‘The Broken Nest’ (Nastanirh)

By Rabindranath Tagore
Translated by: Lopa Banerjee

Chapter 1

Bhupati had inherited a lot of money and generous ancestral property, so it was quite natural
if he didn`t bother to work at all. By sheer destiny, however, he was born a workaholic. He
had founded an elite English newspaper and that was how he decided to cope with the
boredom that his riches and time, which was endlessly at his disposal, brought to him.

Since childhood, Bhupati had a flair for writing and rhetoric and would relentlessly write
letters to the editors of English newspapers. He also loved speaking in assemblies, even when
he didn’t have anything significant to add to the discourses.

Years passed by, and he grew increasingly confident and eloquent in his English composition
and oratorical skills, which was further nourished as he continued to receive accolades and
support from influential political leaders. They loved him as he was rich and accomplished
and wanted him to join their ilk.

Eventually, his brother-in-law Umapati, a frustrated and failed lawyer, came to him with a
plea: “Bhupati, it’s high time you publish your own newspaper. You possess the perfect
background and necessary skills for it.”

Bhupati was not only convinced but even inspired by the proposal. He believed getting
published in newspapers and journals, that were run by other people, was demeaning. As the
owner of his own publication, he could wield his pen and his own persona, liberated,
uninhibited, and complete. With his brother-in-law to assist him, he embraced his new role as
the founder and editor of a new publication.

Bhupati was young, passionate about his editorial work, current affairs and world politics to
the point of addiction, and there was no dearth of people to arouse his passion for dissenting
on an everyday basis.

Thus, for a number of years, his unflinching devotion to his publication prevented him from
noticing that at home, his child-bride, Charulata, had gradually bloomed into a young and
beautiful woman. The editor, obviously, was preoccupied with more important happenings in
the national political scene, like the border policy of the contemporary Indian Government.

In a household infested with riches and boredom, Charulata continued to live, bloom like the
flower that could not bear any fruit, not as a necessity, but an embellishment in the midst of
her effortless, prolonged days and nights. There was no lack of abundance in the household,
but only an overpowering emptiness that she knew as her own.

Any other wife would have fought with her husband, enacted a few dramas, the quirky
idiosyncrasies of conjugal politics transcending and threatening all limits and boundaries of
domesticity. Charu, however, was not fortunate enough to indulge in such acts. It became
increasingly difficult for her to penetrate the thin layers of paper which wrapped her
husband’s attention.

On one occasion, a woman relative, in her efforts to attract Bhupati’s attention towards his
young wife, had admonished him. With a sudden consciousness, he replied: “Ah, well, Charu
needs the company of a friend. Poor girl, there’s nothing in the house to keep her busy.”

Immediately, he summoned his brother-in-law Umapati to bring his wife as a companion to

Charu. The editor assumed that Charu was missing the company of a woman of her age, and
that was the only void in her life. He was thus relieved when Umpati’s wife Mandakini was
brought along to keep her company.

At a time when the pristine sunlight of the exploration of love between a man and a woman
would let them unfold each other in a new, rejuvenating light, the man and the woman,
unconscious of the golden, glistening dawn of their mutual love, didn’t realize when the fresh
aroma of togetherness had worn off, leaving them older, dull, over-familiar to each other.

Charulata had a natural affinity for reading and writing, and due to her literary leanings, her
days seemed light to her. In a number of different ways, she had arranged for her own studies
in the house. Bhupati’s cousin Amal was a third-year student; Charulata beseeched Amal to
help her pursue her studies. In this pursuit, she would have to tolerate many of his endless
tantrums, which included providing him with incentives for eating in hotels, buying
expensive books of English literature, and inviting his friends over for a lavish feast. Charu
had accepted all of this as her sole responsibility in lieu of his tutelage, as ‘Gurudakshina’.
Bhupati had no demands on her; on the other hand, Amal’s demands, on the slightest pretext
of tutoring, were never-ending. Charu sometimes feigned anger and rebellion over this, but
deep within, it was necessary for her to bear with these little outbursts of affection.

Once Amal demanded: “Bouthan (sister-in-law), the son-in-law of the king of our college
enters our college premises with an exclusive hand-woven shoe made of carpet. I want a
similar pair of shoes soon, otherwise I would feel so belittled!”

