and death created by those two knots in the holy scarf may reach
heights beyond measure. But why such contrary thoughts today, he
wondered.
Bipradas was never one for prayers and pujas; but today he prayed with
folded hands.
All of a sudden he called out, ‘Doctor, please send for diwanjee.’
He recalled that a few days before he had come to Noornagar for the
wedding, when he was worried about the money to be sent to Subodh, and
worn out from thumbing through the books of account, he had a visitor at
about eleven in the morning. It was someone in a state of total disrepair, a
pinched face with several days’ growth of beard, hands with ropy veins,
clad in a short dhoti and chadar and wearing a pair of torn sandals. He
greeted Bipradas and said, ‘Baro Babu, do you remember me?’ Bipradas
had looked carefully and then asked, ‘Is it Baikuntha?’
In a room next to the school building where he studied in his childhood,
this Baikuntha used to sell school texts and exercise books, pens, knives,
balls and bats, and tops along with peanuts packed in paper cones. The
senior boys used to gather in this room for their adda sessions. No one
could beat Baikuntha in the telling of absurd and weird stories.
Bipradas added, ‘How have you come to such a pass?’
Baikuntha than narrated his story—a few years back he had married his
daughter into a well-to-do household. And because they had really no need
for it, their demand for a dowry seemed to be a bit excessive. They settled
for twelve hundred rupees in cash and eight kilos of gold in ornaments.
Baikuntha had recklessly agreed to it for the sake of his favourite daughter.
Because he was unable to gather together all of it at once, they tortured her
and bled him dry. He soon went through all his resources, but still owed
about two hundred and fifty rupees. So now the humiliation of the girl was
complete. When it became too unbearable for her, she escaped to her
father’s home. This was like a breach of the jail regulations by a prisoner,
and this compounded her offence. The father could now think of his own
escape from this world only if he could save this girl by paying up the
remaining amount.
 Bipradas could only smile faintly. In his present state, he could not even
think of helping out this man all the way. He hesitated a little, then went in,
took out his last ten-rupee note and gave it to Baikuntha. ‘Try a few more
places, I can’t do more than this,’ he said.
Baikuntha did not believe him one bit. His slippers sounded most
disgruntled as he dragged his feet on his way out.
Bipradas had forgotten this incident; but he suddenly recalled it today. He
ordered the diwanjee, ‘Send two hundred and fifty rupees to Baikuntha
right away.’ Diwanjee stood silently, scratching his head. The cost of the
wedding rivalry had been met somehow, but it would still take quite a while
to recover from it. And two hundred and fifty rupees at this point of time
was a large sum for them to simply give away in charity!
Bipradas saw the expression on the treasurer’s face and took the diamond
ring off his finger, ‘Take the money from what I have set aside in Chhoto
Babu’s account, and let this ring be the surety. The two hundred and fifty
rupees should be sent on behalf of Kumu,’ he said.
 19

THE LAST EXPLOSIVE EPISODE OF THE WEDDING WAS STILL TO

COME. The couple was to leave soon after the final ritual (which was to be
held in the bride’s house) was over in the morning. Nabagopal had arranged
things accordingly. But when they came out of Bipradas’s room the
Rajabahadur announced that the final ritual—the kushandika—was to be
held at his residence in Madhupuri.
The insolence of the proposal was too much for Nabagopal. If it were
anyone else, it would surely have lead to a criminal action. As it was, the
vehemence of his protest only stopped short of physical violence.
The womenfolk also took this departure from the norm seriously.
Relations had gathered from far and wide to participate in the ritual.
Amongst them were some not so friendly or considerate. And all this
humiliation had to take place in front of them. Aunt Kshema sulked so
much that she could barely utter the usual blessings. Everyone said that it
would have been better if the rites were finished in the groom’s Kolkata
home and not at his Noornagar residence. Kumu felt very small at this
insult to her family. She felt as if she herself was guilty of offending her
ancestors. In her own mind she remonstrated with her deity, ‘My lord, what
sin have I committed to deserve this punishment? Did I not accept
everything in good faith, as your command?’
The couple boarded the carriage and left her home. In Madhupuri the
band that had come from Kolkata played a dance tune loudly. The holy fire
was lit underneath a huge canopy. Some of the English guests—men and
women—watched the ceremony from the comfort of upholstered sofas,
some approached closer and leaned forward to watch the rituals. In
between, cakes and biscuits arrived for them. A large wedding-cake
adorned a teapoy nearby. At the end of the ceremony, when the guests
started congratulating the newly-weds, Kumu was red in the face and hung
her head in shame. A portly elderly woman lifted the end of Kumu’s
Benarasi sari and examined it closely. Her thick gold armlet also attracted
the woman’s curiosity enough for her to actually turn it round and round.
She even had words of praise in English. Some of the English guests went
up to Madhusudan and commented about the ceremony, ‘How interesting!’
and some others echoed, ‘Isn’t it?’
Kumu had witnessed how he had behaved with her brother and other
relatives; now she saw the same Madhusudan with his English friends.
Bowing with an effusion of politeness, he wore a perpetual grin of
welcome. His character seemed to be like the moon, lit up on one side and
perpetually dark on the other. Towards the British it was pleasant like the
full moon, bright and soothing. The other side was unapproachable,
unfathomable and impenetrable like a mass of frozen ice and this side
seemed to be unwaveringly reserved for her brother and relatives.
Madhusudan chose to be with his English friends in the saloon car,
leaving Kumu with the ladies in the other reserved compartment. Some of
them felt her arms, some lifted her chin and analysed her features. Some
said she was too tall and some others found her too thin. Some pretended to
ask her naively, ‘What make-up do you use? Is it something sent from
England by your brother?’ They came to the conclusion that her eyes were
not large enough and that her stature was a bit too large for a woman.Then
they got down to probing each item of her jewellery. Family jewellery it
may be, heavy solid gold, but how old-fashioned!
The window in Kumu’s compartment opened out on the other side of the
railway platform. She kept looking out of it, trying her best not to listen to
anything that was being said by her fellow passengers. She saw a lame dog
sniffing the ground for some food, hobbling on three legs. She thought it
ironical that the loss of just one limb out of the four had made all that was
easy for the dog, so very difficult now. Just then she heard a gentleman
standing in front of the saloon car and pleading, ‘See this peasant girl was
being lured away by agents of the tea estates of Assam. She has escaped
from them, but she could only pay her fare up to Goalundo. Her home is in
Dumraon in Bihar, if you gentlemen help her a little she can be free.’ She
also heard a noisy rebuff from the saloon car. Kumu could not contain
herself. She emptied her little purse and put a ten-rupee note in the hand of
the girl and quickly shut the window. One woman spoke out, ‘Our new
bride is indeed open-handed,’ ‘Yes , but it is opening the door to bankruptcy
as well,’ said another. Yet another one added, ‘She has learnt well how to
waste money, a little lesson in thrift would have been more useful.’ They
thought it was a show of arrogance on her part. The menfolk did not spare a
pice, but she had to throw ten rupees in their face and outdo them—that’s
how they perceived it. They thought perhaps this was also a part of the
Chatterjee-Ghoshal rivalry.
In the meantime a dark round girl with large eyes filled with tenderness,
came and sat beside her. She whispered to Kumu, ‘Are you feeling
homesick? Don’ t listen to these women. They will probe and gossip for a
few days and when all the venom is out, they will stop on their own.’ This
girl was the wife of Nabin, Madhusudan’s younger brother. Her name was
Nistarini but everyone called her Motir-ma, that is, Moti’s mother.
She then went on to say, ‘The day we arrived in Noornagar we saw your
brother at the railway station.’
Kumu was startled.This was the first time she learnt about her brother’s
visit to receive them at the railway station.
‘Oh he is so handsome! I was reminded of the kirtan which sings about
the divine beauty of Gora—Sri Chaitanya—who swept the hearts of the
housewives of Nadia.’
Kumu’s heart softened at that instant. She turned her face towards the
window; tears blurring the landscape outside.
It did not take long for Motir-ma to realize that by mentioning Bipradas,
she had hit upon the soft spot in Kumu’s mind. So she stuck to that topic
and asked if he were married. Kumu replied in the negative. ‘What a pity!’
said Motir-ma. ‘No one yet to share the life of such a divinely handsome
man! I wonder who that lucky woman will be!’
Meanwhile, Kumu was thinking of other things. ‘So he swallowed all his
pride and went to meet them only for my sake. Yet these people did not
have the courtesy to call on him even once. They dared insult such a person
out of sheer money power! Maybe that is why his health broke down.’
Her regret would not leave her. ‘Why did Dada go to receive them? Why
did he so humiliate himself? Wasn’t it all for my sake? I wish I were dead.’
Her mind went on torturing itself over all that which could not be undone.
She kept recalling his sick and tired but calm face and his deep, gentle eyes
full of compassion and blessing.
 20

THETRAINREACHED HOWRAH STATION AT ABOUT FOUR IN THE

AFTERNOON. Knotted up in scarves and wraps, the bride and the
bridegroom climbed into the waiting Brougham. Kumu shrunk before the
myriad eyes of Kolkata in daylight. How could she suddenly drop the
extraordinary sense of purity that permeated the very existence of her
nineteen years of maidenhood, which protected her like Karna’s charmed
amulet. There must be a magic word which could take it off in a trice, only
it had not yet touched her soul. In her heart of hearts, the man sitting next to
her was still an outsider. Any effort by her family to come closer and forge
bonds between the two households had only met with resistance on his part.
The rudeness in his behaviour and expression pushed Kumu away as well
every time.
On his part, Madhusudan felt as if Kumu was a novel discovery. He was
a hardworking man who had had little time so far to come to know the
female of the species. In the midst of his world of merchandise he had not
even come across women of commerce. It is not as if no woman ever
disturbed his peace of mind—the earth shook but the building was never
damaged. He had very briefly met them in the environs of his household.
They did their daily chores, quarrelled and gossiped and cried over trivial
things. Contact with them was minimal in his world. He had expected that
his wife would also be a part of that banal world, and lead a woman’s life,
enveloped in trivial household chores, indirectly guided by the whims of
menfolk. It had never entered his calculating head that to relate to one’s
wife was also an art and that the husband-wife relationship was built on a
foundation of understanding, trust and give and take. A butterfly is a useless
luxury for a big tree, but it accepts the creature all the same. Madhusudan’s
approach to his future wife was the same.
 Then he met Kumu for the first time after the wedding. There is a kind of
beauty which is akin to a divine presence, many times rarer than all that is
common, and that which is above the usual happenings, exceeding one’s
expectation every moment. Kumu’s beauty was of that kind. She was like
the morning star, distinct from the night, yet, not of the day. Madusudan’s
unconscious mind vaguely perceived her as better than himself. In such a
frame of mind he found himself wondering how to behave with her, or what
might be the appropriate words to use while addressing her.
At a loss to begin a conversation, he suddenly asked Kumu, ‘Is it too
sunny on your side?’
Kumu said nothing. Madhusudan pulled the blinds down on the right
window.
There was a long silence. He said, as suddenly, again, ‘Hope you are not
feeling cold.’ And without waiting for an answer pulled his English rug
over their feet, thus establishing the conjugality of a common cover. It
thrilled his body and mind. A startled Kumu was about to remove the
blanket but controlled herself and just stuck to the end of the seat.
They remained like this for some time, then Madhusudan suddenly
noticed her hand. He took her left hand and said, ‘Let me see. What is this
that you are wearing in your ring? Is it a blue sapphire?’
She kept quiet.
‘Look, you have to give it up. Sapphire is unlucky for me.’
At some point of time he had bought a sapphire, and the same year one of
his trading boats full of jute had collided with the Howrah Bridge and sank.
Since then he had never forgiven that precious stone.
Kumudini tried slowly to free her hand, but Madhusudan would not let
go, ‘Let me take this ring off.’
‘No,’ said Kumu. Once she beat her brother in a game of chess and he
had put this ring on her finger, as a prize.
Madhusudan was amused. So she was quite possessive about the ring, he
said to himself. He felt more at ease having discovered what he thought to
be a common trait between them. He reckoned that the way to win her out
of her sulk now and then would be easy, by way of ornaments for her ears,
her neck, her arms, or her wrists. Maybe he was a little too old for her but
no one could deny his supremacy on this count.
He took off a large diamond ring which he was wearing and said, ‘Don’t
worry, I shall put on another ring in place of this one.’
Kumu could take it no longer. She pulled her hand free. This stung
Madhusudan to the quick. He was not one to tolerate defiance of his
authority. He said sternly in a dry voice, ‘You have got to part with that
ring.’
She hung her head, red in the face.
Madhusudan insisted, ‘Are you listening? I say it is better taken off. Give
it to me,’ and he stretched his hand to pull it out.
Kumu waved her hand out of his reach and said, ‘I shall take it off.’ And
she did.
‘Give it to me,’ he said.
‘I shall keep it with me,’ she replied.
Madhusudan was annoyed. ‘What is the point of keeping it with you?
Perhaps you think it is very valuable, but I must make it clear that I shall
never let you wear it.’
‘I shall not wear it,’ she repeated, and put it by in her little bead purse.
’Why are you so attached to this trifle? You seem to be very obstinate as
well.’
His voice was abrasive, like sand-paper. Kumu’s whole being revolted at
his tone.
‘Who gave you this ring?’
There was no answer from her.
‘Was it your mother?’
There was no avoiding a reply any longer; so she said in an undertone,
‘Dada.’ Of course it had to be the brother! Madhusudan was well aware of
Bipradas’s situation. This ring of her Dada itself was the key to disaster and
Bipradas’s plight. It must not come into this house by any means. But what
irked him most was that the brother was still dearest to her. It is not always
easy to accept something only because it is natural. It was something like
the annoyance felt by the new landlord who has acquired at an auction an
old estate, but faces the new tenants sighing for the old times. He had to
impress upon his new wife in every way possible, that from now on he and
he alone was to be her sole concern. Besides, it was difficult for him to
believe that Bipradas was not a party to the humiliation suffered by the
groom’s party on the day of the feast before the wedding day. This even
when Nabagopal had told him the day after the wedding, ‘My dear man, let
not Dada know about the manners of the rice merchant that you displayed
during the wedding. He does not know anything about it, nor is he in good
health.’
So the matter of the ring was rested for now, but not forgotten.
Apart from her beauty, one other factor suddenly raised Kumu’s stock.
Whilst still in Noornagar Madhusudan got a telegram to say that he had
made a profit of twenty lakhs in his export deals. Doubtless his new bride
was lucky. It proved the popular adage that the wife’s luck was a man’s
fortune. So driving with Kumudini by his side he had the supreme
satisfaction of coming home with a live guarantee of future gains issued to
him by the gods.
Otherwise, this brougham journey might have had an accidental end.
 21

SOON AFTER HE WAS AWARDED THE TITLE ‘RAJA’, THE

GHOSHAL RESIDENCE in Kolkata had a new name engraved:
‘Madhuprasad’—the Madhu Palace. By the iron gate of this palace an
Indian orchestra played on one side and an English band played from a tent
in the garden. On the top of the gate was a semi-circular sign displaying an
invocation to the god of marrriage—‘prajapataye namah’. In the evening
this would be lit up by gaslight. The gravelled driveway from the gate into
the house was festooned on both sides with garlands of marigold and
deodar leaves. The steps to the first floor were carpeted in red shallon. The
bridal carriage arrived at the portico making its way through a crowd of
friends and relatives. Conch-shells, ullulations, drums, gongs and the Indian
and the English bands blared forth all at once. It seemed as if ten to fifteen
differently sounding goods trains had collided at the same place at the same
time.
A distant and elderly grandaunt of Madhusudan’s came forward to
ritually welcome the new bride. She was in a wide red-bordered sari,
wearing on her hair the sign of a married woman, the vermillion mark,
which was as wide as her receding parting. She wore thick gold bangles and
conch-shell bracelets on her stout arms. She sprinkled some water from a
silver ewer on the bride’s feet, slid on the traditional flat iron bangle on her
wrist and a touch of honey. She said, ‘How wonderful, at long last the full
moon is up in our own blue sky and a golden lotus has bloomed in our blue
pond.’
The younger guests had a look of envy in their eyes. One of them
remarked, ‘The demon has raided paradise and brought home this angel tied
in a chain of gold.’ Another one said, ‘In the olden days kings fought over
such damsels. These days export earnings from oilseeds will do the trick.
The gods of our kali era lack taste. All the stars presiding over our destiny
now seem to belong to the commercial caste.’
Then followed a host of rituals presided over and participated in
exclusively by women; these rituals stretched till evening fell. The night
that followed was the kaalraatri or the fatal night on which the bridegroom
and his bride are required to sleep apart.
The only wedding Kumu had any clear memory of was the one of her
elder sister, but she had not seen any new bride come to the house. From her
teens she had been in the loving, innocent care of her brother in Kolkata.
Her girlish dream world was not moulded by the grossness of a common
household. When as a child she was taught to pray for a good husband, her
ideal was the great ascetic god, Shiva, the lord of the Himalayas. Her ideal
of a devoted wife was none other than her own mother. What serene grace,
what patience, how much sorrow, how much prayer and worship, what
tireless caring. On the other hand, her father had lapses of behaviour and
flaws in his fidelity; even then, his was a character great in generosity,
resolute in manliness, totally devoid of any meanness or deceit and with a
sense of dignity that gave him the appearance of some classical character.
His life was a daily confirmation that honour was above life and real wealth
was more than money. Their motto was to preserve their family pride
unsullied even if it harmed their petty interests, it was never to propagate
the glory of their family fortune.
The day that the broker had brought the proposal and her left eye had
twitched signifying a good omen, she had prepared herself with all her
devotion and dedication. It had never crossed her mind that anything small
or untoward could come in the way. How did the legendary Damayanti
know intuitively that she had to choose the king of Vidarbha, Nala, as her
husband?
She must have had a definite signal in her mind. Did Kumu not have any
such certain indication? She was all ready for a grand reception of her lord
and husband. The king did come, but the reality was so different from what
her mind had created. Neither his appearance nor his age would have
mattered. But where was he—the real king she dreamed of?
 And today, when she was being welcomed through the gates of a ritual,
into her new home, why was the deep chant of benediction that would have
made this new bride sense within herself the blessings of the heavens,
missing? Why did not the entire ceremony fulfil itself with the rich paean of
praise for the Creator of this universe—who combines in Himself the
eternal male and the eternal female—
Jagatah pitarau bande parbati-parameshwarau!
 22

WHEN HE HAD FIRST COME TO LIVE IN KOLKATA,

MADHUSUDAN HAD bought an old house, which now served as the
ladies’ quarters. He had added to the original structure a huge modern
building which was now his drawing room and office. The two buildings
were joined together but they were, in fact, two different worlds. The floors
in the outer building were in marble, covered with English carpets, the
walls were papered with designs and all kinds of pictures were hung—
engravings, oleographs and oil paintings depicting hounds chasing deer,
famous Derby-winning horses, English landscapes or bathing nudes. There
were also diverse objects which put together in that room were quite
unrelated, irrelevant and ill-placed, such as chinaware displayed along with
brassware from Moradabad, Japanese fans alongside Tibetan fly-whisks.
The task of acquiring these objets d’art and decorating the room fell on his
English assistant. The room was also crowded with chairs and sofas
upholstred in silk and velvet. Magnificently bound books were kept in a
glass case, never touched except by the room bearer’s duster. The teapoys
were loaded with albums of family portraits or pictures of English actresses.
The rooms in the interior of the house, on the other hand, were damp,
dank and full of soot-covered cobwebs. The courtyard was always dirty.
Washing of clothes and utensils seemed to be unending operations and the
water tap was always running, even when there was no such activity. Wet
saris hung down from the first floor balconies for drying; and parrots’
droppings littered the veranda downstairs. The walls bore permanent
memories of paan stains and various other marks of decay. Behind the step
on the west of the courtyard was the kitchen. From there, the smell of
cooking and the smoke pervaded through all the rooms upstairs. Outside the
kitchen there was a small walled space heaped with burnt coal, oven ash,
broken pots, baskets and ladles full of holes. At the other end a couple of
cows and their calves were tied up amidst the piled up straw and cowdung.
The whole wall was plastered with cowdung cakes. A solitary neem tree
stood at one end, devoid of its bark, lost through constant tying up of cows.
It was in a poor shape and mercilessly denuded of its leaves. This was the
only piece of land in this part of the house. All the rest was outside and
landscaped with creepers, flower beds, mowed lawns, gravelled paths and
iron seats.
Kumudini’s bedroom was on the second floor in this inner building.
There was a huge mahogany bed in it, framed by a mosquito net with silk
frills. Towards the foot of the bed hung a picture of a nude woman
pretending to hide her shame by pressing both her hands on her breasts. At
the head was a portrait in oil of Madhusudan himself, prominently
displaying the intricate embroidery of his Kashmiri shawl. On one wall was
a mirrored clothes cupboard. There were two ceramic candlestands on
either side of the mirror and on a ceramic tray were a box of face powder, a
silver comb, several types of perfume and a spray along with a host of other
cosmetics all bought by the English assistant. A bouquet was kept in a
branched pink flower vase. In another corner there was a writing table with
pens, an inkstand made of precious stones, paper-cutters and other writing
materials. There were also thickly-cushioned sofas and chairs scattered
about. Madhusudan had given special thought to a proper bedroom for the
new Maharani. But the result was like a beggar in rags wearing a turban
adorned with diamonds and emeralds.
In the night, at the end of a rush of noisy celebrations, Kumu finally
reached her room. Motir-ma accompanied her. She was to sleep tonight in
this room. A number of women followed them. Their curiosity and craving
for fun was insatiable, but Motir-ma got rid of them. As she entered the
room she put her arms round Kumu and said, ‘I am going to the next room.
Do cry as much as you want to. I can see the tears welling up from your
heart.’
Kumu sat down on a chair. Tears could wait, her need of the moment was
to take hold of herself. What really was eating into her was the humiliation
she felt within herself. Her mind was revolting against all that she had
carefully cherished all these years. She was not getting any time to control
her wayward mind. ‘Lord give me strength, do not make my life hollow. I
am your maid, make me win over myself. That will be thy own triumph,’
she prayed.
A pretty, buxom young widow barged into the room and said, ‘I could
manage to slip in only now in this little interval Motir-ma has allowed you.
She won’t let anyone come near you, as if all of us are wanting to kidnap
you from her custody. I am Shyamasundari, the widow of your husband’s
elder brother. All of us thought that he would get married to his books of
account in the end. But I must admit that those books do have magical
powers. That’s how he could get such a pretty bride at his age. Tell me
truthfully, have you really liked my old brother-in-law?’
Kumu was taken by surprise. She didn’t know what to say.
Quickly drawing her own conclusions, Shyamasundari said, ‘I see. Even
if you haven’t liked him, there is no way out. Now that you have taken with
him the seven steps round the sacred fire, twenty-one steps the other way
round will not un-knot it.’
‘What are you trying to say, sister?’
‘Is it an offence to speak out the plain truth? I can read your face. But I
shall not blame you. He may be our own man but I am no fool. Let me tell
you little sister, you are in tough hands!’
Motir-ma came back. Shyama said, ‘Not to worry. I am off. Since you
were away, I thought of just looking up our new bride. Truly she is a prize
possession to be guarded carefully. I was just thinking, the new wife has got
a hold on her husband like half a headache. But if one side of the head
brings you fortune, you need to use the rest of your head to keep that luck
going. She’ll need to get hold of his whole head, otherwise there’s no
point.’
She rushed out of the room but came back immediately with a case of
paan and offered one to Kumu asking if she were used to tobacco flakes as
well in her paan. She then took a mouthful of tobacco herself and slowly
walked out.
 Motir-ma also left, for she had to feed some aunt or the other.
Shyamasundari left Kumu with a bad taste in her mouth. What Kumu
needed most at this hour was the comfort of dreams which she was weaving
around herself, invoking the help of the supreme artist who endows the
universe with beauty and colour of many hues. Shyama had torn into that
web of dreams. Deeply affected by Shyamasundari’s opinion of her distaste
for her new husband, Kumu closed her eyes firmly and tried to tell herself,
‘What a shame! To think that I do not love my husband because of his age!
It is such a vulgar throught.’ She remembered the legend of Sati and how
Sati had also faced similar taunts about Shiva, her old husband-to be, and
how resolutely she had ignored them.
Any thought about her husband’s looks or his age had never crossed
Kumu’s mind. The love which makes marriage between a man and a
woman real is an amalgam of looks and virtues, qualities of body and mind.
Kumu never thought of them as necessities. She was trying to dismiss the
whole matter of personal choice in marriage.
A boy of about seven dressed in an embroidered shirt and zari-bordered
dhoti came in and sidled up to her. He lifted his large gentle eyes and asked
in a sweet voice, somewhat timidly, ‘Auntie?’ Kumu drew him to her lap
and asked, ‘What is your name, little one?’ The boy announced
ceremoniously, without omitting the formal Shri, ‘Shri Motilal Ghoshal.’
Everyone else knew him only as Habloo. That was why on proper occasions
he felt it necessary to announce his given name in its full glory, for the sake
of his self-pride. Kumu was feeling heavy in her heart and clasping this boy
to her bosom gave her much relief. She suddenly felt that the little Gopal
Krishna in his boyhood—whom she worshipped every morning with
flowers, had himself come to her lap. Just when she was praying to him in
her hour of grief, he seemed to have answered, ‘Here I am, to console you.’
She pressed the boy’s chubby cheeks and asked, ‘Gopal mine, will you take
a flower from me?’
No other name crossed her lips. The sudden transformation of his own
name surprised Habloo but Kumu’s tone was so set that he could not think
of protesting.
 Motir-ma heard the voice of her child and came into the room. ‘So the
monkey is here,’ she said, deflating the dignity of the honourable Shri
Motilal. Holding the end of the aunt’s sari tight, he looked silently at his
mother with plaintive eyes. Kumu put her left arm protectively round him
and said, ‘Ah, let him be.’
‘No, my dear. It is quite late, time for bed. It is easy to get hold of him in
this house. Perhaps there is no one more easily available.’ She took her boy
away. This little incident made Kumudini feel a lot lighter. She felt that her
prayer had been answered; life s problems would be solved as easily as this
child had done.
 23

LATE AT NIGHT MOTIR-MAFOUND KUMU SITTING UP IN HER

BED, HERHANDS clasped in her lap; her eyes though closed seemed to
have someone in view. The more she found it difficult within herself to
accept her husband, the more she tried to dress him in the image of her
personal god. She dedicated herself to her god: the husband was only a
token. Her god had made it harder for her; this idol was none too
transparent. So it was all the more of an acid test of her faith. A piece of
shalgram shila—the sacred black stone—is shapeless, but faith by its own
strength, projects the image of the Lord of the Heavens within this
formlessness. Her resolve was to see the unseen, to find Him and throw
herself at His feet. He would then never escape from her.
She sang to herself a bhajan of Mirabai’s which she had learnt from her
brother:
‘Merey to Giridhar Gopal dusara na koi’ (There is no one for me but my
Giridhar Gopal.)
She made light of the rude aspect of Madhusudan which she had come
across; it was no more than a bubble to be blown away. There was only one
eternal truth in everyone—‘no one else’—‘no one but the all-embracing
one’.There was one other anguish torturing her which she wanted to believe
was only an illusion—the emptiness of her life! Parting for ever with all
that she had grown up with and the absence of all that which made up her
life till now, seemed to make her life devoid of any meaning. But in her
resolute mind she tried to convince herself, that this absense was not
emptiness but a kind of fulfilment.
She recalled Mira again:
‘Baap chharrey, Maaye chharrey, chharrey sagaa sahi
Meera prabhu lagan lagi jo na hoye hoyee’
 (‘All may abandon you, father, mother, friends and playmates, but not
He who is always within you’.)
He has made me forsake all, only to make room for something He will
fill me with. Whatever may follow, let me persevere. This song found a
voice within her heart, and unknown to herself tears rolled down her face.
Motir-ma watched and listened without a word and left only when Kumu,
after a long obeisance, went to sleep with a deep sigh. But a train of thought
started in Motir-ma’s mind which had never occurred to her before.
It ran like this! ‘When we got married we were but little children,
unburdened with a mind of our own. Just as a little boy swallows a raw fruit
without a thought, the husband’s family and household absorbed us without
any problem. We did not have to make any effort or wait up, counting days.
If they said this was the day of your phulsajjya—flower bed of the nuptial
night, so it was. Because it was all a play. But this girl here will have her
honeymoon tomorrow night, and what a trial it will be for her! The groom
is a stranger to her; it takes time to grow close to one another. How can he
touch this girl? How will she bear the humiliation? Our elder brother-in-law
took all this time to win wealth, can he not wait a little longer to win a
heart? He had to woo Lakshmi the goddess of wealth hard enough, should
he not have to beg some more for the favour of this Lakshmi?’
By herself, she was incapable of so much thinking, but somehow she felt
for Kumu, heart and soul, as soon as she met her. The sight of Bipradas at
the railway station was a prelude to this affection. He looked like the figure
of Bhishma straight from the epic Mahabharata. Powerful like a hero, a
serene face like that of an ascetic tinged with the humility of sadness. She
thought, if no one took it amiss she would have liked to touch his feet in
reverence. She still cherished that image. Then, when she saw Kumu, she
knew she had met a sister worthy of her brother.
There is a kind of distinction which is not ordered by society, but is
inborn. Such distinction is likely to hurt a woman mortally; but not the man.
Motir-ma had not known this paradox because she married so young; but
she realized it now through Kumu. She felt ill as she imagined the horrible
picture of a lusty monster crouching inside a dark cavern, licking his chops
while Kumudini prayed frantically at the entrance. She said to herself, ‘To
hell with her god! Isn’t he the one who pushed her into this peril? How can
he be the one to save her now? What a great pity!’
 24

NEXT MORNING KUMU HAD A BRIEF TELEGRAM FROM HER

BROTHER.’ GOD bless you, it said. She kept it inside her blouse, close to
her heart. The telegram had her brother’s touch. But why did it not say
anything about his own health? Maybe he was unwell. All these years,
never having left his side, she was used to being posted with his news from
minute to minute, and now it was all blacked out from her.
Tonight was the phulsajjya, the bridal night—the night of consummation.
The house was full of people. The women of the family had been pawing
her the whole day. A day when she needed most to be by herself.
Next to her bedroom was the bathroom, fitted with taps as well as
showers. She quietly slipped in there, with a framed picture of her divine
couple—Radha and Krishna. She put the picture on the marble bathing seat
and prayed, ‘I belong to you, Lord, you take me today. He is none but you,
only you! Let your dual image come true in my own life.’
Meanwhile, at Noornagar, the doctors diagnosed that Bipradas’s
influenza had turned to pneumonia. So Nabagopal alone came to Kolkata to
arrange for the customary gifts for this special night. He did it with great
éclat. If Bipradas were himself present, he might not have done it on such a
grand scale.
All of Kumu’s four elder sisters had been invited to attend Kumu’s
wedding, but the rumour that the Ghoshals were not high class Brahmins
had reached them. So, their families would not let them attend the wedding.
The third sister had fought with her husband and reached Kolkata the day
after the wedding, but Nabagopal had told her that their prestige would go
down if she went to the groom’s house. The events of the wedding night
were still fresh in his mind.
 So he sent only a few young girls who were distantly related to the
family, with an old maidservant, to represent them at the reception. Kumu
understood that there was no truce as yet; and that perhaps there never
would be any.
She was all dressed up for the occasion. The pleasantries and repartee
were over. It was time to start feeding the invited guests. Madhusudan had
already warned that he had a lot of work the next day and that the feast
would have to end early enough. At the stroke of nine, the gong rang loudly.
Not a minute more; no one had the courage to exceed the time set by him.
The party broke up. Kumu’s heart trembled like a dove’s at the shadow of
an eagle. Her hands were in a cold sweat and her face went pale. She came
out of her room and held the hand of Motir-ma, pleading with her to take
her away somewhere else. ‘Let me be by myself for ten minutes.’ Motir-ma
took her to her own bedroom and shut the door. She stood outside with tears
in her eyes, bemoaning the fate of the bride.
Ten minutes ran to fifteen. People came looking for Kumu. ‘The groom is
in the bedroom, where is the bride?’ they asked. Motir-ma said, ‘Don’ t be
so impatient. She has to change and take off her ornaments.’ She wanted to
give Kumu as much time as possible, and when she realized that no more
delay was possible she opened the door to find Kumu in a faint on the floor.
Much noise and confusion followed. She was carried to the bed. Some
sprayed water on her face, some fanned her. When she came to, Kumu was
unaware of her surroundings. She cried out ‘Dada!’ Motir-ma quickly bent
over her and said, ‘Don’ t worry Didi, I am here.’ She helped her up and
clasped her to her bosom. She told everyone to make room and added, ‘I am
taking her to her room just now.’ She whispered into Kumu’s ears, ‘Do not
be afraid please, have no fear.’ Kumu got up slowly and prayed. Then she
walked up to the other end of the room where Habloo was sleeping and
kissed his forehead. Motir-ma escorted her up to the bedroom and asked,’
Still afraid?’
Kumu clenched her fists, smiled somehow and said, ‘No , not at all.’ She
thought to herself, ‘Such is my tryst, all darkness outside but lit up inside.’
‘Merey to Giridhar Gopal dusara na koi.’
 25

MEANWHILE SHYAMASUNDARI WENT PANTING TO

MADHUSUDAN AND announced, ‘Your bride has fainted!’ Madhusudan
flared up immediately; he asked, ‘Why? What is the matter with her?’
‘I can’t say, except that she is only pining for her Dada. Won’t you go
and find out for yourself?’
‘What ‘s the use? I am not her Dada.’
‘You’ re losing your temper for nothing. They are high-born. It takes time
to tame them.’
‘I see, she will go into a faint everyday and I have to massage her with
ayurvedic oil. Is that what I married her for?’
‘You make me laugh. In our days women went into a sulk and you had to
woo them back, now you have only to nurse them out of a faint.’
Madhusudan sat glumly. Shyama, dissolving with pity, took his hand and
said, ‘Please don’t get upset. I cant bear to see you like this.’
Till now she never had the courage to approach him so closely. The
garrulous Shyama used to be unusually quiet with him because she knew
Madhusudan was a man of few words. Her feminine intuition told her that it
was not the same man tonight. Tonight he was weak and a little vulnerable,
not conscious of his dignity. She felt that he had not disliked her touch on
his hand. The hurt given by the new bride probably was allayed a little with
ministration from someone else. It was no small matter that Shyama never
looked down upon him. She was no less attractive than Kumu; maybe a
little darker, but her eyes, her hair, her luscious lips!
She spoke out, ‘There, she is coming. Let me go. But please do not be
angry with her. Poor thing! She is but a child.’
As soon as Kumu set foot into the room Madhusudan lost his patience,
‘So you’ve had a good practice at fainting at your brother’s! But that is not
in vogue here.You have to get out of your Noornagari style.’
Kumu stood staring in surprise without a word.
Her silence angered him more. Deep inside him was growing a strong
desire to win the heart of this girl, hence the frustrated rage. He said, ‘Let
me make it clear. I am a busy man; I do not have the leisure to wait upon a
hysterical woman.’
Kumu answered slowly, ‘You want to humiliate me. But you won’t
succeed. I shall not take your insults to heart.’
Madhusudan was sarcastic, ‘I know you are your brother’s disciple, but
remember, I am his creditor. I can buy and sell him many times over.’
He was a fool to have said this, but he wanted to impress upon her that he
was bigger than her brother.
Kumu replied, ‘Be as cruel as you like, but do not demean yourself.’ And
she sat down oh the sofa.
He said gruffly, ‘What! You mean to say that I am inferior and your
brother is better than me?’
Kumu said, ‘I have come to your house in the knowledge that you are
bigger.’
Madhusudan mocked, ‘Bigger, is it? Or is it the greed for money?’
Then Kumu got up, and went and sat down on the floor of the open
terrace outside.
It was a mean winter night, dull with smog, the stars were choked under a
frowning sky. Kumu’s mind was in a daze, without a thought, without any
pain; as if she herself was lost in a thick fog.
It was beyond Madhusudan’s expectation and comprehension that Kumu
could silently walk out of the room as she did. He immediately held her
brother responsible for this abject defeat of his. He sat on the bed and
punched its emptiness. After a while he lost his patience. He got up in a
rush, went out on the terrace and called out to her, ‘Borrobou!’
Kumu was startled.
‘Why are you standing outside in this dewy cold? Come into the room.’
Kumu stared at his face without any embarrassment. The little authority
of ownership he was still nursing within himself vanished. He took her left
hand and said gently, ‘Please come inside.’
Kumu had the telegram from her brother in her right hand. She pressed it
to her bosom. She did not take her hand away but followed her husband
quietly into the bedroom.
 26

THE NEXT MORNING WHEN SHE WOKE UP HER HUSBAND WAS

STILL ASLEEP. She did not look at him lest she felt revolted. She took
great care to get up without waking him, touched his feet and went for a
bath. When she finished she went into the terrace from the rear door. A faint
line of gold was visible in the sky through the fog.
After a while when the sun was up she came back to the bedroom to find
her husband gone. She opened the drawer under the mirror to put by the
telegram. The sapphire ring was not there.
The serenity that had come over her after her morning prayers vanished.
Her eyes were aflame. Motir-ma came to call her for a glass of milk and
some sweets. But Kumu was sitting still, hard as a statue of stone.
Motir-ma, a little apprehensive, asked, ‘What is the matter, sister?’
Kumu could not utter a word, only her lips trembled.
‘Please tell me what has hurt you?’
In a choked voice she answered, ‘It is stolen!’
‘What is?’
‘My ring, my brother’s blessing.’ ‘Who has taken it?’
Kumu stood up and without taking any name, pointed outward.
‘Calm down. He must be teasing you. He will give it back to you.’
‘I won’t take it back. Let me see how much more he can torture me.’
‘All right, we shall see about it later. Now please have something to eat.’
‘No, I can swallow a morsel now.
‘Please, my dear, for my sake do!’
‘Let me ask you something, sister. Is it true that I can have nothing of my
own from now on?’
‘No, there is nothing of the sort. All that you may possess depends upon
your husband’s goodwill. Don t you know we sign our names as dasi
—“your obedient servant”.’
Servant indeed! Kumu recalled Kalidas’s depiction of Indumati’s role.
‘Grihini sachibah, sakhee mitah
prija-shishyaa lalitey kala-bidhau’

—housewife, secretary, companion, friend, and a dear pupil of the fine arts
—no mention of a slave! Was Savitri a slave to Satyaban? Or for that matter
was Sita of Uttar Ramcharit, a slave maiden?
She asked, ‘What sort of men are those who think of their wives as
slaves?’
‘You have to know him yet,’ said Motir-ma. ‘He not only makes a slave
of others but he is also a slave to himself. The day he is unable to attend
office he docks his own pay. Once he was ill and could not go to work for a
month, so for the next two or three months he cut down on the household
expenses to make up for the loss. So far I have looked after housekeeping
and I have a fixed allowance for that. In this house, everyone from the
master to the lowest employee, all are slaves.’
Kumu thought for a moment and said, ‘All right, I shall also be one of
them. I will work for my daily upkeep. I do not want to be an honorary
slave here. Do engage me under you, after all you are in charge of
housekeeping. I don’t want to be mocked by anyone as a “Rani”.’
Motir-ma said, ‘In that case you have to obey me. I order you now to
come for your breakfast.’
As they were going out Kumu said, ‘You see, sister, I came here prepared
to give myself, but he would not let it happen. Now let him be satisfied with
his slave. He will never have me.’
Motir-ma said understandingly, ‘The wood-cutter knows how to cut the
tree but he only gets the wood, not the tree. The gardener, on the other hand,
knows how to tend the tree, so he gets its flower and fruit. You have cast
your lot with a lumberjack. He is a trader, there is no room for compassion
in his heart.’
After her meal when Kumu came back to her room, she found a box of
lozenges. Habloo had deposited a secret gift for her and made himself
scarce. So there were cracks even in this stony site for flowers to bloom.
The message of these sweets made Kumu feel like crying and laughing at
the same time. She stepped outside her room to look for the boy and found
him standing quietly behind the door. His mother had warned him not to
frequent this room. He was afraid of annoying the master by anything he
might do. Everyone in this house was well aware that it was best to keep
away from Madhusudan, unless of course he wanted them for something.
Kumu caught hold of Habloo and put him on to her lap. Both of them
began to look into everything in her room that could serve as a toy. Kumu
noticed that a glass paperweight had caught little Habloo’s fancy. The sight
of a coloured flower through the glass intrigued him.
Kumu promptly offered it to him.
Habloo was wonderstruck. In all his years he had never heard of such an
unthinkable proposition. Could he ever aspire to own such a wonderful
object! He looked at her in amazement and hesitation.
Kumu said, ‘You can take it.’
Habloo could not contain his joy. He picked up his precious gift and
bounded out of the room.
In the afternoon Motir-ma came and said, ‘What have you done, my
sister? The master has created a rumpus at finding the paperweight in
Habloo’s hand. Not only has he snatched it away but he also thrashed
Habloo, accusing him of stealing. And that strange boy never even
mentioned you. I won’t be surprised if the word goes round that I am the
one teaching him to steal.’
Kumu was frozen to silence.
The crunch of shoes was heard outside. Madhusudan was coming up.
Motir-ma hurried away. Madhusudan put the paperweight down in its place
with great care and added in a stern voice of calm confidence, ‘Habloo had
stolen it from your room. You must learn to be more careful with things.’
Kumu said sharply, ‘He did not steal it.’
‘All right, he misplaced it!’
‘No. I gave it to him.’
 ‘So that’s how you are spoiling him.You will do well to remember that
nothing in this house can be given away to anyone without my approval. I
cannot stand disorderliness.’
Kumu stood up and said, ‘Did you not take away my sapphire ring?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Didn’t that pay for your piece of glass?’
‘But I told you, you cannot have it.’
‘You can keep your things, only I can’t?’
‘In this house nothing is exclusively yours.’
‘Nothing at all? Then let this house be.’ And saying this, Kumu left the
room.
As soon as she left, Shyama entered the room busily and asked, ‘Where
is the bride?’
‘Why?’
‘I have been waiting with her breakfast the whole morning. Is she going
to starve herself in this house?’
‘So what? Let the princess of Noornagar not eat! Are you her slaves?’
‘Shame on you. One does not lose one’s temper with kids. We can’t stand
her starving like this. No wonder she fainted the other day.’
Madhusudan roared, ‘Go away. Nothing needs to be done. She will eat
when she feels hungry.’
A dispirited Shyama left the room.
Madhusudan’s blood was boiling. He quickly put his head under the
shower to cool himself.
 27

UNTIL EVENING KUMU COULD NOT BE FOUND ANYWHERE.

FINALLY Motir-ma found her sitting on a mat in the small corner next to
the storeroom where the lamps, oil cans and the like were kept.
Motir-ma said, ‘What is all this, Didi?’
Kumu said, ‘This is my place in this house; I shall look after the lamps
and lights.
Motir-ma said, ‘You have found yourself a nice job. Of course you have
come to lighten up this house, but you don’t need to look after oil-lamps for
that. Now come with me.’
Kumu would not budge.
Motir-ma said, ‘In that case, let me also sleep here.’
Kumu firmly said, ‘No!’ Motir-ma felt that this girl may be good-natured
but she certainly had the power of command in her. Motir-ma had no option
but to leave.
Madhusudan heard the news when he came to the bedroom at night. His
first thought was, ‘Let her be in that room. How long can she stick it out?
The more we coax her the more stubborn she’ll get.’
He put out the light and went to sleep. But sleep would not come easily.
Every sound felt like her footfall. Once he felt as if she was standing at the
door. He got out of bed and looked towards the door, but there was no one.
As the night wore on, his mind was in turmoil. He could not muster up
enough resolve to ignore her.Yet it was against his policy to go forward and
concede defeat. He splashed cold water on his face, but that too did not
help. He tossed around in bed. In the end he could no longer contain his
curiosity and restlessness. With a lantern in hand he crossed all the
bedrooms till he arrived at the lamproom. He stopped to listen for any
sound within, but there was none. He opened the door carefully and saw
Kumu sleeping on the floor on a mat, one end of which was rolled up as a
pillow. Because he could not sleep, his wife too ought not to have been
sleeping, he thought. But he found her deep in sleep, so much so that even
when the light from the lantern fell on her face she did not wake up. Just
then she turned on her side. Madhusudan fled in the same way as a thief
does at the sign of the householder waking up. He was worried that she
would see his distress and laugh at him.
As he came out and crossed the veranda he met Shyama with a clay lamp
in her hand. ‘How come you are here?’ she asked. Ignoring the question, he
asked back, ‘Where are you going, bou?’
‘Tomorrow I have a vow to break and have to feed some Brahmins; I am
going to the kitchen to make the arrangements. You are also invited. But I
have nothing to offer you in return.’
Madhusudan suppressed the reply that readily came to his lips.
In that pre-dawn darkness Shyama’s face looked beautiful in the
lamplight. She added, with a little smile, ‘My day is made, because the first
person I met before starting the preparations is a lucky man like you. My
vow will be fruitful.’
The slight emphasis she put on the word ‘lucky’ sounded somewhat
embarrassing to him. Shyama could not summon up enough courage to ask
him anything about Kumu directly. As she left she said, ‘Come to my room
tomorrow. I’ll give you dinner—that’s a promise.’
He went to bed again but kept the lantern outside the door just in case
Kumu changed her mind. But as he lay awake, he was unable to dismiss the
picture of Kumu’s sleeping face. The delicate beauty of her hand relaxed
outside the shawl kept tormenting his memory. At the wedding when he had
taken that hand into his, he had hardly noticed it. Tonight he could look at it
endlessly. When would he be able to win that hand? He got up, lit the lamp
and opened Kumu’s drawer and saw her bead purse. The first thing that he
found in it was her brother’s telegram, then a photograph of both her
brothers and a small piece of paper with this sloka from the Gita written in
Bipradas’s own hand.
 ‘Dedicate unto me, O son of Kunti, whatever you do, whatever you
breathe, whatever you worship, whatever you gift and whatever you pray
for.’
Envy gnawed at Madhusudan’s mind. He gnashed his teeth and made
short shrift of Bipradas in his own mind. He knew that the end to Bipradas’s
constant counselling of Kumu was certain, but he had to tighten the screw
bit by bit. He would be at peace only if he could snatch away at that very
minute all of Kumu’s nineteen years which lay beyond his control. He knew
of no other way than force. Today he was unable to throw the bead purse
away. He was bolder the day he stole the ring. Till then he was under the
impression that Kumudini was like any other girl easily disciplined, in fact
they liked to be ordered around. But he realized today that Kumu’s
reactions were completely unpredictable.
There was only one way to bind her life with his firmly, by giving her the
experience of motherhood. This was his one consoling thought.
The clock struck five, but the winter night was still in darkness. In a
while it would be daybreak and if he didn’t act now, this would be another
night wasted. He quickly left the bedroom and reached the lamproom with a
deliberate clatter. He opened the door noisily, only to find Kumu missing.
Where could she be?
He heard the noise of running water in the courtyard. He saw from the
veranda that Kumu was scouring with tamarind paste a whole lot of old
unused rusty lamps. This was nothing but an attempt, on her part, to
wilfully find work, to prolong the sleepless misery of a winter morning.
Madhusudan watched in stunned surprise. He was turning over in his
mind possible ways to overcome such strength in the weaker sex. ‘When
the household gets up and sees her sculling old lamps what would they
make of it? What would the servant whose job it is, think? There could be
no better way of ridiculing me in front of the whole world,’ thought
Madhusudan.
A sudden impulse to have it out with her then and there ran through his
mind, but the spectacle of the entire family leaving their beds and conning
out to watch the farce of the two of them sparring, held him back. Instead,
he went back to the main house and spoke to his younger brother Nabin,
‘Do you ever notice what is going on in this house?’
Nabin was the manager of the household. He was frightened at this stern
question from his brother, quite out of the blue, and hastened to ask, ‘Why
Dada, whatever is the matter?’
Nabin was well aware that whenever his brother had cause to be angry,
he had to find someone to punish. If the guilty managed to escape even an
innocent person would do, otherwise his idea of discipline could not be
maintained and the prestige of his state would be undermined.
Madhusudan said, ‘Do you think I am unaware of the reason for this
insane behaviour on the part of Borrobou?’
Nabin dared not ask what madness he was referring to, in case his not
knowing got counted as an offence.
Madhusudan went on, ‘I have no doubt that your wife is putting ideas
into her head and spoiling her.’
With the utmost hesitation Nabin tried to stammer, ‘No, but Mejobou . . .’
‘But I have seen it myself.’
His had to be the last word.The eyewitness account no doubt included the
episode of the glass paperweight.
 28

NABIN KNEW THAT HIS WIFE’S SINCERE AFFECTION FOR THE

NEW BRIDE would not go down well with the rest of the household. There
was bound to be tale-carrying of all sorts. He thought something of the kind
must have happened. It was no use protesting against Madhusudan’s
allegations; that would only make him more stubborn. He felt a bit confused
about the current situation, for his elder brother had not made it clear as to
what really had gone wrong, and what was to be done also remained vague.
The only thing that was clear was that the entire responsibility of his anger
and displeasure went to Motir-ma. And as the relative importance of a
couple demanded, the greater share would be his.
Nabin went and told Motir-ma, ‘There is trouble ahead.’
‘Why, what is it?’
‘God only knows—and Dada. Perhaps you also do. But the pressure is on
me.
‘But why?’
‘There is pressure on me so that I may correct you before you commit
any more follies, and do the same to his new acquisition from his latest
deal.’
‘All right, so you start with me, let us see if you are better at it than your
brother,’ said Motir-ma.
Nabin was distressed. ‘You remember the time Dada’s Oriya servant
broke a plate from his expensive dinner set, how I had to pay most of the
fine, because it was supposed to be in my charge? But should his new
treasure be also my charge? Anyway, Dada is of the opinion that the
compensation for her actions or mistakes has to be shared by you and me.
Do something about it, don’t torture me, Mejobou!’
‘What could be the fine?’
 ‘Sending us back to Rajabpur. That is what he threatens us with often.’
‘That is because you get bullied. Remember, he did send us out once, but
had to send across the train fare to bring us back. Even when he is angry,
your brother knows his accounts well. He knows it would cost him dear to
run this household without me. And he cannot bear to lose a pie anyhow.’
‘So what should I do now?’
‘Tell your brother that he may be a big Raja, but he cannot win back his
Rani with the help of a paid maidservant. The weight of her huge sulk has
to be borne by him and by no one else. Ask him not to hire a porter to carry
the burden of his honeymoon.’
‘Mejobou, he does not need my advice. He will come to his senses on his
own. In the meantime you do your job of a go-between, whatever comes of
it. At least we will prove to him that we are not ungrateful parasites.’
Motir-ma went to look for Kumu. She knew she was likely to be on the
terrace in the mornings. High walls with a few bay-windows covered the
terrace. A few empty pots were strewn around. In one corner was a square
cage with wire-netting, the wooden bottom rotting. Sometime in the past it
used to house rabbits and pigeons, but its only use now was to sun-dry
pickles and preserves which had to be protected from the sneaking crows.
You got a glimpse of the sky overhead but not of the horizon. On the
western sky one could see the chimney-stack of an ironworks factory.
Kumu sat here often for the last two days. The only sight was that of the
smoke curling up, as if it was the only living thing in the whole sky,
swelling and swirling upwards, driven by some strange impulse.
Kumu had finished cleaning the lamps, had her bath and come up here.
She sat facing the eastern sky, her wet hair streaming down her back. She
was most plainly dressed in a narrow black-bordered thick cotton sari. For
warmth she had only a wrap of rough raw silk.
For sometime now this young woman had nursed the longing in her heart
by installing in her mind an ideal image of the beloved to be. All her
prayers, her rituals and myths were to keep this image alive. In the
Brindaban of her mind she was Radha waiting for a tryst with Krishna. She
used to sing early in the morning in Raga Ramkeli,
 ‘Hamarey tumharey sampriti lagi hai
Suno Manmohan pyarey.’
(Listen, O my beloved, we are in love with each other!)