Charu: “Ah, well! Do I now have to be your cobbler? No way! Take some money and buy it
from the market whenever you wish to.”

“Oh no, that is not done!”

Charu really didn’t know how to sew a shoe, but she wouldn’t admit this to Amal. The fact
that nobody other than Amal demanded anything from her tempted her to comply with his
demands. Thus, discreetly, meticulously, she began to learn the art of sewing on a carpet
when Amal went to college. Later, one summer evening, when Amal’s need for the shoe
diminished, he was summoned by his sister-in-law.

Charu had neatly arranged for Amal’s evening meal in their terrace, his dish carefully
shielded with a brass cover to keep it from the sand and dust. Amal came back from college,
freshened up and presented himself on the terrace. Seated on the mat, he was pleasantly
surprised to discover a pair of brand new woolen shoes adorning his dish. Charu laughed out
loud, seeing his expression of amazement and awe.

After this incident, Amal’s hopes skyrocketed. Every now and then he demanded new things
for himself, a scarf, intricate floral embroidery in his silk handkerchief, an embroidered cover
to prevent oil stains for the big chair where he seated himself in his room.

Every time Charu would object, quarrel with him, yet every time she would work
meticulously, with deep affection to gratify his little needs. Sometimes Amal would ask her,
“Bouthan, how much is done?”

Sometimes Charulata would lie to him and say, “Nothing.” Sometimes she said, “Oh, I had
completely forgotten about it.”

But Amal was unrelenting. Every day he reminded her about it, demanded her attention. On
the one hand, Charu teased and provoked him with her pretense of indifference and her
feigned tussles, on the other hand, she felt amused to grant his prayers suddenly,
unexpectedly.

In all of her household, Amal was the only one who made her work for him. It was an act of
voluntary toiling, which nourished the desires of her heart, satisfied those unspoken
innermost longings.

Bhupati had a piece of land adjacent to the inner apartments of his house, which was not
really a garden. Among the coveted plants in that ‘garden’, there was an imported hog plum
tree.

Charu and Amal once planned a committee for its renovation, drawing illustrations, chalking
plans, envisioning the birth of a garden on that little piece of land.

Amal said, “Bouthan, you will have to water the plants of our garden with your own hands,
like the princesses of yore.”

Charu was amused. She replied, “And in that little corner tucked in the west, we will have a
little hut, with a young deer, a fawn.”
“And we will also have our quaint little lake, ducks will swim around it.”

Charu’s face lit up at the proposal. “We will float blue lotuses in the lake, it is a dream I have
had for a long time.”

“We will also build a bridge over the lake, and a small boat will be moored in the landings,”
Amal said.

“And the landing will be built with white marble.”

Amal began to draw an elaborate map of their cherished land on paper, with a pencil, a scale
and a compass. Day after day, their collaborative enterprise took new shapes and forms, with
new changes implemented every day, resulting in twenty to twenty five maps in all.

They began estimating the finances of implementing the map in reality. Charu had initially
thought of investing in the garden bit by bit, with the help of the monthly allowance allotted
to her. She knew Bhupati didn’t know or care about what was happening inside the house.
Once the garden was all set up, she would invite and surprise him. How would he feel to see
the garden constructed with so much beauty and innovation? She thought to herself. Bhupati
must be thrilled to discover a fresh new Japanese garden implanted in his own house with the
magic of Aladdin’s lamp.

However, the finances were never enough, despite their conservative estimates. Amal began
to change the map again. He said: “Bouthan, I think we will have to omit the plan of the
lake.”

Charu protested, “No, the lake must be there, no matter what. What about the blue lotuses I
have dreamed of floating there?”

Amal said, “Then no need for a fancy tiled hut for your deer kid. We can have a simple straw
roof for the hut.”

Charu was enraged. “Then I don’t need that hut at all,” she replied.

The lavish plan of importing cloves from Mauritius, sandalwood from Kornat, cinnamon
plants from Sri Lanka was then abandoned. Amal wanted to substitute those with simple
plants, Indian and foreign, bought from the local Maniktala market. Charu, fuming inside,
said, “Forget the garden. I don’t want it anymore.”

This, generally, is not the ideal way of working on an estimate. However, it was impossible
for Charu to curb the viewless wings of her imagination in tandem with the strict budgeting,
and also, for Amal, in spite of what he said, it was not tasteful enough to compromise thus.