It was as if, the one on whom she had bestowed all her offerings had been
sending her a daily inkling of her beloved-to-be long before his appearance.
On a rainy night when the leaves of the trees in the garden were in a tumult
because of the incessant impact of the raindrops, she remembered the song
in Raga Kanara:
‘Bajey jhananana payeriya
Kaise karo jaun gharoyarey.’
(How shall I come home to you? My anklets are making such a din.)

The anklets round her own pensive mind were tinkling away, she was out
on an unknown assignment, wondering how should she ever go back home!
Long before she saw Him, she heard His melody. If someone came close to
her on days when she was filled with deep joy and sorrow, all her music
would have found a form. But no traveller ever stopped her way. In the
secret garden of her imagination, she was all alone. That was why all these
days, the flowers she offered at the feet of her little dark god, Shyamsundar,
were really meant for her unknown beloved. So when the matchmaker
arrived, she asked her god, ‘Shall I have you now?’ The answer came in
that flower—the blue morning glory—which slipped into her hand from the
feet of the idol.
But now it seemed as if all the preparations in her mind over all these
years had come to nought. Her boat had struck a hard rock and sank in a
moment. Her aching youth was today looking for an object for her
offerings, now too heavy to bear. The recurrent refrain in her heart was:
‘Merey to Giridhar Gopal dusara na koi.’

But today her song drifted into a void, reaching nowhere. This emptiness
frightened her. Would the deep yearning within her end like that spiral of
smoke, lonely till the end of her days?
Motir-ma sat behind her, at a distance. She was astonished at the dignity
of this beautiful girl unadorned. She wondered how this girl would ever fit
into this kind of household. The women of this house seemed to belong to a
different class altogether. Naturally, they felt alienated from her, angry at
her—but did not dare to make friends with her.
As she sat there, Motir-ma saw Kumu suddenly hide her face in her sari
and break into a sob. She could not but come up to her, put her arms round
her and say, ‘My sweet sister, please tell me what is wrong?’
After a long silence, she replied, ‘No letter from Dada even today. I
wonder what is wrong with him.’
‘Is it time for a letter from him?’
‘Of course. I left him ill and he knows well how I shall fret for his news.’
‘Do not worry. I shall find a way of getting his news.’
Kumu had thought of sending a wire, but who would do it for her? From
the time Madhusudan called himself her brother’s creditor, she could not
bring herself to utter her brother’s name in his presence. Today she asked
Motir-ma, ‘I shall be greatly relieved if you send a telegram to my brother,
from me.’
‘Of course I will do it. There is nothing to fear.’
‘But you know, I have not a single rupee with me.’
‘What nonsense. I shall take the money from my household budget. All
that money belongs to you. I am now in your employ.’
Kumu protested strongly, ‘No no! not a single pie in this house belongs
to me.’
‘All right, I may not spend for you. But surely I can spend some money
on my own? Why are you silent? Is there anything wrong with it? If I had
flaunted this offer, you could have refused with pride, but when I give this
with love why can’t you accept it lovingly?’
‘I do,’ responded Kumu.
Motir-ma then asked, ‘Will your bedroom be without you tonight also?’
‘I have no place there.’
Motir-ma did not insist. It was not for her to do so. Let the one who must,
do it. She only asked gently, ‘May I get you some milk?’
‘Not now. A little later.’ She still had to have it out with her deity. She
was yet to get a signal from within herself.
 Motir-ma went back to her own room and asked Nabin, ‘Can you do
something? Go to your brother’s office and see if there is any letter for her
lying on his table. Try the drawers as well.’
‘That would be calamitous,’ Nabin said.
‘If you can’t, I shall go myself.’
‘It is like looking for a bear cub in its den!’
‘The boss is in his office. He won’t be back before one. In the meantime .
. .’
‘Look Mejobou, it is impossible for me to do this job in broad daylight. I
may only be able to get you some news tonight.’
‘All right, that will have to do, but you must send a wire right away and
find out how Bipradas Babu is.’
‘Fine, but shouldn’t Dada be told?’
‘No.’
‘You seem to be desperate. You know in this house even a lizard can’t
catch a fly without his permission, and you expect me to . . .?’
‘It will be from Didi, how are you involved?’
‘But it will pass through my hands.’
‘Many telegrams are sent daily from his office by hand of the messenger,
put this one in among the lot. Here is the money. Didi gave it.’
Nabin would never have agreed to do this daring deed had he not already
felt pity for Kumu in his heart.
 29

AS A ROUTINE, MADHUSUDAN USED TO COME INTO THE

HOUSE FOR HIS lunch at one, and as a routine, the women fluttered round
him, some serving food, others fanning him and whisking away flies. I have
already described how the arrangements within his household lacked any
show of wealth. His food habits continued to be the same as always—he
had taste for rice alone, not of fine quality but good enough to fill his
stomach. The utensils laid on the table were expensive. The plates, cups and
glasses—all were made of silver. Usually the menu consisted of plain dal,
fish curry, a sour and sweet tamarind dish and greens with fishbone.
Madhusudan ended his meal by drinking to the last drop a big bowl of
sugared milk. Finally he would put a betel-leaf in his mouth and a couple of
them in a case. He then pulled at the hookah for about a quarter of an hour
and went back to work. From the time when he was relatively poor until
today, there was no exception to this routine. He had a good appetite for
food but no greed.
Shyamasundari was stirring sugar in the milk. Not too dark, she could not
be called fat, but the fullness of her body did make a statement. She was
always clad only in a plain white sari, and she always looked neat. She was
nearing the end of youth, more like a late summer afternoon when the end
of the day is drawing near yet the shadow of dusk has not fallen. Her dark
eyes under thick arched eyebrows did not look straight at anyone, but took
in a lot with a sidelong glance. Her full and ripe lips seemed to have more
to say than she cared to. Life had not given her much to savour, yet she
seemed to be fulfilled. She knew her worth, she was not mean, but she had
a proud disdain of her environs because she felt her value was wasted
therein. She had come to this family at the rising tide of Madhusudan’s
wealth. She had ambitions to be at the top by the power of her youth. One
cannot say for certain that Madhusudan was not tempted. But he never
surrendered because he was not merely worldly wise but also a genius at it.
This talent helped him create his vast wealth in which he was deeply
immersed and which gave him great pleasure. His rare instinct warned him
that a powerful obstacle had been placed against his goal of amassing
wealth, just as how in mythology, Indra the lord of the gods had sent
temptresses to distract anyone who threatened to be as powerful by virtue of
practising a rigorous asceticism. So, every time such temptation came
Madhusudan’s way, he had managed to check himself. It was also easy to
do so because in the high noon of his business he had no leisure to stray.
The occasional glimpse, the casual words he had from Shyama were
enough to give him relief in the midst of this hard toil. On occasions of
festivals and fairs his partiality towards Shyamasundari was evident. But he
never indulged her to the extent that she could afford to be arrogant within
the household. Shyama was well aware of his weakness, but could not cast
off her fear of the man.
She was always present at his meals, today was no exception. She had
just come out of her bath wearing a spotless white sari, one end of which
was lightly draped over her incredibly black, long and thick hair spread
over her back. A mild fragrance of her shampoo wafted from her wet hair.
She did not look up from the milk bowl she was stirring, but asked softly,
‘Thakurpo, shall I send for her?’
Madhusudan looked at his sister-in-law gravely without a word. The
frightened Shyama hastened to explain, ‘It is good for her to be present at
your mealtime. She can wait on you . . .’
She left her sentence unfinished as she could not make out anything from
his expression. He bent his head down and resumed eating. After a little
while he asked, without lifting his head, ‘Where is she now?’
Shyamasundari quickly responded, ‘Let me go and look for her.’
Madhusudan frowned and put up his finger, bidding her not to. He did
not want to hear from her the answer he feared most, yet he was very
curious. He went up to his bedroom at the end of the meal, with a faint hope
in his heart. He even made a round of the terrace. He went into the
bathroom and stood still for a while. Then he came back to the bedroom and
stretched out on his bed, puffing at the hookah. The routine fifteen minutes
went by, twenty minutes passed and at the end of thirty minutes he pulled
out his watch and looked at the time. Year in and year out he had never been
late in going back to the office even by five minutes. There was an
attendance register in his office in which everyone had to record the time of
their arrival and departure. Their wages moved up and down according to
those records. Of all the employees his had the least deductions. He made
no distinction between himself and the others in this matter. In fact, he fined
himself at double the rate for others. Today he made up his mind to make up
for it, by working overtime. But as the day wore on, he felt less and less like
working. Eventually, he came back half an hour earlier than usual, leaving
his work unfinished. All the time that he was in the office, he had felt like
paying a surprise visit to the bedroom. Maybe someone would be there. He
never entered his bedroom in daylight, but today he came inside the house
in his office clothes.
Motir-ma was on the terrace, picking up the pieces of mango spread out
in the sun for drying. Seeing him enter the bedroom at this unusual hour,
she pulled her sari over her head and smiled to herself. Madhusudan was
annoyed and ashamed at the same time, at being caught by her, playing
truant. His plan was to enter the room very silently, so that the startled deer
which might be in the room did not run away. But that plan failed. So he
quickly got in just to avoid any more curious eyes. He felt his slipping away
from the office had misfired totally. Not only was there nobody in the room,
but there was no evidence that anyone ever stepped into the room anytime,
even for a short while. He could hold his patience no longer. As the elder
brother-in-law he was not supposed to talk to Motir-ma directly. Nor had he
ever done it, but today he was dying to call her and ask her about Kumu.
Once he even went out to look for her but she had left by then.
In order to save himself from the ignominy of being in his bedroom,
abandoned by his new bride, at this odd hour all by himself, he stalked out
of the room quickly. In his office room, he leaned over his desk intently,
pretending to do some very important work. He opened the first register he
saw lying about. Normally he never looked at it, his head clerk did. But to
keep up his pretence in front of others he opened it. This register kept
record of all letters and telegrams that were sent out with their dates and
times. The first entry was a telegram addressed to Bipradas. The sender was
the mistress of the house herself.
‘Call the darwan!’ shouted Madhusudan.
The messenger came.
‘Who sent you to despatch this telegram?’
‘Mejobabu, sir.’
‘Call him.’
Nabin arrived, pale in the face.
‘Who ordered this telegram to be sent, without my permission?’ It was
not easy to name the one who did it, in front of the master disciplinarian. At
a loss to answer, Nabin started sweating even on that winter afternoon.
Nabin’s silence provoked Madhusudan to ask, ‘Was it Mejobou?’
The answer was clear from the way Nabin hung his head in silence.
Blood rushed to Madhusudan’s head and he was red in the face. He was so
angry that he could not bring himself to speak. He dismissed Nabin from
the room with a vigorous movement of the hand, and began to pace up and
down from one end of the room to the other.
 30

A CRESTFALLEN NABIN CAME AND TOLD MOTIR-MA, ‘THAT’S

IT, MEJOBOU. Start packing.’
‘Why? What’s up?’
‘Now you may put by all the stuff in the trunks.’
‘If I do as you say, I may have to unpack them again the next day. Is your
boss in a temper?’
‘I know him well. This time it is our home here that seems to be in
danger.’
‘So what? Let’s go. We won’t be stranded wherever we have to move.’
‘Who is asking me to go? The order is likely to be “Send Mejobou
packing home”.’
‘I know you can’t follow such an order,’ said Motir-ma.
‘How do you know I can’t?’
‘Don’t think it’s me alone; the whole house knows you to be a uxorious
man. Till today your elder brother wondered how a man can become a slave
to his wife. Now the time has come for him to find out how.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I am beginning to see it as your family weakness. Until now this trait
was not obvious in your brother’s case. Mark my words, it will be far more
pungent because it was bottled up so long. The ardour with which he held to
his purse, oblivious of the world around, will now be exercised over his
wife.’
‘So be it. Let the senior uxorious man take the floor, but how will his
junior carry on?’
‘That’s my lookout. Now you do as I tell you. You have to search his
drawers.’
 Nabin implored with folded hands, ‘I shall willingly put my hand into a
snake-pit if you ask me, but I beg of you Mejobou, don’t ask me to put them
into his office drawers.
‘If it were the snake-pit I would have done it myself; but the drawers are
your job.You know very well that no letter can be delivered to anyone
without first showing it to him. I have a strong feeling that a letter from her
brother has actually reached him.’
‘I too feel the same way, but at the same time I also feel that if I so much
as touch that letter, no punishment will be enough as far he is concerned.
Maybe the death penalty along with seven years of rigorous imprisonment
will just about do.’
‘You don’t have to do anything, not even touch the letter, just check if it
is there.’
Nabin had great regard for his wife, in fact sometimes he felt that he was
undeserving of her. So he welcomed any opportunity to accomplish some
difficult task for her, even if he were a little frightened.
The same night she learnt from Nabin that indeed there was a letter and a
telegram, in Madhusudan’s drawer, for Kumu, from her brother.
The excitement which drove Kumu from her bedroom to a maid’s job
was waning. Her heart was now heavy with the pall of sadness which was
replacing the annoyance at her own humiliation. She knew this could not be
a permanent arrangement, yet how would she carry on without some such
solution?You couldn’t possibly live in a household forever, with such forced
detachment.
So ran her thoughts in her closed room which was in one corner of the
veranda, screened by a wooden fencing. Except for the entrance, it had no
openings. There were wooden racks all along the walls up to the ceiling. All
kinds of lighting equipment and accessories were kept on those shelves.
The room was thick with soot. Some servant had satisfied his aesthetic
sense by sticking on the wall near the door pictures cut out from the
wrapping of the lamps. In one corner, some powdered chalk was kept in a
tin box. Next to it was a basket of dry tamarind and a few dirty dusters.
There was also a row of kerosene tins, mostly empty, except for two or
three tins.
Kumu started her day’s chore in her amateur fashion. After finishing her
job in the store room, Motir-ma peeped in to witness Kumu’s predicament
in trying to accomplish the impossible. She watched for a while and feared
the end nearing for some of the fragile objects. In this house, the slightest
loss of things did not go unnoticed.
So she did not wait any longer but volunteered with, ‘My hands are free,
so I thought I could help in Didi’s work and earn some merit.’ And she
pulled the basket of glass globes and chimneys to herself and started
cleaning them.
There was not much force in Kumu’s protest because by now she had
nearly completed the discovery of her own incompetence. Motir-ma was a
godsend. But there was a limit even to Motir-ma’s native talent. She found
it beyond her to fix the wick in a kerosene lamp to the right length. The
entire job was done always under her supervision and she herself measured
out the kerosene, but she had never got down to adjusting wicks with her
own hands. So she proposed to seek the help of Banku, the old lampman.
The two women had to concede defeat. Banku the farash came and
finished the job in no time. By the evening the lamps had to be distributed
properly in their respective rooms. Banku asked if he were needed for that
job as usual. He was a simple fellow but still there was perhaps a touch of
sarcasm in his query. Kumu felt her ears reddening.
Before Kumu could say anything, Motir-ma said firmly, ‘Of course you
should come.’ It was clear to Kumu that her effort to help with the work
was nothing but an impediment.
 31

AFTER LUNCH, BEHIND HER CLOSED DOOR SHE BEGAN TO

RESOLVE SERIOUSLY, not to let the flame of anger flash in her mind any
more. She said to herself, ‘Let me be calm and prepare my mind the whole
of today. Then from tomorrow, with the blessings of my deity I shall tread
the true path of a housewife.’ In this task of resolving the strife within
herself, her biggest weapon was the memory of her brother. She had seen
the amazing depth of patience in him. The sadness in his face mirrored the
greatness of his heart. Her Dada, who embraced the current belief amongst
the educated class, of Positivism, who did not have the outward show of
saluting the gods but whose life itself was filled with divinity, he would be
her role model for the future now.
In the afternoon Banku farash knocked and she opened the door and went
out. She told Motir-ma that she would not need any dinner that night. This
fast on her part was to cleanse her own mind. Observing her face Motir-ma
felt surprise. No longer was Kumu’s face flushed crimson with the fire in
her heart. Instead, her eyes and her forehead were radiant with a calm
tenderness, as if she had just emerged from a holy dip. Her deity seemed to
have soothed all her anguish. She appeared to be enveloped in the fragrance
of a flower-offering in her heart. And because she knew that Kumu’s
decision to fast was not for self-torture or out of pique, she did not raise any
objection.
Kumu went and sat on the terrace, with the image of her deity in her
mind. She realized clearly now that had it not been for this cruel blow, she
would never have come so close to her god. She folded her hands in prayer,
in the glow of the setting sun, and said, ‘My lord, do not desert me ever,
make me cry as much as you wish to, but hold me close to you.’
 The winter day faded out. Dust, smog and smoke from the factories
combined to throw a pall of grey over the clear and sombre majesty of
eventide.The sky seemed to be coming down with the burden of spreading
grime and likewise Kumu’s mind was pulled down with the unbearable
burden of worry for her brother.
So she entered her den with mixed feelings of relief at being free of the
bondage of resentment and a misgiving on her brother’s account. She
wished she could also put this burden of worry (regarding her brother’s
health) faithfully upon her god. But as she herself kept telling herself not to
worry she could not feel confident. The question kept on tormenting her—
why was there no reply to her wire?
Madhusudan was unable to put his finger on the subtle obstacle in the
way of a woman surrendering herself. Even the approach to his own wife
over whose body and mind he had full rights, was proving inaccessible. He
was at a loss to find a strategy to combat this unexpected conspiracy of fate.
There had never been an occasion for him to neglect his business. But
now even that grave symptom was in evidence. Everyone knew how he
never slackened in his work even when his mother was ill and dying. In fact
they admired his resoluteness. But to discover this new identity of his—that
he could give something else, that too a woman, priority over his work—
was a stunning experience. He was not sure as to where this strange
external force was leading him.
He came to the bedroom after dinner, hoping against hope to find his
wife there. So he came in a little later than usual. He was used to going to
sleep by the clock. As soon as he lay down, like any normal healthy person
he fell asleep. But now, he did not go to bed at all; what if he fell asleep and
Kumu came into the room? She would, no doubt, return. He sat on the sofa
for a while, then paced up and down the terrace. His time for bed was nine-
o’clock; suddenly he heard the bell at the main gate sound eleven. He felt
ashamed. Twice or thrice he got up and stood in front of his bed, but could
not bring himself to lie down. Then he decided to go and have it out with
Nabin, that very night.
 When he reached the front veranda he found a light in Nabin’s room. As
he was about to enter it, he met Nabin coming out with a lantern in his
hand. If it were daylight, he would have seen how Nabin’s face went pale in
a second.
He asked, ‘What are you doing here so late at night?’
Nabin was quick to think up an answer, ‘Every night at this time I go to
the main hall to wind the clock and change the date card before I turn in.’
‘All right. But right now, listen to what I have to say.’
Nabin stood to attention like an accused in the dock. Madhusudan said, ‘I
don’t like anyone else to fill Borobou’s head with ideas. My wife will abide
by my wishes. That is how it must be.’
Nabin agreed gravely, ‘Sure. That is how it should be.’
‘So I think, Mejobou should go back to her village home.’ Nabin
pretended to be greatly relieved.
‘It is just as well, Dada. I was also wondering about how to approach
you, for you may not have approved.’
Madhusudan was surprised. ‘What do you mean? he asked.
‘Well, for the last few days she has been pestering me to let her go home.
In fact she has already packed. Just waiting for a suitable day to start.’
Needless to say it was all made up. Madhusudan could order anybody out
of his house, but he could not tolerate the idea that anyone should want to
leave on their own. He was annoyed. ‘Why, what is the hurry?’
‘No, now that the mistress of the house is here, it is only appropriate that
she takes charge of the household. Mejobou felt that there might be some
loose talk if she continued here.’
‘Is she the sole judge of such matters?’
Nabin pretended to be naive, and said, ‘You know women and their
whims! Somehow it has got into her head that one day you would sack her
over something or the other and that would be too insulting for her. So she
is determined to go now. A couple of days before the night of the auspicious
full moon, she wants to hand over the accounts and leave by that date.’
Madhusudan said, ‘Look Nabin, you have spoiled her. Tell her sternly
that she cannot go now. You are a man. I can’t bear to see you unable to rule
your own house.’
Nabin scratched his head and said, ‘I shall try. But . . .’
‘All right, tell her it is my decision. When the time comes, I shall arrange
it myself.’
‘But you said you wanted to send her home. That is why I thought . . .’
Madhusudan got agitated.
‘Did I say that she had to leave this very moment?’
Nabin crept out of the room. Madhusudan lit a gas lamp and lay down on
a chaise-longue. The guard did a round in front of the rooms at night;
Madhusudan dozed off for a while and suddenly woke up to find the
chowkidar holding a lantern and staring at his face. Maybe he was
wondering whether the Maharaj had just fainted or passed away.
Embarrassed, Madhusudan got up in a hurry. It struck him in a moment that
the pathetic sight of the newly-married Rajabahadur would be quite
demeaning in the guard’s eyes. He told the guard in a huff, ‘Shut the room,’
as if it was the guard’s fault that it was not shut. The gong at the main gate
struck two in the morning.
Before leaving the room, he opened the drawer, dithered a little, put
Kumu’s telegram in his pocket and walked into the house.
One is not in command of all one s strength as one gets up from a sleep.
Maybe that is why one’s character during the day is somewhat different
from what it is in the night. At this hour of the night when no one was
looking and he was answerable to no one but himself, Madhusudan found it
easy in his mind to concede defeat to Kumu.
 32

HE TURNED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS. HIS HEART WAS IN

A TUMULT. There was a lighted lantern in front of a closed door. He
picked it up and walked up to the lamproom. He found the door ajar and it
opened easily. Kumu was asleep on the same mat, covered in a sheet, her
left hand resting on her breast. He put down the lantern in a corner of the
wall and came and sat down on her left. The reason why this face attracted
him with such compulsion was its indescribable serenity. Kumu never had
any conflict within herself. In her brother’s home, she had suffered from
want but that concerned her external environment; it never affected her
inner nature. Her household was totally in tune with her own temperament.
This was why her expression was one of complete innocence; her bearing
always dignified. To Madhusudan, who had to constantly struggle for
existence and who had to be alert against daily uncertainty, this grandeur of
her unperturbed tranquillity was a matter of great wonder. He himself was
never at ease, but there she was—as simple as a divinity. This polarity in
their characters drew him strongly towards her. When he looked back on the
events that took place when Kumu arrived at his house as a new bride, he
found his own helpless anger at the failure of his overlordship a direct
contrast to her easy but firm expression of self-respect. Never did her
behaviour betray any lack of decency common in saucy females. If she had
been like all the other women, then he would have had no hesitation in
imposing a husband’s rights. But he hadn’t been able to really break the ice
as far as she was concerned; he could never make out what went wrong, nor
could he fathom what strange reason kept her beyond his reach.
He decided to stay up next to her, without waking her up. After a while
he got impatient and slowly he moved her hand from her breast and took it
in his own. She stirred in her sleep, pulled her hand in and turned on the
other side.
He could wait no longer. He bent down and whispered into her ears,
‘Borrobou, there is a telegram from your brother.’
She sat up instantly and stared at him in amazement. Madhusudan held
up the telegram and said, ‘See, it has come from your brother,’ and then he
fetched the lantern from the corner.
She read it. It was in English, ‘Do not worry about me. I am getting
better day by day. My blessings for you.’ It was such a relief after the
agonizing worry, that her eyes were filled with tears. She wiped her eyes
and carefully folded the telegram and tied it in the corner of her sari. This
made him squirm in pain. They were both at a loss for words. Then it was
Kumu who spoke, ‘No letters from Dada?’
Madhusudan could not bring himself to tell the truth. He just blurted out,
‘No, there is no letter.’
Kumu felt awkward to sit by in such a manner with her husband in that
room. She was about to get up when he said abruptly, ‘Do not be angry with
me, Borrobou!’
This did not sound like a master’s voice but more like a lover’s entreaty.
Kumu was surprised beyond belief. She thought it could only be divine
intervention, because during the day she had been telling herself, ‘Do not be
angry,’ and now who had brought the same words to Madhusudan’s lips?
Madhusudan asked her again, ‘Are you still sore with me?’
She said, ‘Not one bit. Not at all.’
It was his turn to be surprised. He stared at her face. It seemed she was
talking to herself, or with someone unseen.
He said, ‘In that case, leave this room and come to your own room.’
Kumu was not ready to be with Madhusudan, not that night. It is difficult
to steel your heart as soon as you get up from your sleep. After her morning
prayers she had resolved to enter the married woman’s world from the next
day. But, her deity had not given her any time. He called her now, in the
middle of the night! She was afraid that the immense distaste she felt would
count as an offence. So she snapped out of this revulsion and forced herself
to stand up and say, ‘Let us go.’
Upstairs, she stopped in front of her bedroom and said, ‘I shall not be
long, I’ll be back soon.’
She went to her room, and stepped into the terrace. She sat there and
looked up—a sliver of moon, in its dark fortnight, was up in the sky.
She went on repeating to herself, ‘Lord, you’ve called me, you’ve called
me because you haven’t forsaken me. You have decided to take me along
the thorny path and that will be with you alone, none else, my lord.’
She wanted to blot out everything. All the rest were but an illusion. Even
if it were thorny all along, it was still only a part of the way—the way to
Him. For this prickly journey she had the protection of her brother’s
blessings—which she had carefully tied in a knot at the end of her sari. She
touched her forehead with it and then bent down on the floor in salutation.
She was startled to hear Madhusudan’s voice behind her, ‘It is cold outside,
Borrobou, do come inside.’ This was not in tune with the voice of her lord
which she wanted to hear within herself. This was her test. Today her god
would not lure her with his flute, He would remain concealed.
The more her mind, as an individual, was filled with disgust and distaste,
and the more her new home forced its rights upon her, the more she drew a
shell round herself. A kind of wall that would keep out the reality of likes
and dislikes. In other words it would dull her consciousness about her own
feelings. But this was not a matter of a few hours, she had to keep at bay her
feeling of dislike and aversion, night and day. In such a situation women are
usually helped by a guru to forget themselves. But it was not possible in her
case. So she could only try to keep alive by chanting her own mantra
constantly in her mind.
Tasmat pranamya pranidhaya kaayam
prasadaye twam ahameesham-eedam
piteb putrasya sakheb sakhyuh
priya priya-yarhasi deb sodhum.
(O my venerable lord, I bow to thee with my body and soul, to ask of you this benediction—
may you bear with me just as the father does his son, the friend his companion, or the lover his
beloved.)
 ‘I too can forgive everything out of love for You, this is the only proof
that You do love me.’ She prayed with her eyes closed, ‘You have
proclaimed that You will never abandon one who sees You everywhere and
in everything and does not ever forget Your presence. Let me not ever
slacken in this goal of mine.’
In the morning, she took a long time with her bath and anointed herself
with sandal-water. She dedicated her pure, fragrant body to her deity and
tried to concentrate on the thought that her hand was always held in His,
and her whole being was ever in touch with Him. It was He who truly
possessed her; the corporeal body was merely an illusion. It was but dust to
be mingled unto dust in no time. As long as she could feel His touch
nothing could debase it. The more she dwelt on this, the happier she felt and
tears of joy filled her eyes; her body was free of its fleshly bond. In fact she
revered her body as the object of a divine union. If she had a garland of
white flowers she would have put it round her neck and on her hair. She
wore a white sari with a wide red border; and when she came and sat on the
terrace she felt as though the sunbeams caressed her body in a warm
welcome.
She came to Motir-ma and asked, ‘Put me on to some of your work.’
‘Come along,’ said Motir-ma with a smile.
Ten or fifteen of those special cutting knives fixed on wooden planks
upon which one sat and cut vegetables were set out amongst many large
wooden platters, brass salvers, and basketfuls of greens and vegetables.
Women and poor relations sat chatting and swiftly cutting and chopping the
vegetables in heaps. Kumu took her place among them. One could see
through the iron bars, an old tamarind tree scattering the sunlight which
splintered on its endlessly quivering leaves.
Motir-ma looked at Kumu occasionally and wondered if she was actually
working or just following the movement of her fingers and letting her mind
wander towards some pilgrimage. The more she looked at her the more
Kumu seemed like a boat in full sail absorbed in the touch of the wind on
its sail and oblivious of the water flowing on its sides. Others in the room
could not find an easy way to strike up a conversation with Kumu.
Shyamasundari once spoke out, ‘Bou, if you must have a bath early in the
morning why don’t you order some hot water—you may catch a chill?’
Kumu merely said, ‘I am used to it.’
The conversation could not proceed any further. A silent incantation was
going on in her mind:
piteb putrasya sakheb sakhyuh
priya priya-yarhasi deb sodham

(as a father his son, as a lover his beloved . . .)

When all the vegetables were cut and the work in the storeroom was
finished the gaggle of women proceeded for their bath, bustling around the
tap.
When she got Motir-ma to herself, Kumu told her, ‘I have got the reply to
my telegram.’
Motir-ma was surprised. ‘When did you get it?’ she asked.
‘Last night.’
‘At night?’
‘Yes, it was quite late. He came himself and gave it to me.’
‘Then you must have got the letter as well.’
‘Which letter?’
‘Why, your brother’s.’
Kumu was flustered.
‘No. I did not get any. Is there a letter from him?’
Motir-ma kept quiet.
Kumu pressed her hand eagerly and pleaded, ‘Where is it? Please get my
brother’s letter to me.’
Motir-ma whispered. ‘I can’t get that for you. It is in his office drawer.’
‘Why can’t you get me my own mail?’
‘All hell will be let loose if he knows we’ve opened his drawer.’
Kumu said impatiently, ‘You mean to say, I can’t read my brother’s
letter?’
 ‘When he goes out you can have a look and then put it back in the
drawer.’
It is never easy to suppress one’s anger. Kumu was peeved. She said, ‘So
I have to read my own letter in stealth?’
‘In this house, what belongs to one and what does not, depends entirely
on his judgement.’
Kumu was about to forget her resolve, but a voice inside told her, ‘Give
up anger.’ She shut her eyes for a moment. Her lips moved silently, reciting
‘ priya priyayarhasi deb sodhum.’
She said, ‘If some one steals my letter I cannot stoop to stealing too, just
to get even.’
As soon as she uttered those words, she realized they were harsh. She
realized that the anger inside oneself does eventually come out without one
being aware of it. It has to be uprooted. But you cannot always face it in
order to fight it. It hides in a cavern inside a fortress, there is no entry to it.
So one needs an avalanche of love to break open the closed door and flood
it out. She had one way of forgetting it all—through her music. But she felt
shy to play the esraj in this house. She could sing, but her voice was weak.
She felt like drowning everything in a stream of songs—songs of deep hurt.
A song wherein she could say, ‘I have come at your call, then why did you
hide yourself? I did not dither a moment, then why have you put me in this
dilemma?’ She wanted to sing these tunes loudly, perhaps she would then
get the answer through music itself.
 34

THERE WAS ONLY ONE PLACE IN THIS HOUSE FOR HER TO

ESCAPE, THE TERRACE. That is where she went. The sun was up and
the terrace was bathed in strong sunlight, except for a small shade near the
wall. She sat there. One line of a song in Raga Ashawari came to her mind,
‘Bansari hamari re, bansari hamare re,’ the rest of the words were always
lost in the virtuosity of the maestro. She began to sing that obscure portion
with her own variations. Those few words were then filled with meaning, as
if trying to say, ‘O my dear flute, why are you not full of tune today? Why
does it not reach past the darkness, where beyond the closed door there is
no awakening yet?—bansari hamari re, bansari hamari re.’
When Motir-ma came to call her for breakfast, the little shade on the
terrace was gone, but her heart was full of music now, all her grievances
against the world had paled into insignificance. The resentment she bore
against Madhusudan’s meanness with her letter, vanished in this sunlit sky
like the buzz of an angry bee. Still she could not help yearning for the
affectionate words her brother’s letter must have carried.
It was at the back of her mind all the time. So after dinner she informed
Motir-ma that she was going to the office room to read the letter.
Motir-ma said, ‘Wait till the servants finish work and go for their meals.’
Kumu said, ‘No, no, that will be stealthy. I want to go in front of
everyone, and I do not care about what they think.’
‘Then let me come with you.’
‘By no means.You just show me the way.’
Motir-ma pointed at the room through the latticed corridor. Kumu came
out. The servants, on the alert, saluted her. She entered the room, opened
the drawer and found her letter. She picked it up to find it already opened.
No one in her natal house could imagine a greater affront than this. The
rush of her sentiment alerted her. She repeated to herself ‘priya
priyayarhasi deb sodhum.’ but the storm within her was already raging. The
orderly sitting outside was surprised to see the mistress chanting a mantra to
herself. After a while she was able to calm her mind. Then she kept the
letter in front of her and sat on the chair with folded hands. She was
determined not to have a stolen look at the letter.
Madhusudan came in and was astounded to find her. Kumu ignored him.
He went forward to find the letter on his desk. And asked, ‘How come you
are here?’
She looked at him without a word but also without any trace of
complaint. Madhusudan repeated his question, ‘Why are you here in this
room?’
Her impatient reply to this redundant query was, ‘I came to find out if
there was any letter for me from my brother.’
His denial last night excluded the obvious reply, ‘You could have asked
me.’ So he said instead, ‘I was going to take this letter to you myself. There
was no need for you to come here.’
Kumu took a little time to compose herself and said, ‘You did not wish
me to read this letter, so I shall not read it. I am tearing it up right now. But
please do not torture me in this way again. Nothing can be more painful to
me.’
She hid her face in her sari and ran out of the room.
Earlier in the day, after lunch, Madhusudan’s mind was in a flutter and
somehow he could not stop the agitation. He had decided to send for Kumu
as soon as she finished her lunch. He took special care to comb his hair.
Only this morning, he had ordered from an English hairdresser a fragrant
hairoil with spirit in it, and also an expensive perfume. For the first time in
his life, he was using such items. He was ready, well dressed and perfumed.
It was past three-quarters of an hour beyond his usual time of departure.
He was startled at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He could not find
anything near at hand except an old newspaper, and he pored over it
intently, as if it were part of his office work. He even pulled out from his
pocket a blue pencil and marked a couple of items.
 Shyamasundari came into the room. He frowned at her. She said, ‘So you
are sitting here when your wife is looking for you everywhere.’
‘Looking for me? Where is she?’
‘I saw her enter your office room just now.’
He went out quickly. And then followed the whole bitter incident of the
letter.
Now Madhusudan’s plight was that of a boat whose sail had been torn
apart. There was hardly any time. He left for his work. But all through his
work the jagged edges of his broken thoughts continued to hurt him. It was
impossible for him to concentrate on his work that day after this mental
trauma. He informed the office that he had a terrible headache and came
home before he had finished his day’s work.
 35

NABIN AND HIS WIFE COULD NOW SENSE THAT THEIR

FOUNDATION IN THE house was truly shaken and that they had no room
for escape. Motir-ma said, ‘It won’t be difficult for me to find another place
where I can work and earn my living, the same way as I do here. My only
regret is that when I go, there will be no one to look after Didi.’
Nabin said, ‘Look Mejobou, I have suffered a lot in this household and
have revolted many times against our living here, but now it is too much to
bear. Such a wonderful bride, and Dada did not know how to hold her. He
spoilt it all. Misfortune is nothing but broken pieces of good luck.’
‘He will soon realize that, but it may be too late to put the broken pieces
together again,’ said Motir-ma.
‘My regret is that I was not fated to become an ideal brother-in-law like
Lakshman was to Sita,’ said Nabin.
Motir-ma left the room. Nabin could not hold himself any longer. He
slowly crept outside Kumu’s room and found her lying on the floor. The
pain of that torn letter would not go away.
She got up as soon as she saw Nabin. He said, ‘Boudidi, I have come to
touch your feet and seek your blessings.’ This was the first time he spoke to
her.
She asked him to sit down. Nabin sat down on the floor and continued, ‘I
was very happy at the prospect of serving you, but it seems that this poor
Nabin is not so lucky after all. We had you with us only for a few days and
the regret is that I could do nothing for you.’
She asked, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Dada will send us away to our village home. Maybe we shall never meet
again, that is why I have come to bid you goodbye.’
 Just as he bent down to touch Kumu’s feet, Motir-ma came running and
said, ‘Come quickly. The boss is looking for you.’ Both of them rushed out
of the room.
Madhusudan was at his desk in the office room. Nabin came in and stood
there. There was no trace of misgiving on his face; this was quite unlike his
usual demeanour in similar circumstances in the past.
Madhusudan asked, ‘Who informed Borrobou about the letter?’
‘I did.’
‘Since when have you become so bold?’
‘Borrobourani asked me if there were any letters from her brother, so I
came to look in your desk where all the mail for this house is delivered.’
‘You could not wait to ask me?’
‘She was very upset, that is why . . .’
‘Was that why my orders had to be flouted?’
‘She is the mistress of this house, how could I imagine that she has no
voice in this place? I haven’t got the courage to disobey her. I am telling
you, she is not only my employer but also my revered elder and I obey her
not out of gratitude but out of respect.’
‘Nabin, I have known you since childhood and I know these are not your
thoughts. I also know where they come from. Anyway it is too late tonight.
You have to leave for the village by the morning train.’
‘That is fine by us.’
This short answer was not to Madhusudan’s liking at all. He expected
Nabin to cry and implore, not that it would have changed his decision.
He called Nabin back and said, ‘Take your dues and remember from now
on you are on your own.’
Nabin said, ‘I know that very well, Dada. I shall till the land that is in my
share and make a living,’ and he left without waiting for Madhusudan to
react.
Human nature is a strange mixture of contrary traits. One example is that
Madhusudan was extremely fond of Nabin. After their father’s death he
brought Nabin to stay with him and complete his studies. He continued to
keep Nabin who had a natural flair for managing the household, one reason
being his sincerity and the other his universal popularity. Wherever there
was any dispute Nabin was able to smoothen it out. He could make light of
any situation and was not only fair to all but also made each one feel that he
was on their side.
A proof of Madhusudan’s deep affection for Nabin was that he could not
stand Motir-ma. He was totally possessive of anyone he liked. This was the
reason why he suspected that she was forever poisoning Nabin’s ears. The
paternal right he had over his younger brother was constantly being
thwarted by a girl from another family. He would have exiled her long ago,
were he not so fond of his younger brother.
Madhusudan had planned to go back to work as soon as he finished this
little episode with Nabin, but he could not muster enough strength of mind
to do so. The picture of Kumu tearing the letter and stalking out was deeply
etched in his memory. Such a spectacle was beyond his imagination. For a
moment, in his usually suspicious manner, he thought Kumu must have
already read the letter. But there was such a glow of pristine honesty on her
face that it was impossible to entertain such a thought for long, even for one
like Madhusudan.
He felt as if he was fast losing his ability to discipline Kumu firmly and
now his own shortcomings began to assail him. He could not forget his age
and would have been only too happy to conceal his grey hair. After all these
years, the unfairness of fate in ordaining him to be dark-skinned began to
irk him. He had no doubt that the reason why Kumu’s heart was slipping
from his grip was his lack of youth and beauty. In these aspects he was
totally vulnerable. He had been set on marrying into the Chatterjee family
but he could never imagine that such a girl would fall to his lot who was
destined to triumph over him.Yet he did not have the courage to admit to
himself that an ordinary girl whom he could control would have suited him
better.
He could surpass all others in one thing however. His wealth. So he had a
jeweller sent for in the morning, and he bought three rings from him to try
out Kumu’s choice. He went to his bedroom with those three rings in his
pocket. One was an emerald one, the other a ruby and the third a diamond.
He imagined that as he opened the first box with the emerald ring in it he
would see Kumu’s greedy eyes glisten, then he’d open the second box and
the ruby would dazzle her and her eyes would widen with delight, and
finally the diamond with its precious glow would hold the woman captive.
Madhusudan would then say with imperial solemnity, ‘Go ahead, take
whichever you like.’ Then when Kumu chose the diamond, he, amused at
the timidity of her desire, would put all the three on her fingers. The curtain
would next rise on the nuptial bed.
Madhusudan had planned this event to take place in the night—after
dinner. But after the disastrous episode in the morning he could wait no
longer. It was late afternoon; he went into the bedroom eager to
immediately implement the plan which he had reserved for the night. He
found her on the floor of the bedroom busy packing a tin trunk amongst a
heap of clothes and stuff.
‘What is all this? Are you going somewhere?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Rajabpur, your ancestral home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You have punished Nabin for opening your drawer, but actually, I
deserve the punishment.’
It was not in his nature to bend and request, ‘Please stay.’ His first
reaction was, ‘Let me see how long she can stick it out.’ He turned on his
heel and walked out of the room without a second throught.
 36

MADHUSUDAN CALLED NABIN TO HIS ROOM AND SAID,‘SO

YOU TWO HAVE put her up to it.’
‘Dada, since we are off tomorrow I can feel free to talk to you without
constraint. I can tell you plainly that no one else need drive her mad, you
can do that very well by yourself. If we stayed on, we might have made it a
little easier, but you cannot stand that.’
Madhusudan shouted at him.
‘Don’ t be presumptuous! Both of you must have put the idea of
Rajabpur in her head.’
‘Such an idea did not even cross our minds, let alone reach her.’
‘I am warning you not to incite her any more.’
‘To whom are you telling all this? Address it to the right quarters.’
‘So you did not talk to her?’
‘I swear to you, we did not.’
‘What will be your stand if she insists on coming with you?’
‘We shall come to you. You have your army of men, you can stop it, if
you want to. But if your enemies publicize this encounter please do not
blame Mejobou for it.’
Madhusudan shut him up. ‘Quiet,’ he said, ‘if Borrobou wishes to go to
Rajabpur, let her. I am not going to stop her.’
‘But how shall we feed and keep her?’
‘Sell your wife’s jewellery. Get out. Out of this room, now!’
Nabin went out. Madhusudan cooled his forehead with a wet band of
cologne water and tried to make up his mind about going back to work.
Motir-ma heard everything from Nabin and hurried to Kumu whom she
found folding her clothes for packing.
‘What are you doing, Bourani?’ she asked.
 ‘I am coming with you.’
‘We can’t afford to take you with us.’
‘Why?’
‘Big brother will never see us again.’
‘Then he won’t see me either.’
‘Maybe, but the fact is that we are very poor.’
‘So am I. I can manage.’
‘People will laugh at him.’
‘That is no reason why I should put up with this unfair punishment
heaped on you.’
‘But Didi, this is not your fault, we have brought it upon ourselves.’
‘How?’
‘We are the ones who told you about the letter.’
‘How is that a crime when it was I who wanted the news?’
‘But to tell you without his knowledge was certainly wrong.’
‘All right, both of us have been at fault, so let us share the penalty
equally also.’
‘Right, we shall order a palanquin for you too. The master’s orders are
not to stop you. Let me now help you pack. You are in a sweat.’

So both of them started to pack. Then there was the squeak of an

approaching pair of shoes. Motir-ma made herself scarce.

Madhusudan came in and said straightaway, ‘Borrobou, you cannot go.’

‘Why?’
‘Because I say so.’
‘All right then, I shall not go. What more do you wish me to do?’
‘Stop packing your things.’
‘Very well. I am stopping right now.’
She got up and left the room. He shouted after her, ‘Listen to me!’ She
came back and said, ‘I am listening.’
 He had nothing to say, yet he thought for a while and said, ‘I have bought
you a ring.’
‘You have forbidden me to wear the ring I really wanted. Now I don’t
need any other.’
‘No harm in looking at it.’
He opened the boxes, one after the other. Kumu sat without a word.
‘You may take whichever you like.’
‘I shall wear whatever you order me to wear.’
‘I think all three will suit your fingers.’
‘If you so order me, I shall wear all three.’
‘May I put them on you?’
‘Do.’
Madhusudan put them on her fingers. She asked, ‘Any more orders?’
He said, ‘Borrobou, why are you angry with me?’
She replied, ‘I am not angry at all,’ and left the room.
Madhusudan was upset. He said, ‘Where are you off to? Listen to me
please.’
Kumu turned back and asked, ‘What do you want to say?’
Madhusudan was at a loss for words. His face was red. He said with
disgust, ‘All right, you may go,’ and added angrily, ‘Leave the rings here.’
She took off all the three rings and kept them on the teapoy.
Madhusudan barked, ‘Go away!’
Kumu left immediately.
He men decided to definitely go back to work, although it was well past
office time. The English assistants had left for the tennis court. The senior
clerks were about to go home. Madhusudan entered his office at this
juncture and plunged himself into work. He worked till it was past six, then
seven, till eight at night, when he closed his registers and got up.
 37

SO FAR, NO STRAND HAD EVER BEEN MISSED IN

MADHUSUDAN’S DAILY routine; every moment of the day, every day of
the week was predictably regulated. Now, with Kumu’s entry into his life,
everything was in a chaos of uncertainty. For instance, right now on his way
back home he had no idea how the night would turn out to be. He crept into
the house in fear, and ate his dinner quietly, but did not have the courage to
go to his bedroom immediately, as was his wont. For a while he paced up
and down in the veranda outside on the south of the house. When it was
nine, his usual bedtime, he went in. He was determined to go to bed at the
normal time tonight, without fail. He entered the empty bedroom, pulled
down the mosquito curtain and fell heavily on the bed; but sleep would not
come to him. As the night advanced, the starved being inside him began to
emerge slowly. There was no one to chase it away, no sentinel around.
The clock struck one and still he could not get a wink of sleep. He could
lie awake no longer; he got up and wondered where Kumu could be. He
took off his shoes and walked softly along the corridor downstairs. As he
approached Nabin’s room he heard voices. Perhaps the husband and the
wife were discussing details of the next day’s impending departure. He
listened carefully at the door. There was a murmur, though one could not
make out the words. But it was clearly two female voices talking in
whispers. Then it must be Kumu opening her heart to Motir-ma the night
before they parted. He was so angry and aggrieved that he felt like kicking
the door open and creating a rumpus. But where was Nabin then? He must
be somewhere outside, he thought.
A dim light was on in the latticed corridor leading outside. When he
reached that spot he noticed Shyama draped in a red shawl. Madhusudan
was embarrassed, so he lost his temper. ‘What are you doing here so late at
night?’ he shot at her.
Shyama said, ‘I was sleeping, then I heard footsteps outside. So I thought
. . .’
Madhusudan roared at her, ‘Your audacity is overstepping the limit.
Don’t you fool me, I warn you! Go to bed.’
Shyamasundari had indeed been taking bolder and bolder steps the last
few days. She realized now that she was caught on the wrong foot at the
wrong hour. She looked plaintively at him and then turned her face to wipe
her tears. She started to go back, but turned and said, ‘I don’t have to fool
you, brother. How can we sleep when we see the goings-on? After all, we
are not new in this house. How can we bear all this silently?’ Then she left.
Madhusudan stood silently for a while and then started to go to the office
room outside, but ran straight into the night guard. His own iron rules left
no way for him to walk about by himself. One was under watchful eyes
everywhere. It was unprecedented for the Rajabahadur to come out to the
veranda barefoot, like an apparition. The guard could not make him out
from a distance; he challenged, ‘Who goes there?’ As he went near and saw
his master, he bit his tongue, bowed low and said, ‘Any orders, sir?’
Madhusudan said, ‘I just came to see if everything was all right,’ words
not unexpected of him.
When he went into the office room he found that his hunch was right.
There was Nabin fast asleep on the couch, hugging a bolster. Madhusudan
lit a gaslamp; but that did not wake up Nabin. He got up in a scare only
when Madhusudan pushed him back. Madhusudan did not ask for any
explanation but told Nabin, ‘Go just now and tell Borrobou that I will see
her in the bedroom.’ And he left.
In a little while Kumu entered the bedroom. Madhusudan stared at her.
She was wearing an ordinary red-bordered sari, the end of which was veiled
over her head, but in the dim light of this solitary room she was a stunning
presence. She went and sat on the sofa in the corner of the room.
Madhusudan lost no time to go and sit at her feet. She felt embarrassed
and tried to get up but he quickly pulled her to her seat and said, ‘Don’t get
up. Just listen to me. Please forgive me, I have been guilty.’
Kumu was taken aback at this unexpected humility on his part.
Madhusudan added, ‘I shall ask Nabin and Mejobou not to go to Rajabpur.
They will stay on in your service.’
Kumu didn’t know what to say. Madhusudan had made up his mind to
win her back even if he had to swallow his pride. He took her hand and
said, ‘I shall be back soon. Please promise that you will not go away.’
‘No, I won’t, she said.
Madhusudan went downstairs. It was not difficult for Kumudini to deal
with Madhusudan when he was mean and rough, but she did not know how
to respond to this new politeness, this humbling of himself. The offering she
brought with her in her heart when she had been newly married had all gone
to dust. She could never pick up those lost feelings again. She began to
pray, ‘Priya priyayarhasi deb sodhum.’ Madhusudan came back with Nabin
and Motir-ma and addressed them in Kumu’s presence, ‘I asked you
yesterday to go back to Rajabpur, but that will not be necessary. I appoint
you look after Borrobou from tomorrow onwards.’
They were flabbergasted. Firstly, the order was totally unexpected and
secondly, what was the urgency to wake them up and tell them in the
middle of the night?
Madhusudan was at the end of his tether. He had made up his mind to
stoop to anything to win Kumu’s favour that very night. He had never
demeaned himself like this in his life ever. And now he was paying the
highest price for what he desired most. In his own way, he let her know that
he had surrendered to her unconditionally.
She was now facing a great dilemma. How was she to accept this new
offer?
What did she have to offer in return? When the challenge comes from
outside, one finds within oneself the strength to fight it. God himself comes
to one’s aid. But if the struggle outside suddenly ceases, there is truce but
treaty does not come easily. Then the inner hostility comes out. Now she
could no longer take shelter behind petty sulks, nor escape to the lamproom.
Praying also was meaningless.
 She could be saved if she could keep Motir-ma on some pretext. But
Nabin left and a dumbfounded Motir-ma followed suit. Near the doorway
she turned and gave Kumu an anxious look. Who would save this girl now
from the pleasure of her husband, she wondered.
Madhusudan said, ‘Borrobou, won’t you change and come to bed?’
Kumu got up slowly and shut herself up in the bathroom, trying to
prolong her moments of freedom. She sat on a stool close to the wall. Her
tormented body seemed to be seeking refuge within herself. Madhusudan
was looking at the clock from time to time, trying to figure out how long it
would take for her to undress. Meanwhile he looked at himself in the
mirror, brushed the unruly hair on the top of his head and poured a lot of
lavender water on himself.
A quarter of an hour went by, time enough for a change of clothes. He
crept up to the bathroom door and tried to listen. But there was no sign of
life. Perhaps, he thought, she was doing up her hair. Even Madhusudan was
aware that women liked to dress up, so one had to be patient. Half an hour
was over. He went again and put his ear to the bathroom door, but still there
was not a sound. So he came back, sat on the chair and stared at the
painting he had ordered from abroad which hung on the wall facing the bed.
Suddenly he got up impatiently, went to the door and said, ‘Borrobou, are
you still at it?’
The door opened soon and Kumudini came out, as if sleepwalking. She
was still in the same clothes. Surely this was not her night dress. Wearing a
nearly full sleeved, brown serge blouse, she was leaning hesitantly, with her
left hand against one door. An exquisite picture. A perfectly rounded arm
wearing an old-fashioned gold bangle with the figure of a two-headed sea
animal. Must have belonged to her mother. This heavy thick pair of bangles
had endowed her delicate hand with a rich elegance which she carried with
such ease that there was no suggestion of ostentation. It was a revelation to
Madhusudan. He was struck by her grand elegance. He could not but be
convinced that at long last the wealth that he created over the years had
acquired class.The picture of this girl standing silently at the door post
made him feel that he was not rich enough to deserve her. She would have
befitted this place only if he were a King-Emperor. He could see clearly that
her nature had been nurtured since her birth in an ambience of a proud
family tradition. She seemed to be standing there with the heritage of all the
years that preceded her own birth. Not just anyone from outside could enter
those precincts where Bipradas reigned supreme. Like Kumudini, he also
had around him an aura of unselfconscious pride.
And that is precisely what Madhusudan could not stomach.There was no
arrogance in Bipradas—only a great distance, an aura. It was unthinkable,
even for a close relation, to come and slap him on the back and ask him
familiarly, Hey, how are you, my friend?’ What irked Madhusudan most
was the feeling of inferiority that welled up in him whenever he faced
Bipradas. It was the same subtle reason which prevented him from forcing
Kumu, that made him withdraw from his own domain where he was the
rightful master. But in this case he did not feel anger, instead his strong
attraction for Kumu became all the more uncontrollable. He could make out
that Kumu was not yet ready for him tonight, that she was standing behind
an invisible curtain. But how beautiful! What a white glow of purity! As if a
clear dawn was breaking upon a desolate peak of ice.
Madhusudan approached her and said gently, ‘Won’ t you come to bed
Borrobou?’
Kumu was taken by surprise. She had expected him to be angry and
insulting. Suddenly she recalled a very familiar voice from the past—the
way her father sweetly addressed her mother: ‘Borrobou’. At the same time
she also remembered how her mother had ignored it and gone away. Her
eyes filled with tears—she sat down on the floor near Madhusudan’s feet
and cried out, ‘Please forgive me.’
Madhusudan quickly pulled her up and seated her on the sofa and said,
‘Why, what have you done that I should forgive you?’
Kumu said, ‘I am still not ready in my mind. Do give me some more
time.’
Madhusudan stiffened. ‘Make yourself clear. What do you want time
for?’
‘I don’t know. It is difficult to explain to anyone.’
 Madhusudan’s voice was drained of all sweetness. He said, ‘It is nothing
so difficult. You are trying to say that you do not like me.’
Now she was in a fix. What he said was true, yet not entirely so. She had
made up her mind to offer all that she had, only the offering was not at hand
yet. Perhaps it would come in time provided there was no hindrance on the
way. At the same time she could not deny that she was empty-handed.
She said, ‘I am begging for more time because I do not want to cheat you
in any way.’
Madhusudan was losing his patience. He said sternly, ‘Will time help at
all? Or is it that you need to consult your brother before you can start living
with your own husband?’
He really believed so. He throught she was only waiting for her brother’s
word and that she was a puppet in the hands of her brother. He added
mockingly, ‘Is your Dada your guru?’
Kumudini stood up and said, ‘Yes, my Dada is my guru.’
‘So it is like that.You won’t change or come to bed without his approval.’
Kumudini froze. She tightened her fist stiffly.
‘Then let me get his permission by telegram. It is quite late already.’
Kumu started for the terrace without a word.
Madhusudan bawled at her, ‘Don’ t go out. I am ordering you.’
Kumu turned round and said, ‘What do you want?’
‘Change and come to bed. I give you five minutes only.’
She went into the bathroom, changed her sari and draped herself in a
thick sheet, waiting for his next order. Madhusudan recognized the battle
dress. He was getting angrier, but could not decide on the next course of
action. He never lost his practical sense even when he was blind with rage.
He said, ‘You tell me what you want to do now.
‘Whatever you order me to.’
Madhusudan sat down in despair. That wife of his in a sheet looked like a
woman in widow’s weeds. It seemed as if there was a silent expanse of the
sea of death between her and her husband. You could not cross this ocean
by bluster. How did one sail in it? What kind of wind would be favourable?
Would such a thing ever happen? He sat quietly as he brooded over such
questions. There was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock.
Kumudini did not leave the room but she turned and continued to stare
across the terrace, motionless like a picture. The maudlin voice of a
drunkard singing could be heard from the crossing of the road ahead. The
peace of the night was being disturbed by the incessant moaning of a dog
tied up in the neighbour’s kennel.
Time stood like an yawning abyss. The whole of Madhusudan’s well-
oiled machine seemed to have come to a grinding halt. He had a big agenda
for the next morning—a meeting of the Board of Directors during which
some knotty resolutions had to be cleverly passed without too much
opposition. But all those weighty matters were without any substance for
him now. Normally he would note down his strategy the night before. But
all such thoughts vanished before the stark reality facing him, which was
tire picture of a woman draped in a white sheet arrested in her tracks on the
way out to the darkness of the terrace. After a while he heaved a deep sigh.
The whole room seemed to suddenly wake up from its stupor. He quickly
got up, went to Kumu and said, ‘Borrobou, have you a heart of stone?’
That word worked like magic on her. She suddenly saw a reflection of
her mother’s life illuminated in her own life. Perhaps it was in her blood to
react in the way her mother responded to this address easily, so often in the
past. So she turned abruptly, facing him. Madhusudan said plaintively, ‘I
know I am unworthy of you, but will you not take pity on me?’
Kumudini was flustered. She said, ‘Please do not talk that way. What a
shame!’ She bent down to touch his feet and said, ‘I am at your service. You
have only to order me.’
Madhusudan picked her up and pressed her to his bosom. Kumudini felt
stifled in his embrace but she did not try to free herself. He said in a choked
voice, ‘No, I shall never order you, but still, do come to me.’
Kumudini blushed scarlet. She lowered her gaze and said, ‘It will make
my task easier if you ordered me. I am incapable of doing anything on my
own.’
‘Right. Then you take off that sheet. I can’t stand it.’
With much hesitation she took it off.
 She had on a plain striped sari. The thin black stripes wound endlessly
round her slender figure like a stream, as if some dark, insatiate eyes had
left their restless track following her body. Madhusudan was charmed, but
at the same time did not fail to notice that the sari was not a gift from this
house. It might suit her very well but it was cheap and belonged to her own
home. In the dressing room adjoining their bathroom there was a huge
mahogany wall cupboard with a mirror set with emeralds and stacked with
expensive saris for her, from even before the wedding. But obviously, she
was too proud to care for those. He remembered the incident of the three
rings—the disdain with which she rejected them in favour of an unlucky
sapphire. There was such a vast difference between her concern for him and
for Bipradas. All these thoughts hit him like a strong burst of a gale as soon
as she took off her wrap. But alas! She was so beautiful, so exquisitely
beautiful! Even this spirited disdain became her like an ornament. Only a
girl like her could spurn all wealth. She was born magnificently rich in
simplicity. She did not have to keep count of her riches.
With what could he possibly tempt her, he wondered.
He said, ‘Now you may go to bed.’
Kumu looked at him in silence. The question in her eyes was, ‘Won’t you
go up first?’
He said firmly again, ‘Go on. Don’ t delay any more.’
When she was in bed, he continued to sit on the sofa and said, ‘Here I
shall sit till you call me to bed. I am prepared to wait till eternity.’
Kumu felt faint. What a trial to face! What was she to do? Her god did
not give her an answer. The path she took to arrive up to this point turned
out to be all wrong. She sat praying on her bed, ‘Lord,You can’t fool me, I
shall put my trust inYou even now. It is You who took Dhruba to the dark
forest so that You could reveal yourself to that boy.’
There was not a sound in the silent room. The drunken man’s voice was
no longer to be heard. Only the neighbour’s captive dog, though tired out,
was still moaning from time to time.
Even a small span of time appeared to be too long. Was this to be the
picture of their conjugal life for eternity—the two of them sitting silently at
two ends in an endless night, an unbridgeable silence between them? At
long last she summoned up the courage to leave the bed and say, ‘Please
don’t make me the guilty one.’
Madhusudan said gravely, ‘Tell me what you want. What must I do
now?’ He wanted to wring out the last word of consent from her.
Kumu said, ‘Come to bed.’
Could it be called a victory for him?
 38

THE NEXT MORNING WHEN MOTIR-MA CAME TO THE ROOM

WITH A GLASS of milk for Kumu, she found her eyes red and swollen,
her face ashen. She had expected to find Kumu in her usual corner seated at
her prayer, facing the rising sun. But she was not there. She was on the
floor, leaning against the wall of a shaded spot next to the staircase. Maybe
she was sulking against her deity, in much the same way as an innocent
child bears the chastisement of his father without protest, out of a deep hurt.
Was the call which she expected to be divine going to end in this
debasement? In this unfaithfulness of the soul? Has my lord lured me as a
prey to his desire for female sacrifice? Did he want his offering to be a
mindless lump of flesh? Today she did not feel any devotion.
Till now she had prayed to Him to be tolerant of her, today her rebel
mind questioned herself, ‘How could I bear with You any longer? With
what shame can I come to worshipYou? Instead of accepting my devotion
For You, You sold it in the slave market where women are sold at the same
price as animal flesh, where no god waits patiently for a flower offering but
feeds it to the goats?’
When Motir-ma asked her to drink up the milk, she simply said, ‘Not
now.’ Motir-ma said, ‘But it is no fault of this poor glass of milk.’
Kumu said, ‘I haven’t had my bath or said my prayers yet.’
‘You go and have your bath. I shall wait for you.’
Kumu completed her bath and returned. Motir-ma thought she would
now go and sit in her usual corner. She did take a step towards the terrace,
out of habit, but came back and sat on the floor again. Her mind was too
distracted with doubts, hurt and confusion.
‘Is there no letter from Dada?’ she asked Motir-ma.
 Motir-ma had already thought of Kumu’s anxiety to hear from her
brother, so she had herself slipped into the office room early in the morning,
only to find the drawer locked. The way to rob the robber was closed.
Then Shyama appeared on the scene and said to Kumu, ‘Bou, why are
you looking so pale? Are you unwell?’
‘No, I am not,’ answered Kumu.
‘Poor thing, you must be fretting for home, that’s but natural. But then
you will see your brother. He is coming here soon.’
Kumu was startled at the news and looked eagerly at her face.
Motir-ma asked Shyama, ‘Where did you gather this bit of news?’
‘Look at that! It is but common knowledge. Our kitchen maid Parbati
said that he had sent the estate manager to the Rajabahadur, to enquire
about his sister and the manager had given the news that he would be
coming soon to Kolkata for his treatment.’
‘Has his health taken a turn for the worse?’ Kumu asked anxiously.
‘I don’t know, but we would have heard if it were anything serious.’
Shyama knew then that Madhusudan had not told Kumu the news about
her brother, lest the bride, whose heart he could not win, got distracted and
turned homewards. She teased Kumu further by adding, ‘Everyone says
there is no one like your Dada. Come Mejobou, let’s go down and set out
the provisions. If the cooking starts late for the officegoers, there will be
hell let loose.’
Motir-ma came to Kumu’s room again with the glass of milk and said,
‘Please Didi, it is getting cold.’ This time Kumu did not protest.
Motir-ma whispered, ‘Will you come to the store room with us?’
‘Not today,’ Kumu said. ‘You better send your boy Gopal to me.’
A cruel, dark, senile lust from outside had devoured her, like the
legendary monster Rahu eclipsing the moon. This was no calm, comforting
dignity of the mature, but unbridled lecherousness where love was akin to
craving for material wealth. Its clammy touch was what Kumu found
revolting. She did not mind her husband’s age but was pained that his age
had no dignity left. To give oneself wholly was more like the ripening of a
fruit in free air and light, but one could not ripen a raw fruit by crushing it.
That this precious time was denied was what she found so hurting and
insulting. Where could she possibly escape? Her asking Motir-ma for Gopal
was one way of escape from the debasement of age into the innocence of
childhood—from the polluted air to the clean breeze of a flower garden.
A somewhat frightened Habloo, wearing a printed cotton quilted jacket,
came and stood at the doorway. He had the same large dark eyes as his
mother and the same soothing complexion of a rain cloud. His cheeks were
round and full and his hair was close cropped.
Kumu got up and pulled him to her breast and said, ‘Naughty boy. Why
didn’t you see me all these days?’ The boy put his arms round her neck and
whispered, ‘Aunty, can you guess what I’ve got for you?’
She kissed his cheeks and said, ‘Must be a jewel.’
‘It is in my pocket.’
‘Then take it out.’
‘So you couldn’t guess!
‘You see, I am a fool. I don’t even understand what I see, and what I
don’t see I misunderstand.’
Then Habloo slowly took out a brown paper packet, put it in her lap and
was about to run away. Kumu held him back.
Habloo clutched the packet and said, ‘Then don’t look at it now.’
‘Don’ t worry. I won’t, till you go.’
‘Well Aunty, have you seen Jatai Burri, the witch?’
‘Maybe I have, but it takes time to recognize them.’
‘She comes in the evening riding on the back of a bat, to the coal cellar
by the side of the veranda downstairs.’
‘On the back of a bat?’
‘Oh, she can make herself so small that you can hardly see her!’
‘Must learn that magic formula from her.’
‘Why you?’
‘Because if I escape to the coal cellar, as I am, I could still be found.’
Habloo did not quite get it. He went on, ‘She has hidden her little box of
sindur amongst the coal. Do you know where she got her sindur from?’
‘Perhaps I do.’
 ‘Tell me.’
‘From the cloud at dawn.’
Habloo was perplexed. He began to drink. His special reporter had told
him about the land of giants across the seas; but what his Aunty had just
said was more likely to be true. So he did not contradict her, but went on to
say, ‘Any girl who finds it will be a queen—a Rajrani.’
‘How awful! Has any luckless girl found it?’
‘Shejopishi’s daughter Khudi knows. Every morning she accompanies
Chhonnu when he goes with his basket to take out the coal. She is not one
bit afraid.’
‘She is still a child. That is why she is not afraid of being a Raja’s wife.’
A cold wind was blowing from the north, so she went into the room,
taking Habloo with her, and sat down on the sofa and heaved him up on her
lap. On the teapoy next to them there were some season flowers on a silver
platter—marigold, balsam, kunda and hibiscus—gathered daily by the
gardener. These were waiting to be offered to the god by Kumu as she did
every morning, facing the sunrise on the terrace.
Now she held up these flowers, unoffered to the god, in front of Habloo
and asked him, ‘Will you take some flowers?’
‘Yes I will.’
‘What will you do with them?’
‘Play at puja.’
She took out the kerchief tucked in her sari and tied up the flowers,
kissed him and said, ‘Here, take them.’ She thought to herself, ‘I also had
my game of worship.’ She asked him, ‘Which of these do you like best?’
‘The hibiscus.’
‘Why?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Because it stole the vermillion before the sun rose.’
Habloo was thoughtful for a while and said, ‘Aunty, the colour of this
flower is just like the red border on your sari.’ In those few words he
poured out his little heart.
 Suddenly they saw Madhusudan coming. They had not heard his
footsteps. His coming inside the house at this hour was quite
unprecedented. This was the time when all the remaining bits of the day’s
work appeared in the office room outside—the agents, the supplicants and
his secretary with all tidbits of gossip and some papers. The load of these
extra jobs was no less heavy than the main work and Madhusudan was
usually engrossed in these affairs at this time.
 39

THAT MORNING MADHUSUDAN HAD GONE OUT TO WORK WITH

THE CHAFED feelings of a beggar who could gather no grains but only the
chaff in his bowl. But the attraction of unfulfilled desire is always as great.
It is the obstacle which draws one back to it. The very sight of him made
Habloo turn pale. His little heart started pounding and he tried to run away.
But Kumu held him tight.
Madhusudan noticed this and scolded Habloo, ‘What are you doing here?
You should be studying at this hour!’
Habloo did not have the courage to tell his uncle that the tutor had not yet
come. He took it silently, got up and walked away, hanging his head down.
Kumu moved to stop him but did not. She only said, ‘You’ ve left your
flowers behind. Won’ t you take them with you?’
Madhusudan snatched the bundle and asked, ‘Whose kerchief is this?’
Kumu went red in the face and said, ‘It is mine.’
It was indeed wholly hers, that is, it belonged to her before her marriage,
even the silken border was her own embroidery.
Madhusudan threw out the flowers bundled up in the handkerchief and
put the latter in his pocket, and said, ‘I am keeping it. What will that
youngster do with it? Boy, you may go.’
This act of crudity on his part left Kumu speechless. Habloo left with a
pained expression.
Watching the expression on her face Madhusudan remonstrated, ‘You are
generous with the whole world. Am I the only one to be deprived? This
kerchief will be with me, as a reminder that I have something of you at
least.’
There was something inherent in his nature which stood in the way of his
ever getting what he really wanted. And that was what prevented Kumu
from surrendering wholly to him.
She lowered her eyes and continued to sit on the sofa. The red border of
her sari flowed down, framing her face on the way, parallel with her mass of
wet hair hanging loose. A thin chain of gold encircled her delicate neck.
This belonged to her mother and ever since her mother’s death Kumu had
always worn it. She had not dressed yet and had only a chemise on. Her
hands were lying still, open on her lap. The two exceedingly fair and
delicate hands carried the message of her whole body. Madhusudan looked
at his wife who was slightly upset, from the corner of his eyes and could not
turn his gaze away. He sat next to her on the sofa and tried to take her hand
in his, but felt something hard. Kumu did not want him to hold her hand,
because it was holding on to a packet.
Madhusudan asked, ‘What is in that packet?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘I mean, I don’t know.’
He didn’t believe her words. He said, ‘Give it to me. Let me see it.’
‘That is my secret. I can’t show it to you.
As soon as the words were uttered, blood rushed into his head stinging
him like a sharp arrow.
‘How dare you!’ he thundered and wrenched the brown paper packet out
of her hand and opened it, only to find a few candied sugar balls. This must
have been Habloo’s favourite snack which his mother must have packed
into his tiffin box for school. So he had carefully packed some of the balls
and brought it for Kumu.
Madhusudan was wonderstruck. What a fuss. He then concluded that
perhaps she was used to such cheap snacks in her own home and so she sent
for these but felt ashamed to show them to him. He laughed to himself,
‘After all it takes time to accept the gift of riches.’ A plan came to his mind
in a flash. He got up quickly and went out.
Kumu put the candies by in a small square box of sandalwood and sat
down to write a letter to her brother. She had barely penned a few lines
when Madhusudan came back. She quickly covered the letter and sat up
stiff. He was carrying a fruit basket whose handle was inlaid with gold and
silver work, and which was covered by a scented silk kerchief. He put it on
the desk in front of her with a broad smile on his face. And said, ‘Do open
and take a look.’
She lifted the kerchief. The ornate basket was filled to the brim with the
same type of sugar candies. She would have burst into laughter if she were
alone. But she managed to maintain a grave expression. It would have been
far better for him if she had actually laughed out.
He said, ‘There is no need to have them in secret. Nothing to be ashamed
of. If you like, I can have them sent for you everyday.’
Kumu said, ‘But you can’t.
‘Can’t I? You surprise me.’
‘No , you simply can’t.’
‘Why. Are they so expensive?’
‘Yes, money can’t buy them.’
A doubt shot through his mind. ‘I see. Maybe your brother has parcelled
them for you!’
She did not feel like responding to this jibe. She pushed the fruit case
aside and got up to go. Madhusudan pushed her back to the seat.
Before he could speak, she asked him, ‘Did somebody come from Dada
to you enquiring about me?’
He was annoyed that she should have heard about it already. But he said,
‘That is precisely why I have come to you in the morning, to give you the
news.’ Needless to say it was a total lie.
‘When is he coming?’
‘Within the week.’
He knew for certain that Bipradas was arriving the next day, but he said
‘the week’ to keep it vague.
‘Has his illness taken a turn for the worse?’
‘No, I didn’t hear anything like that.’
Even this was a way of avoiding the obvious truth that Bipradas was
coming to Kolkata for treatment, therefore he must not be in good health.
‘Is there a letter from him?’
 ‘I haven’t opened the mail box yet. If there is one for you I shall send it.’
Kumu had not yet learnt to disbelieve him, so she accepted this as well.
He added, ‘If there is one, I shall bring it myself after lunch.’
Kumu curbed her impatience and fell silent. As he was trying to pull her
towards him, Shyama suddenly burst on to the scene and said, ‘Oh, I am
sorry, it is you, brother!’ She tried to run away quickly.
Madhusudan said, ‘What is it that you came for?’
Tjust came to call her to join us at the store room. She may be a Raja’s
queen, but she has also a home to preside over, like Goddess Lakshmi.’
Madhusudan got up and left without a word.
After lunch he lay down as usual, chewing a paan, and sent for Kumu.
She came immediately, she knew there would be a letter for her. She came
in and stood near the bed.
Madhusudan put down the pipe of his hookah and asked her to sit down.
She obeyed him. The letter that Madhusudan gave her had only these few
words, formally addressed to her,
My dearest sister,
I shall soon be going to Kolkata for treatment. As soon as I am well I shall come and see you. I
shall be relieved if you let me have news of your welfare, whenever you may find time in the
midst of your household duties.

The short letter hurt her at first. She thought, ‘So I am now an outsider,’
but soon she repented, ‘What a small mind I have. He must be unwell.’
Madhusudan could see that she was dying to get up and go. He said,
‘Where are you going? Do sit here for a while.’
Having stalled her departure, he was at a loss for conversation. But the
ice had to be broken. So the question that was going round his head since
the morning spilled out. He said, ‘Why did you make such a fuss about
those sugar candies? What was there to be shy about?’
‘That’s my secret.’
‘Secret? Even from me?’
‘Yes, I can’t tell you.
 Madhusudan stiffened, ‘This is your Noornagar style! Learnt at your
brother’s school, I suppose!’
Kumu did not answer back. Madhusudan threw aside his pillow, sat up
and said, ‘I am not worth my name, if I cannot rid you of that manner of
yours.’
‘What do you wish me to do?’
‘Tell me who gave you that packet?’
‘Habloo.’
‘Habloo? Then why all this secrecy?’
‘I don’t know why.’
‘Was he carrying it for somebody else?’
‘No.’
‘Then?’
‘That’s all. I have nothing more to say.’
‘Why this hide and seek?’
‘You won’t understand.’
He shook her by the hand and said, ‘This is too much for me to stand!
You are going too far.’
She was red in the face, but still she said calmly, ‘I admit I am not used to
your ways. You have to tell me what is it that you want me to do.’
The veins on his temple swelled with anger. He could not find an answer.
He felt like hitting her. Somebody outside was heard clearing his throat and
saying, ‘The gentlemen from the office are waiting in the office room.’
Madhusudan remembered it was the day of the meeting of the Board of
Directors. He felt ashamed, not to have prepared for it. The whole morning
was wasted. He was astonished at this unthinkable lapse from his routine
and against his nature.
 40

AS SOON AS HER HUSBAND LEFT, KUMU GOT OFF THE BED AND
SAT ON THE floor. Was her whole life to be spent like this—trying to
swim across an endless ocean? Madhusudan was right. Their ways were
totally different. This discord was the worst to bear. Was there a way out?
Suddenly she remembered something and started going down the stairs,
to Motir-ma’s room. On the stairs, she met Shyamasundari coming up.
Where are you going? I was coming to you, Bou.’
‘Is there something you’d like to tell me?’
‘Nothing so important. I saw my brother-in-law in a temper. So I thought
I should find out from you what the new hitch in his love affair was.
Remember it is we alone who can give you the best advice on how to get
along with him. So you are going to Motir-ma. Go, get it off your chest.’
Today it struck her that Madhusudan and Shyamasundari were both cast
in the same mould, fashioned by the same potter. It is difficult to say how
such a thought came to cross her mind. Not that she arrived at it after any
analysis of their characters, nor did they look alike, but there was some
resonance in their manners; they breathed the same air in their two worlds.
When Shy ama approached to make friends with her, Kumu was repelled
with the same loathing that she felt for Madhusudan.
Kumu entered their bedroom to find Nabin and his wife both trying to
snatch a book. She was about to turn back, when Nabin said, ‘Please don’t
go Boudi, we were about to go to you, with a complaint.’
‘What complaint?’
‘If you sit down I will tell you our sad story.’ So she sat down on the cot.
Nabin said, ‘This is the height of torture! This lady has hidden my book!’
‘Why such a punishment for you?’
 ‘Plain envy! Because she herself cannot read English. I am all for female
education but she is against the education of husbands as a class. She
resents the growing gulf between my intelligence which is maturing, and
her own. I tried my best to argue with her, by quoting the example of our
great epic heroine Sita, who chose always to follow her husband. I plead
with her not to block my way, even if I happen to leave her behind in the
matter of learning and intelligence.’
‘Only Saraswati, the goddess of learning, can gauge your learning—but
don’t boast about your intelligence in front of me,’ rejoined Motir-ma.
Kumu burst into a giggle watching Nabin make a face pretending to be in
dire distress. This was the first time, in this house, that she laughed like this
with an open heart. Her laughter sounded particularly sweet to Nabin. He
said to himself, ‘From now on this is my mission. I must make our Bourani
laugh.’
Still smiling, Kumu asked Motir-ma, ‘Dear sister, why have you hidden
his book?’
‘Look Didi, do we have to have his tutor waiting for him in our
bedroom? After a hard day’s work I come in to find a lamp burning and the
great pundit at his lessons. The food gets cold but he pays no attention
whatsoever.’
‘Is that right?’ Kumu asked Nabin.
‘Bourani, I am not such a saint as not to love food; but what I love better
is her sweet urging. That is why I deliberately delay, study is just a pretence
on my part.’
‘I can’t win the battle of words with him,’ said his wife.
‘And I admit defeat when she stops talking to me,’ said Nabin.
‘Does that happen too?’ Kumu asked.
‘May I then give one or two recent instances? They are etched on my
mind with indelible tears.’
‘That’s enough. You don’t have to quote any instance. Now you better
give me back my keys. See, he has hidden them,’ complained the wife.
‘I can’t go to the police against my own people, so the thief has to be
punished by robbing her. First, you give me my book,’ said Nabin.
 ‘I won’t give it back to you. I shall give it to Didi.’ There was a basket of
odds and ends of wool and silk pieces, in one corner of the room. Motir-ma
picked from the bottom of this basket the second volume of a concise
encyclopaedia in English, and put it on Kumu’s lap and said, ‘Take it to
your room. Don’t give it to him. Let me see how he fights with you.’
Nabin took out the bunch of keys from the top of the mosquito curtain
and gave it to Kumu with instructions not to part with it and added, ‘I too
want to see how the person in question behaves with you.’
Kumu turned the pages of the book and asked, ‘Is this the kind of book
he is fond of?’
‘There is no book he does not like.The other day I found him engrossed
in a book on rearing of cows.’
‘That was not meant for tending to my own health, so there is nothing for
me to be ashamed about.’
‘Didi, do you have something to say to me? Just say so and I shall order
this garrulous fellow out of this room.’
‘No, there is no need for that. My Dada is coming in a day or two.’
Nabin said, ‘Yes, he is coming tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Kumu was surprised at the news. She sat quiet for a while,
let out a deep sigh and asked, ‘How do I meet him?’
Motir-ma asked, ‘Haven’t you asked your husband?’
Kumu shook her head.
‘Won’t you ask him once?’
Kumu remained silent. It was very hard to talk to Madhusudan about her
brother. Her husband seemed to be always charged and ready to insult her
brother. She had great hesitation to cause the slightest provocation.
Nabin was pained to see the expression on her face. He said, ‘Don’t
worry, Boudi. We shall take care of it. You don’t have to say anything.’
From his childhood Nabin was frightened of his big brother, but the
advent of his Boudi seemed to have cured him of it.
After Kumu left, Motir-ma asked Nabin, ‘Have you thought of any way?
The other night when your brother called us to his bedroom and humiliated
himself before his wife, in front of us, I knew things would be difficult from
then on. In fact, now he turns his face away whenever he runs into you.’
‘He has realized that he has lost. Out of a sheer whim, he had emptied his
purse and paid in advance for something he has not got yet. Now he can’t
stand us because we were witnesses to his stupid deal.’
Motir-ma said, ‘That may be so, but this rage against Bipradas Babu is
like an obsession with him. It is increasing day by day. What a nasty affair!’
Nabin said, ‘That is one way of expressing his admiration for Kumu’s
brother. This type of person flays in public the very person they know in
their heart of hearts to be superior to them. Some say that the demon-king
Ravana had immense respect for Rama, and that is why he offered him
salutation with his ten pairs of hands. I can tell you, it won’t be easy at all
for Bourani to meet her brother.’
‘That won’t do. You have to find a way out.’
‘Well. I have just thought of one.’
‘Please tell me.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I feel shy.’
‘Even with me?’
‘Specially, with you.’
‘Let me hear the reason at least.’
‘It involves cheating my brother.You better not hear about it.’
‘I have not the slightest qualm about cheating for someone I love.’
‘Oh, so you have practiced it on me?’
‘Where else can I get such an easy victim?’ she taunted.
‘Right, my ladyship, I give a blank charter to cheat me whenever you
wish to.’
‘Why do you sound so happy about it?’
‘Shall I be frank? God has endowed you women with many ways of
deception. But He has topped them all with a touch of honey; and it is this
honeyed deception that we call maya—the great illusion.’
‘Then the best thing is to avoid it.’
 ‘Good heavens! What will we be left with in this world without illusion?
Let the goddesses continue to deceive the fools, cloud their visions, besot
their minds and do what they like with them.’
The conversation that followed was utterly useless and has nothing to do
whatever with our story.
 41

FOR THE FIRST TIME MADHUSUDAN DID NOT GET HIS WAY AT
THE BOARD meeting. Till now none of his proposals or arrangements had
ever been questioned. His immense self-confidence matched the confidence
his colleagues had in him. Relying on this he always did his homework in
advance before putting forth any proposal to the Board for approval. This
time, in furtherance of his indigo business, he was trying to buy the lease
for one property, from an old indigo factory owner. Some expenses were
also incurred. Everything was ready, only for the stamps to be affixed on
the sale—the deed had to be procured and the final payment had to be
made. The prospective employees had been promised their jobs. And now
this hurdle had come up.
Recently, lobbying was on for a relation’s son-in-law, for the post of a
treasurer which had fallen vacant in that factory. Madhusudan, who never
came to the rescue of the incompetent, paid no heed to all this. This matter
which was buried underground had suddenly germinated and sprouted as
opposition against him.
There was a loop-hole too. The owner of the property was the nephew-in-
law of a distant aunt of Madhusudan’s. When she came importuning for the
sale, to him, he calculated and found the deal attractive, the price was
reasonable and the profit margin was good. There was also the additional
reputation of being seen as a great patron of the family. And now the person
whose unworthy son-in-law was being deprived of the job was busy
exposing Madhusudan’s nepotism and carrying tales to the right quarters.
He had also taken upon himself to start a whispering campaign about
Madhusudan taking a secret cut on all transactions of his company.
Most people do not demand any proof for such false accusations, because
the strongest evidence in support of such a possibility is their own
innermost greed. It was easy to poison the minds of the people because of
Madhusudan’s burgeoning prosperity and his insufferable reputation for
integrity of character. These greedy people were greatly relieved to learn
that even Madhusudan had his secret weaknesses; they were only too eager
to do likewise, only they lacked the opportunity.
Madhusudan had given his word to the owner, and he was not the type to
go back on his word just because there was a risk of losing money. So he
decided to buy the property himself and was determined to prove to the
company what a bargain they had missed.

It was late when he came back home. Madhusudan had blind faith in his
own good luck, but today he feared that perhaps destiny was pushing the
train of his life from one track to another. This first jolt at the Board
Meeting gave him a shock. He leaned back in an easy chair in his office
room and began to coil his own black thoughts with the dark smoke
swirling out of his hookah.
Nabin came in to announce that someone had come from Bipradas for an
audience with him. Madhusudan barked, ‘Tell him to go. I have no time for
him now.’
Nabin could guess from his brother’s mood that something had gone
awry at the Board Meeting today, and that his mind was weak and
distracted at the moment.
Weakness by nature is ungenerous and the self-pride of the weak assumes
the mask of merciless cruelty. Nabin had not the slightest doubt that his
brother’s wounded pride would want to hit Kumu hard. But Nabin was
determined to shield her from this blow. The little hesitation he had so far
disappeared completely. After a little while he came back to find his brother
going through the address book. As soon as he came in Madhusudan asked
him rudely, ‘What now? Have you come as the advocate of your Bipradas
Babu?’
‘No, Dada, you need have no fears on that count. Their man got such a
rebuke that he will never enter this house, even if you personally send for
him.’
 Madhusudan could not stand this yet-to-be-faced effrontery either. He
said, ‘If I move my little finger he will come and fall at my feet. What did
he come for?’
‘Just to tell you that Bipradas Babu has postponed his trip to Calcutta by
a couple of days. He will come as soon as he feels a little better.’
‘All right. I am in no hurry either.’
‘I want a couple of hours’ leave tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘You will be angry if I tell you.’
‘I will be angrier if you do not tell me,’ said Madhusudan in his typical
fashion.
‘An astrologer from Kumbhakonam is here. I want my fortune told.’
Madhusudan’s heart missed a beat. He felt like running to the astrologer
that very instant. But pretending to be supremely unconcerned, he scolded
Nabin, ‘Do you really believe in all this?’
‘Not normally, but whenever I am scared I do.’
‘What are you scared about?’
Nabin did not answer. He started scratching his head.
‘Tell me who is it that you are scared of?’
‘I am not afraid of anyone in this world except you Dada, and I am ill at
ease watching you these last few days.’
It always gave Madhusudan great pleasure to know that the rest of the
world was in mortal fear of him. He kept looking at Nabin and puffed at his
hookah gravely, in silence, savouring his own importance.
Nabin said, ‘So I want to know clearly what my stars wish to do with me
and when will they let me off.’
Madhusudan said, ‘An atheist like you, who does not believe in anything,
has at last . . .’
‘If I believed in God, I would not trust my stars; those who do not listen
to a doctor readily accept the quack,’ replied Nabin.
The more Madhusudan was getting interested in probing his own fortune,
the more he tried to assume a caustic tone. He said, ‘Is this what all your
education has taught you, you monkey? You believe whatever anyone tells
you!’
‘The man has a copy of the Bhrigu Samhita which chronicles the
horoscopes of everyone born at any time in the past and will be reborn in
future, all written in Sanskrit. You can’t question that surely. You can test it
for yourself.’
‘God has taken care to create enough number of fools to feed those who
live by fooling them.’
‘And he also creates clever people like you to save those fools. He is not
only kind to the victors but is equally so to the victims. Why not try your
sharp intelligence against the Bhrigu Samhita for once?’
‘All right, take me there tomorrow morning, let me check up on your
Kumbhakonam trickster.’
‘But Dada, your disbelief is so strong that it may upset all his
calculations. It is the general experience that trust begets trust. It must be
the same with the stars. See the example of the foreigners, they don’t
believe in stars, so the stars have no influence on their lives. I remember a
particularly inauspicious conjunction of stars, when your English assistant
won at the races. If it were me then, far from winning, the horse would have
come and kicked me in my belly! Dada, please do not pitch your logic
against that of the stars. Have a modicum of faith when you go there.’
Madhusudan went back to his hookah with a contented smile.
Next morning at seven, the two of them arrived at Venkat Shashtri’s
house after negotiating the garbage in a narrow lane. It was a dark, dank
room on the ground floor; the walls scarred with falling plaster looked like
they were afflicted with some terrible skin disease. On the cot was spread
an old dirty, torn cotton carpet and at one end some palm-leaf manuscripts
lay scattered. A hand-painted picture of Shiva and Parvati hung on one
wall. Nabin called aloud, ‘Shastrijee!’ A dark, short, thin man wrapped in a
light cotton shawl entered. The front of his head was shaven, leaving a mop
of hair at the back.
Nabin bowed to him with great reverence. The man’s appearance did not
inspire an iota of respect in Madhusudan, but fearing that a fortune-teller
might have some closeness with Destiny, he finished his half-hearted
greeting. The Shastri ignored Madhusudan’s horoscope which Nabin placed
before him, but asked to see his palm/instead. He took out a pen and ink
from a wooden box and drew up some chart. Then he looked at
Madhusudan’s face and said, ‘Pancham Varga—the fifth group.’
Madhusudan could not follow him. So the astrologer recited the Bengali
consonant groups, counting on his fingers, ‘Ka, cha, ta, twa, pa.’ Even then
it remained obscure to Madhusudan. The astrologer went on ‘Pancham
Varna—the fifth letter!’ Madhusudan waited patiently. The man reeled off,
‘Pa, pha, ba, bha, ma.’ All that Madhusudan concluded from this was that
Bhrigumuni must have started the first chapter of his book with grammar.
Then Venkat Shastri spoke, ‘Panchaksharam—five letters.’
Nabin suddenly woke up. He whispered into his brother’s ears, ‘I’ve got
it, Dada.’
‘What did you follow?’
‘The fifth letter of the fifth group of consonants is “pa” and the fifth letter
of that group is “ma” and then your name “Ma-dhu-su-da-n” is spelt with
five letters. By a strange grace of your birth stars, there is a remarkable
convergence of three fives!’
Madhusudan was stunned. Thousands of years before his parents named
him, it was registered in Bhrigumuni’s log book What a stellar event! Then
he listened dumbfounded to a summary of his own life, written in Sanskrit.
The less he understood of the language, the more respectful he became
towards Shastri and Bhrigumuni. Life was an embodiment of the words of
the sages. He put his hand over his heart and felt that his whole body was
like a manuscript compiled in some forest sanctum, with the help of
suffixes, case-endings, inflexions and so on. The last words of the
astrologer were to the effect that his immense wealth was in preparation of
Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth taking up abode in his house. Recently, she
had arrived with the new bride. But he had to take extreme care that she
was hurt in no way, because if that happened his fortune may be reversed.
Venkat Shastri added, ‘Such signs are already appearing. If the person
born under these stars does not take heed even now, the danger may become
imminent.’ Madhusudan was astounded. He remembered the news of his
great profit on the day of his wedding, and now this defeat at the Board
Meeting! Lakhmi’s advent was welcome, but the onus was awesome.
On the way back Madhusudan just sat silent in the carriage. Nabin broke
the silence with, ‘I don’t believe a word of what Venkat Shastri said. He
must have heard all about you from someone else.’
‘So you consider yourself very clever! Is it so easy to collect information
about everyone everywhere?’
‘At least it is easier than casting horoscopes of billions of people much
before they are born. Where could Bhrigumuni get so much paper and
where would Venkat Shastri find the room to keep them?’
‘The sages knew how to say a thousand words with one stroke of their
pen.’
‘Absurd.’
‘Whatever is beyond your comprehension becomes absurd? Let your
Science be. Stop this debate and go and get hold of the man who came from
Bipradas Babu. Don’t delay, go today.’
Nabin felt uneasy having deceived his brother. It was such a simple ruse,
its success so ridiculous with one like his brother, that Nabin himself felt
ashamed and sad at his humiliation. On many occasions he had tricked his
brother when in a fix, but he had never felt bad about them. But this time he
felt somewhat unclean at so elaborately setting up such a big hoax.
 42