Amal said: “Bouthan, why don’t you talk about this garden to Dada (brother)? I am sure he
will sponsor it.”

Charu didn’t like the idea. “What about the fun and adventure of building a garden all by
ourselves, if I tell him to sponsor it? He can order and construct an Eden Garden any day, but
what will happen to our own plan of building the garden?”

Seated under the shaded canopy of the hog plum tree, Charu and Amal were basking in the
imaginary delight of their impossible dream. Charu’s sister-in-law, Mandakini, called them
from upstairs.

“What are you two doing in the garden?”

Charu replied, “We are searching for ripe hog plums.”

Manda was tempted. “Do bring some for me if you find them,” she said.

Charu and Amal laughed together in the glory and delight of their inconsequential little
dreams. Manda, Charu’s sister-in-law was deprived of the bounty of imagination, so she was
naturally out of this idyllic dream world and the impossible plans they both conceived.

The speculations of that elusive garden continued, while imagination was rampant and
indomitable, so the committee under the hog plum tree continued to sketch their dreams, as
Amal marked the places where they had planned the lake, the hut for the deer kid, the marble
landing.

One day, Amal began to carve marks around the land with a small axe, in an effort to draw
the boundaries for their dream garden. Charu was resting under the shade of a tree, keeping
an eye over Amal’s actions. Suddenly, she said, “Amal, if you could write, it would have
been great fun.”

Amal asked, “But why do you think so?”

Charu: “Well, then I would have ordered you to write a story describing this garden of ours,
with the lake, the hut for the deer, this shaded canopy of the hog plum tree. It would have
been a world for only the two of us, nobody else would understand it. Will you try writing? I
am sure you can do it.”

“If I can do it, what will I get in exchange?”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I will draw a flowery design on my mosquito net, you will have to embroider it with silk.”

“This is sheer outlandish!” Charu exclaimed.” Nobody has ever heard of embroidering the
roof of a mosquito net.”

In reply, Amal went on revolting against the familiar tradition of regarding the mosquito net
as a prison, devoid of beauty. According to his explanation, this was enough proof of the lack
of aesthetic senses of most of the people in this world who are not the least affected by this
grossness in their own vision.

Charu immediately admitted the conclusions of his argument and was elated that the secret
committee comprising the two of them was not a part of this huge majority of people.

She said, “All right, I will design the roof of your mosquito net, if you start writing.”

Amal smiled mysteriously. “You think I cannot write, do you?”

Charu brimmed with excitement. “You must have written something, haven’t you? Show it to
me.”

Amal avoided her glance. “Let it be, Bouthan. Some other day.”

Charu insisted. “No, you have to show it to me today. Bring it here.”

Amal had tried hard to resist sharing his writing with Charu; he was overtly conscious of his
sister-in-law’s excessive eagerness to discover his written world; he feared that she would not
like it and there was no way he could overcome this feeling.

He brought his copy and started reading to her, as he blushed and coughed a bit. Charu
listened to him, reclining her body against a tree, spreading her feet over the patch of grass.

The subject of Amal’s essay was ‘My Notebook.” Amal had written: “O my bleached white
notebook, my imagination has not yet touched you. You are as pristine and enigmatic as the
divine forehead of a newborn in the delivery room, untouched by the hands of the lord of
destiny. Today is not the day when I would pen a conclusion in your last page. Your virgin,
white pages are not yet dreaming of that concluding page marked in tragic ink.”

Charu was listening as he read on, statue-like, awed. She took some time to respond, after the
reading ended. “How is it you still think you can’t write?” she said.

That day, under the shade of the hog plum tree, Amal had drunk the intoxicating nectar of
literature for the first time. The drink was fresh and enticing, as they both witnessed the
beautiful hide and seek of light and shadow on that mysterious afternoon.

Charu reminded him of picking a few hog plum fruits for Mandakini. She did not desire to
share their literary and other adventures with her dim-witted sister-in-law; the fruits were
picked for her to satisfy her curiosity.
 Chapter 2

Amal and Charu didn’t notice how and when the dream and vision of their idyllic garden,
like other unattainable dreams they had been part of, faded and waned in the boundless space
of their imagination.