MADHUSUDAN FELT AS IF A HEAVY WEIGHT HAD JUST FALLEN

OFF HIS CHEST—the weight of self-pride, the stony self-esteem which
had always suppressed his growing attachment to his wife. A struggle had
been going on in his mind against his infatuation with Kumu. The more he
found no way but to surrender to her, the more he was angry with her. Now
that the stars had clarified that Lakshmi had come to his home in the form
of his bride, and that she had to be appeased, all strife was at an end. The
thought thrilled him no end. He went on reciting to himself, ‘My Lakshmi,
my priceless gift of good fortune!’ He felt like running to her right away
and begging her forgiveness. But there was no time today. He had to rush to
work now to mend the breaches in his business affairs. He could not afford
to go home even for lunch.
Meanwhile, Kumu’s mind was in a turmoil. She was told that her brother
was to come the next day and that he was unwell. She was anxious to know
for sure, if she would be able to see him. Nabin had gone out on some
errand and not come back yet. For some unknown reason, Nabin was
certain that Madhusudan would himself come and try to please her in every
way, and though she felt that Nabin was expecting too much of his brother,
she did not want to deprive him of that pleasure.
It was not possible to sit on the terrace today. It had got cloudy since last
night and today since noon, it had started drizzling. Winter rain was like an
unwelcome guest. The clouds lost colour, the rain its sound, the wet air was
depressing and the earth seemed to shrink away from the poor sunless sky.
So Kumu sat on the little shaded place at the top of the stairs leading from
her bedroom. Occasionally a spray of rain would come inside. On this dim,
monotonous, wet day she felt that her whole life was being swallowed by a
python and within the confines of its gullet there was no opening
whatsoever. The resentment against her personal god, who had lured her
into this helpless morass of hopelessness, flared into a flaming rage today.
She sprang into action, took out from her desk the framed picture of Radha
and Krishna, wrapped in a piece of printed silk cloth. She wanted to destroy
it as a loud protest declaring her loss of faith in Him. Her trembling hands
could not open the knots of the wrapper. The more she struggled with these,
the tighter they became. In her impatience she tore the string open with her
teeth. At the familiar sight of the divine couple she could no longer hold
herself back; she pressed them to her bosom. The more the wooden frame
hurt her the harder she pressed it close to herself.
Murali, the bearer, entered to make the bed. He was shivering in the cold,
wrapped in a dirty old shawl, bald, veins sticking out, sunken cheeks with a
salt-and-pepper stubble of many days. He had just recovered from a bout of
malaria and was anaemic. The doctor had asked him to give up his job, go
back and rest in his village home, but fate was cruel.
‘Are you feeling cold, Murali?’ asked Kumu.
‘Yes ma’am, the rains have made it chilly.’
‘Have you no warm clothes?’
‘On the day of his investiture the Maharaj gave me a shawl, but on the
doctor’s advice I gave it to my grandson when he was suffering from cough
and cold.’
Kumu took out from the cupboard next to her, a grey shawl, and said,
‘Take this shawl of mine.’
Murali bowed low and said, ‘Please excuse me. The Maharaj will be very
angry.’
Kumu recalled that the path of kindness was very narrow in this house.
But she also had to win her lord’s reprieve by earning merit with such good
deeds. She threw the shawl down on the floor in indignation.
Murali said with folded hands, ‘Please Ranima, our own Lakshmi, do not
be angry with me. I do not need warm clothes. I stay in the tobacco room
with those who tend to the hookahs. They always have those burning pieces
of coal in bowls and that keeps me quite warm.’
Kumu said, ‘Go and see if brother Nabin is back, and ask him to see me.’
 As soon as Nabin came she said, ‘You have to do me a favour. Please say
yes.’
Nabin said, ‘Sure I will, even if it harms me, but never, if it hurts you.’
‘What more harm can come to me? I have ceased to care.’ She took out
her thick golden bangles, gave it to him and said, ‘You sell this and arrange
a religious service for my brother’s recovery from illness.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Bourani.Your devotion to him is a perpetual
service in his favour.’
‘Brother, there is nothing else that I can do for my Dada except to offer
the gods my service on his behalf.’
‘You don’t have to do anything. Aren’t we there to serve also?’
‘What can you do? Tell me.’
‘We are sinners; we can sin for him.’
‘Do not joke about such matters, please.’
‘Not at all. You will agree that it is much more difficult to sin than to do a
good deed and when the gods realize it they duly reward the one who does
it.’
Normally, she would have been hurt at the disrespect for divinity implied
in Nabin’s words, but she had to be indulgent towards such lack of
reverence as she remembered her brother’s equal disbelief in gods. Her
tolerance of this offence was rather like the mother’s amused and
affectionate indulgence to a child’s mischief-making.
She said, with a faint smile, ‘You men can do as you like on your own
right, but we have no way to act on our own. How can we do something for
those whom we love but cannot approach? My days seem endless. I see no
way out. Is there no one to take pity on me?’
Nabin’s eyes were beginning to fill with tears.
She continued, ‘I have got to make a token offering on behalf of my
brother. This bangle is my mother’s. I shall offer it to the gods as from my
mother.’
‘One does not have to offer anything to a god in person, He takes it on
his own. Wait for a couple of days and see if He is pleased with you. If not,
I shall certainly do whatever you order me to do. Even take an offering to
the god who does not show you any mercy.’
It was getting dark, and familiar steps could be heard on the stairs. Nabin
got a start, his brother was coming. He did not run away, but stayed on
courageously to face his brother. Kumu’s mind, on the other hand, shrank
immediately. She was frightened at the severity of the shock to all her
nerves from this unseen conflict.Why had this evil got her in its grips?
All of a sudden she asked Nabin, ‘Do you know of anyone who can
counsel me as a guru?’
‘Why, Bourani?’
‘I can’t cope with my own mind any more.’
‘That’s not a fault of your mind.’
‘I have often heard my brother say that the danger is always from outside
but the evil is within your mind.’
‘Do not worry, your brother will guide you.’
‘Will that day ever come?’
As soon as an understanding was reached in Madhusudan’s mind
between his worldly wisdom and his feelings of love, the latter began to
suffuse all his activity. Kumu’s beautiful face was his own fortune.
That it was already turning in his favour was proved today when many of
the colleagues who opposed him yesterday wrote to him today changing
their tone. The moment Madhusudan had proposed buying the property
himself, they thought they were missing a bargain. Some of them even
suggested reconsidering the entire proposal.
Also, the peon in the office who had been docked half his month’s wages
for absence without notice, came and fell at his feet today. Madhusudan at
once pardoned him; which meant, of course, that he would compensate the
peon from his own pocket. The punishment would however, remain on the
books. With him, rules were rules.
It was a day of wonders for Madhusudan. The sky outside was overcast
and it was also drizzling a little but this only helped enhance the joy he felt
inside. Usually after he returned from work he spent his time in the office
room till dinner was announced. Since the day he got married he did break
this rule and come inside the house at odd times, but he did that
surreptitiously. Today his loud footsteps boldly announced to the whole
world that he was indeed going to meet his wife. He had realized today that
his extraordinary good fortune could be the envy of the world.
The rain stopped for a while. Some rooms in the house were lit up, others
were still in the dark. An ancient woman, with an incense burner, was going
round each room, a bat was circling round and round from the sky above
the courtyard into the lamp-lit corridors. The maids sitting on the veranda
were rolling wicks on their bare thighs. They scampered at the approach of
Madhusudan. At the sound of his footsteps Shyamasundari came out with a
box of paan. She always used to send this paan to him when he came back
from work. Everyone knew that only Shyama could make the paan to his
taste. There was the hint of something more to this common knowledge. It
is this extra bit which made her bold enough to hold the box open in front
of him and say, ‘Brother, your paan is here all ready, do take them with
you.’ If this were in the past, there would be a few exchanges of
pleasantries, with a touch of flirtation. But today, something in his mind
made him shun her touch and quickly disappear without the paan. Her large
eyes flashed in a sulk but drops of tears soon flooded them. In her heart of
hearts, she was in love with him.
As soon as Madhusudan entered the bedroom Nabin got up to go. He
touched the feet of Kumu and said, ‘I shall remember to look for the guru,’
then he turned to his brother and added, ‘Bourani wants to listen to the
scriptures from a proper guru. We have our family priest but he . . .’
Madhusudan said excitedly, ‘Scriptures! All right, I shall take care of it.
You don’t have to do anything.’
Nabin left.
All the way home Madhusudan had recited to himself how he was going
to address Kumu, ‘Borrobou, you have come and my whole house is lit up.’
He was never used to such sentimental utterances. That is why he had
decided to speak them out as soon as he entered the room, without
dithering. But the sight of Nabin halted him. And then came the topic of
scriptures, which totally silenced him. This little impediment baffled the
elaborate preparation that was going on in his mind. Then he saw the fear in
her eyes and a shrinking of her mind and body. On other days he would not
have noticed these. But today the new light within himself made his vision
acute. He was now more sensitive towards Kumu’s feelings. Today her
apathy seemed to him cruelly unfair. Still he was determined not to be
upset. But what promised to be easy and natural was no longer possible.
After a spell of silence Madhusudan said, ‘Borrobou, you want to get
away? Can’t you wait for a minute?’
She was surprised at his tone and voice. She said, ‘No, why should I want
to go?’
‘I have brought something for you, please open it and look.’ He put a
small golden casket in her hand.
She opened it and saw her brother’s gift—the sapphire ring inside. Her
heart was in a tumult, she did not know what to do.
‘Will you let me put this on your finger?’
She stretched out her hand. He took her hand in his lap and started to put
it on very gently, deliberately taking a little longer time than necessary. The
he lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it and said, ‘It was my mistake to take it
off your hand. No precious stone can be harmful in your hands.’
Kumu would have been less astonished had he hit her instead.
Madhusudan liked the childlike wonder in her face. He had something more
for her in reserve, and now he revealed it. ‘Kalu Mukhujjey from your
home is here. Do you want to meet him?’
Her face brightened. She exclaimed, ‘Kaluda!’
‘Let me send for him. While you two talk, I shall finish my dinner.’
Kumudini’s eyes brimmed over with tears of gratitude.
 43

KALU’S RELATIONSHIP WITH THE HOUSE OF THE CHATTERJEES

HAD LASTED for generations. He was their most trusted man. One of his
ancestors even went to jail for the Chatterjees. Kalu had come to
Madhusudan’s office to pay an instalment of the loan interest and take a
receipt. He was short, fair, well-rounded, with bulging light eyes overhung
with thick bushy eyebrows that were partly grey. His thick moustache was
white but the thatch of hair on his head was still mostly black. He was
wearing a carefully pleated Santipur dhoti and an old expensive jamawar
appropriate to the prestige of his employer. The stone on his ring was not of
inconsiderable value. Kumu bowed as soon as Kalu came. They sat on the
carpet. Kalu said, ‘Little one, it was only the other day you left us, but it
seems years ago.’
‘First, you tell me how Dada is . . .’
‘Yes, we had some anxious times with him. The day after you left it was
critical. But he has an unusually strong constitution and he weathered it.
The doctors were surprised.’
‘Is he coming tomorrow?’
‘That was the plan but it may be delayed by a couple of days. The full
moon is due and everyone warned him of the danger of a relapse. How are
you keeping?’
‘I am fine.’
Kalu did not wish to comment, but he wondered nevertheless. Whatever
had happened to her graceful beauty? Why were there dark rings under her
eyes? Why had her fair skin lost its glow?
Kumu also wanted to ask a question which was bothering her. ‘Hasn’t he
sent anything for me?’ As if in answer to her unspoken question Kalu said,
‘He has sent something for you with me.’
 Kumu was eager to know. ‘What is it? Where is it?’
‘I have left it outside.’
‘Why didn’t you bring it in?’
‘Don’t be impatient Didi, Maharaj said he will bring it himself.’
‘What is it, do tell me.’
‘But he swore me to secrecy.’ Kalu looked around, changed the topic and
said, ‘They have kept you in great comfort.When I go back and report to
Boro Babu how happy he will be. The first two days he fretted for your
news. Must have been something wrong with the post, then he got three of
your letters all together.’
Kumu could easily guess where the post had gone wrong.
She wanted to ask him to stay to dinner, but did not have the courage to
do so. She asked a little hesitatingly, ‘Kaluda, you haven’t had your dinner
yet?’
‘I’ve noticed that in Calcutta late meals do not agree with me. So I’ve
started on Ramdas Kabiraj’s makaradhwaja. But it does not seem to have
made much difference,’ Kalu anwered.
He had guessed that as a new bride Kumu was not yet fully in command
of the household and so she must not be able to ask him for dinner directly
and would only be sorry for herself.
Just then, Motir-ma signalled to her from behind the door and when
Kumu went to her Motir-ma said, ‘Please bring Mr Mukherjee, from your
home, to the room downstairs and sit with him. His dinner is ready.’
Kumu came back and told him, ‘Let your Kabiraj be.You have to come
for your dinner right now.’
‘What a fuss. It’s torture ! Not now, maybe some other time.’
‘None of that! Just come with me.’
It was obvious that the Kabiraj’s medicine had been very effective, for
there was no lack of appetite on Kalu’s part.
As soon as her Kaludada’s dinner was over Kumu returned to her
bedroom. His visit had left her mind full of memories of her childhood
home. The mango tree in the backyard of her Noornagar home must have
blossomed by now. How many quiet afternoons had she spent lying down
with her head resting on her arm, in the courtyard near the pond, under the
flowering jamrul tree. Those afternoons filled with the murmur of bees,
brilliant with light and shade. She used to feel an unknown aching in her
heart, which she failed to understand then. That ache coloured her dreams
like the dust-laden evening glow in Brajabhumi—the land of Radha and
Krishna. She was unaware then, that the yet unmet love of her youth had
already spread His enchantment everywhere in the air. It was He who had
been playing hide and seek with her when she worshipped the Radha-
Krishna duo, it was He whom she had invited in the unseen recesses of her
heart as she played Raag Multani on her esraj.
That old home of hers was full of intimations of the dream person of her
first youth, that attic from where she could see the winding village road
flanked by flaming fields of mustard, the small knoll near the wall of the
backyard from the top of which you could make out pictures in green and
black from some forgotten times sketched on the mossy wall. On waking up
every morning, she could see from her bedroom window on the first floor
the white sails against the red sky, receding into the distant horizon, just like
her aimless desires. That mirage of her first youth had accompanied her to
Kolkata, to find itself in her prayers, in her gardening. That is what had
lured her blindly into the noose of marriage, with the pretence of an oracle.
But it disappeared in the strong light of the day.
Meanwhile Madhusudan had crept up behind her and stared into her
image on the mirror on the wall. He knew that the unknown and unseen
realm where Kumu’s mind was lost, was certainly out of his reach. Her
unmindfulness would have infuriated him on any other day. But today he
sat by her side with a quiet sadness, and said, ‘What are you thinking of,
Borrobou?’
Kumu was startled. She turned pale. Madhusudan caught her hand, shook
it and said, ‘Will you never give yourself up to me?’
She had no answer. It was a question she had been asking herself, ‘What
indeed is holding me back?’ When he was rough with her the answer was
simple, but when he was pliant then there was no one but herself to blame.
Kumu had no doubt that it was a great sin not to surrender herself body and
soul to her husband, but then why had she come to this pass? Women had
only one goal in life, to become an ideal wife—a sati. She wanted to save
herself from the great disgrace of losing sight of that goal. So today she told
him in all earnestness, ‘Please have pity on me!’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Make me your own, order me, punish me. I feel I am not worthy of
you!’
Madhusudan was greatly amused. Kumu wanted to be a dutiful sati. If
she were an ordinary housewife that would have been enough. But Kumu
was much more to him than just a duly wedded wife. The more he was
prepared to offer for that extra bit, the more he found himself short.
His own smallness was exposed to himself. He was getting more and
more distressed at the unbridgeable inequality between himself and Kumu.
He heaved a sigh and said, ‘If I give you something, what will you give
me in return?’
Kumu guessed that what her husband would give her would be the item
her Dada had sent her.
‘I shall certainly demand the right price for the gift,’ he continued, and
delved under the bed and opened a packet wrapped in silk. It was her
familiar ivory-worked esraj. She had left it at home when she came here.
‘Are you happy? Now pay my price,’ Madhusudan demanded.
She had no idea as to what he might be wanting.
‘Play something for me,’ he said.
It was not much to ask, but very hard to give. She had realized this much
that Madhusudan had no taste for music. It was difficult for her to get over
the embarrassment of even thinking of playing for such a person. She
started toying with the instrument. Madhusudan repeated, ‘Go on, play, you
needn’t be shy with me.’
She said, ‘The instrument is yet to be tuned.’
‘Why don’t you say frankly that your own mind is not in tune with
mine?’
The truth of the statement stung her to the quick. She said, ‘Let me tune it
and I shall play for you another day.’
 ‘When will that be? Tell me definitely. Tomorrow?’
‘All right, tomorrow.’
‘In the evening when I come back from work.’
‘Sure.’
‘You are very pleased with the esraj. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, I am very happy indeed.’
He took out a leather case from under his shawl and said, ‘And this pearl
necklace that I have bought for you? Will you be equally pleased with it?’
Why ask such an awkward question! She started playing with the bow.
‘I get it. Request not granted.’
Kumu did not understand what he was trying to convey.
Madhusudan said, ‘I was very keen to place this plea of mine close to
your heart, but my case was dismissed long before it could even be heard.’
The jewel case remained open on the table in front of Kumu. Neither of
them spoke a word. She sat in a daze as she often did these days. After a
while she came to her senses, put the necklace round her neck and touched
his feet. She asked, ‘Do you want to hear me play?’
Madhusudan agreed readily.
‘I will play just now,’ she said, tuned the esraj and started with Raag
Kedara. From Kedara she worked up to Raag Chhayanat, oblivious of the
presence of anyone else. Then she started singing her favourite song,
‘Tharri raho meri aankhana-key aagey’

(Stay in front of my eyes, my love.)

That exquisite presence appeared in the firmament of her music, the very
same one whom she had always felt in her heart, in her song. Only the
craving to see Him with her own eyes remained unfulfilled forever, hence
the eternal yearning in her song—Tharri raho meri aankhahna-key aagey . .
.
Madhusudan had no understanding of music, but the tune playing on her
ethereal countenance, the rhythm that vibrated with every note played by
the touch of her delicate fingers, felt like a heavenly benediction showered
on him. She was playing unmindful of her surroundings, but at one point
she suddenly noticed Madhusudan staring at her face and her hands froze.
Shyness overcame her, she stopped playing.
Madhusudan was in an expansive mood after hearing all that she sang.
He asked generously, ‘Borrobou, what do you wish for? Just name it.’ Even
if she had asked to go and nurse her brother for a few days he might have
agreed. Because today as he looked at her face absorbed in music, he could
hardly believe in his good fortune. He was telling himself, ‘She is here
indeed in my own house, how wonderfully true!’
Kumu put the esraj and the bow down and sat quietly.
Madhusudan pleaded once more, ‘Borrobou, please ask for something
from me. I shall meet your wishes.’
Kumu said, ‘I want to give Murli the bearer some winter clothing.’
It would have been better if she had asked for nothing at all. But a
blanket for Murli bearer! It was like asking for shoe laces from one who
was prepared to lay down one’s crown at your feet.
Madhusudan was astonished. He was annoyed with the bearer and he
said, ‘So that rascal has been pestering you?’
‘No, I tried to give him a shawl but he refused. If you let him have it,
then he will have the courage to accept it.’
Madhusudan was struck dumb. After giving the matter some thought he
said, ‘You want to give it in charity? Let me see that shawl of yours.’
She brought her much-used brown shawl. Madhusudan wrapped it round
himself. He rang the small bell kept on the teapoy. An old maidservant
appeared and she was told to fetch Murli bearer.
Murli came and stood with folded hands, trembling out of cold and fear.
Madhusudan took out a hundred-rupee note from his wallet and put it in
his hand and told Murli, ‘This is a gift from the mistress.’
Such unsolicited favour from Madhusudan had never happened in
Murli’s lifetime. Even more frightened then ever, Murli mumbled, ‘But sir .
. .’
‘What “sir”?You fool, take it from her and buy as many warm clothes as
you wish.’
 The matter ended there; but so did everything else for the rest of the day.
The tide that was carrying Kumu forward towards her husband suddenly
ebbed. The wave of self-sacrifice which overflowed the banks of his
narrowmindedness went down again at the impact of this trivial plea on
behalf of a mere bearer. After this, it was difficult for both of them to speak.
He had totally forgotten that someone would be waiting for him in the
office about the land lease. He woke up suddenly and blamed himself for
this lapse. He quickly got up and left saying, ‘I have got some work. I must
take leave of you now.’
On the way to the office room he stopped in front of Shyamasundari’s
room and said loudly enough, ‘Are you in?’
It was her day of fasting. She was lying down wrapped cosily in a sheet.
At his words she got up and stood near the door and asked, ‘Is that you
brother?’
‘You didn’t give me my paan today!’
 44

MEANWHILE, SOMEONE WAS HIDING PATIENTLY IN THE DARK,

BEHIND THE door. He could now wait no longer. It was Habloo. He was
stiff like a wooden doll because he dreaded Madhusudan. After the last
scolding he got from Madhusudan, Habloo did not dare approach his new
aunt and was fretting for her. It was not quite safe to come here this
evening, but his mother had put him to sleep and left. He had woken up at
the sound of the esraj. He didn’t know what it was, but was sure it was
coming from the direction of his aunt’s bedroom. He was also certain that
Uncle would not be there, because it was unthinkable that anyone should
dare play any music in his presence. But when he saw his uncle’s shoes in
front of the door he wanted to run away, only the glimpse of Auntie herself
playing rooted him to the spot. He was listening from behind the door. He
knew from the start that this aunt was an amazing person but today his
admiration knew no bounds. As soon as Madhusudan left he rushed to
Kumu’s lap, put his arms round her neck and whispered into her ears,
‘Aunty!’
Kumu held him close and said, ‘But your hands are cold, were you out in
this damp rainy weather?’
He did not answer, afraid that she might send him to bed straight away.
Kumu hugged him under her own shawl and asked him why he was up so
late.
‘I came to listen to your music. How do you play the esraj?’
‘You will be able to play as well if you learn it.’
‘Will you teach me?’
Motir-ma stormed in. ‘So here you are, you thug! I have been looking for
him all over. He is afraid of setting foot outside after dark, but when it
comes to Auntie’s room he seems to have no such fear. Come on, come to
bed.’
Habloo clung to Kumu.
‘Let him be for a little while,’ said Kumu.
‘If you encourage him like this, he will run into trouble. Let me put him
to bed, then I shall come.’
Kumu was keen on giving Habloo something—some sweets or a toy—
but she could not find anything suitable. So she kissed him and said, ‘Go to
bed tonight sweetheart, I shall play for you tomorrow in the afternoon.’
An unhappy Habloo went with his mother.
Motir-ma came back soon, anxious to find out the results of Nabin’s
conspiracy. She noticed the sapphire on Kumu’s finger as she sat down and
knew then that the plot had worked. Just to raise the topic, she asked, ‘Didi ,
how did you come by this instrument?’
‘Dada sent it for me,’ said Kumu.
‘So your husband fetched it for you?’
‘Yes,’ was Kumu’s brief reply.
Motir-ma looked at her face closely but could not find any sign of
surprise or excitement there.
‘Did he bring any news of your brother?’
‘No.’
‘He is coming the day after tomorrow. Wasn’t there any talk of your
visiting him?’
‘No , we didn’t talk about him at all.’
‘Why didn’t you ask him yourself?’
‘I may ask anything of him but not this.’
‘You don’t have to ask. Just go and meet your brother. I am sure your
husband will not say anything.’
Motir-ma had not realized fully as yet that Madhusudan’s kindness was
proving to be a problem for Kumu, for she was unable to give in return
what he demanded. Her heart was drained out. That was why she was so
reluctant to accept anything from him—to be indebted to him in any way. In
fact, she went to the extent of wishing that it might be better for her if her
brother’s arrival was delayed by a few more days.
After an interval Motir-ma spoke up. ‘It seems big brother is in a
generous mood today.’
Kumu looked at her with troubled eyes and said, ‘I can’t make out why
there is this change of heart. It worries me, I don’t know what I should do.’
Motir-ma stroked Kumu’s chin and said, ‘You don’t have to do a thing.
Don’t you understand this simple fact that he had so far done nothing but
business and never come across a girl like you. The more he is beginning to
get to know you, the more he prizes you.’
‘There is nothing in me, my dear. That he will find by looking closer. I
can see myself how empty I am inside. And that is what he will discover
gradually. That is why, when I see him so pleased, I think of how he has
been cheated. And the day he discovers that, he would be furious. That ,
anger would be for real, so I am not afraid of it.’
‘Do you know your own worth, Didi? The day you came to their house
you brought with you something for which they should be indebted to you
forever. My man is desperate to do something for you. He won’t rest until
he jumps across the sea for you. If I were not so fond of you, you would
have been our bone of contention.’
‘It is my great luck to have such a brother-in-law.’
‘And what about this sister-in-law? Is she like an evil star for your
fortune?’
‘If I mention one of you, I don’t have to name the other.’
Motir-ma put her arm round Kumu affectionately and asked her, ‘I have
to ask you for a favour if you agree?’
‘Ask then!’
‘Let us be each other’s confidante.’
‘That’s already so.’
‘Then you can’t hide anything from me. Please tell me, why are you so
off colour today?’
Kumu looked at her for a long time and then said, ‘Shall I be frank? To
tell you the truth, I fear myself.’
 ‘What is that? Why should you be afraid of yourself?’
‘I have just discovered that I am not the person I believed myself to be. I
came with my mind made up and reconciled to everything. Even when my
brothers were hesitant, I insisted on treading my new path. But the person
who started out so confidently is nowhere to be found.’
‘You are unable to love. Is that it? Tell me frankly. Have you been in love
with someone else? Do you know what love is?’
‘Will you laugh if I say I do know? Yes, love did flood my whole sky
with light as the dawn does before sunrise. It always felt as if the sun was
just about to come up. I started out in quest of that sunrise like a pilgrim
carrying holy water and flowers as offering. I thought I had encouragement
from the deity I have worshipped all my life. I came on a tryst. I did not feel
the darkness of the night. But now that my eyes are opened in broad
daylight what do I see inside and outside of myself? How shall I count my
moments, year after year?’
‘Do you think you may never bring yourself to love him?’
‘I might have been able to love him earlier. I had brought something
within me which would have made anything likeable and easy to live with,
but your brother-in-law broke it to smithereens, from the start. Today
everything hits me hard. It seems I have been skinned raw, everything
around me pains me, and I wince at whatever I touch. Maybe time will
harden me and I shall become callous. But happiness I shall never taste in
my life.’
‘You can never tell.’
‘Yes, one can very well. I have no illusions left. My life is shamelessly
exposed. There is no cover left to console me with. Don’t women have any
space to themselves till they die? Has God made their world so rigid?’
Motir-ma had never heard Kumu talk at such length and with so much
emotion. Specially today when she and Nabin had contrived to soften
Madhusudan’s mind towards her. She was terrified at the intensity of
Kumu’s distress. No gardener would now be able to revive this sensitive
creeper even with an outpouring of indulgence, she thought.
 Kumu spoke again, ‘I am well aware that this inability of mine to give
myself up honourably to my husband is a great sin on my part. But I am not
so disturbed on that count as at the prospect of the degradation of surrender
without respect.’
Motir-ma was at a loss to answer.
Kumu went on, ‘You, my dear, are so lucky to love your husband with all
your heart. I used to think it was the easiest thing to love, all wives naturally
loved their husbands. But now I see, to be able to love is the rarest thing. It
takes a lifetime of devotion. Tell me honestly, does every wife love her
husband?’
Motir-ma said with a smile, ‘One can be a good wife even without love.
Otherwise the world would be unlivable.’
‘Good. Give me that assurance. Let me be a good wife at least, if nothing
else.There seems to be more merit in it. It calls for more devotion.’
‘Obstacles may come from outside even in that effort on your part.’
‘One can overcome such impediments by one’s will. I shall succeed. I
shall not accept defeat.’
‘Of course you will succeed! Who else can but you?’
The rain came in a downpour. The lamp flickered in the wind. A gust of
wind rushed into the room suddenly like a wet nightjar flapping its wings.
Kumu shuddered. She said, ‘I don’t feel so strongly the presence of my
lord. I recite his name like a mantra mechanically, my mind refuses to
respond. That is what is frightening me most.’
Motir-ma did not feel like consoling her with empty words. She just held
her close. Someone called from outside, ‘Mejobou!’
Kumu was happy to greet Nabin and welcome him in.
‘I didn’t find any light in my dark room so I came to look for it,’ said
Nabin.
Motir-ma mocked him.
‘My poor thing, like the legendary cobra without the jewel on its head!’
‘You can tell the cobra from the jewel easily by its hiss. Isn’t that so,
Bourani?’
‘Don’t make me a witness to your quarrel.’
 ‘I know if I did that I’d lose my case.’
‘Then you can rescue your lost jewel. I won’t keep her in my room.’
Motir-ma said, ‘Don’t you think he is the least concerned about his lost
property? It is only a pretext to come and touch your feet.’
‘Do I need any pretext? Those feet are always ready to grace me. Who
can try and win that which is most unattainable? When it comes to you, it
comes on its own, easily. There are thousands more worthy than me but I
was the one lucky enough to touch those beautiful feet, others could not.
Nabin’s life was blessed—gratis.’
‘You dear brother, you don’t know what you are saying. Does your
encyclopaedia . . .’
‘You can’t say that to me. What can those English people tell me about
the “feet” we worship? They who confine the feet of their own Lakshmis
within the narrow high heel shoes can hardly capture the glory of women’s
feet in the pages of their encyclopaedias. It is said that Lakshman the ideal
brother-in-law in our Ramayana, spent the fourteen years of their exile
looking at the feet of his sister-in-law Sita. I see you are pulling your sari to
cover your feet.You may do so but remember, the lotus folds itself at night
but it does not stay shut forever. It opens its petals again in the morning.’
‘Is this how he won you, with his flattery?’ Kumu asked her confidante.
‘Not in the least. He is not one to waste his sweet words on me.’
‘Maybe there is no need for it in your case,’ said Kumu.
Nabin said, ‘The goddesses are insatiable as far as words of praise are
concerned. Unfortunately I do not have five heads like Shiva. So the
familiar words of praise from this one tongue are now stale for her. She has
lost her taste for it.’
Murli the bearer appeared to say that the master wanted Nabin in the
office room.
That immediately put Nabin in a bad mood. He had reckoned that
Madhusudan would come straight to the bedroom from work today. The
boat seemed to have run aground.
After he left, Motir-ma said softly, ‘Do remember one thing, our big
brother loves you.’
 ‘That’s what is so strange to me,’ Kumu said.
‘Why do you say that? Is he made of stone?’
‘I am not worthy of him.’
‘There is no man on earth you are not worthy of.’
‘He is so powerful, so well-respected, so mature. He is a great man. How
little can he get from me? In the few days I have been here, I have realized
what a greenhorn I am. That is why I am most frightened when he is in the
loving mood. I find myself hollow. How can I serve him with such fraud?
Last night I thought of myself as a ‘bearing post’ mail; if you opened it,
there might not even be a letter.’
‘You make me laugh, Didi. I know he is a great businessman and no one
can match his business acumen. But you have not come to manage his
business that you should be worried about your fitness. If he ever speaks to
you honestly he will admit that it is he who is not worthy of you.’
‘He did say as much to me the other day.’
‘And you did not believe him.’
‘No. On the contrary I was scared. He had misjudged me and he is bound
to realize his mistake some day.’
‘Why did you think so?’
‘Shall I tell you? This marriage of mine, it is I who made it happen—but
out of what a childish illusion! Whatever beguiled me then was entirely
false. Yet with what utter conviction, what stubbornness I went into it:
nobody could have stopped me. Dada knew that, so he did not stop me, but
I was aware that he was extremely worried and apprehensive. Even then I
didn’t curb myself. I was such a fool. From now on not only do I suffer but
I make others suffer too, and curse myself as the sole cause of all this
suffering.’
Motir-ma did not have any answer. She asked, ‘Tell me, Didi, what made
you decide in favour of this marriage?’
‘I knew for certain then, that it didn’t matter whether the husband was
good or bad, he was only a token to prove the glory of the devoted woman.
I had not the slightest doubt that whomsoever the god of marriage,
Prajapati, chose for me, I was bound to love him. From my childhood I had
watched my mother read the puranas, heard the commentators and
concluded that it was easy indeed to conform to the holy scriptures.’
‘But, Didi, the scriptures were not written for nineteen-year-old
maidens.’
‘I do realize now that love is a bonus in this world. One has to jettison it
and cling to religion to keep afloat in the sea of mundane living. If religion
does not bear fruit and flower, its dry stalks at least help you keep afloat.’
Motir-ma let her speak on without interruption.
 45

MADHUSUDAN REACHED HIS OFFICE TO HEAR SOME

UNPLEASANT NEWS. A big bank in Madras they had dealings with, had
failed. Then the gossip reached him that one of his employees was
meddling with the books behind his back. So far no one had dared entertain
any doubt about his integrity, but once somebody had given a lead, the
charmed protection of no one ever having raised a question regarding it was
gone. It was easy to find small lapses in a big job; successful generals win
victories in spite of many little reverses. That was how Madhusudan had
always won his battles so far, and no one picked on his lapses selectively.
Now they had made a selection of those, put the list out in the open and
went about saying in self-praise, ‘We would never have made these
mistakes.’ Who was there to remind them that Madhusudan had set sail in a
leaky boat and the great thing was that he had reached the shore? And today
those very people whom he had safely brought ashore were busy examining
the many leaks in the boat and shuddering. It was easy to confuse common
men with these isolated criticisms. It was easy because they were only
interested in profits, but were not prepared to analyse. And if by any chance
they sat in judgment they became deadly. Madhusudan was derisively
contemptuous of and angry with these idiots. But where idiots are in the
majority there is no way but to compromise with them. The man who
climbs a rickety old ladder to the top is threatened from time to time with its
creaking and swaying, but cannot do away with the prop. If he is incensed
and feels ready to kick, it would only make matters worse.
Madhusudan’s attitude towards his business was that of a lioness who
forgets her own hunger when her cubs are threatened. The company was his
own creation. His attachment to it was not just mercenary. Those who have
the creative ability find themselves deeply fulfilled in their own creation,
and when that is in jeopardy then all other joys, sorrows and desires in life
become trivial. In his middle age he had recognized that he felt very
intensely the need for love; and this passion having surfaced at the wrong
time took a virulent form. The shock was none too small in Madhusudan’s
case, but now its sting was gone. Kumu’s entire being, its magnetism was
pulling him with a strong force these few days, but suddenly it lost its grip.
Her unattainable love, her mesmerizing personality, all paled into
insignificance with the advent of these business problems in Madhusudan’s
life.
As soon as Nabin entered the office room, Madhusudan asked, ‘Do you
know if my private book of accounts has been accessed by any outsider?’
Nabin was startled. He said, ‘How is that possible?’
‘You have to find out if anyone has been frequenting the accountant’s
room.’
‘But our Ratikanta is very reliable. He can’t possibly . . .’
‘There is reason to suspect that someone has been contacting his office in
his absence. Find out very discreetly who are the persons involved.’
A servant announced dinner but Madhusudan ignored him and asked
Nabin to send for his carriage right away.
Nabin said, ‘Won’ t you have your dinner? It is getting late.’
‘I shall dine out. Have a lot of work in hand.’
Nabin went out with his head down, deep in thought. The plot he had so
carefully laid seemed to have gone awry.
Suddenly Madhusudan called him back, handed him a letter and said,
‘Give this to Kumu.’
Nabin saw it was from Bipradas. It had arrived that morning and
Madhusudan had obviously planned to give it to Kumu himself. His plan
must have been to bring a gift like this everytime in an attempt at
reconciliation, but the sudden storm in the office had obviously ruined this
loving plan of his.
The public must have had enough confidence in the bank that failed in
Madras. That Ghoshal & Co had transactions with the bank was known to
the partners and Directors and they had never entertained any doubt
whatever. But the moment things went wrong they started saying, ‘We had
been sceptical all along.’
Madhusudan guessed that as with every crisis, during this critical phase
that his company was going through, instead of putting in concerted efforts
to save the business, there would surface from all quarters a strong desire to
blame someone (especially him) for the failure and that if there were
jealous scores to settle, the business would keel over. It was too early to
determine the extent of loss arising from the failure of the bank but it was
clear that it would help the attempt to tarnish his reputation. Anyway, times
were bad, so he had to forget about all else now and concentrate on tackling
this issue.
Nabin came back and found his wife still talking to Kumu. He
announced, ‘Bourani, here is a letter from your brother.’
Kumu got up with a start and took it. Her hands were trembling as she
opened it. She feared it would be carrying some bad news. Maybe he was
so ill that he couldn’t make the trip to Kolkata at all. She opened and read
the letter very slowly and then she was silent for a while. Her face showed
some hurt somewhere. She told Nabin, ‘Dada has been in Kolkata since
three this afternoon.’
‘He has come only today. He may have . . .’
‘He has written to say that he was to have come after a few days but had
to come today on some urgent work.’
She did not say anything more. Towards the end of the letter, Bipradas
had added that he would himself come to see her as soon as he got better
and she need not worry on that count. The earlier letter also had the same
direction. But why? What had she done? It was almost clearly asking her
not to visit him in his house. She felt like lying down on the floor and
crying her heart out. But she stifled her tears and sat in a stony silence.
Nabin gathered that there was something in that letter which had hit her
hard. Looking at her face Nabin’s heart was filled with pity. He said,
‘Bourani, you must go and see him.’
She said, ‘No, I shall not go,’ and burst into tears. She covered her face in
her palms and sobbed. Motir-ma drew her to herself. Kumu added in a
choked voice, ‘He has asked me not to come.’
Nabin said, ‘No, Bourani, you must have misunderstood him.’
Kumu shook her head emphatically to indicate that she had made no
mistake in understanding him.
‘Shall I tell you where you are mistaken? Bipradas Babu must have
anticipated that my brother would not permit you to see him. Lest you try
and lest you be humiliated he has made it easier for you this way.’
Kumu felt instant relief. She lifted her wet eyelashes and looked at Nabin
tenderly as she realized that Nabin was perfectly right. She blamed herself
for doubting her brother even for a brief moment. She felt strong again. She
need not rush to him now. She would wait for him to come. It was better
that way.
Motir-ma patted her gently and said, ‘Look at this, a little crosswind from
Dada and her sea of sulk is in full swell.’
Nabin said, ‘Then may I arrange for you to go tomorrow?’
‘No, there is no need for that.’
‘You may have no need. But I have!’
‘How does it concern you?’
‘Well , your brother may have the wrong impression about my brother. I
can’t let it pass, I must defend my brother. I won’t be stopped by you. You
have to go tomorrow.’
Kumu started laughing.
‘But Bourani, it is no laughing matter. Any slur on our family also
reflects on you. Now wash up and come and have your dinner. My brother
is to dine tonight with the Manager. I believe he won’t come inside the
house tonight. I saw his bed being made in the office room.’
Kumu felt much relief at this news, and immediately felt ashamed to be
so greatly relieved.
Later in the night Motir-ma told her husband, ‘You have assured Didi
already, but what will you do now?’
‘Why? What Nabin says he does. Bourani has to go. We shall see what
happens then.’
 These newly titled Rajas were extremely conscious of their family
prestige. They were usually of the opinion that following her marriage into
their family the new bride had now acquired a higher status than her maiden
home, so there could be no question of her going to her previous home. It
was better to let her forget her past. In such a dilemma, if it became
impossible to appease both parties, one had to give way. Nabin gave this
matter of the silent one-upmanship between Madhusudan and Bipradas
some thought and decided who had to step down. Even a few days ago, it
was unthinkable on his part to interfere in a domain where his brother had
exclusive rights.
The couple discussed all this at length, and decided that Madhusudan
should be approached to let Kumu go to see her brother in the morning for a
little while. Once she was there it would not be difficult to cook up some
reason for her to overstay by a few days.
Madhusudan came home late at night with a bundle of papers. Nabin
peeped into the office room and found his brother still awake, at the writing
desk with his glasses on and a blue pencil in hand, busy taking notes or
marking passages in one document or the other. Boldly, Nabin went in and
asked him, ‘Dada, can I do anything for you?’ ‘No’ was Madhusudan’s
brief reply. He wanted to come to grips fully with this crisis in the business
—the whole affair had to be crystal clear to himself. Taking help from
anyone else would only weaken his position.
Nabin left the room as he could not find any opening to talk. And it did
not seem likely to happen soon. But he was determined to send Kumu home
the next morning. So he had to get Madhusudan’s permission tonight itself.
He came back later carrying a lamp in his hand and said, ‘There isn’t
enough light for you to work.’
Madhusudan felt that the second light helped, but even then gave no
further opportunity to Nabin to start a conversation. So Nabin had to beat a
retreat.
A little later he appeared again. This time he brought in his brother’s
favourite hookah which he had lit and placed the long tube on the table by
his side. Madhusudan felt that this was also welcome. So he put down the
pencil for a while and puffed at his hookah.
This gave Nabin the chance to ask, ‘Dada, aren’t you going to bed?
Bourani may be awake waiting up for you.’
The words ‘waiting up for you’ went home straight. It was like a small
bird settling on the mast of a ship tossing in a storm, which for a moment
brought the picture of a quiet peaceful island in the midst of a turbulent sea.
But there was no time for such thoughts. The ship had to be steered home.
Madhusudan was perturbed at this weakness of his mind, but he
suppressed it and told Nabin, ‘Ask Borrobou to go to sleep. I shall sleep
here tonight.’
‘Shall I bring her here?’
Madhusudan objected violently, ‘No! No! No!’
Nabin was undeterred. He said, ‘But she is waiting to plead with you.’
Madhusudan said rudely, ‘I have no time to listen to pleas.’
‘You may have no time, but she too has very little time.’
‘Why? What is the matter?’
‘News has reached that Bipradas Babu has already arrived in Kolkata so
Bourani wishes tomorrow morning to . . .’
‘To go tomorrow morning?’
‘Not for long, just to . . .’
Madhusudan waved his hand and said, ‘All right, let her go, let her. No
more words. You may go.’
As soon as he got his orders, Nabin hurried off. But he was hardly out on
the veranda when he heard Madhusudan call him back. He was afraid that
Dada might rescind his permission. But as soon as he entered Madhusudan
said, ‘Borrobou will stay with her brother for some time now. You make the
arrangements.’
Nabin was careful not to show the slightest enthusiasm about this
proposal. On the contrary he began to scratch his head and said hesitatingly,
‘But the house will be quite empty without her.’
Madhusudan did not answer. He put the pipe down and started on his
work. He knew that the way to temptation was still open, but he blocked it
off resolutely.
Nabin left happily. Madhusudan’s work proceeded. But he was unaware
for a long time of the other stream of consciousness running contrary to the
stream of work. At some point of time the blue pencil was dropped and the
pipe was on. During the daytime when Madhusudan was free of all thoughts
of Kumu, he was happy to be his own master again as before. But as the
night advanced he began to suspect that the enemy had not left the fortress,
it was still lurking underground.
The rain had stopped and a pale moon up behind a shisum tree
overwhelmed the damp night. The cold wind was making demands for the
warmth of a human body next to him in bed. He clenched the blue pencil
and pored over his books. But in the depth of his mind a thin small voice
clearly went on chanting, ‘Bourani may be waiting up for you.’
Madhusudan had resolved to finish some work by the morning; not that it
would have made much of a difference if it were done the next day also.
But it was a sacred principle of his business to keep to promises made. If he
ever slipped up, he could never forgive himself. So far, he had rigidly
followed this rule and had been rewarded amply. But recently, Madhusudan
by day was slowly turning to be slightly different from the Madhusudan by
night—like the two strings of a veena. He had bent over his desk with a
firm resolve, but as the night advanced a line began to buzz in his head like
a bee, through a chink in that resoluteness. It said, ‘Bourani is waiting up
for you’.
He got up and started for his bedroom, leaving the lights on and the
books open. One had to cross a veranda to go up to the second floor;
Shyamasundari was squatting on the passage near the railing. The moon
was half way up the sky and enveloping her in its light. She looked like a
picture from a story-book. She seemed to have come a long way out of the
hard shell of close familiarity. She knew Madhusudan’s way to his bedroom
lay through this passage. It was a sight which hurt her deeply and therefore
also attracted her strongly. But the waiting was not entirely due to a mad
desire to hurt herself with a hopeless pain, there was also a faint trace of
hope—just in case something unexpected took place. It was a vigil by the
wayside for a miracle to happen.
In his desire to get close to Kumu as fast as possible, Madhusudan looked
askance at Shyama and went straight up. She began to hit her head on the
rails bemoaning her misfortune.
Madhusudan entered to find the bedroom in darkness and no sign of
anyone waiting up. There was a streak of light from the bathroom. For a
moment he thought of turning back, but he could not. He put on the
gaslight. But this did not wake up Kumu who was fast asleep, wrapped in a
blanket. He was annoyed at this picture of comfort. He pulled open the
mosquito net impatiently and flopped on the bed. The cot shook with a loud
sound. She sat up, startled.
Kumu had been sleeping, secure in the knowledge that her husband
would not come tonight. The expression on her face at suddenly facing him
was such that it stung him to the quick. Blood rushed to his head and he
said, ‘So you can’t stand the sight of me! Is that it?’
Kumu was at a loss to answer such an interrogation. It was true that her
heart sank at the sight of him. Her mind was caught off guard. The feeling
that she was always trying to suppress even to herself, had suddenly
revealed itself. She was unaware of its strength.
Madhusudan was sarcastic, ‘So what about your plea for visiting your
brother?’
Kumu was quite prepared to fall at his feet and beg forgiveness but at the
mention of her brother she froze and said, ‘No.’
‘Don’t you want to go?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Didn’t you send Nabin to persuade me?’
‘No, I didn’t send him.’
‘Didn’t you tell him about your wish to go?’
‘On the contrary, I told him I didn’t want to go to see my brother.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t tell.’
‘You can’t tell? Again your Noornagar arrogance!’
 ‘I belong to Noornagar.’
‘Then you go back to them. You are not fit for this household. I did you a
favour, you didn’t appreciate it. Now you will have time to regret.’
Kumu sat still. Madhusudan got up, shook her hand in a frenzy and
shouted, ‘You don’t even know how to apologize!’
‘Whatever for?’
‘For the privilege of sharing my bed!’
Kumu got up instantly and went to the next room.
On his way back Madhusudan found Shyamasundari still in the passage.
He bent down and tried to pull her up by her hand, ‘What are you up to
Shyama?’ he asked. Shyama was up immediately and taking his feet in both
her hands she said in a maudlin voice, ‘Please put an end to my life.’
Madhusudan held her hand and helped her get up. He said, ‘You are icy
cold. Come, I will put you to bed.’ He then covered her with his shawl, held
her hand tightly in his right hand and reached her to her bedroom. Shyama
asked in a whisper, ‘Won’t you stay for a while?’
Madhusudan said, ‘I have some work to finish.’
Enough of this madness at midnight, no more disruption in my work, he
said to himself. At the same time he also realized where his compensation
lay for the rebuff he had from Kumu. Tonight he needed to feel loved and
wanted. He got a new impetus in his work in the assurance that
Shyamasundari waited for him with all her life and love. It softened the
pain he suffered from the thorn of rejection he carried in his heart.
Kumu on her part also had some consolation from the trauma she had
that night. Every time Madhusudan had been loving to her she had been
thrown into the throes of a dilemma. She was distressed by a sense of duty
which demanded that she paid for it by loving in return. She had not a
chance to win this battle. But the defeat would be ugly; and she tried
constantly to suppress the thought of it. Now the suppressed sense of defeat
was fully exposed. In her unguarded moment it was totally clear to
Madhusudan that her whole being was contrary to his own nature. It was in
a way good that both knew the truth for certain and henceforth they would
be able to do their duty by each other without any pretence. The reality was
that he desired her; and he wanted to cast her out from sheer frustration. It
was indeed true that she had no right to share his bed. So far, she had only
cheated him. Her place in this house was an embarrassment.
One question had been bothering her throughout the night. Why was he
so concerned with her? He was always snubbing her about her Noornagar
style, which meant that it was clear to him that they belonged to two
different worlds, different cultures. Then why did he still insist on declaring
his love for her? Could this ever be true love?
She was convinced that whatever Madhusudan thought now, she could
never fully satisfy him. The sooner he realized this the better it would be for
all concerned.
Nothing was left the next morning of the joy Nabin felt when he went to
bed, having got his brother’s consent. It was two in the morning when
Madhusudan sent for Nabin after he had finished his work. His order was to
send Kumudini to Bipradas’s house and not to bring her back till he,
Madhusudan, sent for her. Nabin understood it as an order of banishment.
Nabin’s bedroom was opposite the covered square yard where
Madhusudan met Shyama last night. In fact, Nabin and his wife were
talking about Kumu when they heard voices. Motir-ma came out and could
see in the moonlight the meeting of Shyama and Madhusudan. She thought
to herself, yet another tough knot is being tied tonight in Kumu’s string of
fortune.
She asked her husband, ‘Is it wise for Didi to leave at this critical
juncture?’
Nabin said, ‘Matters had not gone this far when Bourani was not on the
scene. It is because of her that this is happening.’
‘How ridiculous!’
‘Bourani could not feed the hunger she aroused and that is what is going
to cause havoc. In my opinion it is better that she stays away for some time
now. At least she will be at peace.’
‘So should things drift like this?’
‘There is nothing to do but to watch the fire you can’t extinguish burn
itself out to ashes.’
 The whole of next morning Habloo would not leave Kumu’s side. When
the tutor came and he was sent for, he looked to her. If she had asked him to
go for his studies he would have obeyed, but Kumu told the bearer that it
was a holiday for Habloo.
The tender tone that prevails when a new bride is about to go to her own
place was missing in Kumu’s case. It felt as if this house was losing her for
good, as though the bird which was caged all this time had found an
opening. It would fly away never to return to her cage ever.
Nabin said, ‘I would have been happy to ask you not to be away too long,
but I am unable to utter those words.You better be with them who respect
you. If you ever need anything, just think of Nabin.’
Motir-ma filled an earthen jar with mango preserves and pickles of all
sorts she had made herself, and put it in Kumu’s palanquin. She did not say
anything; she had her own reservations. As long as the barrier was gross
and as long as Madhusudan insulted her palpably, all her sympathies were
with Kumu. But the fact that internal impediments, which are delicate,
emotional, and beyond analysis, are also the strongest, was not easily
comprehensible to Motir-ma. To her the natural thing for a wife was to feel
fortunate whenever the husband was inclined to be pleased. Not to think so
was, to her, going too far. So much so that she did not take it kindly that
Nabin should still be sympathetic towards his Bourani. It was indeed
difficult ordinarily for a woman to realize that the natural repulsion Kumu
felt was only too real and that it was not her pride but a matter of great
mental struggle within herself. If a Chinese woman who had submitted to
the customary binding of her feet heard of another woman who considered
submitting to this torture degrading, then she would surely laugh and
dismiss such objection as mere affectation. That which was intrinsically
natural would appear to her as abnormal. Motir-ma was the most hurt at
Kumu’s suffering. Maybe that was why she was now hardening in her
attitude towards her. It was impossible for Motir-ma to sympathize with,
much less forgive, a woman who did not accept gratefully when fortune
turned to offer her a gift.
 46

AS SHE REACHED HER HOME, KUMU OPENED THE DOOR OF

THE PALANQUIN a little and looked up. At this time of the day it was
usual for Bipradas to sit on the balcony with his newspaper. Today there
was no one. Her house had not been informed about her arrival today. The
sight of the liveried peon accompanying the palanquin alerted the gateman.
He guessed the mistress had come. The palanquin crossed the front
courtyard and was proceeding inside, but Kumu stopped it, got out and
quickly climbed the outside staircase to the first floor. She wanted to be the
first to meet her Dada. She was sure that as a patient he would be assigned
the front drawing room. From the window here one could see the grove of
gulmohur, kanchan and peepul trees. It was this room that first received the
light of the sun filtered through the branches. It was Bipradas’s favourite
room.
Tom the terrier saw her at the top of the stairs, and rushed and jumped on
her, wagging his tail and creating a commotion. He went on barking,
trotting ahead of Kumu. Bipradas was leaning on a folded couch, half prone
with a light printed quilt on his feet. His right hand was resting on the bed
holding a book. It seemed he was tired and had just stopped reading. Next
to him on the floor there was an empty tea-cup and the crumbs of bread on
a plate. The books on the shelf on the wall near his head were in disarray.
The night lamp, full of soot, was still there in a corner.
Kumu was startled looking at his face. She had never seen him so sad,
wan and sickly ever. This Bipradas was ages away from the one she knew.
She put her head on his feet and broke into tears.
‘Is that you, Kumu? So you’ve come. Come sit here near me.’ He drew
her close. In his letter he had practically told her not to come, yet there was
a faint hope that she might turn up. The fact that she could come made him
feel at ease; perhaps there was nothing in the way of her smoothly running
her new household. Normally he was expected to propose, arrange
conveyance and send an escort to bring her home. But since she came on
her own, it led him to believe that she enjoyed much more freedom than he
expected her to have in Madhusudan’s house.
Kumu was running her fingers through his dishevelled hair, settling it
somewhat. She said, ‘Dada, how terrible you look!’
‘Nothing has happened lately to make me look brighter, but why have
you lost your looks? Why have you become so pale?’
By then news of Kumu’s arrival had reached all the others in the house
and everyone came crowding around her. Kumu saluted Aunt Kshema who
embraced her and kissed her forehead. All the servants came and bowed to
her. When the greetings were over Kumu told Kshema, ‘Aunty, Dada is
looking poorly.’
‘How can he get better without your nursing? He has been used to it for
such a long time.’
Bipradas reminded her, ‘Aren’t you going to offer Kumu anything?’
‘Sure.That goes without saying. The palanquin bearers have been served
already. Let me go and check up. You two can gossip in the meantime.’
Bipradas called Kshema and whispered something into her ears. Kumu
guessed it was about the way the attendants from her in-laws’ house were to
be taken care of. She was an outsider to this consultation. She had no say in
this matter. She did not like this at all. Kumu began her effort to regain her
old position in this house.
First she whispered some orders to the khansama and then started to
rearrange the room in her own way. She moved out the glasses, cups and
plates, the lamps and empty soda-water bottles to the outside veranda; also
one broken cane-chair, a few dirty towels and a torn undervest. Then she
arranged the books on the shelf, brought a teapoy within her brother’s reach
and placed on it some reading material, an inkstand, a glass carafe and a
tumbler for drinking water, a small mirror, comb and a hairbrush.
Meanwhile Gokul brought hot water in a brass jug and also a brass basin
and a clean towel and kept all this on a low cane seat. Without waiting for
his permission, Kumu wet a towel in the hot water and sponged Bipradas’s
face and hands and combed his hair. Bipradas sat quietly like a small child.
Then she informed herself about the timing and dosage of his medicines,
the diet to be administered, and took over charge in such a manner that it
seemed she had no other responsibility in her life.
Bipradas began to wonder what all this added up to. He had presumed
that she had come for a short visit and would go back, but this did not seem
to be the case at all. He was curious about her relationship with her in-laws,
but hesitated to ask her directly. He waited for her to tell him herself. Once
he asked her in a low voice, ‘When do you have to get back?’
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I shall be with you for some time.’
Tom was trying to go to sleep quietly under the master’s couch. Kumu
petted him so much that he became effusive in his affection. He jumped up
and placed his paws on her lap and started a voluble conversation in his
own tongue. Bipradas understood that Kumu sought to take refuge from any
further discussion behind this commotion which she created herself.
After a while she stopped playing with Tom and said, ‘Dada, it is time for
your barley-water. Shall I go and fetch it for you?’
‘No, it isn’t time yet,’ he said and motioned her to sit on the chair close to
him. Then he took her hand in his and asked, ‘Kumu, tell me frankly how
are you two getting on?’
Kumu could not say anything right then. She sat with her head down, her
face went red, and then as she used to do in her childhood, she hid her face
on his chest and started to cry. She said, ‘Dada, I misunderstood everything.
I was so ignorant!’
Bipradas stroked her head gently and said after an interval of time, ‘I
failed to bring you up properly. If Mother were alive, she would have
prepared you well for marriage and in-laws.’
Kumu said, ‘So far I had only known you. I could never imagine that
another household could be so radically different. From my childhood my
thoughts had been moulded by yours. So I never feared anything. I have
seen Father hurt Mother on many occasions, but that was a kind of
wildness, the wound was outside, not internal. Here my humiliation is all
deep within me.’
Bipradas sighed silently and began to brood. That Madhusudan belonged
to a different world was apparent to him from the preliminaries to this
marriage. Anxiety on this count was one reason why he was unable to
recover fully. There was no way to save Kumu from this gross elephantine
embrace. To make matters worse, his entire property was mortaged to this
very person. This humiliating relationship was now affecting Kumu too.
During his illness all these days, his constant thought was about escaping
from the shackles of this loan. He did not want to come to Kolkata lest it
became difficult to maintain a normal relationship with Kumu’s in-laws. He
had decided to live in Noornagar for fear that his natural claim of affection
on Kumu might be outraged at every step in Kolkata. But he was eventually
compelled to come here in search of some other moneylender. He knew this
was next to impossible and this worry was sitting like a boulder on his
chest.
After a while Kumu turned her shoulder a little away from him, and
asked, ‘Tell me, Dada, is it a sin on my part that I cannot endear my
husband to myself?’
‘You know very well, Kumu, that my views on what is sinful and what is
meritorious are quite contrary to the scriptures.’
Absent-mindedly she began to turn the pages of an illustrated English
magazine. Bipradas continued, ‘The events and circumstances in every
person’s life are so different from each other that to lay down firmly a
general rule about good and evil will remain merely a rule, it will not be
practical ethics.’
Kumu kept her eyes lowered on the magazine and said, ‘Mirabais life, for
instance . . .’
Whenever the struggle between what is to be done and what is not to be
done raged fierce in her mind she thought of Mirabai. She wished fervently
for someone to explain to her the ideals of Mirabai.
With some effort she overcame her hesitation and said, ‘Mira found her
real beloved within herself, so she could sincerely give up her social
husband. But have I got such a major right to relinquish my mundane
household?’
‘But, Kumu, I thought you already had your deity fully within yourself.’
‘So I used to think. But when I was in a crisis I found myself bereft of
feelings. I tried my best but was somehow unable to make Him real in my
heart of hearts. This is my greatest regret.’
‘The mind has its ebb and flow too. Night descends every now and then
but that does not stop the day from dawning. Whatever you have achieved
is one with you.’
‘Bless me so that I do not lose my faith in Him. He tortures one in order
to give Himself in the end. But, Dada, I have made you ill worrying about
me!’
‘Kumu dear, I am used to worrying about you since your childhood. If I
stop getting your news or am not allowed to worry about you there will be a
big void in my life. Groping in that emptiness is what has tired me out.’
Kumu was stroking his feet. She said, ‘You must not think too much
about me. My protector is within me. I have nothing to fear.’
‘All right. Let that be. Right now I feel like teaching you some music as I
used to.’
‘Thank God for the music you taught me. That is what keeps me alive.
But do not teach me today, when you get stronger, then. Today let me sing
to you instead.’
She sat near his head and began to sing softly,
‘Piya ghar aaye, so hi pitam piya pyaar re.
Mira ke prabhu Giridhar naagar
Charana-kamal balihar re.’
(My beloved has come home. He is my true love. Mira is thrilled to be at the feet of her lord
Giridhari.)

Bipradas was listening with his eyes closed. As she sang she had an
extraordinary vision. Her inner world was filled with light.The beloved had
come and she could feel the touch of his feet in her heart. As she embraced
her beloved that world turned into her reality. Her singing had transported
her to that world. The last lines of the song filled her whole existence with
endless ecstasy. There was no room for the petty afflictions and insults of
the everyday world. ‘The beloved had come home.’ What more did one
want? If this song never ended it could be her escape for life.
Gokul came and put some pieces of toast and a glass of barley-water on
the teapoy. Kumu stopped singing and said, ‘Dada, sometime back I was
looking for a guru, but do I need one?You have given me the mantra of
music.’
‘Don’t put me to shame. Gurus like me are a dime a dozen. They
themselves are ignorant of the mantras they impart to their disciples. Now
tell me how long exactly can you stay here?’
‘Till I am sent for.’
‘Did you ask to come here?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Then what is the meaning of all this?’
‘It’s no use trying to get the meaning. You won’t get it even if you tried.
It is enough that I am here close to you. The longer I can stay here, so much
the better.You are not eating, Dada. Please finish your food.’
A servant came and announced the arrival of Kalu Mukherjee. Bipradas
seemed to be somewhat concerned at this news. He said, ‘Send him in.’
 47

KUMU BOWED TO HIM AS SOON AS KALU CAME IN. HE SAID,

‘SO, LITTLE ONE, you’ve come! Now Dada will soon be well.’
Her eyes were filled with tears. She said, ‘Dada, won’t you have some
lemon juice in your barley-water?’
Bipradas waved his hand casually indicating that it really didn’t matter.
Kumu knew he hated barley-water so she always put some lemon juice and
rose-water and made a sherbet out of it. None of that was available today
for Bipradas never told anyone else about his own taste; he took whatever
came with equal distaste.
Kumu went in to make the drink properly.
Bipradas asked anxiously, ‘Tell me the news, Kaluda.’
‘No one is willing to lend money on your signature alone. They want
Subodh’s as well. Some rich Marwaris may be willing but that would be
speculative, and the exorbitant interest demanded would be beyond us to
pay.’
‘Kaluda, maybe we should wire Subodh to come. Time is running out.’
‘I too am uneasy. The other day when I went to Madhusudan with the
money from the sale of your ring, in part payment of the loan, he refused to
accept it. I knew then that things were not going to be smooth. One day, at
his own convenience, he will suddenly tighten the noose.’
Bipradas started thinking seriously.
Kalu said, ‘How did our Little Sister come home suddenly? Hope it is not
out of pique with Madhusudan. We must remember that we are in no
position to annoy him.’
‘She says she has got his permission.’
‘I won’t rest till we know the nature of this so-called permission. I can’t
tell you Dada, how careful I have to be in dealing with him. Even when my
blood boiled I bore everything coolly, like the Everest where the ice does
not melt even at high noon. He is not only our creditor but also a brother-in-
law. To manage him is no mean task.’
Bipradas continued to be deep in his thoughts.
Kumu came in with the barley-water, held the cup close to his lips and
ordered him to drink up.
Bipradas woke up from his reverie. Kumu realized that he was immersed
in some deep problem.
She followed Kalu out to the veranda and said, ‘Kaluda, you must tell me
everything.’
‘What do I have to tell you, Didi?’
‘Something is bothering you two. What is it?’
‘If you have property, you can’t escape problems, Little Sister. It is like a
fruit on a tree full of thorns, when you are hungry you have to pluck the
fruit but you also scratch yourself all over.’
‘Cut it out and tell me whatever is happening.’
‘One does not share business details with women.’
‘I know for certain what you’ve been talking about. Shall I tell you?’
‘All right, tell me.’
‘It was about the loan Dada has taken from my husband.’
Kalu did not reply but looked at her with an amused smile, his big eyes
wide in amazement.
‘You must tell me if I am right.’
‘Like brother like sister, quick on the uptake!’
On the first day after the wedding, when Madhusudan had flaunted being
Bipradas’s creditor it had become clear to Kumu that their relationship was
not honourable. She had wished every day for it to end. She had no doubt
that Bipradas was deeply wounded. When Nabin explained her brother’s
letter that night she knew immediately that at the root of all this there was
this relationship between the creditor and the debtor. It was clear to her now
why her brother was not able shake off his illness and what the urgent work
was that had brought him to Kolkata.
 ‘Kaluda, please don’t hide anything from me. Dada has come to raise
another loan.’
‘Well, one has to borrow in order to repay. Money does not fall from the
skies. In any case it is not a good thing to have in-laws as creditors.’
‘That’s right, but have you been able to arrange it?’
‘I am going round looking for it. Something will turn up. Not to worry.’
‘I can see you have not been successful.’
‘So Little One, if you know so much then why ask me? When you were
small you pulled my moustache once and asked me how it grew. I said I
sowed seeds of it in time. The matter ended there. But if I had to answer
that same question now I’d have to get hold of a medical man. It is nowhere
laid down that you have to be told everything in full.’
‘I am telling you Kaluda, I have to know everything about my Dada.’
‘Including how he grew his moustache?’
‘You can’t change the topic in this manner. I could tell from his face that
you could not arrange the money.’
‘Even if that be so, what good is that knowledge to you?’
‘I can’t tell, but I must know. You have not got a loan?’
‘No, I have not.’
‘It won’t be easy?’
‘I shall get it no doubt but yes, it won’t be easy. But it might be more
useful for me to go in search of money than try to answer all your
questions. So long then.’
He then retraced his few steps and said, ‘Little One, tell me frankly, there
is no ugly hitch behind you coming here today?’
‘I don’t know for certain if there is or not.’
‘Did you get your husband’s consent?’
‘He gave it without my asking for it.’
‘Out of anger?’
‘I am not sure of that either. He has said that I need not go back till I am
sent for.’
‘That is neither here nor there.You go back before that. On your own.’
‘But that will be going against his orders.’
 ‘We will take care of that.’
Kumu could not help thinking that she was the cause of all this trouble
her brother was facing. She felt like hitting herself; hitting herself very
hard. She had heard of sadhus who could lie on a bed of nails. She was
willing to do that if it helped in any way. If some holy person showed her
the right path she would be his slave for life. There must be such a person,
but how to trace him? Were she not a woman she was sure to have found a
way out. But what was the other brother—Mejdada—doing? How could he
live in peace in England leaving all the burden on Dada’s shoulders?
Kumu came back to the room to find Bipradas lying down quietly,
looking at the ceiling. How could he ever get well like this? She felt like
banging her head at the door of their hostile Fate.
She sat on his bed stroking his hair and asked, ‘When will Mejdada
come?’
‘I really don’t know.’
‘Why don’t you write and ask him to come?’
‘Tell me why I should.’
‘How can you carry all the burden of this household on your own?’
‘The world consists of two sets of people, one has all the demands and
the other all the responsibilities. I have chosen the latter as my role, I don’t
want to give it to anyone else.’
‘If I were a man, I’d have forced it off you.’
‘Then you admit there is some attraction for taking on the onus, and
because you can’t do it yourself you want to have the vicarious pleasure of
having your Mejdada taking it on. Why should I not be the one?’
‘Dada, are you here to raise a loan?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘From the look on your face. Can I be of no help whatever?’
‘How?’
‘Such as putting my signature on some documents. Is my signature of no
value at all?’
‘It is of great value, but only to us, not to the banker.’
‘I beg of you, please tell me something that I can do.’
 ‘Darling sister, be calm, wait patiently, remember that is also of great
importance in the world. To keep your head cool in a crisis is as important
as it is to keep your boat steady in the face of a storm. Go bring my esraj
and play for me a little.’
‘Dada, I am dying to do something.’
‘Does playing this instrument count for nothing?’
‘I wish to do something challenging.’
‘I think it is harder playing the esraj than signing your name on a legal
document. Go and get the instrument.’
 48

LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IN THE HOUSE, SHYAMASUNDARI TOO

WAS AFRAID OF Madhusudan. But she sensed that there were occasions
when he softened towards her. However, she could not figure out where and
when to cross the fence and get closer to him. For so long she had groped in
the dark and tried but had so far always met with a rebuff. Madhusudan was
then building up his business assiduously. Women to him were trivial
compared to the pursuit of wealth. His dismissal of their species made
women particularly frightened of him. But even such fear has its own
attraction. Shyama always hovered around him with a trembling heart and a
thin veil of hesitancy. In some unguarded moments he had indulged her; but
those were the most dangerous moments. Because, these would be soon
followed by contrary behaviour on his part in an effort to prove that the
place of women in his life was beneath contempt. That is why Shyama had
kept herself in check so far.
After his marriage she could bear it no longer. If Madhusudan had
spurned Kumu like he did the other women she could have borne it.
Somehow. But when she saw that he could also lower his defences and go
blindly frantic about a woman, it then became difficult for her to observe
restraint. The last few days she tried to advance every now and then and
found that it was permitted. Sometimes there were some obstacles but those
also could be overcome. Madhusudan’s weakness was now exposed, so
Shyama could no longer contain her patience. He had never been so close to
her as he was the night before Kumu left. She was afraid of the usual
backlash; but she was wise to the fact that if she were not diffident herself
there was nothing to fear.
Madhusudan had left the house in the morning and came home after one
in the night. For a long time he had never had this kind of disorder in his
daily routine. Today he came home extremely tired and the first thing that
came to his mind was that Kumu had left for her home—and willingly. So
far he had been sufficient in himself, but somewhere he had let himself go
and the desire for a woman’s love in times of distress, which lay dormant in
him, was awakened now. That is why he was so upset at Kumu’s absence.
Tonight Shyama had deliberately not come to attend his meal as she usually
did. Madhusudan came to his empty bedroom, and sat quietly for a while.
Then he sent for Shyama. She came wrapped in a red English woollen
shawl and stood looking at the floor. Madhusudan called her, ‘Come and sit
here by my side.’
She sat near his head and said, stroking his head, ‘You look very tired
today.’ He said, ‘Ah , your touch is so cool.’
At night, when he went to bed, Shyama entered the room unasked and
said, ‘Poor you! All by yourself!’
Shyamasundari was now bold enough to do away with any more
pretence. She was anxious to establish her claim with everyone as witness.
There was no time to waste. Kumu might come back any day. Her
possession must be complete before that happened. If the possession was
public it would be more compelling, therefore there was no room for
coyness.
Very soon, even the servants became aware of the situation. The long-
suppressed fire of passion in Madhusudan came out in the open with
vehemence without caring for anybody. Concupiscence had made its
appearance rather crudely in this household.
Nabin and Motir-ma knew that once this floodgate was opened it could
not be dammed.
‘Should we not call Didi back? It is not safe to wait too long,’ said Motir-
ma.
‘I was thinking on the same lines, but we can’t move without Dada’s
orders. Let me try.’
When he came to see Madhusudan and find a pretext to broach the topic,
he found him ready to start out and the carriage waiting for him.
He asked, ‘Are you going somewhere?’
 Madhusudan answered a bit sheepishly, ‘Yes, to that astrologer Venkat
Swami.’
He wanted to hide his weakness from Nabin, but thought it might be
useful to take him along. He said to Nabin, ‘Do come with me.’
Nabin was scared. He said carefully, ‘Let me first find out if he is at
home. He was supposed to have gone to his village.’
‘Let us go and find out then.’
As soon as they reached the astrologer’s house, Nabin got off, peeped
into the house and said, ‘There does not seem to be anybody at home.’
But that very moment Venkat Swami came out of the door chewing a
stick of neem commonly used as a toothbrush. Nabin quickly went and
touched his feet whispering, ‘Be very careful in what you say.’
They went and sat in that same dingy room. Nabin sat behind
Madhusudan and spoke out before Madhusudan could say anything.
‘Shashtriji, the Maharaj is going through very bad times, please tell us
how to propitiate his stars.’
Madhusudan was annoyed at Nabin’s blurting out of his affairs. He
pinched Nabin’s thigh hard.
Venkat Swami cast Madhusudan’s horoscope and showed him clearly
that Saturn was casting evil eyes at his house of wealth.
Knowing the name of the star was of little help because it was difficult to
contend with them. Of more use would be the identity of the people who
were bringing him misfortune. Their names had to be found to whichever
letter of the alphabet they might belong. The problem with Nabin was that
he was totally in the dark about Madhusudan’s office affairs so he was
unable give signals to the man.
Venkat Swami meanwhile was reciting some verses from the Sanskrit
primer Mugdhabodh and stealing furtive looks at his client. The old Bhrigu
manuscripts must have been totally silent about modern-day names.
Suddenly the Shashtri said loudly, ‘The enmity comes from a woman.’
Nabin heaved a sigh of relief. If he could now somehow establish that the
woman in question was none other than Shyamasundari there would be
nothing to worry about Madhusudan, who was hankering after a name. The
Shashtri then started with the alphabets serially, the first series started with
‘ka’. As he uttered it he pretended to listen intently to the invisible sage
Bhrigumuni, keeping an eye on Madhusudan at the same time. The letter
‘ka’ startled Madhusudan a little. Nabin was shaking his head vigorously to
indicate that it was wrong. But the poor fellow was totally unaware that
such shaking of the head both ways meant exactly the opposite of dissent in
the south of Indian—where Shashtri came from. Venkat Swami was now
certain. He raised his voice to say ‘ka’ once more. He had also guessed as
much from Madhusudan’s facial reaction. So he elaborated it by way of
explanation that all his misfortune lay in the letter ‘ka’ which also starts the
Sanskrit prefix ‘ku’ which is used to qualify all things evil.
After this explanation Madhusudan did not insist on knowing the full
name (he had probably made up his mind that Kumu was the person
concerned) but asked, ‘What is the remedy?’
Venkat Swami gravely repeated a Sanskrit adage ‘kantake-naiba
kantakam’ (a thorn must be taken out with another sharp one)—that was to
say another woman would come to the rescue.
Madhusudan was taken aback. Venkat Swami was a good student of
human psychology.
Nabin intervened, ‘Swamiji, please let us know if Maharaj’s horse won in
the races.’
Venkat Swami knew as a rule that most horses lost. So he pretended to do
some calculations and declared, ‘I see only losses.’
It so happened that Madhusudan’s horse had actually won a big event
only recently. Before he could say anything, Nabin with a long face asked
again, ‘Swamiji, what is the future for my daughter?’ Needless to say Nabin
had no daughter.
Venkat Swami guessed that Nabin must be looking for a match, and
judging from Nabin’s looks knew her to be no beauteous damsel. So he
said, ‘It won’t be easy to find a match for her. Dowry will cost a lot.’
Without giving Madhusudan any chance to intervene, Nabin fielded ten
or twelve random questions and elicited strange answers to them. Then he
got up and announced, ‘Dada, we have had enough. Let us go.’
 In the carriage he said, ‘Dada, it’s all a hoax. The charlatan!’
‘But the other day he . . .’
‘He must have had prior information.’
‘But how could he know about my visit?’
‘It is all my fault. I am sorry I brought you to him.’
Despite all the evidence of the astrologer’s cheating, the affair of the
letter ‘ka’ stuck in Madhusudan’s mind. He concluded that stars may give
random answers to odd questions but were perhaps right about the major
one. Madhusudan never expected a reverse turn in his fortunes, but it did
happen at the same time as his marriage. What more evidence was needed?
Nabin slowly spoke, ‘Dada, it is already about a couple of weeks, shall
we get Bourani back home?’
‘Why, what’s the hurry? Let me tell you once and for all, do not raise this
topic with me ever. I shall ask for her whenever I so wish.’
Nabin took it as the final word on the subject. Still he took courage to
ask, ‘May Motir-ma go and see her?’
Madhusudan gave this no importance and briefly said, ‘Let her.’
 49

BIPRADAS WAS ALL ATTENTION; HE PUSHED A CHAIR

FORWARD AND WELCOMED Nabin to sit.
Nabin said, ‘Maybe you have not placed me.You take me to be a spoilt
child of the Raja’s family; but I am the humblest servant of one who
happens to be your younger sister. If you show me so much respect you will
only deprive me of my blessings. But what have you done to yourself, you
are a shadow of your old self!’
‘It is good to be reminded sometimes that our body is but a shadow
without substance. It helps one to be prepared for the last lesson,’ said
Bipradas.
Kumu entered and asked Nabin to go with her and have something to eat.
Nabin said, ‘I shall come with you on one condition, and until that is
fulfilled this Brahmin will fast on your doorstep.’
‘May I know what the condition is?’
‘I had made this request once before when you were in our house, but I
could not find much encouragement there. You must let your admirer have a
portrait of yours. You had said then that you did not have one with you, but
you can’t have that excuse here. I see one right in front, in your brother’s
room.’
It is rarely that a good portrait is achieved. This picture of Kumu’s was
composed in one of those rare moments. It had the right light on her
forehead which reflected the quality of her mind on her face. There was the
glow of clear intelligence on her temple and her eyes had the deep
tenderness of innocence. Her beautiful right hand was resting on the arm of
an empty chair. It seemed she had stopped in her tracks, staring at a glimpse
of her own future.
 She had not noticed this photograph of hers.The day before her wedding
her brother had called a professional from Kolkata and had this picture
taken. Her heart melted at the thought that he had put it up in his own
bedroom. There would be copies available with the photographer. Kumu
looked at her brother for confirmation. Nabin said, ‘You see Bipradas Babu,
Bourani is agreeable. Look at her eyes. She has a soft corner for me
precisely because I am so worthless.’
Bipradas smiled and said, ‘Kumu, look into that leather case of mine—
you will find some more photos. If you wish to grant a favour to your
devotee you will have no difficulty.’
Soon after Kumu took Nabin in, Kalu entered Bipradas’s room. He said,
‘I have sent a telegram to Mejo Babu to come soon.’
‘From me?’
‘Yes, in our name, Dada; I knew you would dither till the last, meanwhile
time is running short. According to the doctors you can’t bear so much
strain.’
The doctors had said that there was some problem with his heart and he
needed both physical and mental rest. At one time he had overindulged in
his wrestling act: that combined with the present mental stress and anxiety
had led to this situation.
Bipradas was not sure that forcing Subodh to return like this was such a
good idea. He was deep in thought. Kalu said, ‘Borrobabu, it is no use
thinking so much. We have to take some final decision right now about the
property, and it can’t be done without Subodh. We can’t mortgage our lives
to the Marwaris at twelve percent rate of interest. They also demand a
deduction of two lakh rupees in advance. On top of this, there is also
brokerage to be paid.’
‘All right, let Subodh come, but do you think he will?’
‘He may be a big English gentleman now, but he cannot ignore your
wire. You needn’t worry on that count. But you must send Khuki back to
her in-laws without delay.’
Bipradas remained silent for a while and then said, ‘There is some
problem about sending her until Madhusudan says so.’
 ‘Why? She is not his hired labour for cutting the jute crop. She does not
have to wait for anyone’s orders to go to her rightful home.’
Nabin had his meal and came to Bipradas alone. Bipradas asked him,
‘Kumu is fond of you. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes she is, because I am so undeserving.’
‘I want to ask you a few things about her. Please be frank with me,’
‘I have nothing to hide from you, sir.’
‘I feel there is something not so straight about Kumu’s coming here.’
‘You are right. Even those whom one knows to be above reproach do get
unfairly treated in this world.’
‘So she has been insulted.’
‘It is the shame that brings me here, since I can’t do anything about it but
touch your feet and beg forgiveness.’
‘Is there any harm if she goes back to her husband tonight itself?’
‘To tell you the truth, I dare not advise you to do it.’
Bipradas did not press Nabin for the exact details. He thought it would
not be fair to ask him. Nor did he feel like questioning Kumu. So he fretted
within himself. He called Kalu and questioned him, ‘Kaluda, you have been
to their house, perhaps you may know something about Madhusudan’s
frame of mind?’
‘I have got some inkling, but I don’t want to tell you anything unless I
have the whole picture. Just wait for a couple of days and I shall be able to
get you some information.’
Bipradas was sick with apprehension and since there was no remedy at
hand, his heart was torn in agony.
 50

KUMU’S CLOSEST WISH WAS FULFILLED, SHE WAS BACK IN

HER FAMILIAR room embraced by her brother’s affection, but she missed
her easy natural place. Sometimes she sulked and felt that she should go
back, because she could clearly sense the question on everyone’s lips, ‘Why
doesn’t she go back? What is the matter with her?’ In the midst of her
brother’s deep affection, there was this one anxiety, which could not be
discussed openly because she herself was the subject, yet it was a closed
book to her.
The afternoon sun was fading. Kumu sat near the bedroom window. The
crows were noisy, carriages could be heard along the road and a variety of
noises came from the neighbourhood. The air of spring however failed to
bring colour to the bricks and stones of the houses around. A restless wind
scattered the afternoon light by playing on the thick green leaves of an
almond tree which nearly screened the house in front. It is in times like this
that a tame deer wants to rush into the unknown forest ahead. It is when the
wind has the touch of spring and the whole earth seems to eagerly look
towards the blue sky beyond the horizon. In such a time everything around
appears unreal and only that appears real whose abode is unknown, and
when you try to paint its portrait the palette of colours spills all over the
sky; its figure flickers everywhere in land and water like a beacon and
disappears in a flash.
She was restless today, wishing to get away from it all, including herself.
But how fenced in she was! Even here, in her own house. In her thoughts
even death appeared desirable. She imagined herself trudging to her tryst
with her dark god, beyond the banks of the dark Yamuna, day after day on
an endless road, full of suffering. She recalled that she had come here to
nurse her brother’s illness and now she was only aggravating it. Whatever
she did would have a contrary effect. She covered her face in her palms and
sobbed to her heart’s content. When she was calmer she decided to go back.
She would cope with whatever happened—after all there was always the
final release—cool, dark and delectable. The more she thought about death
the more she felt that life would not be totally unbearable. She began to
hum—
‘Pathapar rayani andheri
kunjapar deep ujiyari.’

(The night is dark on the road but the lamp burns bright in the grove at
the end.)

She had put her brother to sleep in the afternoon. It was time now for his
medicine and food. When she came to his room she found Bipradas with a
portfolio on his lap writing a long letter to Subodh, in English. She scolded
him a little, ‘Dada, you haven’t had your full sleep today.’
Bipradas said, ‘You are convinced that one rests if one sleeps. But when
one feels like writing a letter, then that is what gives one rest.’
Kumu guessed that the letter concerned her. What a lucky sister to kill
one brother with anxiety on this side of the sea and worry the other at the
other end of the ocean ! After she finished serving tea she put it to her
brother gently, ‘I have been here long enough, now I should go back home.’
Bipradas tried to guess from her look what she really meant. The clear
understanding that the brother and sister had between them so far, seemed
to have changed. Now each had to grope about to reach the other’s mind.
He stopped writing, made her sit by his side and stroked her hand, without a
word. Kumu could follow that language. The worldly knots in their
relationship had hardened but the affection they had for each other had not.
Her eyes filled with tears but she made an effort to hold them back. Kumu
thought to herself that she should not overburden this love so she repeated
her plea, ‘Dada, I have decided to go back.’
Bipradas did not know what to say, because it was better that she go, it
was also her duty. He sat quietly. The dog woke up and put his paws on her
lap, begging for a leftover piece of Bipradas’s toast.
Bearer Ramswarup came and announced that Mukherjee Babu had come.
Kumu was worried. She said, ‘Dada, you have not slept well today, you will
only tire yourself arguing with Kaluda. Let me go instead and listen to what
he has to say and I shall report to you in due time.’
‘You feel you are a great doctor! Do you think the patient is at ease if
someone else listens to what is meant for him?’
‘All right, I won’t, but neither should you, at least not today.’
‘Kumu, an English poet has said that an unheard song is sweeter than the
one heard. A piece of news may be tedious but the unheard one may be
more tiring, so it is better to get it over with right away.’
‘All right, but I shall be back within a quarter of an hour, and if I find you
two still talking, I shall start playing my esraj—Raag Bhimpalashi!’
‘I agree.’
In half an hour she entered the room with the instrument in her hand but
she put it by in a corner when she noticed the look on her brother’s face.
She sat next to him, held his hand firmly, and asked, ‘What is the matter,
Dada?’
A deep sorrow was rooted in the restlessness that Kumu noticed in her
brother these days. Bipradas had suffered much in his life but no one had
ever seen him perturbed. He had never allowed his troubles to gather within
himself, by being interested in many things such as reading, music,
watching stars through a telescope, horse-riding, or collecting unknown
plants from all over, and planting them in his garden. This time because of
his illness he had closely confined himself to limited activities. Now he
yearned for company, got upset if he did not get his letters regularly and
soon his thoughts turned dark. That was also why Kumu’s affection for her
brother had turned more maternal—how did her serious and self-possessed
brother come to present a childlike aspect—such unconcern, such
restlessness and such obstinacy? At the same time such grave unhappiness
and anxiety.
But when she entered the room she found that her brother was no longer
in that daze. There was a fire in his eyes like the third eye of Shiva the
destroyer. It had nothing to do with his personal sorrow, but he must have
confronted some evil which he wanted to extinguish. Bipradas did not offer
any reply but sat gazing intently at the wall opposite.
Kumu repeated her question, ‘Tell me, Dada, what is wrong?’
Bipradas kept looking in the distance and said, ‘When you try to avoid
pain it only gets hold of you more strongly. It has to be accepted and faced
squarely.’
‘If you advise me how, I shall certainly be able to accept it.’
‘I can see clearly that dishonouring women is at the heart of our society.
It is not just a personal problem of a particular woman.’
Kumu could not quite follow him.
He continued, ‘So far, I felt the pain as solely ours, now I understand it is
to be fought as a common cause.’
Bipradas’s pale face was suffused with red. He threw aside the silk
embroidered pillow from his lap and was about to get up and sit on the seat
next to his bed. Kumu caught his hand and said, ‘Be calm, Dada, do not get
up, it will make you ill.’ And she practically forced him to lean on the pile
of pillows behind him.
Bipradas clutched the end of his cover and said, ‘Just because women
have no other way but to bear all this, they are being outraged all the time.
The time has come for them to say we shall no longer tolerate this. Kumu,
can you consider this as your permanent home and stay here?You certainly
cannot go back to that house.’
Bipradas had gathered a lot from Kalu today.
The relationship that had developed between Madhusudan and
Shyamasundari was out in the open. Both parties were equally unabashed.
The very thought that people may find them guilty made them bolder.
Because there was nothing delicate in this relationship they did not find it
necessary to hide anything from each other or care for public opinion. It
was rumoured that sometimes Madhusudan had even hit Shyamasundari
and when she quarrelled loudly he was heard calling her names and telling
her to get out of his house. But that made little difference. Madhusudan had
maintained his full control over Shyama. If ever she tried to grab anything
more than what Madhusudan let her have, she was rebuffed. Shyama
coveted and wanted to get into the position that Motir-ma held and she
wanted to run the house, but she was thwarted there as well. Madhusudan
trusted Motir-ma completely but he didn’t trust Shyama. Shyama had not
touched his fancy, he had only developed a crude addiction to her. More
like a much-used, coarse and soiled winter quilt, lacking in any fancywork,
and not worth picking up even if it slipped onto the floor from the bed. But
it offered warm comfort. Shyama did not need any managing. Besides, the
certain knowledge that she sincerely thought him superior in every respect
and was prepared to do anything for him, was soothing to his pride,
something which got a daily jolt during Kumu’s stay.
Kalu did not have to probe much to discover Madhusudan’s recent
history. Everyone in that household had discussed it—so much so that they
had stopped gossiping about it.
The news stung Bipradas like a flaming arrow. Madhusudan had made no
attempt to conceal his shameless affair! It was so easy to insult one’s wife in
public; there was so little outside protest against anyone torturing his wife!
Society has devised a thousand instruments of torment to compel a helpless
wife to obey her husband, but no mandate to save her from his tortures. The
way this cruel shame and anguish were being perpetuated in every home,
through the ages, came clearly to him in a flash. There was the attempt to
stifle this pain with the glorious plaster of satihood, but none to uproot it
altogether. Women in their world were so cheap, so trivial!
To his sister who was blissfully unaware of the state of her own marriage,
Bipradas continued, ‘Kumu, it is not difficult to bear an insult but it is
wrong to do so. You have to demand the respect due to you, on behalf of all
the women. If society chooses to chastise you for it, let it.’
Kumu said, ‘What disrespect are you referring to? I can’t quite follow
you.’
‘So you do not know all that is going on?’
‘No, I don’t.’
Bipradas was silent for a while. Then he said, ‘I am carrying within me
the anguish of dishonour to all women. Do you know why?’
 Kumu kept looking at him. He went on, ‘I can never forget what my
mother suffered her whole life because of our amoral society.’
Brother and sister differed slightly on this point. Kumu was specially
fond of her father. She knew how soft and kind he was at heart. She would
always remember that his was a great personality in spite of all his faults. In
fact she secretly held her mother responsible for the tragic end to his life.
Bipradas also respected his father’s greatness, but he could never forgive
him for the fact that he never checked himself from repeated lapses which
were a public insult to their mother. In fact, he was proud of the fact that
their mother did not condone them.
He said, ‘The disrespect to my mother was disrespect to all women. You
must forget your personal sorrow, and stand up against this insult. You must
never surrender.’
Kumu lowered her face and said softly, ‘But, Dada, don’t forget that
Father loved Mother very dearly. That kind of love can cover many sins.’
‘I agree, but in spite of his love how easily he could shame Mother! His
sin was a social evil. I can never forgive society for this. Society has no
love, it has only rulings.’
‘Dada, have you heard something?’
‘Yes, I have. I will tell you by and by.’
‘That’s better, because I feel this kind of talk today will only make you
feel worse.’
‘On the contrary, Kumu. All these days my health was giving way under
sorrow and sadness. Now, when my mind is prepared for a lifelong battle I
feel stronger from within.’
‘What battle, Dada?’
‘Against the society which has so grossly cheated women of their dues.’
‘What can you do to society?’
‘I can defy it. I have to think out what else I can do. The struggle begins
from today. You have your place in this house, not by anyone’s favour. You
will stay on here in your own right.’
‘All right, be that as it may. You stop talking now.’
Somebody came and announced that Motir-ma had come.
 51

KUMU TOOK MOTIR-MA TO HER OWN BEDROOM. AS THEY

TALKED, IT BECAME dark. The bearer came to light the lamp but Kumu
asked him not to.
Kumu heard everything from Motir-ma and kept quiet.
‘It is like a haunted house,’ said Motir-ma, ‘It is impossible to live there.
Aren’t you coming back?’
‘Have I been asked?’
‘No, it may have escaped him altogether. But you have to come.’
‘What can I do? I cannot satisfy him. In a way it is all due to me, but
there was no help. What I could offer him was unacceptable to him. Now
what is the point of my going empty-handed?’
‘What are you saying, Bourani? The household belongs to you ! You
can’t let it go by default.’
‘What do you mean by “household”? A house, things, people? I feel
ashamed to claim them as my own. Does one crave for outward things
when one has lost rights over the interior?’
‘Do you mean to say you are never coming back?’
‘I am at a loss to understand anything. Earlier I would have prayed to my
deity, asked for an omen, or I’d have consulted a soothsayer. But all those
things have been washed away. In the beginning everything seemed to bode
well, but none of it came to pass. It has occurred to me many times today
that had I depended on my brother’s judgement rather than on my god I’d
not have faced this calamity. There may be room for doubt in my mind but
even then my heart belongs to my Lord. I come back again and again and
throw myself at His feet.’
‘Your words scare me. Have you given up the idea of coming home?’
 ‘It is difficult to imagine that I shall never get back, at the same time it is
not easy to promise that I will.’
‘Well, let me talk to your Dada. Let us hear what he thinks. I hope I can
meet him.’
‘Come, I will take you right away.’
As she entered his room Motir-ma stopped in her tracks. He reminded her
of a dark ruined temple after an earthquake where silence and darkness
reigned. She touched his feet and sat down on the floor.
Bipradas rushed to offer her a chair.
Motir-ma shook her head to mean she was all right where she was. Her
eyes were aglow under her veil. She realized that his condition was causing
Kumu great pain.
In order to make things light, Kumu said, ‘Dada, she has come specially
to get your opinion.’
Motir-ma protested, ‘No no, taking his advice is only secondary. I have
really come to pay my respects.’
Kumu continued, ‘She wanted to know if you thought it proper for me to
go back.’
Bipradas sat up and said, ‘That is someone else’s house. How can Kumu
go and live there?’ The fire contained in those words might not have raged
so fiercely had he uttered them in anger, and though his voice was even and
his face showed no excitement, his dark anger came across quite clearly.
Motir-ma whispered something. She wanted Kumu to sit by her side and
convey her words to her brother. But Kumu did not agree. She said, ‘You
better raise your voice and say what you have to say yourself.’
So Motir-ma became a little more articulate and said, ‘Please tell him that
what is yours can never be made over to anyone else, whosoever may try to
take over.’
Bipradas said, ‘That is not true. She is only a dependant there. She has no
right of her own. If she were turned out, some may criticize, but they would
do nothing to stop it. All the penalty is only meant for her. One could still
accept dependency, if it were at least magnanimous.’
 Motir-ma had no answer to this. She believed that when her husband’s
protection was threatened, it was the wife’s people who had to be the
supplicants. Here it seemed to be the reverse!
After a pause, she added, ‘But women can’t live outside the shelter of her
own home. Men can float about, but women need stability.’
‘Where is this stability? In the midst of dishonour? Take it from me,
whoever created Kumu created her with utmost respect. No one is so
superior that he can ignore her, not even the King-Emperor.’
Motir-ma was genuinely fond of Kumu, respected her too, but it did not
sound right to her ears that a woman’s worth could be such that her pride
should surpass her husband’s. Let there be quarrels with the husband, let
there even be much insult and suffering on the part of the wife, it was even
understandable that some wives may hang themselves to escape it, but to be
totally independent of the husband and stand on her own was, according to
Motir-ma, a kind of arrogance. Why should women have so much vanity?
Madhusudan may be absolutely unworthy of her, he may have been
grievously wrong, but still he was a man. By virtue of being a man he was
somewhere naturally superior to his wife—a fact that was unarguable.
Could one win a case against the Maker?
She said finally, ‘Some day or the other, she has to go back. There does
not seem to be any way out for her.’
‘“Has to go” is a phrase meant for a slave, not for a human being.’
‘The wife does become a property in a sacramental marriage. The day
you go round the sacred fire seven times with the groom, your body and
mind are bound to him for ever. There is no escape. It is worse than death.
Once you are born a woman you may not reverse the course of a woman’s
fate.
Bipradas then realized that women themselves valued women the least.
They were not even aware that this was the reason why it was so easy for
men to dishonour women in every home. The women themselves had put
out their own light. And then they lived in perpetual fear and anxiety,
oppressed by unworthy men, and accepted that the highest attainment in a
woman’s life was to bear all of this silently, without protest. So much
violation of human rights could not be allowed any longer. Those whom
society had degraded so much were now pulling the society down with
them.
Kumu was sitting next to his bed with her head down. Bipradas did not
answer Motir-ma, but put his hand on Kumu’s head and said, ‘Try and
understand what I am trying to tell you. Wherever power comes to one
without effort, where it is never tested, and where one does not have to
prove worthy of retaining it, there, power only leads to degradation. I have
explained this to you often enough, but you would not give up your
traditional beliefs, and in the end it is you who is suffering. When you used
to feed Brahmins to earn merit I did not stop you, but tried to explain to you
time and again that taking someone’s superiority for granted without
question does harm not only to that person but lowers the standard of
superiority in the entire society. Why does not one ever pause to think that
by such blind reverence we only show disrespect for our own humanity?
You are somewhat familiar with writings in English—can’t you see that the
world is up in arms against this kind of sectarian, fundamentalist,
insensitive exercise of power? The time has come to smash the cosy retreat
of deliberate, blind slavery, which men have long preserved under the cloak
of high-sounding words.’
Kumu said, with her head still held down, ‘Dada, is it your view that the
wife may surpass her husband?’
‘I am against any transgression, Kumu. But my view is that the husband
too must not suppress the wife.’
‘Even if he does, should the wife also . . .’
Bipradas did not let her finish. He went on, ‘If the wife tolerates that
wrongdoing then she is accepting injustice to all women. This is how every
individual adds to the sum of misery and paves the way for oppression.’
Motir-ma added impatiently, ‘Our Bourani is a sati, she is like Lakshmi,
no amount of insult can touch her.’
Bipradas now raised his voice in excitement. ‘You are concerned only
with your idea of satilakshmi, why don’t you ever think of the plight of the
bully who daily exercises the license you are giving him, to oppress her?’
Kumu got up, began stroking his hair and said, ‘Dada, you have talked
much today, you should stop now. What you call freedom, comes through
knowledge and that is just not in our blood. We cling to men, and we also
cling to our beliefs and we are unable to untie the knot. The more we are
hurt, the more we go round and round and get enmeshed. You men know a
lot and that liberates your mind, we women believe a lot and that fills the
emptiness in our lives. When you explain things to me, maybe I can see my
mistake. But to know your weaknesses is not the same as giving them up.
Like the tendrils of a creeper, our possessiveness clings to everything, good
and bad alike, and then we can not let go of them.’
Bipradas said, ‘That is precisely why the cowards and bullies of this
world do not lack in women devotees. They recognize the evil as evil all
right, yet they follow them as the holiest of the holy.’
Kumu said, ‘What can we do, Dada, we have been created to embrace the
mundane with both our hands. We hold on to a big tree as well as to a straw.
It takes us as much time to accept a guru as to yield to a charlatan. No one
can save us from a life of suffering. So I often think, if suffering is our
inescapable lot, then we have to accept it and find a way of transcending it.
That is why women stick to religion so desperately.’
Bipradas kept quiet.
His silence hurt her, because she knew it weighed more heavily than all
his talk.
As they came out, Motir-ma asked her, ‘What have you decided,
Bourani?’
Kumu said, ‘I can’t come. Besides, I have no permission to get back.’
Motir-ma was somewhat peeved with her. Not that she herself was a
great admirer of her in-laws’ family, but, long years of belonging had won
that family her loyalty. She could not bear the thought that any daughter-in-
law of that house should transgress its bounds. The sense of what she then
told Kumu was like this, ‘It has to be accepted from the start that men by
nature lack compassion and self-control. We are not the creators of the
world, we have to make do with what we get. We have to run households by
taking for granted that “they are like that”. Because, a household belongs to
the woman. It does not matter whether the husband is good or bad. If one
does not accept this truth, death is the only way out.’
Kumu said with a smile, ‘Maybe that is so, but what is wrong with
death?’
Motir-ma anxiously responded, ‘Don’t say such things!’
Kumu did not know that recently in their neighbourhood, a seventeen-
year old bride had committed suicide by swallowing some acid. Her
husband had a Master’s degree and held a good post in a Government
office. His mother had complained to him that the wife had lost a silver hair
comb and so he went and kicked his wife. Motir-ma remembered the
incident and shuddered.
Nabin arrived on the scene. Kumu was delighted to see him. She said, ‘I
knew that we would see you soon.’
Nabin laughed and said, ‘Bourani is well versed in logic. She first saw
Mrs Smoke and did not find it difficult to infer that Mr Fire would follow
suit.’
Motir-ma said, ‘Bourani, you have spoilt him. He knows that you like to
see him and he is so proud of that.’
Nabin rejoined, ‘The one who may also be glad to see me is no less
powerful. My creator may be regretting his own handiwork but neither the
gods nor men know what my spouse thinks of me.’
‘The two of you may bandy words. I do not wish to be a third person to
spoil the fun. I am off now,’ said Kumu.
Motir-ma said, ‘My dear, who is the third person here? Do you think he
spent money in hiring a carriage just to come and see me?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But let me order something for him to eat.’ Kumu
left.
 52

MOTIR-MA ASKED HIM, ‘IS THERE ANY NEWS?’