The world of Amal’s writing gradually usurped those dreams and became the center of their
discussion. Once Amal came up to Charu and said: “Bouthan, a wonderful idea has come to
me.”

Charu replied, with a sudden burst of energy, “Let us go to our southern verandah. Manda
will follow us soon with betel leaves.”

Charu seated herself on a brittle cane chair in the Kashmiri verandah and Amal relaxed his
legs over the balustrade.

Amal’s writings were often haphazard and disorganized. A plethora of thoughts crowded his
pages, incoherent and unintelligible. Amal himself was aware of this, and often said,
“Bouthan, I cannot explain to you well enough what I want to write…”

Charu would encourage him, “No, I did understand much of it; try to complete writing it,
don’t delay.”

The writing was a complex web tangled in Charu’s mind, partly understood, partly elusive,
partly imagined, and partly charged with the emotion of Amal’s urgency of expression. It
created ripples of unexplained joy in her innermost core, made her eager to explore it further.

That evening, Charu asked him: “How much did you write?”

Amal said, “How could I write within such short time?”

Charu’s voice seemed a little quarrelsome the next morning. “Did you still not write it?” She
asked.

Amal said, “Wait, let me think some more.”

Charu was enraged. “Then go. I don’t want to talk to you.”

In the evening, when Charu became infuriated to the point of complete silence, Amal
discreetly dropped from his pocket a hand-written note.
Charu’s voluntary silence broke within seconds. “There, you have written this! Why did you
dupe me? Show it to me now.”

Amal interrupted her. “It is not finished yet, let me write some more and then I will share
with you.”

Charu was adamant. “No, I want to hear it right now!” She demanded.

Amal was really eager to read it out to Charu, but he wanted her to struggle with him some
more, snatch the paper from him until he relented. Then, Amal would ritualistically read out
to her, arranging the pages, revising in a few places with his pencil. All this while, Charu,
with her ardent, joyous, curious soul, a cloud which had just burst into a downpour, leaned
over those pieces of paper to absorb its contents.

It was Charu’s order to read out his freshly written paragraphs to her; the rest of the unwritten
expressions were seeped in their spoken words and imagination that enlivened them, liberated
them.

For all these days, both of them had been engaged in building their airy castle of sweet
nothings, now they fully immersed themselves in their gradually blossoming poetic realm,
losing themselves in it.

One afternoon as Amal returned from his college, his pocket seemed excessively heavy to
Charu, who had been keeping an eye over him from the air-hole of her room.

On other days, Amal would quickly come to her quarters and meet her upon returning from
college. But that day he surreptitiously entered the outhouse with his heavy pocket and didn’t
visit Charu that soon.

Charu, befuddled, came up to the end of the inner apartments of the house and clapped a
number of times to draw his attention, but nobody seemed to listen. Angered, frustrated, she
tried to concentrate on a book written by Manmatha Dutta in her verandah.

Manmatha Dutta was a new author, whose style of writing was somewhat akin to Amal’s,
therefore Amal consciously refrained from praising him, reading out instead some excerpts of
his books to his sister-in-law with enough mockery in his voice. Charu, irritated, would
snatch that book from him and throw it away in disdain.

Hearing his footsteps resound in the verandah, she suddenly became very conscious and held
up to her face a book by the author titled ‘Kalakantha’ (Melodious Voice), focusing all her
attention on it.

Amal entered the verandah, and Charu pretended to read on, unnoticing, indifferent. Amal
asked, “What are you reading so raptly?”
Watching her silence for some time, Amal lifted his head to her back, trying to read the name.
“Manmatha Dutta’s ‘Galaganda’ (Goiter)!” he mocked.

Charu was enraged. “Ah, don’t you irritate me like that, let me read.” Standing over her head,
Amal read out from the book in his usual mocking tone: “I am little, inconsequential like
grass, o my brother Ashok, before you, dressed up in the scarlet robe of the king, I am but
petty, insignificant grass. I am not endowed with blossoming flowers or soothing shadows; I
cannot lift my head up in the firmament; the sweet cuckoo of spring does not shelter me and
sing in mesmerizing tunes. But still, my brother Ashok, I beseech you, do not deprive me of
my own flowered branches. I remain, humbled, at your feet, but I pray, do not belittle me.”