‘Yes, there is. That is why I came post-haste to consult you. After you left
for this house, Dada came suddenly into my room—exceptionally bad-
tempered. A cheap gilt ash-tray had disappeared from his desk. Its present
owner must have thought it to be made of gold, otherwise why should he or
she risk retribution in the next life? You know how Dada cannot bear the
loss of the most trivial item—it is as if the very foundation of his huge
property is being shaken. This morning, before leaving for his office, he
ordered me to send Shyama back home. I had started on that sacred task
with great enthusiasm. My plan was to complete my job before he came
back from office. But around half-past one he suddenly barged into my
room and said, “Hold it for now.” As he was going out his glance fell on the
portrait of Bourani on my desk. He stopped. I knew he was feeling shy to
straighten his gaze and look directly at the photograph. So I said, “Dada,
wait here for a while, I shall bring and show you a Dacca sari. It is a present
for Motir-ma’s sister-in-law, who is expecting a baby. But I have a feeling
Ganeshram is cheating me. I want to check it with you. In my estimate it
should not be as much as thirteen rupees. At best it could be nine or nine
and a half.”’
Motir-ma was surprised. She said, ‘How did you ever think of it? My
sister-in-law has no chance of having another baby in the near future. Her
youngest is only a month and a half old. I find you these days capable of
making up any story. Where did you learn this art?’
‘The same place from where our great poet Kali das got it. Direct from
the Muse, our goddess of learning, Bani Binapani.’
‘It will be difficult to live with you, so long as the Muse does not leave
you alone.’
 ‘It is my vow to visit hell before I go to Paradise, like Yudhistir in our
epic. That would be my gift to Bourani.’
‘But tell me how did you get hold of your nine-and-a-half rupee sari that
very moment?’
‘Nowhere. After about twenty minutes I came back and reported that
Ganeshram had taken back the sari without waiting for my approval. From
Dada ‘s face it was apparent that the portrait had by now entered his head
and taken the shape of a dream. I don’t know why, but I am the only one in
the whole world with whom Dada has some feeling of delicacy. If it were
anyone else in front of Dada he would have grabbed the picture without a
moment’s thought about who was watching him.’
‘You are no less greedy. You could have presented it to him.’
‘In fact, I have given it to him, but not with an easy mind. I told him,
“Dada, how about making an oil-painting from this photograph to hang in
your bedroom?” He pretended to be disinterested and said, “We’ll see,” and
went up with the picture. I am not sure what followed. Maybe he didn’t go
back to work, nor do I have any hope of getting back the photo.’
‘Since you are willing to give up paradise for the sake of your Bourani,
the loss of a photograph shouldn’t matter,’ said Motir-ma teasingly.
‘Paradise may be doubtful, but the picture was real to me. It was rarely
that such a picture happens. It had captured that very rare moment when the
grace of heavens was fully reflected on her face. On some nights I have got
up and lit a lamp to look at it. It seemed that the inner beauty was more
apparent in the light of a lamp.’
‘Aren’t you a little afraid of being so effusive in front of me?’
‘If I were afraid then you would have real cause to worry. The truth is
that I am amazed at her sight. I wonder how her presence became possible
in our family. I am thrilled that I call her our Bourani and that she sits down
and feeds an inconsequential chap like me. How on earth did all this happen
with such ease? My brother is the least fortunate in our family. What he got
so easily, he lost by trying to possess it too closely.’
‘Good heavens, there is no stopping you once you start on your Bourani!’
‘Mejobou, I know it hurts you slightly.’
 ‘Never.’
‘Yes, a little bit. In this context let me remind you that all that you said
when you saw Bourani’s brother for the first time at the Noornagar railway
station could be called in plain language “gushing”.’
‘All right, let us stop that debate. Now tell me what you came to tell me.
‘I believe Dada will send for her any day now. That she came here
eagerly and never talked of going back has also hurt his pride greatly. Poor
Dada is unable to understand that the bird has no fascination for a golden
cage. The foolish bird! The ungrateful bird!’
‘Good. Let him send for her. That was the understanding.’
‘I think she should go before she is sent for. Let that little margin of pride
be with Dada. Besides Bipradas Babu also wanted her to go. It is I who
advised him against it then.’
Motir-ma gave no indication of the conversation that she had earlier with
Bipradas about this. She merely said, ‘Go and find out from him.’
‘That’s what I will do. He will be pleased to hear of the developments.’
Kumu asked from outside the door, ‘May I come in?’
Motir-ma said, ‘Your brother-in-law is anxiously waiting for you.’
‘Yes, I have been waiting for ages and ages, and now I am blessed with
your presence.’
‘My goodness, how you can go on and on spinning out words!’
‘True, it surprises me too.’
‘Come on for dinner now.’
‘I would like to have a word with your brother before we sit down to eat.’
‘No. That’s not possible.’
‘Why?’
‘He has talked enough for the day.’
‘But I’ve got some good news for him.’
‘Maybe, but in that case why not come tomorrow? No more conversation
for him today.’
‘Maybe tomorrow I won’t be free, something else may turn up. Please let
me have just five minutes with him. I am sure he will be happy and no harm
will be done.’
 ‘All right, first you finish your food, and then we’ll see.’
At the end of the meal Kumu took him to Bipradas and found him still
awake.The room was almost in darkness and the light was dim. Stars could
be seen through the open window and the south wind was blowing freely.
The curtains, the bedcovers and his clothes were tossing about, throwing
strange shadows around. A loose sheet of newspaper was flying around
aimlessly. Bipradas remained still, in the midst of this, half reclining. The
shadow of the dusk and the pallor of his illness had shrouded him in such a
manner that he seemed to be very far away—in another distant world
altogether. He looked the loneliest man on earth.
Nabin touched his feet and said, ‘I don’t want to disturb your rest. I have
just come to say that it is time for Bourani to come back. We are all waiting
for her.’
Bipradas did not reply. He just sat still.
Nabin said again, ‘We shall arrange to take her back as soon as you
permit.’
Meanwhile Kumu had come and sat near her brother’s feet. Bipradas
looked at her and said, ‘If you think the time has come for you to go back,
then you may do so, Kumu.’
Kumu said, ‘No, Dada, I shall not go back,’ and threw herself upon his
knees.
The room was silent, but from time to time a gust of wind rattled a loose
window. Outside, the leaves of the trees in the garden rustled in the breeze.
Kumu soon got up and told Nabin, ‘It is time to go. Dada, you try to
sleep.’

Motir-ma came home and said, ‘This is going a bit too far.’
‘You mean to say that it is all right to be poked in the eyes but it is quite
improper for the eyes to get red.’
‘No, my dear, it is all their conceit. They find nothing in this world to
match their worth. They are above everyone.’
‘It is true that such pride does not become most people, but they are
indeed a class by themselves.’
 ‘But that does not mean one can disown all relationships.’
‘One can’t claim a relationship by merely announcing it. We must admit
that they belong to a class quite different from ours. In fact, I feel hesitant to
be familiar with them only by virtue of our recent relationship.’
‘You must remember that however high a person may be in society,
relationships have a compulsion of their own.’
Nabin could sense a sting of envy on the part of Motir-ma in relation to
Kumu. It was also true that family ties were very precious to women. So he
cut short the debate and said, ‘Let’s watch for a few days. No harm in
sharpening his interest a little more.’
 53

SHYAMASUNDARI HAD EVERY REASON TO HOPE THAT HER

POSITION IN THIS household was now firm; but she could not feel so yet.
In the beginning she thought she had acquired the right to boss over the
domestic staff, but now she was made to realize at every step that they were
unwilling to accept her as the mistress. It was as if, given a chance, they
would be happy to defy her. This was why Shyama would scold them
without reason, send them on unnecessary errands, constantly find fault
with them, nag them and abuse them. She was trying very hard to wipe out
her earlier image of a nobody in this house, but found that it would not
wash with any of the servants. One old servant could not bear her badgering
any longer and resigned from his job. Shyama had to eat humble pie on that
score. The reason was that Madhusudan had some blind superstitions
concerning his fortune. He took it as an ill omen if any of the employees
associated with his good times died or resigned. For a similar reason an old
ink-stained desk from those times was incongruously but firmly established
in the midst of the expensive modern furniture in his office room. On top of
it was placed an old zinc ink-pot and a cheap English wooden pen, the same
one with which he had signed his first big contract in the early days of his
business. Dadhi, the Oriya employee who had resigned, belonged to those
times. So Madhusudan not only ignored his resignation but even rewarded
him handsomely. Shyama had to endure Dadhi’s smiling face thereafter.
The problem with Shyama was that she really loved Madhusudan; so she
was afraid of putting too much strain on his temper. She had to gauge
timidly if the limits of her pettishness were reaching the border of
transgression. Madhusudan was also quite certain that he need not waste
time or thought over Shyama. Even if her demand for love or her expenses
were curtailed there was no danger. He undoubtedly had a crude attraction
for her, and he was encouraged by the thought that even if he indulged in it
to his heart’s content, he could still manage to keep it within restraint. If it
were not so, this tie would have broken much earlier. Nothing counted for
him more than work. And for his work what he needed most was control
over self. Shy ama’s hold could not extend to that domain. Every time she
tried to take a small step towards it, she stumbled badly. So it had been her
lot only to give; she lost whenever she tried to take.
Shyama had always been deprived of money and things and she had no
end of craving for them. But even in this she had to move with care. What
should have been easy to expect of such a rich man, was beyond her
dreams. Madhusudan had sometimes bought her clothes and jewellery but
that hardly brought her gratification. So she always nursed an impulse to
pick up small objects of desire. But even that was not easy. It was a small
incident like this which earned her an order of banishment. Even then,
Shyama’s service and her company had become an addiction with
Madhusudan as cheap and strong as the habit of chewing paan or tobacco.
If he denied himself these pleasures, it might affect his work, he realized.
So she got a reprieve. But it hung over her head like Damocles’s sword.
Because of her weak hold, she was also forever apprehensive of Kumu
coming back to her throne. This pang of jealousy gave her no peace of
mind. She knew she could not compete with Kumu, they were not in the
same playing field. Kumu’s great strength was that she was beyond
Madhusudan’s control, whilst his control over Shyama was so complete that
she was certainly of use to him, but of no value. Shyama had cried over this
situation a great deal and often wished she were dead. She beat her breast
and lamented, ‘Why did I become so cheap to him,’ but later consoled
herself with the thought that the reason she could get a place at all, was
because she was cheap; the dearer ones may be more desired, but the cheap
ones won in the end.
All the while that Madhusudan had not accepted her, she had not been so
unhappy. She had been reconciled to her deprivation. The little that she got
from time to time from the brief conversations with him seemed enough for
her. But now she could not compromise between the right to have and not
have. She was frightened of losing all the time. The track of her fortune was
laid on such shaky ground that derailment was imminent every moment.
She tried to unburden herself and get some consolation from Motir-ma, but
the way she was dismissed with a violent shrug made her want to retaliate
severely then and there. She knew that in the management of the household
Madhusudan regarded Motir-ma as most useful, and would not tolerate any
disruption there. From then on the two women had stopped talking to, and
even avoided, each other. Thus Shyama’s space in the house had shrunk
even more. She was comfortable nowhere.
Then one evening, as she entered Madhusudan’s bedroom, she saw
Kumu’s photograph resting on the wall. The lightning from the thunder that
threatened to strike her, blinded her eyes. Her heart was a-flutter like a
hooked fish. Much as she wanted she could not take her eyes off the picture.
She continued to stare at it with an ashen face and clenched fists, with fire
in her eyes. She wanted desperately to break or tear something apart. She
feared that she might damage something in the room if she stayed in it any
longer. She rushed out, threw herself on her own bed and tore the sheet into
shreds.
Night fell. The bearer announced from outside her door that the master
had sent for her in his bedroom. She did not have the power to say no. She
quickly got up, washed her face, put on an embroidered Dacca sari and
perfumed herself. All this was in an attempt to distract him from that
portrait on the wall. But unfortunately for her, the lamp was lit right in front
of the picture and it seemed someone’s glowing gaze was illuminating the
entire picture. That photo was the most visible object in the room. Shyama
gave Madhusudan the usual pack of paan and began to press his feet. For
some reason he was in a good mood that evening. He had also bought a
silver photo-frame from an English shop. He gravely presented it to Shy
ama, merely saying, ‘Take this.’ Even when he was being nice to her he was
miserly in the matter of displaying soft emotions. Because he knew that if
Shyama was indulged slightly, she lost her dignity. The frame was packed
in brown paper. She opened it slowly and asked, ‘What is it for?’
‘Don’t you know? It is for framing photographs inside.’
 Shyama felt as if she was being lashed. She asked, ‘Whose photo do you
intend to put there?’
‘Why, yours. The one that was taken the other day.’
‘I don’t need such a show of affection,’ she said and flung the frame on
the floor.
Madhusudan was taken aback. He asked, ‘What does this mean?’
‘Nothing,’ she said and started crying. Then she got off the bed and
began to hit her head on the floor. Madhusudan thought she was upset
because the present was cheap and she had expected some expensive
ornament. After a tiring and long day, he did not like this fuss. It was like an
attack of hysteria—the one thing he hated most. He scolded her sternly,
‘Get up! Get up right now.’
Shyama got up and ran out of the room. Madhusudan swore to himself.
‘This will never do,’ he muttered.
He knew her only too well. He expected that in a little while she would
come and fall at his feet and beg forgiveness. That would be the best time to
firmly tell her a few home truths.
It was ten at night, but Shyama did not turn up. Once again there were
summons outside her door, ‘Maharaj is calling you.’
Shyama said to the bearer, ‘Tell Maharaj that I am not well.’
Madhusudan fumed. ‘How audacious! She dares disobey my orders.’
Still he expected her to turn up later. But she didn’t come. At a quarter to
eleven he got up and quickly went to her room to find it in darkness. But he
could make out Shyama lying on the floor. He thought it was only a ploy to
demand some petting from him.
He roared. ‘Get up and come with me. Now! None of this fussing.’
Shyama got up without a word.
 54

THE NEXT DAY AS HE CAME UP FOR A LITTLE REST AFTER

LUNCH AND BEFORE going back to work, Madhusudan found Kumu’s
photograph missing. Shyama was not ready with her paan to serve him like
other days. In fact, she was not around at all. She was sent for. It was
evident that she was hesitating to appear before him. Madhusudan asked
her, ‘Where is the photograph that used to be on my table?’
Shyama pretended ignorance, ‘Photo? Whose photo?’
Women generally have little regard for male intelligence, hence her
pretence was a shade too obvious.
Madhusudan said angrily, ‘Haven’t you seen it?’
Shyama was innocence herself. She said, ‘No, I don’t seem to have.’
Madhusudan roared again, ‘You are lying!’
‘Why should I lie? What use is a photo to me?’
‘I am warning you. Wherever you may have hidden it, go and get it!’
‘What a bother! How can I get a picture of yours?’
Madhu called the bearer and ordered him to get Nabin.
Nabin came. Madhusudan said, ‘Arrange for Borrobou to come back.’
Shyama made a face and sat stiff like a wooden doll.
Nabin scratched his head and said after some time, ‘Isn’t it proper for you
to call on them once? If you go and ask yourself, Bourani will be very
pleased.’
Madhusudan puffed on his hookah solemnly for a while and then said,
‘All right, tomorrow is Sunday. I shall go.’
Nabin rushed to his room and told his wife with suppressed excitement,
‘I have done something.’
‘Without consulting me?’
‘There was no time.’
 ‘Then you are sure to be in trouble.’
‘Possible. In my horoscope there is no star in the house of intelligence,
only my wife. That is why I always keep you at hand. It happened like this:
Dada ordered today that Bourani had to be brought back. I blurted out,
“Dada, it would be much better if you went personally and raised the topic.”
I didn’t know what his mood was, but he readily agreed. Since then I have
been wondering what the consequences might be.’
‘Not at all good. From the little I saw of Bipradas Babu, I am worried
about his reaction. What he might say could lead to a royal battle. Why did
you get into this?’
‘The main reason was that my intelligence was at level zero, because you
were somewhere else then. Secondly, when the other day Bourani declined
to come, I guessed the real reason. Her brother had been lying ill in Kolkata
all these days and her husband had not come even once to find out how he
was. This hurt her deeply.’
Motir-ma understood this in a flash and wondered why it had not struck
her in the first place. She had probably, unknown to herself, some pride in
her in-laws’ family. It had never occurred to her that, like everyone else,
Madhusudan also had obligations towards his own in-laws.
Nabin brought up the old debate and said sarcastically, ‘I would have
never thought about it on my own had you not reminded the the other day.’
‘How?’
‘You said that the obligations of relationships had priority over family
pride. That gave me courage to think that even a great fellow like the
Maharaj owed a visit to Bipradas Babu.’
Motir-ma was not disposed to accept defeat. She dismissed this with,
‘How can you indulge in such useless banter at a critical time? You should
now think seriously of the next step.’
‘You are likely to lose if you start thinking of the end at the very
beginning. We should think first of the immediate step. And that is for Dada
to call on Bipradas Babu. If we start thinking of the consequences from now
then that may be a tribute to your power of thinking, but it would be
overdoing it.’
‘I don’t know. I feel there will be trouble.’
 55

THE NEXT MORNING KUMU SPENT A LONG TIME PRACTISING

MUSIC WITH her brother. Our morning ragas help one’s personal sorrows
to merge with eternity and become universal and through that music we
escape from our bondage. Just as the mythical serpents in the matted locks
of Mahadeva become his adornments, the rivers of sorrow flow into their
final resting place, the ocean of sorrows. They change their features, and
their restlessness is stilled in the great deep.
Bipradas heaved a deep sigh and said, ‘In our world the immediate
present is the only reality, the eternal remains always in the background. In
music, the eternal comes to the fore and the trivial recedes. That is how the
mind is liberated.’
At this point the servant announced, ‘Maharaj Madhusudan is here.’
Kumu’s face went pale in a second. Bipradas was pained at this sight and
said, ‘Kumu, you go in. We may not need you after all.’
Kumu disappeared quickly.
Madhusudan had deliberately come without notice. He was keen not to
allow them any time to hide their poverty of reception. Madhusudan
believed that Bipradas secretly nursed a great sense of pride in his
aristocratic descent. And Madhusudan could not bear such a thought. That
was why he had come today as if it was not a visit he was paying but more
like an audience he was granting them.
Madhusudan’s strange attire was such as would overwhelm the servants.
He had on a coloured floral silk waistcoat on top of a striped English shirt.
A folded shawl hung over his shoulder. He wore a carefully pleated black-
bordered Santipur dhoti and a pair of burnished black court shoes. His
fingers were resplendent with rings bearing large diamonds and other
precious stones. Encircling his spacious girth was a gold watch-chain and
he held in his hand a fancy stick with a gold top shaped like an elephant’s
head and decorated with precious stones.
After some quick and half-expressed greetings he sat himself on the chair
next to Bipradas’s bed and said, ‘How are you, Bipradas Babu? You look
none too good.’
Bipradas made no reply, but said, ‘You seem to be keeping well.’
‘Can’t say I really am, I have a slight headache towards the evening and
my appetite is not good either. The slightest change in diet upsets me. But
what pains me most is my insomnia.’
An introduction to a case for whole-time care!
Bipradas said, ‘Must be too much pressure of office work.’
‘Nothing unusual. Office work takes care of itself. Mr McNaughton bears
most of the burden and Sir Arthur Peabody also helps me a lot.’
The hookah and the paan came. Madhusudan picked only one cardamom
and puffed the pipe a couple of times, after which he continued to hold it in
his left hand. It was never used again. Snacks arrived from inside the house.
He quickly protested, ‘You have to excuse me. As I told you, I have to be
very particular about my food.’
Bipradas did not ask him again. He told the servant, ‘Go and tell Pishima
that our guest is not well. He will not eat.’
Then he fell silent. Madhusudan expected that the topic of Kumu would
naturally come up. So many days had gone by that Bipradas should be now
showing some anxiety on his own. But he was not even mentioning Kumu.
Madhusudan began to rage inside. He thought it was a mistake to have
come. All this was Nabin’s doing. He wanted to go back quickly and think
of some heavy punishment for his misdeed.
Kumu entered then, dressed in a plain black-bordered sari, veiled
properly like a married woman. Bipradas had never expected this. He was
most surprised. She touched first her husband’s feet, then her brother’s and
told Madhusudan, ‘Dada is very tired and the doctor has advised him not to
talk much. You better come with me into the next room.’
Madhusudan was red in the face. He got up quickly. The pipe slipped
from his hand. He said, without even looking at Bipradas, ‘So long, I am
going.’
His first impulse was to stalk out and step into the carriage to go back
home. But his heart was in a bind. He was seeing Kumu after many days.
This was the first time he saw her in homely attire. She had never looked so
beautiful. So cool, so easy. In his own house she was a formal person, here
she belonged. Today he saw her from very close. How soothing was her
presence. He wanted to take her away without any delay. He turned over in
his mind again and again these words, ‘She is mine, she is mine alone, she
belongs to my home, she is my treasure, she is my heart and soul.’
So when she showed him to a sofa in the next room and asked him to sit
down, he had to. If it were not so open, he would have pulled her down to
sit by his side. But Kumu did not sit, she stood behind a chair with her
hands resting on its arms. She asked, ‘Do you wish to say something to
me?’
He did not quite like the tone of her question. He asked, ‘Aren’t you
coming home?’
‘No, I am not.’
Madhusudan was startled. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘You have no need for me.’
He guessed that the Shyamasundari affair had reached her ears and
assumed that his wife was sulking. He liked the idea, and said, ‘How
absurd! Of course I need you. Who likes an empty house?’
She did not feel like arguing with him but briefly reiterated, ‘I am not
going back.’
‘How do you mean? Can a woman refuse to go to her husband’s home? ‘
Her brief reply again was, ‘No, I am not going.’
Madhusudan jumped up from the sofa and said, ‘What! You dare refuse
to come? You will have to!’
Kumu said nothing. Madhusudan shouted at her, ‘Do you know I can call
the police and drag you home by the scruff of your neck? You think you can
say “no” that easily?’
Kumu continued to remain silent. Madhusudan raved, ‘So the tutoring
has started afresh in your brother’s Noornagar school?’
 Kumu glanced once at her brother’s room and said, ‘Be quiet, do not talk
so loudly.’
‘Do I have to care for your brother’s wishes? Do you know I can throw
him out on the streets this very moment?’
Next moment, Kumu found her brother standing at the door, tall, frail,
pale in the face, his large eyes burning in indignation. A thick white sheet
covered his body and trailed on the ground. He said, ‘Kumu, come to my
room.’
Madhusudan screamed, ‘I shall remember this arrogance of yours. I shall
smash your Noornagar pride, or I shall not call myself Madhusudan.’
Bipradas took to bed straightaway. He closed his eyes, not to sleep but
out of tiredness and anxiety. Kumu sat at his head and started fanning him.
After a long time, Aunt Kshema came and asked, ‘Aren’t you coming for
your lunch? It is quite late in the day, Kumu.’
Bipradas opened his eyes and said, Kumu, go for your lunch and send
Kaluda to me.’
Kumu said, ‘I beg of you, Dada. No Kaluda now. Try and sleep a little.’
Bipradas did not say anything, looked at her with deeply pained eyes, let
out a long sigh and then closed his eyes again. Kumu went out softly,
leaving the door ajar.
Soon Kalu sent word that he wanted to come. Bipradas sat up leaning on
a bolster. Kalu said, ‘Our son-in-law came and left in no time. What
happened? Didn’t he say anything about taking Kumu back?’
‘Yes he did, but Kumu said “no”.’
Kalu was dismayed. He said, ‘What are you saying? This is disastrous for
us.’
‘We have never been afraid of disasters. We fear dishonour.’
‘Then get ready. There is not much time to lose. I knew it was in your
blood, and that you can’t escape it. I remember how your father lost about a
couple of lakhs in defying the magistrate. It is your family hobby to march
forward and bravely court disaster. At least my family does not suffer from
this disability. That is why I can not bear to watch it silently. But how shall
we survive?’
 Bipradas put his right leg over the raised left one, leaned back on the
bolster, closed his eyes and was deep in thought for quite a while. At last he
opened his eyes and said, ‘According to the clauses of the loan agreement
Madhusudan cannot claim repayment from us without six months’ notice in
advance. Meanwhile Subodh will be here by the month of Ashadh and we
shall find a solution then.’
Kalu said with some irritation, ‘Sure you will find a solution. Instead of
all the lights going out at the same time, they will be turned off at decent
intervals.’
‘In any case the light is in its last throes, now it matters little as to which
bearer comes in and how he blows it out. I am sick of looking after the end
piece of that light. A complete darkness will give me greater relief.’
Kalu was hurt at this response from Bipradas. He understood that it was
the reaction of a sick person. Normally Bipradas was not a person to give
up so easily. Kalu knew he was planning a lot to avoid the final disaster and
he also believed that he would get over it. It was hard for him to think that
after today there was no room even for such a belief.
Kalu looked at Bipradas gently and said, ‘Brother, you don’t have to
think any more. I shall do whatever is necessary. Let me go and meet the
brokers.’
The next day Bipradas had a letter from Madhusudan written in English.
The language was legalistic, probably drafted by his attorney. It demanded
to know for certain if and when Kumu was coming back, and that
appropriate action would be taken depending on the reply to his letter.
Bipradas asked Kumu if she had considered all sides carefully.
Kumu said, ‘I have given up thinking about it totally. And that is why
today my mind is at rest. I have a feeling that for me, everything was just as
it used to be; and whatever had happened in between was nothing but a
dream.’
‘If they try to force you to go, will you be able to resist it?’
‘If they leave you out of it, I shall certainly be able to manage.’
‘I am asking you because, if you have to go back in the end, then the
more you delay the nastier it will be. Have you developed any soft corner
anywhere in your mind for your in-laws?’
‘Not in the least. I like only Nabin, Motir-ma and Habloo, but more like
an outsider.’
‘You see, they are going to torture you. They have the power of money
and the society to torture you. That is why we have to defy it. And to do
that you have to stand up in public without shame, fear or hesitation. There
will be a storm of criticism at home and outside, yet you have to keep your
head in the midst of all that.’
‘Won’t it bring you harm and disquiet?’
‘What do you call harm and disquiet, Kumu? What could cause me
greater harm than you leading a life of dishonour? And nothing could cause
me more disquiet than the knowledge that the home where you lived had
not become your own and the person who should have been closest to you
was the farthest from you. Father loved you very much, but in those days
the heads of families were distant entities, and the thought that you also
needed some education, never crossed his mind. I have taught you and
brought you up right from the beginning. I am no less than your parents.
Today I realize the onus of that task. If you were like any other girl you
would have had no problems. But today, any place where there is no
recognition, no respect for your own distinct identity would be hell to you.
Can I have the heart to banish you to such a place? Why not stay with me
forever as any younger brother of mine might have?’
Kumu rested her head on the bed close to her brother’s chest, but turned
her face away and said, ‘But won’t I be a burden on you? Tell me frankly.’
Bipradas stroked her head and said, ‘My dear sister, how can you be a
burden? I will make you work your feet off! You will look after all my jobs.
No private secretary could do all that. On top of it you will have to play
music for me and my horse will be in your charge too. You know that I love
to teach, and I could not hope for a better pupil than you. Let’s do
something I always wanted to do—learn Persian. We will study together.
You are bound to excel me, but I assure you I won’t be jealous!’
Kumu was enthralled listening to him. Nothing could be more
pleasurable in life.
 Bipradas said then, ‘Let me tell you something more, Kumu. The times
will change and with it our mores too. We have to live like poor people and
you will be the poor man’s treasure.’
Tears welled up in her eyes. She said, ‘If that happens, I shall be the
luckiest girl in the world.’
Bipradas held Madhusudan’s letter in his hand. He did not reply to it.
 56

WITHIN A COUPLE OF DAYS NABIN CAME WITH MOTIR-MA AND

HABLOO. THE little boy climbed up on Kumu’s lap and hid his face in her
breast and started crying. It was difficult to guess what the crying was for,
was it a sulk for the past, a childish demand of the present or a concern for
the future?
Kumu embraced him and said, ‘It is a cruel world, Gopal—there is no
end to tears. What do I have that I can offer to wipe your tears? Can I try
and stop the crying with mine? That’s about all I can do. The love that gives
oneself and nothing more, is the kind of love you children have.Your Auntie
will not be there forever, but remember her words and remember her—do
remember.’ She kissed his cheeks.
Nabin said, ‘Bourani, we are off to our ancestral home in Rajabpur. This
chapter is closed.’
Kumu said in distress, ‘I am the unlucky one who brought you this
misery.
Nabin said, ‘On the contrary. We have been toying with the idea for quite
a while. In fact, we were ready and packed to leave, when you appeared in
our lives. We were so happy—but the gods did not let it be.’
It was clear that Madhusudan on his return the other night must have
raised Cain.
Whatever Nabin might say, Motir-ma had no doubt that Kumu’s advent
had turned their household topsy-turvy and she had no intention of
pardoning her on that score. In her opinion Kumu should have gone back
with her head hanging in shame and accepted whatever torment was in store
for her. She asked Kumu somewhat harshly, ‘So you have decided never to
set foot in your in-law’s house?’
Kumu was equally firm. ‘No, I shall not.’
 Motir-ma asked, ‘Where will you be then?’
Kumu said, ‘There will be some space for me in this wide world. One
loses much in life, but something is always left.’
Kumu understood that Motir-ma had mentally distanced herself from her
a lot. She turned to Nabin and asked, ‘So what will you be doing now?’
‘We have some land by the riverside. That will be enough for our living,
plus there will be plenty of pure air.’
Motir-ma said with some hauteur, ‘No, my dear, you don’t have to worry
about that. No one can take away our rightful earnings from the Mirzapur
household. We are not such honourable people that we shall walk out just
because the big brother had chased us out. He will call us back sooner or
later. We can hold out till then. Take it from me!’
Nabin was a bit disappointed and embarassed at her outburst. He said, ‘I
am well aware of that, Mejobou, and I have no pride on that account. If
there is rebirth as they say, then my only wish is to be born an honourable
man, even it means starving.’
In fact Nabin had often made up his mind to leave his brother’s shelter
and take up farming on his own in their village home. Motir-ma also fumed
a lot, but when push came to shove, she could never bring herself to move.
She had stopped her husband every time. To her way of thinking, she had
full claim over her elder brother-in-law. He was almost like her father-in-
law. He might do something wrong but that could never be taken as an
insult. It appeared totally outlandish to her that Kumu should refuse to live
with her husband, whatever his behaviour towards her might have been.
The doctor was announced. Kumu said, ‘Do wait till I find out what the
doctor has to say.
The doctor said, ‘His pulse is no better. He is not sleeping enough at
night. The patient needs more rest.’
Kumu was getting back to her visitors when Kalu met her and said, ‘I
must tell you something. The matter is getting very complicated. If you do
not go back it will become worse. Frankly, I see no way out.’
Kumu stood silently. Kalu continued, ‘Summons have come from your
husband. Do we have the strength to resist it? We are well within his grip.’
 Kumu held on tightly to the railing and said, ‘I am at a loss to understand
anything. I feel stifled. It seems there is no way out for me but death,’ and
quickly ran inside.
Motir-ma was exchanging news with Aunt Kshema, whilst Kumu was
with her brother. Comparing notes about her symptoms, both suspected that
Kumu was pregnant. Motir-ma was happy and prayed to goddess Kali that
this was true. Now she was trapped good and proper! The proud woman
wanted to ignore her in-laws but now it was a knot in the cord of life, not a
mere ritual marriage tie. There was no escape for her this time!
She took Kumu aside and told her about what she suspected. Kumu’s
face was drained of all colour. She clenched her fists and said, ‘No, no, this
cannot be, must not be!’
Motir-ma said testily, ‘Why not? You may belong to the highest in the
land but the laws of life won’t be changed for your sake.You belong to the
Ghoshal clan now and the family god of the Ghoshals won’t let you off
easily. He is guarding your escape route.’
The fear of pregnancy brought clearly to Kumu’s mind the distorted
image that was taking shape out of her brief encounter with her husband.
The differences between one person and another that are insurmountable are
often very tenuous in their elements. There may be nothing apparently
clashing in language, bearing and small hints of behaviour, but they are
spread over unspoken gestures, tone of voice, manners and ideals of living.
There was something in Madhusudan that not only hurt her but deeply
shamed her. He was desperately poor at the start of his life, so the opinions
he expressed now and then, boastfully, about the supremacy of ‘money was
the reflection of an inherent inferiority within himself. He had raised this
topic of worshipping the god of wealth as a barb against her own family.
His natural vulgarity, harshness of speech, arrogant incivility and his mental
and physical personality as well as the intrinsic ugliness of his household
had repelled her body and mind every day she spent there. The more she
tried to overlook these and not to think about them, the more they heaped
up around her like a gigantic garbage dump. Kumu had fought valiantly
against this feeling of hatred within herself. She spared no effort on her part
to keep up the tradition of husband-worship. She had not realized until now
how pitifully she had lost her battle. Now she was linked by flesh and blood
with Madhusudan; the horror of it began to torment her. She asked Motir-
ma anxiously, ‘How can you know for certain?’
Motir-ma was incensed, but she controlled herself and said, ‘I am the
mother of a child. Who will know better than me? The time has not come to
be absolutely sure. You had better get yourself examined by a qualified
midwife.’
It was time for Nabin, Motir-ma and Habloo to leave. But Kumu could
not put her mind to anything but this grave unfair blow fate had dealt her.
So her leave-taking from her friendly in-laws was perfunctory. Nabin said,
‘All good things must end sometime. I was so lucky to be of service to you.
But I could hardly imagine it should end so abruptly.’ Nabin touched her
feet. Habloo was crying silently. Motir-ma kept a stern exterior and did not
utter a word.
 57

THE NEWS REACHED BIPRADAS. THE MIDWIFE CAME AND PUT

AN END TO ALL doubts about Kumu’s pregnancy. The news also reached
Madhusudan’s ears. He had wanted wealth and amassed enough of it. He
had wanted a title worthy of his status—he had got that too. And now the
final goal of his wordly duties would be attained if he could perpetuate his
own glory through family succession. The more he was pleased at the
throught, the more he transferred the burden of all guilt from Kumu to her
brother Bipradas.
He wrote him a second letter starting with ‘Whereas’ and ending with
‘Your obedient servant’ and appended his own signature in full—
Madhusudan Ghoshal. In between there were clauses like, ‘I shall have the
painful necessity’ etc. Usually these kind of threatening letters had the
contrary effect on the Chatterjees. Bipradas showed the letter to Kalu who
turned red in the face. ‘This kind of letter provokes even a cool fellow like
me to get into the Badshahi mood, call the Kotwal—the chief of police—
and order him to cut off the head of the writer and bring it to me instantly.’
Because he had a lot of paper-work to finish during the day, Bipradas
could send for Kumu only in the evening. Kumu had not met her brother the
whole day. She was avoiding him carefully.
Bipradas got up from his bed and sat on a chair. Lying down made his
mind weak. He had also reserved a seat for Kumu in front of him. The lamp
was kept shaded in a corner of the room. A large hanging fan was being
pulled from outside with great gusto. The air was still hot, it was the end of
Boishakh. Short spurts of breeze from the south offered scant respite. The
leaves of the trees were still, as if listening—all ears. The darkness of the
evening was somewhat like the blue of the sea at the mouth of the Ganga,
toned down by the river as it ran into the ocean. In between, there were
flickers of the last light of the lengthening eventide. The pond in the garden
was usually in the shadows, but the reflection of a very bright star in it
tonight was like a beckoning finger. The owls hooted as the servants passed
to and from under the trees with lanterns in hand.
Kumu came into the room a little late, still hesitant. As soon as she sat
down near Bipradas, she said, ‘Dada, I don’t like the look of things at all. I
feel like going away somewhere.’
Bipradas said, ‘You are mistaken, Kumu. You are going to like it. In a
little while you will be fulfilled in body and mind as well.’
‘But then . . .’ Kumu stopped halfway.
‘I know, but who can release you from your bondage now?’
‘Does it mean I have to go?’
‘I don’t have the right to tell you not to. I dare not rob your child of its
rightful home.’
‘When do I have to go?’ she asked in a low voice.
‘Tomorrow. It brooks no delay.’
‘Dada, I am sure it is clear to you that they will never let me come to you
again.’
‘Yes, I am well aware of it.’
‘Then let it be so. But I do not want you ever to call on them. I know I
will die of longing to see, you but I do not wish to see you in that house
ever. I just could not bear the thought.’
‘No, Kumu, you don’t have to worry on that score.’
‘But they will also try to create trouble for you?’
‘When they finish doing with me what they will, they will also lose all
hold on me. I shall be free that very moment. Why do you call that trouble?’
‘Make me free too at the same time. By then I would have been able to
deliver their child to them. There are things one cannot give up even for a
child’s sake.’
‘Have your baby first and then we shall see how you feel.’
‘You may not believe me. But do you remember Mother? I believe, she
chose her own time and place of death. The day she lost her rightful place
in the family she could leave her children easily. When one desires freedom
intensely, nothing can hold one back. I am your sister, I too want freedom.
Take it from me, the day I renounce my ties, my mother will bless me.’
Both of them sat quietly again for some time. Suddenly there was a gust
of wind, the leaves of the book on the teapoy started fluttering. The
fragrance of bael flowers blew in from the garden to fill the room.
Kumu said, ‘Don’t think, Dada, that they wilfully caused me pain. I am
built in such a way that they could not make me happy. I too cannot please
them. There will always be a problem with those who cannot please them
easily. Then why all this torment. I shall have to bear all the calumny from
the society, they will go unscathed. But mark my words, Dada, one day I
shall be rid of them and I shall be free to come back to you. There is no
point in being the Borrobou of that family if I can’t be Kumu, my own self.
I know, Dada, you don’t believe in God, but I do. Even more now, than I
did three months ago. I have been thinking the whole of today—why with
so much anomaly, such chaos everywhere, the world is still not
overwhelmed by dirt? There lies beyond all this a space where the sun,
moon and the universe are still turning—that is where paradise lies, that is
where my god resides. I feel shy to talk to you like this, but there may never
be another opportunity. I poured out my thoughts so that you may not be
consumed with worry unnecessarily on my account. I have realized that
there is a residue of your own even after you’ve lost all. And that is
inexhaustible, that is my god. If I hadn’t realized this truth, then I’d have
clung to you till my death and never entered that prison-house again.’
When she finished she lay her head on his feet. For a long time Bipradas
looked out of the window, lost in endless brooding.
 58

EARLY NEXT MORNING HE SENT FOR KUMU. SHE FOUND ONE

ESRAJ STRETCHED on his lap and another lying on the bed. He said,
‘Pick up the instrument, let’s play together.’ It was still somewhat dark.
After the whole night, the breeze had cooled down and was lightly blowing
through the peepul leaves, and the crows had started cawing. The two of
them started with a slow alaap in Raag Bhairon—sombre, quiet and
plaintive. It recalled the mood of Mahadev in the morning after he had
reconciled himself to the loss of Sati. As they played, the rays of the sun
shone brighter through the flowering branches of gulmohar; the sun came
up beyond the garden wall. Servants came, stood near the door and went
away. They could not do the room. Sunlight filled the room, the orderly
came and kept the newspaper on the side-table and left silently.
When they finished Bipradas said, ‘Kumu, you think I have no religion. I
don’t talk about it because then there wouldn’t be an end to it. I see its form
in music where deep sorrow and ecstasy mingle together. I am unable to
give it a name. You are leaving today, perhaps for good. So this morning I
thought I would see you off beyond the pale of all discord and disharmony.
You have read Kalidas’s Shakuntala. Remember when Shakuntala was
starting out to join her husband Dushyanta, the sage Kanva travelled some
distance with her. Much sorrow and humiliation lay on the way to the
destination he was leading her to. But she did not stop even there, but
crossed over to eternal peace. This morning’s Raag Bhairon captures the
same peace, and my heartfelt blessings may reach you towards your entire
fulfilment—a fulfilment which may inundate your inner and outer being
and flush all your sorrows away.’
Kumu said nothing. She rested her head on his feet. Then she stood near
the window looking out into the light. She said after a while, ‘Let me go
and get your tea and toast.’
Madhusudan had called the astrologer who fixed any time after ten that
day as auspicious. At the appointed hour, a covered palanquin with red
velveteen and gold embroidered interior arrived, escorted by men with
pikestaffs, and carried Kumu to the palace in Mirzapur where an orchestra
was playing and Brahmins were being fed with great éclat.
Manik brought a glass of barley water for Bipradas who was not in his
bed today, but sat still on a chair by the window. He did not even notice the
barley water. The servant went back. Then Kshema auntie came with his
food. She put her hand on his shoulder and gently reminded him, ‘Bipu
dear, it is getting late.’
He slowly got up and lay down on his bed. Kshema very much wished to
describe to him at length the great fanfare with which Kumu was taken back
to her husband’s house, but she could not say anything in the face of his
grave silence. It seemed he was looking into a yawning abyss.
When Bipradas spoke out, ‘Pishi, please send Kalu to me,’ those simple
words seemed to come through a thick pall of silence. Pishi shuddered.
Bipradas gave Kalu a letter. It was Subodh’s letter from England. He
wrote to say that if he returned to India now without finishing the quota of
bar dinners then he would have to come back to England again. It would be
more convenient if he returned after the last bar dinner towards the end of
winter. That would also save some expense. He believed the property
matters could well wait till then.
Kalu did not wish to bother Bipradas with mundane crises, today of all
days. He said, ‘Dada, there has been no talk as yet about the return of the
loan. If we keep quiet for some time and don’t provoke anyone, maybe
there will be no trouble. Anyway, you shouldn’t worry.’
Bipradas said, ‘I have no worries, Kalu. Not in the least.’
Kalu did not like him to worry, but such total indifference caused him
more concern.
Bipradas picked up the newspaper and started reading. Kalu took it as a
hint that Bipradas had not the slightest desire to discuss the matter. Usually
Kalu left as soon as business was over, but today he sat quietly for some
more time, wishing to raise some other topic or be of some use in some
way.
He asked, ‘Shall I close the front window? The sun is streaming
through.’
Bipradas shook his head to indicate that there was no need for him to do
anything.
Still Kalu continued to sit. The emptiness of the room without Kumu by
the side of her brother made his heart sink. He suddenly heard Tom the
terrier sobbing under the bed. The dog had seen Kumu leave, felt that
something amiss had happened, but he was unable to communicate what he
felt.
 Notes and Glossary

The Bengali Calendar:

The Bengali New Year starts with Boishakh, around15 th April. The
Bengali calendar starts from around 593 AD. So 1900 is Bengali San 1307
and year 2000 is BS 1407.