Amal then started adding his own lines to it, spoofing and ridiculing the author: “I am a
bunch of bananas, a bunch of plantains, o my brother pumpkin, the ripe pumpkin vine over
the roof, I am only a bunch of plantains.”

Charu couldn’t stop laughing at this easy banter of her brother-in-law; she threw away the
book and said, “How jealous you are, you think every writer other than you writes trash.”

Amal replied, “And how generous you are, you want to gulp down that useless grass.”

“Ok, now, enough of fun! What is there in your pocket? Show it to me.”

“No, first you have to guess what is there.”

He kept irritating her for quite some time, and then showed her a copy of a renowned
monthly journal named ‘Saroruha’ (Lotus), where his essay ‘My Notebook’ had been
published.

Charu kept her silence. Amal had thought she would be delighted to see this, but seeing her
reticence, he commented, “They do not publish mediocre writings.”

Amal had undoubtedly exaggerated this. He knew this was not true entirely, the editor is
mostly keen to publish whosoever submitted readable pieces, but Amal explained to Charu
that the editor of the journal was a tough man, who carefully sieved the best writing from the
slush piles of submissions.

Charu pretended to look joyous with this news, but was not really so. She attempted to
analyze the reason why she felt hurt, but there was really no concrete reason for her
discontent.

After a while, she understood. Amal’s writing was the secret territory where both she and
Amal ventured, the writer and the reader, rapt in each other’s silent, secret world. The
possibility of the writings being published and read, and admired by the world pained her
heart immensely, and she didn’t understand why.

But Amal’s craving for more readership increased by the day. He started publishing more and
winning accolades shortly after.

Sometimes, he showed his sister-in-law the mails that he received from his admirers. Charu
would be struck by the binary feelings of happiness and sorrow to see Amal reaching out to
the world with his pen. She no longer felt the necessity of her excitement and inspiration that
had urged him to write. Sometimes, Amal would receive unnamed, clandestinely written
mails from women and Charu would pull his leg with those letters, but she really did not
derive any great pleasure from all of this. She felt as if the whole of the readership from
Bengal had suddenly broken into the secret door of the ‘committee’ they both had formed,
thus intruding on their cherished privacy.

One day Bhupati, while resting, said to her, “Charu, I wasn’t really aware that our Amal
writes so eloquently!”

Charu was happy to hear this. Bhupati was the benefactor of Amal, but Charu seemed to feel
a sense of pride in her husband’s realization of Amal’s superiority among his other kith and
kin, whom he had sheltered and provided for. As if he meant to say, “Now you understood
why I am so affectionate towards Amal! I had a sense of his talents a long time back, I
understood that he could not be ignored for long.”

“Have you read his writings?” Charu asked him.

Bhupati fumbled. “Yes…no, well, I did not read it myself, couldn’t make the time for it, but
my colleague Nishikanta was all praise for his writings, and he is quite a critic of Bengali
literature, you know.”

Charu had secretly, silently craved to see this feeling of reverence for Amal in her husband’s
eyes.

Chapter 3

Umapada was trying to convince Bhupati about the various lucrative incentives for the
readers of their publication. Bhupati, however, failed to understand how that would be a
profitable act, and how that would help overcome the loss they had incurred.

Charu once entered the room, and went away as soon as she saw Umapada. As she reentered
the room, she witnessed them arguing over the accounts of the newspaper.

Umapada had sensed Charu’s impatience and went away from the room. Bhupati, left alone,
began to wrack his brain again with the accounts.

Upon entering the room, Charu fumed: “Still not finished with your work? I wonder how you
spend all your life with this newspaper of yours!”

Bhupati smiled a bit, while moving away the paperwork. He thought to himself: “True, it
must be a grave sin that I can’t ever attend to the needs of Charu. Poor girl, she doesn’t have
anything to occupy herself with.”

He replied, with a tinge of affection in his voice: “You don’t have your studies today, do
you? Has the tutor eloped? I don’t understand the queer ways of your school—the pupil all
ready with her books, while the teacher ran away! Strange! I don’t think Amal is very regular
with tutoring these days.”

Charu said: “Do you think Amal should while away his time in tutoring me? Is he the humble
private tutor always ready at our service?”

Bhupati touched her waist, pulling her close towards him: “Is it only a humble, insignificant
private tutoring? If only I had the chance to teach a charming sister-in-law like you –”

Charu: “For God’s sake, don’t you say that. As if being a husband is not enough! I don’t want
any more.”

Bhupati was hurt. He said: “I promise you, I will tutor you from tomorrow. Bring me your
books;, let me see what you are studying these days.”

Charu: “Now don’t start that again. Can you keep aside the accounts of your newspaper for
now? Just see if you can put your attention to some other direction.”

Bhupati said: “Sure I can, any direction that you want it to be for now.”

Charu: “Ok, then read this essay of Amal and find out how wonderfully he has written it!
You know, the editor has told him, Nabagopal Babu has read this piece and renamed him the
Ruskin of Bengal.”

Bhupati opened the page of the publication that carried Amal’s writing, albeit a little
reluctantly. The piece was named, “The Moon of Autumn”. For the past two weeks, his mind
was occupied with assessing the critical budget analysis of the Indian Government, and those
calculations kept rambling inside the deep recesses of his brain. Amid such times, his mind
was not equipped to absorb the Bengali essay and its nuances. Moreover, the essay was of no
meager length, for that matter.
This was how the piece began: “Why is the autumnal moon hiding within the folds of the
night’s dense clouds today? As if he has stealthily brought some treasures from the kingdom
of heaven, as if he is trying hard to hide his disgrace! In the month of Falgun, when there was
no trace of cloud in any corner of the sky, he had expressed his uninhibited being in the open
horizon. And today, his mirthful smile, like a child’s reverie, like the wistful memory of a
lady-love, like the pearl necklace dangling in the tresses of the Goddess of music…”

Bhupati was itching his head in discomfort. “Very well written,” he managed to say, “but
why me, of all people? Do I really understand such poetic expressions?”

With sudden hesitation, Charu snatched the paper from her husband. “Then what do you
understand?” she said.

Bhupati answered: “I am a man of this mundane world, I understand humans.”

“But doesn’t literature convey the words of us humans?” Charu said.

“It does,” Bhupati replied, “but wrongly. Besides, when a human is present in his tangible,
flesh and blood form, why should one strive to search him in hyperbolic expressions?”

He gripped Charu’s chin: “For instance, I understand ‘you’ the way you are, is there any need
to read epics and ballads like Meghnad Badh Kavya or Kavikankan Chandi to reach you?”

Bhupati had taken pride in his indifference towards poetry. However, he revered Amal’s
poetic talents, in spite of not reading his work closely. He thought: “It is incredibly difficult
to seamlessly weave words when there is really nothing to say. Did anybody know Amal was
capable of such word wizardry?”

Bhupati, for that matter, would consciously deny his lack of taste for the literary, but he was
quite liberal in patronizing literature. He had even sponsored book printing for poor writers,
though he would always make sure that the writer did not dedicate the book to him. Also, he
would unmistakably buy each and every weekly and monthly magazine published in Bengali,
and all kinds of books, popular ones, not-so-popular ones, readable and unreadable ones. He
would say: “The fact that I do not read these is enough sin. Moreover, if I do not buy them, it
will be a greater sin without any atonement”.

In fact, since he did not read them, he didn’t have any apathy towards poorly written books
and his Bengali library was always stuffed with new and old books and publications.

Amal usually helped his brother with the English proofreading of his publication. He entered
the room with a bundle of papers to show him a copy with illegible handwriting.

Bhupati grinned. “Amal, you may write page after page about the autumn moon or the
ripened palm of late summer, I have no objection to it whatsoever. You see, I never intrude
on anybody’s freedom of expression. But can you say why my freedom to stay away from
these is being curbed these days? Your Bouthan (sister-in-law) never stops reading them out
to me! How outrageous!”

Amal pretended to laugh. “True, Bouthan. I never knew you would start torturing Dada with
my writings. I would never have written in the first place, if I had any idea of it.”

An inexplicable anger began to brew within Amal. He held Charu responsible for demeaning
his cherished writings by presenting them to a man as apathetic to literature as his brother,
Bhupati. It dawned on Charu instantly and the realization pained her. In an effort to divert his
attention elsewhere, Charu said to her husband: “Why don’t you marry him off? Then you
would not have to bear with any more torture of writing.”

Bupati said: “This present generation of boys is way cleverer than we were. However much
poetic they may be in their writing, they are worldly-wise in their actions. You could not
convince your dear brother-in-law to marry, could you?”