Summer: Boishakh (mid-April to mid-May)

Jaistha (May-June)
Rains: Ashadh (June-July)
Shraban (July-August)
Early Autumn: Bhadra (August-September)
Ashwin (September-October)
Late Autumn: Kartik (October-November)
Aghran (November-December)
Winter:Poush (December-January)
Magh (January-February)
Spring: Falgun (February-March)
Chaitra (March-April)

Bengali Kinship Terms:

Bengali families, being mostly joint families, abound in uncles, aunts,
sons, daughters, cousins, their wives and so on, necessitating extra-specific
kinship terms to indicate the exact relationship in the hierarchy of the
extended family, rather than do with generalized terms like uncles, aunts
and cousins. Some of those used in this translation are explained:
Grandparents
Thakurda Father’s father
Thakurma Father’s mother
Dadu Mother’s father
Didima Mother’s mother
Paternal Relations
Jyatha Father’s elder brother
(from Sanskrit Jyeshtha—elder)
Kaka, Khuro Father’s younger brother
Kakima, Khurrima His wife
Pishima Father’s sister
Pisha-moshai Her husband

Maternal relations: Same generation:

Mama Mother’s brother Dada Elder brother (short suffix-da)
Mamima His wife Didi Elder sister (short sufix-di)
Mashima Mother’s sister Khoka A young boy
Mesho-moshai Her husband Khuki A young girl

Relations by marriage:

Bhashur Husband’s elder brother—never to be addressed directly

Deor Husband’s younger brother, addresed as Thakurpo
Nanad Husband’s sister
Nandai Her husband
Bhaaj Brother’s wife—to a sister
Boudi Elder brother’s wife—to a brother
Bou Wife, any married woman in the family
Bou-ma Form of address for a married woman in the family by any elder
member

Prefixes like Borro, Sejo, Mejo and Chhoto (eldest, next to the eldest,
middle one and the youngest respectively) are added to indicate relative
positions age-wise. All the above terms and addresses are also used socially
amongst non-relatives alike. Short suffixes like—da (from Dada), or—di
(from Didi) are added as appropriate.

Most of the Indian words used are now familiar in Indo-English writing.
Many have even found acceptance in the new OED.
Ashram
A kind of residential school in a forest where a sage teaches young
boys the scriptures and other arts and skills for over a decade in
preparation of their role as householder.
Adda
A distinctive cultural feature of life in Kolkata. It means an idle gossip,
or bull session amongst peer groups—students, unemployed youth or
retired elderly people—any time, anywhere, discussing kings and
cabbages.
Badshah
An imperial and imperious personality. From Badshah, Persian for
Emperor.
Bhajan
A popular devotional song.
Dewan
Estate manager.
Esraj
A many-stringed instrument played with a bow.
Hookah
A portable hubble-bubble for smoking tobacco which is lit on top in a
clay pot and puffed through water contained in an empty coconut shell.
Karta
The head of a joint family.
Khansama
A man-servant waiting at the table.
Kirtan
A devotional song wherein the audience also takes part in the refrain.
Kuleen
The highest pedigreed among the Brahmins.
Mukhtiyar
A local lawyer in a lower court—as opposed to a Law Graduate.
Naib
A functionary in the zamindar’s office, a bailiff.
Paan
Betel-leaf, commonly chewed, with lime and spices.
Roti
Indian unleavened bread.
Ryot
A tiller tennant.
Sindoor
Vermillion. Used for applying a dot in the forehead and in the parting
of hair, by Hindu married women.
Zamindar
A rich landlord.
MALANCHA

 
(The Garden)
 1

NEERJA LAY HALF-RECLINED ON HER SICK BED, PROPPED UP

AGAINST PILLOWS that were piled high behind her. A white silk sheet
covered her legs, like the pale moonlight on the third day of the waxing
moon when it is behind a light cloud. She was pale like the conch-shell, her
bangles hung loose on her wrists, blue veins lined her thin arms and on her
dense eyelashes were the stains of a long-drawn illness.
Quite like its occupant, Neerja’s room too seemed to be under a shadow.
A picture of Ramakrishna Paramhansa adorned one wall of the marble-
floored room; the only pieces of furniture other than the bed were two
wicker stools, a small table, and a clothes rack which stood in a corner. In
another corner a metal pitcher held a bunch of white rajanigandha sticks,
whose mild fragrance pervaded the closed air of the room.
From the east-facing window that lay open, Neerja could observe the
garden below: the orchid room, made of mud-plastered bamboo laths, and
the blue-flowered aparajita creeper on the fence. Not far off, the water
pump throbbed on near the pump, and water ran down the channels to the
flower-beds with a trilling sound. In the fragrant mango grove a cuckoo
sang fervently, as if in desperation.
The garden porch clock struck twice. It seemed to be matching its tune to
the fury of the sun. The gardeners had left for their break; they wouldn’t be
back before three. The sound of the gong filled Neerja with pain, her mind
grew sad. The ayah came to shut the window. ‘No , no, let it be,’ Neerja
protested; she continued to stare at the garden below where the sunlight and
shade played hide and seek beneath the trees.
Her husband Aditya had made a name for himself in the floral business.
Ever since their wedding, the love that Neerja and Aditya had for each other
had come by various channels to mingle together in caring for this garden in
all ways possible. In the blossoms and sprouts of their loved garden, their
combined joy and love had grown and was expressed in new ways, in new
beauty. Just like a person abroad waits eagerly for the day of the special
mail delivery, anxious to hear from his friends, so in different seasons
Neerja and Aditya would wait earnestly for their plants to greet them in new
and novel ways.
Staring unseeingly at her beloved garden now, Neerja could not help
recalling images from those days past. It was not very long ago, but the
days seemed to lie beyond the endless meadows of time, the history of
another age. On the west of the garden was the great ancient neem tree. It
used to have a twin, which had decayed and fallen some years ago; the
trunk was sawed smooth to make a table. There the two of them would sip
tea at dawn, from between the trees the green-bough-strained sunlight
would fall at their feet; the garden mynahs and squirrels would arrive to ask
favours. After tea, Neerja and Aditya would go about the various chores in
the garden. Neerja’s head would be sheltered with a silk parasol with floral
designs, while Aditya donned a sola hat and carried on his belt a pair of
garden shears. When friends dropped in, socialization would blend with the
garden chores. Friends could often be heard saying, ‘Really, dear, your
dahlias make us envious.’ Some would ask ignorantly, ‘What are those big
flowers? Are they sunflowers?’ and Neerja would reply gleefully, ‘No, no,
they’re marigolds.’ Someone with a bit more gardening sense would say,
‘How did you create such huge jasmines, Neerja Devi? There must be
magic in your hands. They are as big as togors.’ This knowledgeable person
would be duly rewarded with five potted jasmine plants to take home, to the
abiding dismay of Hola the gardener. On several occasions thrilled friends
were taken on a tour of the grounds—the flower garden, the fruit garden,
the vegetable garden, and so on. Before they left Neerja would fill their
baskets with roses, magnolias, carnations—and along with the flowers there
would be papayas, lemons and wood apples.The serving of tender coconut
water would signify the finale of this giving away of bounty. The thirsty
would exclaim, ‘What sweet water!’ And they would hear her proud reply,
‘It’s from my garden.’ Everybody would remark, ‘Ah , that’s why!’
 The memory of those early mornings spent beneath the trees with the
steaming vapour of the Darjeeling tea mingling with the scents of the
seasons brought out a long, deep-drawn sigh from Neerja. She wanted to
snatch those golden days back from the thief who had stolen them away.
But why could her agonized mind not find someone to blame? She was not
a person to accept her fate in silence with bowed head. Who was
responsible? What child whose reach was all over the universe? What
monstrous lunatic? Who could create such meaningless havoc in her
perfectly ordered existence!
The ten years after her marriage had passed in pure bliss. Her friends
envied her in secret; they felt that she had been given much more than she
was worth. The men called Aditya a ‘lucky dog’.
But the boat of Neerja’s domestic happiness hit rock bottom one day, and
this had to do with their dog Dolly. Before Neerja had entered the
household Dolly used to be Aditya’s sole companion. But with Aditya’s
marriage, Dolly’s devotion was divided between the couple, and Neerja’s
portion was decidedly more. As soon as she spied the car approaching to
pick up Neerja when she had to go out, the dog would turn uncontrollable.
She would continuously wag her tail to convey her vigorous objection to
her mistress’s departure. Then, she would boldly attempt to leap into the car
and would be thwarted by Neerja’s raised forefinger. With a deep sigh Dolly
would curl up her tail and lie listlessly at the door. If Aditya and Neerja
were late in returning, she would sniff the air and roam around and in the
inexpressible language of canines excite the heavens with pathetic
questions.
Then some disease suddenly struck Dolly; as she lay ill, she stared
mournfully at them, and one day, silently resting her head on Neerja’s lap,
she died.
Neerja’s affections were strong and uncompromising. She could not
imagine anyone—even God—attempting to intrude on her love. She trusted
the world as a support to her. Till the day of Dolly’s death nothing had
occurred to shake this faith. But on the day the incredible and the seemingly
impossible death of Dolly took place, there appeared the first hole in the
fortress of her fortitude and convictions. It signified to her distraught mind
the first entrance of an ill omen. It seemed as if the Lord of the worldly life
was of a disorderly mind—His apparent gifts could not be relied upon to
last.
Everyone had given up hope of Neerja bearing a child. While Neerja was
wreaking havoc with her repressed affections showered on their manager
Ganesh’s son who was sheltered by them, and as the boy was finding the
onslaught of her restless affections unbearable, she found herself pregnant.
Maternal feelings welled up inside her; the horizon of the future turned rosy
with her excited anticipation of the child she was going to give birth to.
Seated under a tree, Neerja whiled away her hours happily, embroidering
new clothes for her soon-to-be-born child.
Then came the birthing time. The midwife had foreseen the impending
trouble. Aditya became so restless that the doctor rebuked him and kept him
away. Complications necessitated an urgent surgery, which left no scope for
the survival of the child if Neerja was to be saved. The baby’s death
devastated her completely; overcome by shock and trauma, she was unable
to get up from bed after the surgery. Like a dried up river lying spent on a
bed of sand in summer, her anaemic body lay weary on the bed. The life
force that she contained within herself in profusion had suddenly
disappeared altogether. Now, as she lay on the bed she could feel the heated
breeze bringing in the smell of muchkundo flowers through the open
window, or sometimes a breath of the batabi flower—as if her days of
spring were softly asking her from the distant past, ‘How are you?’
What caused her most hurt and misery was that Aditya’s distant cousin,
Sarala, had to be called to help in the garden. From the open window
whenever she saw Sarala wearing a lofty, embroidered silk toka, ordering
the gardeners about their work, Neerja found her useless limbs unbearable.
Yet when she used to be healthy she used to invite the same Sarala every
season during the festive occasion of seed planting. Work would begin at
dawn. Then they would swim and bathe in the pool, and eat off plantain
leaves beneath the trees; afterwards the gramophone would play native and
foreign music. The gardeners would get curds, sweetened rice grains and
sweetmeats. The sounds of their merriment could be heard from the
tamarind grove. Slowly the day would wind up and the water in the pool
would ripple with the afternoon breeze, the birds would chirp on the bokul
branches and the day would end on a contented, happy note.
The sweet sap within her, why had it turned bitter today! Just as her weak
body was a stranger to her active, healthy former self, her sharp dry nature
too was unfamiliar to herself.There was no charity in this nature. At times
when the poverty of her mind and body became visible to her, she’d feel
ashamed—but she had no control over herself. She found it frightening to
think Aditya might notice her meanness; that some day he might see clearly
that her mind at present was like a fruit mauled by a bat’s teeth, unfit for
decent use.
The gong sounded once again. The garden was desolate. Neerja gazed
afar where even the mirage of unrealized longing could not be seen, where
in the sunlight without shade the void just follows itself.
 2

NEERJA CALLED OUT, ‘ROSHNI!’

The ayah came into the room. Elderly, with white streaks in her black
hair, thick brass bangles on her hard hands, and the scarf of thin cloth
draped on the skirt worn by up-country women—this was Roshni. The
posture of her lean body and stern features held the stamp of permanent
seriousness; as if in her court of law she was prepared to pronounce
judgement against this household. She had reared Neerja—all her affections
centred on her. So she viewed with rebellious suspicion anyone who came
close to Neerja, even if it was Neerja’s husband.
She entered the room now and asked, ‘Shall I fetch you water, Khokhi?’
‘No, sit.’
The ayah sat on the floor, her knees hunched up.
Whenever Neerja felt the need to talk, to open herself up, she would
summon Roshni. The ayah was the audience for her soliloquies.
Neerja began, ‘This morning I heard the door open.’
The ayah said nothing but her expression which reflected her annoyance,
could be interpreted as, ‘And when isn’t it heard?’
Neerja asked an unnecessary question, ‘Did he go with Sarala to the
garden?’
The answer was certainly known to Neerja, yet everyday she made the
same query. Turning the palm of her hand once and twisting her lips
scornfully, the ayah sat silent.
Neerja gazed out of the window and mused to herself, ‘He would wake
me too, at dawn, I would also go with him to the garden then. This wasn’t
too long ago.’
When Neerja rambled on in this manner nobody was expected to join this
discussion, but the ayah could not be quiet. ‘As if the garden would dry up
if she weren’t taken along!’ she said.
Neerja continued to talk, as if to herself, ‘Not a day passed when I didn’t
arrange for the early morning flowers to be sent to New Market. Those
flowers were sent this morning too, I heard the sound of the vehicle. Who
sees to this nowadays, Roshni?’
The ayah did not answer what was already known, she sat with her lips
tightly pursed.
Neerja told her, ‘Whatever happens now, when I was in charge the
gardeners could never hoodwink me.’
The ayah spoke in repressed grief, ‘Those days are gone now. Now both
hands are used to steal openly.’
‘Really?’
‘Am I lying? How many flowers reach Kolkata’s New Market! As soon
as Jamaibabu leaves, the gardeners sell the flowers at the back door.’
‘Nobody checks this?’
‘Who can be bothered?’
‘Why don’t you tell Jamaibabu?’
‘Who am I to say anything! I have to keep my dignity. Why don’t you tell
him? Everything belongs to you.’
‘Let it be, let it be, fine. Let it go on like this for a while, when
everything is ruined it will be exposed. One day the time of reckoning will
come; the stepmother’s love is never greater than the mother’s, is it? So say
nothing now.’
‘But I still say, Khokhi, there’s no work to be got from your Hola
gardener.’
Hola’s indifference to work was not the only thing that perpetually
annoyed the ayah.That Neerja’s affection for him, to her mind, was growing
unreasonably, was the most significant reason for her irritation with Hola.
‘I don’t blame the gardener. Why should he tolerate the new mistress? He
belongs to a family whose profession has been gardening for the last seven
generations and your Didimoni’s skills are derived from books—to order
him about, isn’t it unseemly? Hola doesn’t like to obey eccentric laws, he
complains to me. And I tell him to shut his ears to it.’
 ‘The other day Jamaibabu was going to release him from work.’
‘Why, whatever for?’
‘He was sitting around smoking a beedi and right in front of him a cow
strayed in from outside and was eating the plants. Jamaibabu said, “Why
don’t you chase away the cow?” and he answered insolently, “Me chase the
cow ! The cow will chase me. Don’t I have fear for my life!”’
Neerja laughed; she said, ‘He talks like that. Well, whatever it is, he is
what I’ve created with my own hands.’
‘Jamaibabu tolerates him for your sake, whether a cow strays in or a
rhino chases him. Being so pricey and haughty isn’t good, I tell you.’
‘Be quiet, Roshni. Don’t I know what grief kept him from chasing that
cow? His chest burns in sorrow. There’s Hola—going somewhere with a
towel on his head. Call him here.’
The ayah called Hola who came into the room. Neerja asked, ‘Well, are
there new instructions these days?’
‘There are, definitely. Hearing them makes me laugh, brings tears to the
eyes.’
‘Let me hear what.’
‘Over there from in front of the Mullicks’ old house that is being
demolished—I have to get brickbats from there and spread it beneath the
trees. This is her order. I said, “The trees will feel hot when the bricks heat
up in the sun.” But she pays no attention to what I say.’
‘Why don’t you tell Babu?’
‘I told Babu. He scolded me and said, “Be quiet.” Boudidi, release me
from work, I find this intolerable.’
‘That’s why I saw you carry in a basket of rubbish.’
‘Boudidi, you are my mistress forever. With you still here, they’ve made
me hang my head in shame. I’ve lost my standing in front of everybody.
Am I a common labourer that I should carry bricks?’
‘All right, go now.When your Didimoni asks you to carry in brickbats,
tell her in my name I forbid this . . .Why do you still stand here?’
‘A letter’s come from my village. The big ox used for ploughing is dead.’
Saying this Hola scratched his head sheepishly.
 Neerja said, ‘No, he isn’t dead, he’s hale and hearty. Here, take these two
rupees and don’t blabber any more.’
She took out the money from the brass box on the table. But Hola
continued to stand there.
‘Now what?’
‘An old garment for my wife. Something that you have no use for. You
will be praised all over the place.’ Saying this Hola widened his betel-
stained black lips and grinned.
Neerja said, ‘Roshni, go give him that sari that’s on the clothes-stand.’
Roshni shook her head vigorously and exclaimed, ‘What talk is this, that
is your Dhakai sari!’
‘Let it be my Dhakai sari. Now all saris are the same to me. When will I
ever wear them?’
Roshni set her face and said stubbornly, ‘No, that cannot be. I’ll give her
the red bordered factory-made sari. Look here, Hola, if you pester Khokhi
like this, I shall tell Babu to banish you far away.’
Hola clasped Neerja’s feet and wailed, ‘I have lost favour with fortune,
Boudidi.’
‘Why, eh? What’s the matter with you?’
‘I call Ayahji mashi. I don’t have a mother, until now I used to think she
loves this wretched Hola. But Boudidi, if you have something for me, then
why does she create an obstacle? It’s nobody’s fault I suppose, it’s my fate
that’s at fault.’
‘Don’t worry, your mashi loves you, she was praising you before you
came. Roshni, give him that garment or he’ll lie here obstinately as if he
were imploring in front of a deity at the temple.’
With an extremely sullen expression the ayah got the sari and threw it in
front of Hola. Hola picked it up and bowing low touched Neerja’s feet and
saluted her respectfully. Then he stood up and said, ‘Let me wrap it in this
towel, Boudidi. My hands are dirty and it will get stained.’
Without waiting for permission Hola took a towel from the clothes-stand
and vanished rapidly.
 Neerja asked the ayah, ‘Roshni, do you know for sure if Babu has gone
out?’
‘I saw him leaving with my own eyes. What hurry! Forgot to take his
cap.’
‘Today it happened for the first time. The flower he presents to me every
morning was forgotten. This forgetfulness will increase daily. Finally I will
be kept aside in the dump in this household, where the burnt out coal is
stored.’
Seeing Sarala approach the ayah grimaced and left. Sarala entered the
room. In her hand was an orchid. It was a spotless flower, the tip of the
petal was of a faint purple colour. It looked like a huge butterfly whose
wings were spread fully. Sarala was tall and slender, dark complexioned;
her large eyes, bright and sad, were what struck everyone at the first glance.
She was wearing a coarse hand-spun sari, with her hair carelessly tied up,
hanging untidy and loose over her shoulders. Her unadorned form did
injustice to her youth.
Neerja refused to look at her. Sarala gently kept the flower on the bed, in
front of her. Neerja did not hide her annoyance and asked brusquely, ‘Who
told you to bring this?’
‘Aditda.’
‘Why didn’t he come himself?’
‘He had to leave in a hurry for the New Market shop, as soon as he
finished his cup of tea.’
‘Why this rush?’
‘Last night there was news—the office lock has been tampered with and
money stolen.’
‘Couldn’t he spare five minutes for me?’
‘Last night your pain increased. You fell asleep early in the morning. He
came to the door and then turned back. He told me before leaving that if he
didn’t return by the afternoon I was to give you this flower.’
Before beginning his work for the day Aditya would specially select a
flower to place on his wife’s bed. Neerja waited for this every day. And
today he had left that special flower with Sarala. It had not entered his mind
that the essential value of giving a flower was to give it personally. Even the
holy water of the Ganges loses its significance if it flows out of an ordinary
pipe.
Neerja pushed the flower aside scornfully and said, ‘Do you know how
costly this flower is in the market? Send it there. What is the point of
wasting it?’
Saying this, her voice grew heavy.
Sarala understood the situation. She knew that answering Neerja would
merely aggravate her grief. So she stood silent. A little while later Neerja
asked, ‘Do you know the name of this flower?’
Sarala could have said ‘I don’t know’ but perhaps that hurt her pride; she
said, ‘Amaryllis.’
Neerja snapped at her quite unreasonably, ‘So much for your knowledge!
The name is Grandiflora.’
Sarala replied mildly, ‘Maybe so.’
‘What do you mean, maybe so? Of course it is so. Are you trying to say I
don’t know?’
Sarala realized that Neerja had purposely given the wrong name, to
alleviate her own agony by inflicting it on another. In defeat she was about
to leave the room slowly; but Neerja called out, ‘Listen! What were you
doing all morning, where were you?’
‘In the orchid room.’
Neerja became agitated, ‘Why must you go so often to the orchid room?’
‘Aditda had asked me to splice some orchids and graft them anew.’
Neerja said in disapproving tones, ‘Like an ignorant person you will ruin
them all. I have taught Hola the gardener to make them, couldn’t he have
done it if instructed?’
There could be no answer to this. The candid answer would be that in
Neerja’s time Hola the gardener might have worked well, but Sarala could
not manage him at all. In fact, he often insulted her by showing
indifference.
The gardener had realized that not working well in the present regime
would please the mistress of the previous regime. It was a bit like
boycotting classes and not passing the examination being of more value
than getting the college degree.
Sarala could have got angry with all the pettiness Neerja was displaying,
but she did not. She recognized that her Boudidi’s heart ached. The garden
occupied all of this childless woman’s heart and today after ten years it was
so near her, all around her, and yet she was banished from it! What a cruel
separation!
Neerja said, ‘Shut it, shut the window.’
Sarala closed the window and asked, ‘Now shall I fetch some orange
juice?’
‘No , you don’t have to get anything.’
Sarala reminded her rather timidly, ‘It’s time for you to have your
makardhvaj.’
‘No , no need for makardhvaj. Are there any more instructions for you
concerning the garden?’
‘I have to plant rose cuttings.’
Neerja said with some spite, ‘Oh, and is this the time! Who gave you this
idea, let me hear?’
Sarala said softly, ‘From the outstation suddenly there are several orders
so Aditda resolved somehow to prepare many plants before the monsoons. I
had said not to.’
‘Said not to, I see! All right, all right, call Hola here.’
Hola came in. Neerja said, ‘Have you become a fine gentleman? Do your
hands get cramps planting rose cuttings? Is Didimoni your assistant
gardener? Before Babu gets back from the city you will plants as many
cuttings as possible, no breaks today, I tell you. Mix the sand with the
scorched leaves and grass and prepare the ground on the right bank of the
pool.’
Neerja decided to lie on the bed and organize the planting of roses from
there itself. There was to be no deliverance for Hola the gardener.
Hola smiled indulgently and told Neerja, ‘Boudidi, this is a brass water-
pot made in Cuttack by Horosundar Maity. Only you can appreciate its
finesse. It will look good as a vase for you.’
 Neerja asked, ‘How much does it cost?’
Pressing the tip of his tongue between his teeth to show abashment, Hola
said, ‘Don’t say such things. As if I can take money for this pot! I am poor
but not ungrateful.You have reared me with food and clothes.’
He put the water pot on the table and taking flowers from another vase
began to arrange them there. Finally, turning to go, he remarked, ‘I have
told you of my niece’s wedding. Don’t forget the armlet, Boudidi. If I give
her brass jewellery you will be criticized. I am a gardener in such a
prosperous household, a wedding in my family will naturally arouse the
curiosity of the whole locality.’
Neerja replied, ‘All right, don’t worry, now go.’
Hola left. Neerja suddenly turned on her side and placing her head on the
pillow, cried out in suppressed grief, ‘Roshni, Roshni, how petty I have
become, my mind has become like that of Hola gardener’s.’
The ayah said, ‘Shame, shame, Khokhi, what are you saying?’
Neerja continued to speak absently, ‘My misfortune struck me down on
the outside, but why is it making me so mean on the inside? Don’t I know
how Hola regards me now! Standing so close, grinning and taking his tip he
left. Call him here. I will rebuke him sternly, get rid of his wickedness once
and for all.’
But when the ayah rose to call Hola, Neerja said, ‘Let it be, let it be for
now.’
 3

SOME TIME LATER NEERJA’S COUSIN-IN-LAW, ROMEN,

ARRIVED. ‘BOUDI, DADA sent me here,’ he said. ‘He has plenty of work
at the office, he will eat out, since he will be back rather late.’
Neerja chuckled and said, ‘Fine excuse to come running here with this
message, Thakurpo ! Why did you have to trouble yourself, is the office
bearer dead?’
‘To be near you do I need any other excuse but yourself, Boudi? Can the
bearer express the affection that I feel for my Boudi?’
‘My dear, you scatter pearls in the wrong place. What error brings you to
this room? Your female florist roams alone in the lemon grove, go and see
her there.’
‘Let me pay homage to the goddess of the garden first and then I shall go
in search of the female gardener.’ Saying this he brought out a book from
his shirt pocket and handed it to Neerja.
Neerja was delighted and said, ‘Asru Shikol (A Chain of Tears)—this is
the book I wanted. I bless you, may the florist of your garden be eternally
chained to your heart in joy. She whom you Call your imagination’s partner,
the companion of your dreams. What amour my dear!’
Romen said suddenly, ‘All right Boudi, I want to ask you something, but
answer truthfully.’
‘What?’
‘Have you quarrelled with Sarala today?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I saw her sitting silently beside the pool.Women are not like men who
while away the time daydreaming when they ought to be working. I have
never before seen Sarala in such an idle state. When I asked her, “In which
direction is your mind wandering?” she retorted, “In that direction where
the heated wind blows withered leaves.” I said, “That is a riddle. Speak in
plain language.” She answered, “Does everything have a language?” Again
I saw a riddle. A line from that song came to mind then: “Whose words
have hurt you today?”’
‘Maybe something your Dada said.’
‘That cannot be. Dada is a man. He may sternly reprimand your
gardeners. But can the fire devastate the beautiful flower?’
‘All right, let’s not talk any more nonsense. Instead, I want to ask you
something important. I entreat you, please marry Sarala. To marry and save
a spinster would be great piety.’
‘I don’t care about piety but I covet that maiden, this I swear to you.’
‘Then where is the obstacle? Isn’t she agreeable?’
‘I haven’t even asked her. She is more my fancy’s match, not my worldly
partner.’
Suddenly, with tremendous eagerness, Neerja clutched Romen’s hand.
‘Why not, it has to be. Before I die you have to be married or I shall haunt
you both, I tell you.’
Neerja’s agitation caused Romen to stare at her in amazement. Finally he
shook his head and said, ‘Boudi, I am younger than you in our relationship
by marriage, but older than you in years. The flying wind blows the seeds
of weeds; if encouraged by suitable conditions the weeds grow roots, and
then who can uproot them?’
‘You don’t have to advise me. I am your elder, and I’m giving you good
counsel, marry her. Don’t delay. There are good dates in this month of
Phalgun.’
‘In my almanac all three hundred and sixty-five days are good. There
may be good days Boudi, but there is no path leading to such an event
taking place. I have been to prison once, even now I’m on the slippery road
that heads gaolwards. The minions of Prajapati, the god of marriage, don’t
tread those paths.’
‘Do girls nowadays fear the jail?’
‘Maybe they don’t but that is not the way to go around the sacred fire
seven times. On that road one is stronger keeping his bride in his heart, not
by his side. She will always be in my heart.’
Sarala entered the room and placed a tumbler of Horlicks upon the table.
She was about to leave when Neerja called her, ‘Don’t go, listen Sarala,
whose photograph is this? Do you recognize her?’
Sarala replied, ‘It is mine.’
‘Your picture in the early days. When at your Uncle’s place Aditya and
you used to work in the garden, isn’t it? Looking at this photo, it seems you
were fifteen. Wore your sari like a loin cloth tucked in between the legs,
like the Maharashtrian women.’
‘Where did you get this?’
‘I saw it in his desk, didn’t notice it then. Had it brought from there now.
Thakurpo, Sarala looks better now than she did at that time. What do you
think?’
Romen replied, ‘Was there a Sarala then? At least I did not know her
then. For me this is the only true Sarala. Whom should I compare her to?’
Neerja said, ‘Now her appearance has a mystery arising from her heart—
like the cloud once plainly white is now brimming dark with monsoon
showers. This is what you call romantic, eh, Thakurpo?’
Sarala turned to leave; but Neerja stalled her, ‘Sarala, sit here a while.
Thakurpo, for once let me look at Sarala from a man’s perspective. Tell me,
what does one notice about her right in the beginning?’
Romen said, ‘Everything at once.’
‘Definitely her eyes; she knows how to gaze solemnly. No, don’t go,
Sarala! Sit a while longer. Her form too is well rounded, perfect.’
‘Are you set to auction her, Boudi?You know, even otherwise I don’t lack
enthusiasm.’
Neerja spoke up with an agent’s earnestness, ‘Thakurpo, look at Sarala’s
hands, as supple as they are well formed, and so attractive. Have you seen
hands such as these?’
Romen laughed and said, ‘Whether I have seen hands such as this will
not bear saying in front of you.’
‘Won’t you claim those two hands?’
 ‘If not forever, from time to time I have claimed them. When I come for a
cup of tea at your house I get something more served to me by the ingenuity
of those two hands. Can I ask more from her hands—by asking for her
hand?’
Sarala rose from the stool.When she tried to leave the room once again
Romen blocked her way at the door, declaring, ‘Promise me something and
I shall let you go.’
‘Say, what.’
‘Today is the fourteenth day of the waxing moon. I, the traveller, shall go
to your garden, if there are words still, they need not be uttered. This is a
time of famine—I never get to feast my eyes on you the way I would like.
This sudden meeting in this room is like a fistful of alms—it leaves me
unfulfilled, hungry for more.’
Sarala said calmly, ‘All right, I will see you.’
Romen returned to his chair by the bed and told Neerja, ‘Then I shall take
my leave, Boudi.’
‘And what more reason for you to stay! Boudi’s purpose has been
served.’
Romen left.
 4

AFTER ROMEN LEFT, NEERJA LAY ON THE BED HIDING HER

FACE IN HER hands. She couldn’t help reminiscing about the past—such
enchanting days had been hers too once. She had made so many spring
nights exciting. Had she ever been what seventy-five per cent women were,
mere furnishings in the husband’s household? Lying on the bed she kept
recalling the innumerable times when her husband had clasped her curling
tresses and tugging them said in ardent tones: ‘You are the wine of my
pleasure-house.’ Even after ten years the pleasure had not faded, the cup of
wine was full. Her husband would tell her, ‘In the olden days women’s feet
would make asoka flowers bloom as they walked the garden, the
intoxicating drop of wine from their mouth would make the bakul bloom; in
my garden is captured Kalidasa’s time. The path where your feet tread
every day has come forth with vividly coloured flowers on either side; the
spring breeze has showered wine, the rose-bower is intoxicated by it.’ He
would continue, ‘If you weren’t here this bower of bliss would be taken
over by some merchant, who would rule over it like some senseless demon.
It is my good fortune that you are here, like the queen of the gods, to make
this garden paradise.’
Alas, her youth had not gone but gone was its glory. That is why the
queen of the gods had lost her seat today. Did she have even a trace of fear
in those days? Nobody could dare to step where she reigned; in her horizon
she was like the rising sun, radiant in her solitude. Today the sight of the
slightest shadow made her heart beat faster; she had no faith in herself any
longer. Who was this Sarala, what was her worth! But today her presence
made Neerja’s mind restless with suspicion. Who would have known that
such misery was to befall her so soon ! For so long God had given her such
bountiful joy, such honour, but then like a petty thief He had stolen it all
away one day through the back door.
She shook herself from her reverie.
‘Roshni, are you there?’
‘What, Khokhi?’
‘Your Jamaibabu once referred to me as the colourful treasure of his
pleasure-house. We have been married ten years, that colour has still not
faded, but what about the pleasure-house? Where has it gone?’
‘Where will it go, your house is right here. You didn’t sleep properly last
night, sleep now, let me massage your feet.’
‘Roshni, soon there will be a full moon. So many moonlit nights I have
spent awake and happy. The two of us would roam the garden. But look
how I keep awake now—in pain and loneliness! If only I could sleep now I
would be saved, but the wretched sleep does not come.’
‘Be quiet, let me see, you will soon be asleep.’
‘Tell me, do they wander about the garden on full moon nights?’
‘I have seen them pluck flowers at dawn to send to the traders. How will
they wander about at night? Where is the time?’
‘The gardeners sleep so much these days. Do they deliberately not wake
the gardeners?’
‘You aren’t there, who dares to lay hands on the gardeners now?’
‘Was that the sound of the car?’
‘Yes, Babu’s car has arrived.’
‘Pass me that hand-mirror. And get me that large rose from the vase. Let
me see, where is the box of safety pins? My face is so pale today. You go
from this room.’
‘I am going, but the Horlicks lies there, have it, Khokhi.’
‘Let it remain there, I won’t have it.’
‘You haven’t had even two doses of your medicine.’
‘You don’t have to rant. Go now, I tell you, open that window and leave.’
The ayah went away. The clock struck three. The sunlight had taken on a
reddish tinge, the shadows were falling eastwards, the southern wind had
picked up and the water in the pool rippled restlessly. The gardeners were
back at work; Neerja could see them from her window.
Aditya rushed into the room. A bouquet of pale yellow laburnums,
locally grown, covered his arms. He put the flowers at Neerja’s feet. Sitting
on the bed he clasped her hand and said, ‘Haven’t seen you all of today,
Neeru.’
Hearing this, Neerja could not contain herself, she sobbed aloud. Aditya
got up from the bed and, kneeling on the floor, hugged Neerja, kissed her
wet cheeks and said, ‘You know, don’t you, that it wasn’t my fault?’
‘Tell me, how I can know that for sure? Am I what I used to be in those
days?’
‘What is the point in taking stock of days?You are mine as you always
were.’
‘Today everything makes me nervous. I don’t feel strong in my mind.’
‘It feels good to be a little nervous, doesn’t it? You want to spur me on
with a little jibe, don’t you? This cunning is a woman’s inborn impulse.’
‘And isn’t forgetting a man’s inborn impulse?’
‘Do you ever give me leave to forget?’
‘Oh don’t say that, by the curse of God what long leave I have been
forced to give you.’
‘It’s the other way round. Even if I were able to forget you in times of
joy, I would never be able to forget you in times of strife.’
‘Tell me honestly, didn’t you forget about me this morning?’
‘The things you say! I had to go, and till I returned, my mind, Neeru, was
without peace.’
‘How you’re sitting! Raise yourself to the bed.’
‘Do you want to chain me in case I escape?’
‘Yes, I want to make a chain. In life and death, without doubt, your feet
must be fastened to me.’
‘Doubt me a little sometimes, that makes love more charming.’
‘No, not a bit of doubt should arise in my mind. Not even a little. Which
woman has a husband like you? To suspect you, that would be to reproach
myself.’
 ‘Then I will suspect you, or the drama will not be well arranged.’
‘Do that, no worries there. That will be a farce.’
‘Whatever you say, you were angry with me today.’
‘Why say that again ! You don’t have to punish me—I am punished
already.’
‘What need is there for punishment! If the heat of anger doesn’t rise at
times, I would believe love’s pulse is faltering.’
‘If I ever make the mistake of being angry with you, know it isn’t me but
some mischievous spirit possessing me.’
‘We all have a mischievous spirit, sometimes manifesting itself
unreasonably! If you are sensible and take Rama’s name it flees.’
The ayah came in and said, ‘Jamaibabu, Khokhi has not had her milk or
medicine since the morning, and no massage either. If she continues to do
this we won’t be able to manage her.’
Saying this she left speedily, swinging her arms.
As soon as Aditya heard this he rose, declaring, ‘Now I shall be angry.’
‘Yes, be angry, very angry, as angry as you can—but forgive me
afterwards.’
Aditya went near the door and called out, ‘Sarala! Sarala!’
Neerja’s nerves jangled the moment he uttered Sarala’s name. She felt as
if the thorn embedded in her heart had been shaken to and fro, causing her
more agony.
Sarala came in. Aditya asked in annoyed tones, ‘You didn’t give Neeru
her medicine today, not even anything to eat all day?’
Neerja spoke up hastily, ‘Why do you scold her? What fault is it of hers?
I was obstinate, I didn’t take my medicine, scold me instead. Sarala, you go.
Why stand here and be rebuked unreasonably?’
‘What do you mean by “go”? Let her fetch the medicine. Get that glass of
Horlicks here.’
‘Aha, the whole day you make her slog in the garden, why pile upon her
the duties of a nurse as well? Don’t you have some pity? Call the ayah if
you need anything.’
‘Will the ayah be able to do all this properly?’
 ‘It’s hardly any work, she can do it. Do it better even.’
‘But . . .’
‘What is the “but” now? Ayah! Ayah!’
‘Don’t get so excited, Neeru. You’ll make trouble, I can see.’
‘I’ll call the ayah,’ said Sarala and left the room. Words objecting to
Neerja’s statements never crossed her lips. Aditya was surprised; he
pondered whether it was true that Sarala was being wrongly overworked!
After the medicine was taken, Aditya told the ayah, ‘Call Saraladidi
here.’
‘Always calling for Sarala, you will worry that poor girl,’ Neerja
interrupted.
‘I have something important to ask her.’
‘Let important things wait now.’
‘Won’t take long.’
‘Sarala is a woman, how many important things can you have to discuss
with her? Better to call Hola the gardener.’
‘After marrying you, I’ve discovered only women work, men are
intrinsically lazy. We men slave because we are obliged to, you women
work with zest arising from the heart. I am considering writing a thesis on
this. There are plenty of examples recorded in my diary.’
‘This woman is deprived today of her heart’s work by Providence, how
shall I dispute that? The towers built by my work have been destroyed by
an earthquake, that’s why this deserted house is now the haunt of ghosts.’
Sarala came in. Aditya asked, ‘Is the orchid room’s job done?’
‘Yes, done.’
‘Everything?’
‘Everything.’
‘And the rose cuttings?’
‘The gardener is preparing the soil.’
‘Soil! I had already prepared it. You’ve put Hola gardener in charge?
Now instead of a rose garden, we’ll have a harvest of dried-up saplings,
which will look like a garden of toothpicks.’
 Neerja said hastily, ‘Sarala, go and get me some orange juice, put some
ginger essence and honey in it.’
Sarala left the room with her head bowed. Neerja asked her husband,
‘Did you wake at dawn today like we used to daily?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Was the alarm clock wound up like it used to be?’
‘Yes, of course.
‘That tree trunk under the neem tree—the tea arranged on it; did Basu lay
it all out properly?’
‘He did. Otherwise I would submit an appeal to your court, to claim
damages.’
‘Were two seats arranged?’
They were arranged as before. And there was that blue-rimmed cream-
coloured tea set, the silver milk jug, the small white stone sugar bowl, and
the Japanese tray with dragons painted on it.’
‘Why did you leave the other seat empty?’
‘I didn’t leave it empty on purpose. The stars in the sky numbered the
same, only the waxing moon of the fifth night remained out of view. If
given a chance I would capture it and bring it there.’
‘Why didn’t you ask Sarala to join you at the tea table?’
An answer that would have pleased Neerja’s mind would be—‘My mind
rebels against seating somebody else on your throne’. But Aditya being a
truthful man said instead, ‘I think she does some puja or something in the
morning, she’s not a godless barbarian like me.’
‘After the morning tea it seems you took her to the orchid room?’
‘Yes, there was work to do, I explained it to her and then rushed to the
shop.’
‘Okay, let me ask you something, why don’t you arrange for Sarala to
wed Romen?’
‘Is match-making my profession?’
‘No, I’m not joking. She will have to marry, where will you find a groom
like Romen?’
 ‘The groom is on one side, the bride on the other, being in the middle I
don’t have time to investigate whether their hearts are inclined or not. From
a distance there seems to be a problem.’
Neerja said with some heat, ‘If you were really keen there would be no
problem.’
‘Somebody else is to get married and I have to be keen? Can anything be
done this way? Why don’t you try and see?’
‘Give the girl’s vision a break from those plants and trees, she will
eventually look where she should.’
‘In the light of the Shubhadrishti—the glance of true love—trees and
mountains and everything else become transparent. It’s a kind of X-ray
vision, actually.’
‘Nonsense. The truth is you don’t want this wedding.’
‘You’ve got it at last. If Sarala goes what will happen to my garden? We
have to think of profit and loss too. What is that, are you suddenly in pain?’
he asked anxiously.
Neerja said harshly, ‘Nothing is wrong. You don’t have to be concerned
about me.’
When Aditya was about to get up to go she said, ‘It was after we were
married that the orchid room was built, you haven’t forgotten that?
Afterwards every day both of us decorated that room. And now you don’t
feel a thing about spoiling it!’
Aditya said in shocked tones, ‘What is this talk! Where did you see me
wanting to spoil it?’
Getting highly agitated Neerja asked, ‘What does Sarala know of a
flower garden?’
‘What are you saying! Sarala does not know! My uncle who adopted and
reared me is also Sarala’s uncle. You know, it was in his garden that I was
first initiated to this kind of work. Uncle used to say jobs in the flower
garden should be done by women, that and milking cows. She would
accompany him in his work.’
‘And you would accompany them.’
 ‘Yes, indeed. But I had to study, go to college, I did not find as much
time to work there as she did. Uncle taught her most of what he knew.’
‘And that garden was the cause of your uncle’s misfortune. Such is the
girl’s luck. That is what I fear. Unlucky girl. Look at her—her forehead like
a field, she gallops like a horse. A woman should not think like a man. That
brings misfortune.’
‘Tell me, what is the matter with you today, Neeru? What are you saying!
Uncle just knew how to make a garden, he knew nothing of trade. He was
unrivalled in creating a flower garden; but nobody equalled him in losing
money either. He was respected by all but never compensated. When he
loaned me the capital to start trading as a florist did I know his treasury
fund was on the verge of collapse? My only consolation is this: before he
died I had paid back all that I owed him.’
Sarala came in with the orange juice. Neerja instructed her, ‘Leave it
there and go.’
Sarala put the glass down and left. The glass remained there, Neerja did
not touch it.
‘Why didn’t you marry Sarala?’
‘Listen to this! I never even thought of marrying her.’
‘Never thought! Is this the poet in you speaking?’
‘I first knew poetry when I saw you. Before that Sarala and I—two wild
beasts—spent our days in the shady forest. We forgot ourselves. I don’t
know what would have happened if we had been reared in the current ways
of society.’
‘Why, what is society’s crime?’
‘Society now is like a Duhshashan wanting to strip naked the heart.
Before we can feel something it tells us what we should feel. For it the
fragrance is too subtle, it gathers information by tearing the petals.’
‘Sarala isn’t bad looking.’
‘I knew Sarala as Sarala herself. Whether she was good looking or not
was not something I ever thought about.’
‘All right, be honest, didn’t you love her?’
 ‘Of course I did. Am I an inert object that I wouldn’t love her? Uncle’s
son was a barrister in Rangoon, so Uncle had no worries regarding him. He
merely wanted that Sarala care for his garden always. He believed the
garden would occupy her heart and soul, and that she would not be
interested in marriage. Then he passed away, Sarala was orphaned and the
garden went to debtors. That day my heart broke, didn’t you see? She is a
loveable creature, why wouldn’t I love her! I recall, how once Sarala’s
joyful laughter used to be so spontaneous, it was as if her feet had a bird’s
wings in them. Today she walks with a heavy heart, yet she is not broken.
Not one day has she drawn a deep sigh, neither in my presence, nor alone.’
Neerja interrupted, ‘Stop, dear, stop, I’ve heard all this, you don’t have to
say anything more. Extraordinary girl. That is why I say, let her be the
headmistress in that girls’ school in Barasat. They have pleaded so many
times.’
‘Barasat Girls’ School! Why not the Andamans!’
‘No , no joking.You can let Sarala work anywhere in the garden but not
in that orchid room.’
‘Why, what has happened?’
‘I tell you, Sarala does not know anything about orchids.’
‘I tell you too, Sarala knows about orchids more than I do. Uncle’s main
passion was orchids. He would send people to Celebes, Java, even China to
get orchids; nobody was as involved with orchids as he was.’
Neerja knew all this and that was why she found Sarala’s presence in the
orchid room so intolerable.
‘Oh very well. She may know about orchids better than me or even you.
Even then, I still say the orchid room is yours and mine only, Sarala has no
place there. Give your whole garden to her if that is what you really desire;
but keep away from her just a bit that is absolutely dedicated to me. After
all these years I can surely claim at least this little bit. It is my ill fortune
that I lie here like this, and so . . .’
Overcome by helplessness and despair, Neerja left her sentence
incomplete and turned her face into the pillow and wept restlessly.
 Aditya was stunned. It was as if he had been in a dream all these days
and was awakened with a start by Neerja’s harsh words and the raw display
of her grief. He realized that her outburst, her weeping, all of it was the
result of an agony of many days. It was as if the cyclonic storm of pain had
been building up with increased momentum in Neerja’s mind every day,
and Aditya had not recognized it even for a moment. So foolish he had
been, he had actually thought Neerja was pleased that Sarala was taking
care of the garden. Especially so since she was unparalleled in selecting
seasonal blossoms to decorate the flower beds. Suddenly he remembered—
once when on some occasion he had praised Sarala and said, ‘Not even I
could prepare the kamini hedges so attractively,’ with a sardonic laugh
Neerja had retorted, ‘My dear sir, if you commend more than one deserves,
ultimately you harm the person.’ Aditya recalled now that, if Neerja could
pick some fault with Sarala’s knowledge of botany she would repeat it with
relish. He clearly remembered how Neerja would search English books for
lesser known flowers with outlandish names and then innocently question
Sarala; when Sarala failed to provide the correct answer, Neerja would
hardly cease chortling in glee, ‘What a great pundit! She doesn’t even know
it’s called Cassia javanica! Even my Hola gardener knows that.’
Aditya sat and pondered over the matter for some time. Then he took
Neerja’s hand and said, ‘Don’t cry, Neeru, tell me what I should do. Do you
want me to ask Sarala to stop working in the garden?’
Neerja snatched away her hand, saying, ‘I want nothing, nothing at all. It
is your garden. You keep anybody you want there, it’s entirely up to you!’
‘Neeru, how could you say that—my garden! Is it not yours as well?
When did such a division grow between us?’
‘From the time you have the run of the entire world and I, just this corner
of the room. With my broken self what strength have I to compete with your
astonishing Sarala? Where is my strength that I may care for you, or care
for the garden?’
‘Neeru, so many times you yourself have called Sarala and consulted her
on several matters regarding the garden. Don’t you remember how, just a
few years ago, the two of you grafted a Pomelo and Colombo lime just to
surprise me?’
‘She was not so arrogant then. Providence chose to throw me into the
dark shadows completely which is why suddenly you find that—she knows
this, she knows that, she is peerless in her knowledge of orchids. I never
had to hear such things in the old days. Then today, in my days of misery,
why are you comparing us like this? How can I rival her today? What have
I to match her now?’
‘Neeru, I never expected such words from you. It seems as if all that you
are saying now are not my Neeru’s words, they are spoken by somebody
else.
‘No, I am just so, the same Neeru. You could not understand her, all this
time. That is my greatest grief. When after our marriage I learnt that this
garden was as precious as your life, I never let a division grow between it
and myself. Otherwise I would have picked a fight with that garden, I
wouldn’t have been able to bear its closeness to you. It would have become
my rival. But you know very well that my constant effort has been to make
it one and the same with me. I have become completely inseparable from
it.’
‘I know that, of course. You are there in everything I have.’
‘Leave all that talk. Today I saw an intruder easily enter the garden—that
was till now solely ours. Nothing hurt anywhere. Could you think of cutting
open my body to let in somebody else’s heart? Is not the garden my body?
Would I have done this if I was in your place?’
‘What would you have done?’
‘Shall I tell you what I would have done? The garden may have been
ruined; the business might have collapsed; I would have kept ten gardeners
instead of one, but I would not have let another woman in—especially one
who thinks that she knows more about gardening than me. Why should you
use her vanity to insult me every day—that too, when I am disabled and
dying, when I have no way to prove my competence? Shall I say why this
was possible for you?’
‘Tell me.’
 ‘Because you love her more than me!You had hidden this all the time.’
Aditya sat stupefied for a while, his hands clutching his hair.Then he said
in dazed tones, ‘Neeru, you have known me these ten years, in happiness
and grief, in various conditions, in all kinds of work; despite all our years
together, if you can say all this then I shall not answer you. I am leaving. If
I stay here you will be sick. I shall move to the Japanese room next to the
Fernery. Send word if you need me.’
 5