After Charu left, Bhupati said to Amal: “Amal, you see how occupied I am with my
newspaper, Charu feels really lonely. She has nothing much to do, sometimes I see her
peeping through my study. What do I do with her? It would be really good if you could
engage her in studies. I was thinking if you could translate English poems and explain them
to her as it would benefit her, and she would enjoy it too. I feel she has quite a taste for
literature.”

Amal said: “That is true. What I myself feel is she can write quite eloquently if she studies
some more.”

Bhupati laughed. “I do not hope that much, but it is true she understands Bengali literature far
better than I do.”

Amal: “Yes, she has the gift of imagination, a rarity among women.”

Bhupati: “Well, a rarity among men too, and I am a living example. If you can groom your
Bouthan properly, I will gift you generously.”

Amal: “And what would be my gift?”

Bhupati: “I will find a copy of her for you.”

Amal: “Oh no, then I will have to mentor that woman too! Will I have to spend all my life
grooming others?”

The brothers were quite frank in their discussions, never hesitated to speak their minds.
 Chapter 4

Amal has earned considerable repute among his circle of readers recently. His stance, of late,
has transformed from that of a humble school student to that of a respectable and elite
gentleman. He reads essays in literary associations and meetings, and is often sought by
editors or their spokespersons who invite him, request him to join their associations as a
member or even as their president. At Bhupati’s home, his social position has been much
elevated among his relatives and servants.

Umapada’s wife Mandakini had never given much importance to Amal till now. While she
went on with her daily domestic chores, dressing betel leaves, she looked down upon Amal
and Charu’s easy banter as a childish act. She considered herself far more superior and
necessary for the household than the two of them.

Amal needed betel leaves in abundance throughout the day. Mandakini, who was in charge of
dressing the betel leaves, was often irritated by Amal misusing them unnecessarily. It was
quite fun for Amal and Charu to conspire and loot Manda’s treasury of betel leaves, but she
was not in the least amused by these betel thieves’ lavish acts. .

As one taking refuge in Bhupati’s household, Mandakini could not bring herself to like Amal,
the other dependent. She felt somewhat insulted to perform additional household chores for
Amal. Since Charu always favored Amal, she couldn’t voice her displeasure directly, but
deep inside, she always tried to disregard him. At the slightest opportunity, she would even
instigate the servants of the house against Amal. Given a chance, they would also join her.

But Manda was startled to see Amal’s progress. He shed off his past hesitations and the
politeness of his demeanor gradually, as if it were his right to disregard others. A man, whom
the society has embraced fully, who can assert himself unhesitatingly, whose rights are
secured and unquestioned is an able man who can attract women easily. When Manda
discovered Amal earning respect of people from all quarters, she was compelled to look up at
Amal, his head held high, his youthful face lit up with the radiance of his newfound glory.
She discovered Amal in a new light and this discovery fascinated her.

Therefore, there was no need of stealing betel leaves again. This was yet another loss for
Charu following Amal’s fame and popularity. The ties of humor that bound them together
with their little conspiracies had been severed. The betel leaves now came to Amal on their
own in abundance.

Besides, the pleasure they would derive by keeping Mandakini away from their secret
association was also waning away. It was gradually becoming difficult to keep Manda at bay.
She was displeased by Amal’s regard for Charu as his only friend and confidante. She was
now fully determined to make up for her earlier acts of neglecting Amal. She contrived plans
to intrude, to overshadow, eclipse the two of them on the slightest pretext, whenever she saw
them face each other. Moreover, she never gave Charu the opportunity to comment and sneer
at this sudden change of her attitude in her absence.

Needless to say, this unsolicited intrusion of Manda never irritated Amal the way it did
Charu. Deep within, he seemed to cherish the newfound interest of this woman towards him.

However, he wouldn’t express this feeling to Charu. Often while seeing Manda approaching
them from afar, Charu would utter, “There, she is coming,” and he would join her, “Yes, I
see, quite bothersome.” It had been a common practice for them to express intolerance
towards all other human associations they came across. But Amal could not resist the
temptation all so suddenly. When faced with her, he would somewhat politely but forcefully
ask: “Manda-Bouthan, did you see any sign of robbing your betel leaves today?”

Manda: “But why do you have to steal dear, you get it anyway whenever you want.”