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE POOL, BEHIND THE CHALTA TREE

THE MOON rose, throwing deep shadows across the water. On the near
bank the new leaves of the basanti tree were rosy like a the eyes of a babe
just awakened, and its flowers were the hue of molten gold. Their deep
aroma hung densely like a heavy fog. The fireflies glowed on the boughs of
the jarul tree. On the stone-embanked slope, on a platform sat Sarala,
absolutely still. There was no breeze, no leaves trembled, the water was
framed in black shadow like a mirror of polished silver.
The question came from behind her. ‘May I join you?’
Sarala replied in soft tones, ‘Come.’
Romen sat down on the flight of stairs leading to the pool, near her feet.
Sarala was embarrassed and said, ‘Where are you sitting, come up here,
Romenda.’
Romen remarked, ‘Don’t you know the deities are worshipped with
eulogies from their feet upwards? If there is a place by your side I shall sit
there later. Give me your hand; let me pay my address in the English style.’
He kissed Sarala’s hand and said, ‘Accept my salutations, empress.’
Then he stood up and smeared some dry red colour on her temple.
‘What is this?’
‘Don’t you know today is Holi? Your trees and boughs are splashed with
colour. Spring does not colour people in the same way, but their hearts are
coloured. You must express these hues, or, forest goddess, you shall remain
banished forever in the asoka grove, away from your beloved.’
‘Where do I have the skills to banter with you?’
‘Why do we need words! The male bird sings, the female just listens and
that itself is response enough. Now let me sit beside you.’
 He sat by her. For a long time they sat silently. Suddenly Sarala asked,
‘Romenda, how does one go to jail? I need to know.’
‘Now there are so many ways of going to jail that it would be difficult to
tell you a way of not getting there. These days it is the white man’s flute
that does not let us rest at home.’
‘No, I am not joking. After much thought I’ve realized my liberation lies
there.’
‘Tell me frankly what you mean.’
‘I will tell you every thing. You would have understood completely if you
had seen Aditda’s face.’
‘I gathered something, some indirect suggestion.’
‘This evening I was alone on the veranda. A catalogue of pictures of
flowers had arrived from America; I was glancing through it. Every evening
by four-thirty, after tea, Aditda calls me to work in the garden. Today I saw
him pacing restlessly; he didn’t even look up at the gardeners who were
working. It seemed as if he wished to come to my balcony, but he hesitated
and went back. That tall well-built man with his powerful stride, his
energetic way of speech and of work, always alert, a stern master but with a
compassionate smile—today, he was walking differently, he did not look
up, staying engrossed in his thoughts. After a long time he came slowly up
to me. Any other day he would glance at his watch and say “It’s time” and I
would rise and go. Today, instead of saying this, he slowly pulled up a chair
and remarked, “Looking at the catalogue, eh?” Taking the catalogue from
my hands he began turning its pages. It didn’t seem to me that he was
looking at anything. He glanced up at me suddenly as if he had resolved to
express something urgent without any further delay. Then again he looked
down and said, “See Sori, what a large nasturtium!” His voice held deep
weariness. For a long time nothing more was said, just the pages were
turned. Once more he glanced up abruptly at my face and immediately shut
the book and threw it on my lap—then rose to go. I asked, “Won’t you go to
the garden?” Aditda replied, “No, my dear, I have to go out, there’s work.”
And as if tearing himself away, he left.’
‘What had Aditda come to tell you? What do you reckon?’
 ‘He had come to say, “You have already ruined one garden, now it’s been
ordered, it’s your fate that you shall ruin another.”’
‘If that happens, Sori, then I shan’t be free to go to jail.’
Sarala smiled sadly and replied, ‘Can I block the road to jail? The King
Emperor himself shall leave it open.’
‘You will lie on the road like a blossom shaken from the boughs and I
will triumphantly jangle my chains and march to prison, can that ever be? If
this transpires, I’ll have to learn to be a decent man at this age.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I will declare war on your unlucky planets—and drive them away from
your birth chart. And then I shall take long leave, maybe even beyond the
Kalapani.’
‘I cannot hide anything from you, Romenda. One thing has become clear
to me recently. Shall I tell you about it, if you don’t mind?’
‘I shall mind if you don’t tell me.’
‘From childhood I have been brought up with Aditda. Not like brother
and sister but like two brothers; side by side we ploughed the soil, cut down
the trees. My aunt and mother died of typhoid within a few days of each
other; I was six then. My father died two years later. Uncle wanted so much
that I keep his garden blooming with all my heart. He had moulded me in
that way. He could never mistrust anyone. He had no doubt that the friends
to whom he had loaned money would repay him one day and release the
garden from debt.You probably know some of this history, yet today I feel
like telling you the whole story from the beginning.’
‘Everything seems new to me.’
‘Then, as you know, it all sank. When I was pulled ashore Fate brought
me to Aditda’s side. We were together again, two brothers, two friends.
Since then I have been sheltered by Aditda, that is just as true as the fact
that I have provided a refuge for him. The effort has not been any less on
my part, this I can say with confidence. So I had no reason to be contrite. It
was as if I had returned to a younger age, an age when the two of us used to
be together. This is how it could have continued forever . . . but what is the
use of saying any more.’
 ‘Finish what you were saying.’
‘Abruptly I was jolted and made to realize with a shock that I am much
older now. The veil covering the past when we used to work together had
blown away in a moment. You must know it all, Romenda, nothing about
me escapes your sight. Boudidi’s antipathy towards me used to puzzle me, I
could not understand why she felt the way she did. All this time I never
recognized myself; Boudidi’s aversion was the flame that lit up my own
essence, and I came face to face with a new truth. Do you understand me?’
‘The submerged affections of your childhood have been brought to the
surface.’
‘What can I do, tell me. How can I escape myself?’ Saying this, Sarala
clutched Romen’s hand.
Romen was quiet. Sarala continued, ‘As long as I am here, my
wrongdoing increases!’
‘Wrong-doing towards whom?’
‘Towards Boudidi.’
‘Look here, Sarala, I don’t believe in this conventional wisdom. On what
basis are you denying your affections for Aditda? Your feelings for each
other are rooted in the togetherness that you both shared so many years ago.
How can you judge who has claims over that time? Where was Boudi
then?’
‘What are you saying, Romenda! How can one indulge oneself at the cost
of another! We have to think of Aditda too.’
‘We do, certainly. Do you think the jolt that shocked you left him
untouched?’
‘Is that Romen?’ called a voice behind them.
‘Yes Dada.’ Romen rose.
‘Your Boudidi is asking for you. The ayah just told me.’
Romen left. Sarala was about to follow, when Aditya said, ‘Don’t go,
Sori, sit a while.’ Sarala’s heart ached, looking at Aditya’s face. The
hardworking, unselfish, absentminded mass of a man seemed to be tossed
about now like a rudderless boat amidst the waves.
 Aditya said, ‘We began this worldly life as one. So simple was our
togetherness that it was impossible to imagine that there could ever be a
division between us. Is that not so, Sori?’
‘What is joined at the shoot is divided as it grows, there is no way not to
accept this, Aditda.’
‘That is the external separation, the visually perceived division! The
inside cannot be broken in the essence. Today you are being pushed away
from me. I could never imagine I would be so struck—Sori, do you realize
what has come upon us so suddenly?’
‘I know. I knew—before you did.’
‘Can you bear it, Sori?’
‘I will have to bear it.’
‘I wonder if women are able to bear more than men.’
‘You men battle against suffering; women tolerate sorrow over the ages.
Except for tears and tolerance we have no other recourse.’
‘You will be torn from me—I cannot let it happen. I will not. This is
wrong, cruelly wrong.’
Saying this he clenched his fist towards heaven as if warring with an
invisible foe. Sarala took Aditya’s hand on her lap and stroked it gently. She
spoke softly, as if to herself. ‘It’s not a question of right and wrong, Aditda.
When the ties of a relationship become twisted into a noose it hurts many
people at once, for the rope is tugged at from so many directions. Who is to
be blamed for that!’
‘You can bear it, I know. I remember an occasion. What splendid hair
you had then. Even now. You were vain about your hair and everyone
indulged this vanity of yours. Once I quarrelled with you. In the afternoon
as you slept with your hair spread on the pillow, with a pair of scissors I
snipped off an elbow’s length of the hair. You woke immediately and stood
up; your dark eyes glowed darker. You just said, “You think you can get
away with that?” Saying this you snatched the scissors from my hand and
cut off your tresses right up to your neck. Uncle was shocked. He
exclaimed, “What is this!”You told him calmly, “I feel hot.” He just smiled
a little and accepted your explanation. He asked no questions, did not scold
you, just took the scissors and trimmed your hair evenly. He was your uncle
after all.’
Sarala laughed, ‘You and your brains! Do you think that was me
forgiving you? Not at all. That day I tricked you more than you tricked me.
Tell me if that isn’t true.’
‘Absolutely. I could all but weep to see you shorn of your tresses. The
next day I could hardly face you for shame. I just sat quietly in my study.
You entered and, holding me by the hand, dragged me out to work in the
garden, as if nothing had happened. I recall another day: that time when in
the month of Phalgun an untimely storm blew away the roof of the room
where the paddy seed was spread; you came then and . . .’
‘Stop, no need to say more, Aditda.’ She sighed. ‘Those days can never
come back.’ She rose hurriedly.
Aditya clutched her hand, ‘No, don’t go, don’t go now, there will be a
time to leave, and then . . .’
Getting agitated now, he said, ‘A time to leave! Why? What crime has
been committed! Jealousy! These ten years I faced the test of domesticity
and now this is the result! Jealous of what! In that case I must erase the
history of twenty-three years, ever since we met!’
‘I cannot speak for all the twenty-three years, Aditda, but at the end of all
these years is there no reason for someone to be envious? We must speak
the truth. What is the point in deceiving ourselves? Let there be nothing
unclear between us.’
Aditya sat still for a while; then said, ‘There is nothing unclear any more.
In my heart I realize life means nothing without you. He whom I got you
from in life’s first season, He is the only one who can snatch you away from
me.’
‘Don’t say such things, Aditda, don’t increase our grief. Let me think
calmly.’
‘Thoughts cannot carry us to the past. When we two began life on
Uncle’s lap we did so without thinking. Today can one use a weeding-tool
to uproot those days? I don’t know about you, but I at least don’t have the
capacity to do that.’
 ‘I beg of you, don’t make me any weaker. Don’t make the road to
salvation inaccessible.’
Aditya clasped Sarala’s hands and declared, ‘There can be no road to
salvation, I shall not keep that path open. That I can say I love you so easily
and so honestly today fills my heart with happiness. What had been a bud
for twenty-three years has, with divine grace, blossomed now. I tell you, to
crush that is cowardly, it is a crime.’
‘Hush, hush, don’t say any more! At least for tonight—forgive, forgive
me.’
‘Sori, I am the blessed receiver, to the last day of my life I shall be the
one deserving your mercy. Why was I blind! Why didn’t I recognize you,
why did I marry someone else? You didn’t; so many men desired you, they
wanted to marry you, I know that for a fact.’
‘Uncle had dedicated me to caring for his garden, otherwise maybe . . .’
‘No, no, in the depths of your mind the truth shone and you were bound
to it willingly. Why didn’t you make me aware too? Why did we go our
separate ways?’
‘Let it be, let it be, who can you fight to deny what must be accepted!
What is gained by struggling against shadows like this! Tomorrow in the
daytime we will decide something.’
‘All right, I shall be quiet. But in this moonlight I shall leave something
with you that will speak for me.’
While working in the garden Aditya used to carry a small cloth bag
fastened to his waist, to hold a few essential things. From that bag he now
brought out a small broach made of five nagkeshor flowers, their petals
flaring like serpents’ hoods. He said, ‘I know you love nagkeshor. Shall I
fasten it on your sari, on your shoulder? I have the safety pin here.’
Sarala made no objection. Aditya took a long time to fasten the broach.
Sarala stood up then; Aditya stood facing her, holding her hands and gazing
at her face as if he were gazing at the moon. He said, ‘You are wonderful,
Sori, so wonderful!’
Sarala snatched away her hands and fled. Aditya did not follow her, he
just stared at her retreating figure silently, for as long as he could. Then he
sat down on the platform on the embankment. The servant came to say
dinner was served.
Aditya replied, ‘I shall not eat tonight.’
 6

FROM THE THRESHOLD OF THE ROOM ROMEN ASKED,‘BOUDI,

DID YOU ASK for me?’
Neerja cleared her throat and said, ‘Come.’
The room was dark. Through the open window the light of the full moon
streamed in, falling on Neerja’s face and on the laburnum poesy which
Aditya had placed near the head of the bed. Everything else was in
darkness. Leaning against the pillows, Neerja was half-sitting, half-supine,
staring out of the window. There, beyond the orchid room could be seen the
row of betel nut trees. A wind had arisen and the leaves swayed, the
fragrance of mango buds wafted in as well. From afar came the sound of the
tom-tom and singing from the coachmen’s dwellings where they were
engrossed in celebrating Holi. On the floor lay some milk cake and
coloured powder, a present from the security guard. The whole house was
silent, so that the patient’s rest was not disturbed. But outside, from one tree
to another two koels continued their exchanges, neither willing to let the
other bird have the last call. Romen pulled up a stool near the bed. Neerja
was silent for a while; she was trying to keep some control over her
emotions, for she was afraid she would break down and start crying. Her
lips trembled, her throat felt as if her pain was coiled in a knot there. She
managed to reign in her feelings; two petals of the laburnum that had fallen
were crushed in her grip. Then, without speaking, she handed Romen a
letter. It was written by Aditya. It said:
After all these years, today it became possible for you to question my integrity. I find it
shameful to argue about this or to defend myself. In your present state of mind everything I
say or do shall appear contrary to your sensibilities. That unreasonable torment will damage
your health further every moment! It is better to keep my distance until you feel healthier. I
know that you wish for me to send Sarala away. Maybe I shall have to do this. After some
reflection, I realize there is no other way. Still, I would say this—my education and my
progress owe a great deal to Sarala’s uncle’s charity; he had shown me the way to live life. The
 treasure of his affection, Sarala, is now destitute, helpless. If today we send her away it will be
a sin. Even for your sake I cannot do this.
After much thought I decided this: I will establish a new branch of our business, to make
seeds of fruits and vegetables. In Maniktala we can get a house with grounds attached. I shall
send Sarala to work there. I don’t have sufficient money in hand to begin this project. I will
have to mortgage the garden house to raise the money. Don’t be angry at this proposal, this is
my earnest request. Remember, Sarala’s uncle loaned me funds without any interest for the
garden; I heard he had to borrow some of it himself. Not just that, the resources we needed to
begin our project—seeds, grafted trees, rare new plants, orchids, lawn mowers and other
equipment—he donated without payment. If he had not given me this opportunity, I would
have been a mere clerk, renting a house for thirty rupees a month, and I would not have the
good fortune to wed you either. After my last conversation with you, the question that recurs in
my mind is, have I been a refuge for Sarala or has she provided me a shelter? I forgot this
simple truth, you reminded me. Now you must keep it in mind too. Never think Sarala is our
dependent. I can never repay their debt, and nor can she ever cease to have claims upon me.
That you do not have to see her again is what I shall try for now. But I understand now more
than ever that my ties with her can never be broken. I cannot say today all I wish to, my grief
is beyond words. If you can realize what is implicit, you will know, or else for the first time
my sorrow remains unexpressed to you.

Romen read the letter twice and fell into silence. Neerja said in anxious
tones, ‘Say something, Thakurpo!’
But Romen declined to answer.
Neerja fell upon the bed and hitting her head on the pillow repeatedly,
said, ‘I was wrong, I was wrong. But don’t any of you see what made me
insane!’
‘What are you doing, Boudi! Be calm, you’ll hurt yourself.’
‘This broken body has caused me this misfortune, why feel for it? I
suspected him—where did that suspicion come from? I can only suspect
myself, my own disability. Where is that Neeru now whom he would
sometimes call the florist, sometimes the goddess of the forest! Who has
wrested away her grove now! Did I have just one name!When he would be
late and I would wait up for him and watch over his food, he would call me
Annapurna, the goddess of plenty. At dusk we would sit by the pool, and I
would arrange jasmine flowers and paan on a silver plate, he would chuckle
and call me the Betel Bearer. Those days he consulted me in all domestic
affairs; he would call me his Home Secretary. I was like the overflowing
river reaching out to the sea, my tributaries spread in all directions; but in
one fatal moment the water from all my streams evaporated at once, leaving
behind only the stony river bed.’
‘Boudi, you will be well again, once more you will occupy your throne
and you will rule in full power.’
‘Don’t give me false hope, Thakurpo! I’ve heard what the doctor says.
That is why I cling on this household of so many happy days, with my
miserable destitution.’
‘Why do you need to, Boudi? So long you have poured yourself out to
your domestic world. Can there be anything nobler than that? You received
as much as you gave, how many women have got so much? If what the
doctor says is true, if it is time to go, then what you have received in
abundance, donate it freely. You spent so many days here in such honour,
why must you trivialize this honour now, if you have only a short time left
with us? Act such that your last days in this house attain new glory.’
‘My heart breaks, Thakurpo, my heart breaks! I could have left all these
years of happiness behind me and gone smiling if I felt that I would be
missed fervently and loved even after death. But I can’t help thinking: will
there be no void anywhere where a small lamp may burn, even dimly, for
me and our separation? Thoughts of this make me resist even death. That
woman Sarala will possess everything completely, is this what Fate
ordains?’
‘I shall be honest, Boudi, but don’t be angry. I fail to understand what
you’re saying. What you are unable to relish, can’t you give away to one
whom you have already given so much? Will your love be stained with this
blame forever? The lamp of respect that you carried in your household is
being smashed to bits by yourself. You will escape that agony forever but it
will hurt us for all time to come. I beg you, don’t let the generosity of your
entire life dwindle to meanness in the last moment.’
Neerja wept in spasms. Romen sat quietly, not attempting to console her;
when the tears were finished Neerja sat up in bed and spoke, ‘I have one
prayer, Thakurpo.’
‘Instruct me, Boudi.’
 ‘Listen to me. When the heart is swept away with tears, I gaze at
Ramakrishna’s picture there. Yet, his words fail to reach my heart. My mind
is ugly, petty. In whatever way you can, find me the guru. Or else I will not
be able to break these ties. My mind is trapped in attachment to the world in
which I spent such joyful days. After I die I will be spending age after age
weeping in the ethereal plane if I don’t attain freedom from this attachment
—save me from this, save me!’
‘You know, Boudi, I am what is called a heretical creature in the
scriptures. I don’t believe in anything spiritual. Prabhas Mittir persuaded me
to visit his guru once. Before I could get attached to him, I fled. The jail has
a fixed term; but there’s no end to a spiritual sentence.’
‘Thakurpo, your mind is strong, you can never understand my peril. I
know that the more I struggle the more I am sinking bottomless waters, I
cannot control myself.’
‘Boudi, listen to me. As long as you think somebody is set to capture
your treasure, your heart will burn in agony.You won’t have peace. But sit
still and say, “I give it. What is most precious I give it to him whom I love
most.” Then the entire burden shall be lifted in a moment.Your heart will be
filled with joy. You don’t need a guru; say now, “I give, give all, keeping
nothing, I give up everything I own, I am ready to depart unencumbered
and in purity, not leaving behind any sorrowful bondage in this worldly
life.”’
‘Ah, go on Thakurpo, repeat those words to me again and again. So long
whatever I have done for him has given me great joy, and now because I
cannot give any more, it hurts so much. I will give, give, give—give
everything I have—no more delay now. Bring him here.’
‘Not tonight, Boudi, take a few days to convince yourself. Strengthen
your resolve.’
‘No, no, I can’t bear to hold back any more. From the time he said he
would leave this house to stay in the Japanese room, this bed seems to be
my funeral pyre. If he does not return now, this night will never end for me
and I shall die of a broken heart. Call Sarala here too, I shall weed out this
thorn from my heart; I shall not be afraid, that I can tell you for certain.’
 ‘It is not the right time yet, Boudi, leave it for now.’
‘I fear the passage of time. Call them now.’
Looking at the picture of Paramhansadeb, she said, folding her hands,
‘Give me strength, give me strength, Lord, save this foolish, fallen woman.
My grief has kept God from me, all acts of worship are ruined! Thakurpo,
let me say something, don’t stop me.
‘What?’
‘Let me go to the prayer room just for ten minutes, I will be strong then,
my fear will leave me.’
‘All right, go then, I shall not stop you.’
‘Ayah!’
‘What, Khokhi?’
‘Take me to the prayer room.’
‘What! The doctor. . .’
‘The doctor cannot keep death away from me; then, should he keep me
away from the Lord?’
‘Ayah, take her. Don’t worry, it will only be for her good.’
Holding on to the ayah, Neerja left the room. Soon after, Aditya came in.
He asked, ‘What is this, where is Neeru?’
‘She has gone to the prayer room. She will be back soon.’
‘Prayer room! That’s not close by. The doctor has specifically forbidden
her to exert herself too much.’
‘Don’t heed that, Dada.This will work better than the doctor’s medicine.
She will be back after offering flowers and her salutations just once.’
When he had written that letter to Neerja, Aditya was not fully aware that
the script that Destiny had written on the canvas of his life would be
touched by the heat outside and suddenly burn so bright. At first he had
decided to send Sarala away, and had come to the garden to tell her this—
that there was no other way, they would have to separate. But when it was
time to say it, his tongue had uttered the exact opposite. Afterwards he sat
in the moonlit night, on the embankment, and said repeatedly to himself—
the truth of life had been discovered late but that did not mean it could be
denied. He was not at fault, so he had nothing to be ashamed of. It would be
wrong to hide the truth. He would not hide it—come what may. This Aditya
realized with certainty, that if, from his life and his work, he removed
Sarala, then loneliness and apathy would destroy him—his work too would
stop forever.
Now, as he waited for Neerja to return, he said to Romen, ‘Romen, you
know about us, I know that.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Today I shall settle everything, lift the screen.’
‘You are not alone, Dada! You cannot just shrug the burden off your
shoulders and be done with it. Boudi’s feelings also have to be considered.
The ties of life are complex.’
‘I cannot let a lie stand between your Boudi and me. From childhood the
relationship between Sarala and myself has carried no guilt, you understand
that, don’t you?’
‘Certainly.’
‘This simple relationship contained great love. We did not realize it then;
but was that our fault?’
‘Who says it was a fault?’
‘If I hide this fact it will be the crime of hypocrisy. Instead, I will declare
it boldly.’
‘Why should you hide it, or even declare it loudly? What Boudidi has to
know she has already discovered by herself. In a few days the knots of this
dreadful sorrow will loosen themselves naturally. Don’t tug at them
needlessly. Listen to what Boudi wants to say, you will know how to give
the appropriate answers without any effort.’
Seeing Neerja enter the room, Romen went out. Seeing Aditya, Neerja
sank to the floor and laying her head at his feet, spoke in weeping tones,
‘Forgive me, forgive me, I have sinned. After this long don’t reject me,
don’t cast me away.’
Aditya helped her up with both hands and clasping her to his breast led
her slowly to the bed and helped her lie down. ‘Neeru, don’t I understand
your pain!’ he said.
 Neerja could not stem the flow of her tears. Aditya stroked her head
gently. Neerja tugged at Aditya’s hand and clutching it to her breast, she
asked, ‘Tell me honestly that you forgive me. If you aren’t pleased I will not
be happy, even after death.’
‘You know, Neeru, at times there has been dissent between us, but has
our mental harmony ever been shattered?’
‘Before this you have never left the house. Why did you go now? What
made you so cruel?’
‘I was wrong, Neeru, you must condone this.’
‘What unreasonable things you say. From you I get all my punishments,
all my rewards. In hurtful resentment I tried to judge you, that is why I am
in this state. I told Thakurpo to call Sarala, why isn’t she here now?’
The prospect of having Sarala in the room struck a discordant note in
Aditya’s mind. He didn’t want to face up to the situation regarding her at
least for some time. So he said, ‘It is late tonight, let it be for now.’
But Neerja spoke up, ‘There, listen, I think they are waiting outside the
door. Thakurpo, come in, both of you.’
Romen came in with Sarala. Neerja stood up from the bed. Sarala bent
down to touch Neerja’s feet. ‘Come, sister, come to me,’ said Neerja.
She took Sarala by the hand and seated her on the bed. She took out a
jewellery case from under her pillow and taking out a pearl necklace, she
put it around Sarala’s neck. She said, ‘I once wished that when I am burnt at
the pyre this necklace would be around my neck. But this is better. You
wear this for me, right to the end. On special days I have worn this necklace
so many times, your Dada knows. If you wear it around your neck he will
remember those days.’
‘I am not worthy of this, Didi, why do you shame me!’
Neerja had figured that in this all-sacrificing act of charity Sarala too
would play her part and raise some objections. But that her heartache in
announcing this sacrifice would manifest so clearly in the act was not
known fully even to herself. Aditya, on the other hand, sensed how the
whole scene hurt Sarala; he said, ‘Give me the necklace, Sarala! Its value to
me is more than it can be to anybody else; I cannot give it to another
person.’
Neerja exclaimed, ‘My luck! After all this I still can’t make you
understand! Sarala, I heard there was talk of making you leave the garden. I
will never allow that. I will bind you to everything I own in this earthly life;
my giving you the necklace symbolizes this. Here, I hand you the binding
chain, so I can die in peace.’
‘You’re making a mistake, Didi, it is better not to chain me, no good will
come of it.’
‘What kind of talk is this!’
‘I shall speak the truth. Until now you could trust me. But now don’t ever
trust me, I tell you this in front of all of you here. What gifts Fate has
cheated me of, I shall not acquire by cheating someone else. Here, I touch
your feet and leave my salutations. I am going. The fault is not mine; it is
His, the God to whom I prayed twice a day. This too ceases as of now.’
Uttering these words, Sarala left the room in haste. Aditya could not
contain himself, and followed her out.
‘Thakurpo, what is this that has happened, tell me, Thakurpo.’
‘This is why I told you not to call them tonight, Boudi.’
‘Why, I poured out my heart and donated all I have. Did he not realize
this?’
‘He did, without doubt. But he also realized that your heart held
something back. Something was out of tune.’
‘Nothing makes my heart pure! Even after so much grief! Who will make
me pure? Oh , sanyasi, save me—please. Thakurpo, who is there for me,
who will I go to?’
‘I am here for you, Boudi. I will take responsibility for you. Now sleep.’
‘How can I sleep! If he leaves the house again only death will have the
power to put me to sleep.’
‘He cannot leave; he does not wish to, nor will he be able to. Here, take
some sleeping tablets, I want to see you asleep before I go.’
‘Go, Thakurpo, you go, see where those two are and tell me. Or I shall go
myself; let my body fall to bits if it will.’
‘All right, all right, I am going.’
 7

WHEN SHE SAW ADITYA FOLLOWING HER, SARALA SAID, ‘WHY

HAVE YOU come! it’s not right for you to leave Didi alone. Go back. I will
not let you get entangled with me like this.’
‘Whether you will or not is hardly the point; my life is already entangled
with yours. It may be good or it may be bad but I have no say in the matter.’
‘We will discuss this later; go back now, and tend to the patient.’
‘I want to open a new branch of the garden, I wanted to tell you . . .’
‘Not today, please. Let me think over things for a day or two; I have no
energy for thought now.’
Romen came and said, ‘Go, Dada, give Boudi her medicine and help her
sleep, don’t delay. Don’t let her talk in any circumstance. It is very late.’
After Aditya left Sarala asked Romen, ‘Don’t you have a meeting at
Shraddhananda Park tomorrow?’
‘We do.’
‘Won’t you be there?’
‘I was supposed to. But this time I shan’t be there.’
‘Why?’
‘What is the point in telling you all this?’
‘People will criticize you, saying you’re a coward.’
‘Those who dislike me will certainly criticize me.’
‘Then listen to me. I will release you. You must attend the meeting.’
‘Make yourself a little more clear.’
‘I will go to the meeting as well, with a flag in my hand.’ I see.
‘The police may stop me, I’ll accept that, but if you stop me I won’t
obey.’
‘Well, I won’t stop you.’
‘It’s a deal then?’
 ‘A deal it is.’
‘Both of us will go together then, at five in the evening.’
‘Yes, we’ll go; but these wicked people will not let us be together
afterwards.’
Just then, Aditya joined them. Sarala asked, ‘What, you came away so
soon?’
‘After saying a few words Neerja grew exhausted and fell asleep, so I
slipped away slowly.’
Romen said, ‘I have work, I have to go.’
Sarala smiled, saying, ‘Keep the place ready, don’t forget.’
‘Don’t worry—it s a known place,’ saying which he went away.
 8

NOW SARALA STOOD UP AND SAID TO ADITYA, ‘WHAT YOU

AREN’T SUPPOSED to say, don’t tell me tonight, I beg of you.’
‘I won’t say anything, don’t be afraid.’
‘But I have to tell you something. Promise me you will do as I say.’
‘If it is not impossible, I shall, you know that.’
‘It’s very clear to me that I should not stay here any longer. I would have
been happy to tend to Didi, but it isn’t my fate to do so. I have to go away—
wait, let me finish. You heard the doctor say she doesn’t have much longer.
In this short time you must pluck away the thorn from her mind. At least for
these few days don’t let my shadow fall over her life.’ ‘If the shadow is cast
from my mind over hers, what can I do?’
‘No, don’t belittle yourself, talking like that. Is your mind like the
ordinary Bengali boy’s, cloying and unstable like wet mud? Not at all, I
know that.’
She took Aditya’s hand and said, ‘Keep this vow for me. Fill Didi’s last
days with your generosity and caring. Make her forget that I ever came into
her life to shatter the vessel brimming with her good fortune.’
Aditya stood silent.
‘Give me your word.’
‘I will, but you must also promise me something, say you will.’
‘The difference between us is that if I ask you to do something it is
always possible, but when you ask for a promise, it may be something quite
impossible for me to do.’
‘No, it won’t be.’
‘All right, tell me.’
‘The words I utter aloud reflect what I feel in my heart and that cannot be
a crime. I will obey you and do what you want without fail, if I know for
certain that one day you will fill my emptiness. Why are you silent?’
‘I don’t know, there may be all kinds of obstacles in our way.’
‘Are there any obstacles in your mind? Tell me that first.’
‘Why do you give me grief? Don’t you know that there are some things
which when uttered lose their lustre?’
‘All right, I have got my answer. Now I shall leave for work.’
‘And you won’t look back now?’
‘No, but I want to stamp the seal of this unexpressed promise, on your
face.’
‘What is simple need not be forced. Let it be for now.’
‘All right, but let me ask something. Where will you live now?’
‘Romenda has taken that responsibility.’
‘Romen will give you refuge? Has that vagabond have anything to call
his own?’
‘Don’t worry . . . he will provide me with a good enough refuge. It’s not
his own, but there won’t be any problems.’
‘Will I know where you are?’
‘Indeed you will, I promise you that. But you will not try to come and see
me, promise me this.’
‘Won’t you feel worried?’
‘If I am, nobody except my inner self will know.’
‘All right, but will you say goodbye leaving my begging bowl entirely
empty?’
Aditya’s eyes brimmed over. Sarala drew near him and raised her face.
 9

‘ROSHNI!’
‘What, Khokhi?’
‘Why haven’t I seen Sarala since yesterday?’
‘What are you saying ! Don’t you know she’s been sent to jail?’
‘Why, what did she do?’
‘She plotted with the guard and stole into the viceroy’s wife’s room.’
‘To do what?’
‘To steal the Queen’s seal from the box in which it’s kept—what a
nerve!’
‘And what would that achieve?’
‘Listen to that!You can do anything with that seal. She could have sent
the viceroy himself to the gallows. That seal runs the country.’
‘And Thakurpo?’
‘They found a tool to cut a hole through a wall in his turban, so he’s been
sentenced to rigorous imprisonment, and will be made to break stones for
fifty years. Khokhi, let me ask you something. Before leaving the house
Saraladidi gave me her saffron-coloured sari. She said, ‘Give it to your
son’s wife.’ My eyes filled with tears. I have given her so much grief. If I
keep the sari do you think the police will catch me?’
‘Don’t you worry. But I want the newspaper; it’s in the drawing room, go
get it, hurry.’
Neerja read all about what had happened. She was surprised that Aditya
had not told her this news. ‘See her arrogance! That girl won by going to
jail! If I were well, could I have not gone? I could go laughing to the
gallows.’
‘Roshni, did you see your Saraladidi’s doing?’ she said. ‘In front of a
crowd of commoners, a girl from a decent household
 The ayah said, ‘I get gooseflesh thinking of that den of thieves and
bandits she will have to live in! Shame, shame!’
‘She has to show off in everything she does. No sense of decorum,
whether she’s in the garden or in jail. Arrogant even while she’s being
crushed.’
The ayah recalled the saffron-coloured sari.
‘But Khokhi, Didimoni has a generous heart.’
This gave Neerja a severe jolt. She seemed to wake abruptly and said,
‘You are right, Roshni, you are right. I had forgotten. If the body is ailing
the mind ails too. I have become so mean. I am so ashamed, I feel like
hitting myself. Sarala is a pure woman, she does not lie.You won’t find
another one like her. She is much better than I am. Quick, call our manager
Ganesh.’
When the ayah left Neerja found a pencil and composed a letter. Ganesh
came in. She asked him, ‘Can you deliver this letter to Saraladidi in jail?’
Ganesh Ganguly took pride in being able to manage things. He said, ‘I
can. I will just need some money. But let me hear what have you written,
Ma, because it will be checked by the police.’
Neerja read aloud, ‘You have been noble. Now, when you are released
from jail, you shall see my path has merged with yours.’
Ganesh remarked, ‘That path business doesn’t sound all right. I’ll have to
ask our lawyer to check it out.’
Ganesh went away. Neerja silently saluted Romen and said, ‘Thakurpo,
you are my guru.’
 10

ADITYA CAME INTO THE ROOM WITH A CUP OF MEDICINE.

Neerja asked, ‘What is this, now?’
Aditya answered, ‘The doctor says you must have this every hour.’
‘And is there no other person in the house to give me my medicine? You
can keep a nurse for me during the day if you are so anxious.’
‘In the pretext of taking care of you if I can get close to you, why should
I let go of the opportunity?’
‘Better if you take the opportunity to work in your garden. I lie here and
with every day that passes the garden is going to weed.’
‘Let it. Get well first, then we’ll work together in the garden the way we
used to.’
‘I know, Sarala is away, you are alone and you don’t feel like working
anymore. What can be done? But don’t run into losses because of that.’
‘I am not thinking of losses, Neeru. You had made me forget that the
garden is also my source of income. I was happy to work. Now I’m just not
able to concentrate.’
‘Why do you lament like this?You worked well until the other day. For a
while if there is an obstacle don’t get so agitated.’
‘Shall I turn on the fan?’
‘Don’t overdo your bedside manners; it doesn’t suit you, and it disturbs
me all the more. If you just want to pass the time, you have your
Horticulturists’ Club.’
‘I searched the garden for the colourful lilies that you love, but could not
find any. It didn’t rain well this time, the plants don’t have that lustre.’
’What are you going on about? Why don’t you call Hola, I shall lie here
and organize the garden. Are you saying because I am bedridden the garden
shall be bedridden too! Listen to me. Uproot the withered seasonal flowers
and tend the soil there. The room below the banisters has sacks full of
mustard skins. Hola has the key.’
‘Really? Hola never mentioned it at all.’
‘Why should he? Haven’t you insulted him enough? Just as a new sahib
comes and ignores an old and experienced clerk.’
‘If I wanted to speak the truth about Hola it would turn unpleasant.’
‘All right, I will lie on my bed and supervise his work; you’ll see the
garden get back its glory in two days. Give me the map of the garden. And
my garden diary. I will mark the spots with a pencil on the map.’
‘I won’t have a say in it?’
‘No. Before I go I shall impress my personality on this garden. I tell you,
I am not keeping any of those bottle palms bordering the road. I will plant a
cluster of casuarinas trees there. Don’t shake your head like that. Look at it
after it’s done. I shall not keep that lawn of yours either; I shall have a
marble patio there.’
‘Will the patio look right there? A bit like—nouveau riche.’
‘Be quiet. It will look absolutely right there. You will say nothing. For a
few days the garden shall be mine, only mine. Then I shall bestow my
garden on you before I go. You thought my strength had left me, didn’t
you? I will show you what I can do. I need three more gardeners and about
six labourers. You said I hadn’t learnt to decorate the garden. Whether I can
or not shall be proved to you before I go. You will have to remember this is
my garden, my personality can never be separated from it.’
‘Very well then, but what will I do meanwhile?’
‘You can be in your shop; there’s plenty of office-work for you there.’
‘I am forbidden then to be at your side?’
‘Yes, for I am no longer the one who is worth being occupied with
always—now I can only remind you of someone else—what is the use of
that?’
‘Well , fine. When you are able to tolerate me, I shall come then. Today I
have some wonderful white gondhoraj in the flower basket, let me put them
on your bed. Don’t mind me.’ Saying this, Aditya rose.
Neerja caught his hand and pleaded, ‘No, don’t go, sit awhile.’
 She pointed to a flower in the vase and said, ‘Do you know the name of
this flower?’
Aditya knew what answer would please her, so he replied, ‘No, I don’t
know.’
‘I know. Shall I tell you? Petunia. You think I know nothing, that I’m
ignorant.’
Aditya laughed and said, ‘You are my life partner; if you are ignorant
then you are my equal in ignorance as well. The affair of ignorance in our
lives is divided equally in two.’
‘That affair for me is fated to end now. That guard there chopping
tobacco, he will be there in the porch, but after a few days I shall not be
here. That cowcart that’s returning after delivering its load of coal, its
journey will carry on every day, but my heart will not carry on.’
She suddenly gripped Aditya’s hand and said, ‘Won’t I really be here?
Not in any way? Tell me, you have read so many books, tell me honestly.’
‘The wisdom of the authors I have read is the same as my own. I reached
a standstill in my mind on the question of death, and could not venture
further.’
‘Tell me, what do you think? Will I not exist in any way at all? Not even
a tiny bit?’
‘If it is possible that we exist now, then our existence later is also
possible.’
‘Definitely possible. That garden is possible and I won’t be possible—
that cannot be, never. In the twilight hour, when the crows return to their
nests, the branches of the betel-nut tree will sway in the breeze, even as I
see them doing now. Think then that I am there, I am there occupying the
entire garden. Think, as the wind lifts your hair, those are my fingers that
caress your face. Tell me, will you remember?’
Aditya had to say, ‘Yes, I will remember.’
But he could not say it in a tone that was convincing.
Neerja caught the forced note in his voice and grew restless, ‘The people
who write your books are hardly wise, they know nothing. I know for
certain, trust my words. I will exist, I will exist here, I will be by your side,
I can see that clearly. I tell you, give you my word before going, I shall take
care of your trees and plants better than I used to earlier. You won’t need
anybody else. Not any one.’
All this while Neerja was lying on the bed but now she sat up and
propped herself against the pillow, saying, ‘Have mercy on me, have mercy.
Recall how much I love you and have mercy. The loving place you gave me
in your home, keep me there always. In every season as our flowers bloom,
put them in my hands in your mind. I will not be able to stay if you are
cruel. If you wrest my garden away I shall wander unfulfilled in the void
and never find rest.’ Tears flowed down Neerja’s cheeks.
Aditya rose from the stool and sat on the bed. He held Neerja’s head to
his chest and stroked her hair gently. He said, ‘Neeru, don’t wreck your
body.
‘Let my body go. I just want you with everything that is here. Listen to
me, let me say something, don’t be angry.’
Saying this her voice choked. Calming herself a little she spoke, ‘I have
wronged Sarala. I touch your feet and promise, I will not do any more
wrong. Forgive me for what has happened. But love me, love me please, I
will do whatever you want.’
‘Your mind was ill, the same as your body, Neeru, which is why you
were tormenting yourself with wild fantasies.’
‘Listen to me. Since last night I resolved over and over that when we
meet this time, with a pure heart I would embrace her like a sister. Help me
fulfil this last vow of mine. Tell me that I shall not be deprived of your love,
and then I shall leave my own love here for everybody else.’
Instead of replying, Aditya kissed her on the lips and on her forehead.
Neerja’s eyes closed slowly. After some time she asked, ‘When will Sarala
be released? I am counting the days. I am afraid of dying before that; what
if I cannot tell her this before going, that today my mind is pure? Turn on
the light now. Read to me from Akshay Boral’s Esha.’
She took out the book from under her pillow. Aditya read aloud.
Listening to him read, she was dozing off when the ayah came in and
said, ‘There’s a letter.’ Neerja awoke with a start. Her heart pounded. A
friend had written to Aditya saying that due to lack of space in the jail,
some prisoners would be released before their term ended; Sarala was
among them. Aditya’s heart leaped injoy.With great effort he supressed his
ecstasy. Neerja asked, ‘Whose letter is it, what news?’
In case his voice trembled while reading out loud, he handed the letter to
Neerja. She glanced at Aditya’s face. He was silent but there was no need
for words—she read his mind in his silence. Neerja too could not speak for
a while. Then she forced herself to say resolutely, ‘Then there’s not much
time left. She will be here today—bring her to me.’
‘What! What happened! Neeru! Ayah! Is the doctor here?’
‘He is in the outer room.’
‘Get him immediately. Here, doctor. She was talking quite easily just
now, and then she fainted suddenly.’
The doctor felt Neerja’s pulse and did not say anything.
A while later Neerja opened her eyes and said, ‘Doctor, you must save
me. I cannot go without seeing Sarala. That would not be right. I want to
bless her. Give her my final blessings.’
Again, her eyes closed. But her fists were clenched; she muttered,
‘Thakurpo, I will keep my word, I will not die a miser.’
Sometimes her consciousness faded and the world turned hazy, but then,
like a dying earthen lamp, the flame of life flared up again. She kept asking
her husband, ‘When will Sarala be here?’
From time to time she called out, ‘Roshni!’
‘What, Khokhi?’
‘Call Thakurpo right now.’
Sometimes she spoke to herself, ‘What will happen to me, Thakurpo! I
will give, give, give, give my all.’
It was nine at night. In the corner of Neerja’s room flickered the dim light
from a candle. The breeze carried the fragrance of dolon champa from the
garden. Through the open window could be seen the outline of the trees
plunged in darkness, and above them, in the sky, the constellation of Orion.
Thinking that Neerja was asleep, Aditya left Sarala standing at the door and
slowly approached her bed.
 He saw her lips moving. As if she were praying silently. Between
consciousness and unconsciousness, her face was strained. Aditya bent to
whisper in her ear, ‘Sarala is here.’
Opening her eyes slowly, Neerja said, ‘You go.’ Aditya obeyed.Then she
called out, ‘Thakurpo’—but there was no response.
As soon as Sarala touched her feet in salutation, Neerja’s body seemed to
vibrate, as if electrified. Her feet retreated swiftly. In broken tones she cried,
‘I cannot—I cannot, I won’t be able to give.’
As she uttered these words, an unnatural power seemed to grip her body.
Her eyes dilated and blazed. She gripped Sarala’s hand, her voice grew
shrill; she screamed, ‘You will have no place here, you witch, no place! I
will stay, stay, stay!’
Suddenly the loose chemise-clad pale, shrivelled figure left the bed and
stood up erect. In a strange voice she said, ‘Run, run, run away now, while
you can! Otherwise every day of your life I will drive a stake through your
heart—I will drain your blood away!’
Saying this she collapsed on the floor.
Hearing her voice Aditya came running into the room. Having spent all
her life force, Neerja had breathed her last by then.
 Glossary

Aparajita
A common creeper with blue flowers
Asoka
A tree with red flowers. In the Ramayana, Sita was held captive by
Ravana in an asoka grove
Babu
Respectful term of address for male head of the family
Basanti
A tree bearing light orange blossoms
Batabi
The shaddock
Beedi
A kind of cheap cigarette rolled up in a tobacco-leaf
Bokul
Large evergreen tree with sweet scented flowers
Boudi/Boudidi
An elder brother’s wife, also term of respect for the mistress of the
household
Britrashur
A demon who was slain by Indra and is the symbol of darkness
Chalta
A tree bearing edible acrid fruit
Dada
Elder brother, also respectful address
Didi
Elder sister
Didimoni
Respectful address for younger female member of the family
Dolon champa
Tree of the magnolia family, with pretty champak flowers
Duhshashan
 Kaurava prince, Duryodhan’s brother, who tried to strip Draupadi
naked in the royal court in the Mahabharata
Gondhoraj
The gardenia, a fragrant white flower
Indra
The king of the gods
Jarul
Oak-like tree whose timber is used to make furniture
Kalidasa
One of India’s greatest poets and dramatists, who lived between the
4th and the 5th century AD and wrote in Sanskrit
Kamini
A variety of sweet scented white flower
Khokhi
Equivalent of ‘my girl’, endearing term for a daughter or little girl
Makardhvaj
Medicinal sublimate of mercury, sulphur and gold
Mashi
Mother’s sister, respectful address for an older woman
Muchkundo
A variety of champak flower
Nagkeshor
A local flowering plant
Neem
The margosa tree
Paan
Betel leaves prepared with lime, catechu etc.
Prajapati
Brahma, the creator and protector of all living creatures
Rajanigandha
The tuberose
Rama
The seventh incarnation of Vishnu, the hero of the Ramayana
Ramakrishna
A mystic saint and seer from Bengal, who lived in the Paramhansa
nineteenth century
Sanyasi
 An ascetic
Shubhodrishti
Auspicious look exchanged between bride and bridegroom during the
wedding ceremony
Thakurpo
Husband’s younger brother
Togor
A kind of larger white flower
Toka
A large straw hat to protect the head from the sun, generally used by
farmers
 THE BEGINNING

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This collection published 2005

Copyright © Mukunda Rao 2005
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-144-00035-7
This digital edition published in 2015.
e-ISBN: 978-9-352-14096-1
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