Amal: “Well, it is more enjoyable to steal than want it and wait to get it.”

Manda: “Why did you stop reading, you two? Please continue! I would rather enjoy listening
to it.”

Nobody had ever seen Manda put any effort whatsoever to gain reputation as an avid reader
before, but times had really changed.

Charu disliked the idea of Amal reading out literature to the blunt Mandakini; it was Amal’s
wish, however, that Manda too becomes an audience of his literary work.

Charu: “Amal has brought his critical review of ‘Kamalakanta-r Daptar’, will you…”

Manda: “I may not be as wise as you, but won’t I understand it a wee bit if I listen?”

Amal remembered the incident of yet another day. Charu and Manda were playing cards
together, while he entered the scene with one of his writings. He was anxious to read it out to
Charu, and was quite annoyed that the game was still on. At last, he expressed his anguish:
“You two continue with your game, Bouthan, I would rather go to Akhil Babu to read it out
to him.”

Charu tried to resist him, pulling his shawl, “Ah, where are you off to? Sit down some more.”
She quickly finished the game, losing voluntarily.

Manda said: “Would the two of you start your reading session now? Then I am leaving.”

Out of sheer politeness, Charu tried to stop her. “Why, you can listen to it too, dear,” She
said.

“No dear, I really do not understand those nonsensical readings of yours; I feel very sleepy to
hear them”, Manda replied, extremely annoyed at both Charu and Amal for the sudden and
untimely disruption of their game, and went away.

Today, the same Manda had expressed her keenness to hear the review of ‘Kamalakanta’.
Amal said: “Well, Manda Bouthan, it is my privilege that you want to listen to my
review.” He attempted to turn the pages in order to read out the piece from the very
beginning. In the introduction to the review, he had employed quite a lot of humor, and he
really did not intend to leave it out while reading.

Charu quickly said: “Thakurpo (brother-in-law), didn’t you say you would bring me some old
monthly magazines from the Janhavi Library?”

Amal: “But that is not today.”

Charu: “No, it is today. You must have forgotten.”

Amal: “Why would I forget? Didn’t you say…”

Charu: “Very well, don’t bring it then. You two carry on, let me go and fetch Paresh for the
library.” She went away.

Amal sensed danger in the way she spoke. Manda understood Charu’s anger and it instantly
poisoned her heart against Charu. After Charu left, Amal was hesitating to decide if he would
leave the room too. Manda smiled at him sardonically, and added: “Charu is quite angry with
you; go back to her and pacify her, dear. You will be in trouble if you read out your writing to
me.”

Under such circumstances, it became even more difficult for Amal to leave the room. He
replied, nurturing some anguished words at Charu. “Why, what trouble?” he said, while
holding up the pages of his writing in an attempt to read it out.

Manda covered the pages with both her hands and said: “Please, don’t read it, it’s no use.”
She went away, hiding her tears.

Chapter 5

Charu had gone to attend an invitation. Mandakini was tying her hair in her room. Amal
entered the room, summoning his ‘Bouthan’ (sister-in-law). Manda was sure that Amal knew
Charu was away for an invitation. She smiled sarcastically and said: “Oh my, who were you
looking for, Amal Babu, and who did you get to see? What bad luck!”

Amal replied: “For a donkey, the straw on both the left and the right side is equally precious.”
He took a seat in the room.

Amal: “Manda Bouthan, tell me a story of your village; I would love to hear.”

Amal had a keen inquisitive ear for the stories of others, which he accumulated as the
subjects of his own writing. Because of this, he was not as indifferent to Manda as before.
The inner workings of Manda’s mind, her history, her past sparked curiosity in him. He
started to ask her about the tidbits of her life, her birth place, her village, her childhood, her
marriage, in meticulous details. Nobody had ever expressed such avid interest in the small,
inconsequential life story of Manda before. She was relaying her own life story with extreme
jubilance; in between her narration, she would say: “I really don’t know what I am
blabbering.”

Amal encouraged her. “Please continue, I am enjoying it,” he said.

Manda continued with her story. Her father had a blind steward, who would fast ritualistically
as an after-effect of domestic quarrel with his second wife. Finally, overcome by irresistible
hunger, he would secretly visit Manda’s home for some food and one day, as luck would
have it, his wife had caught him in the act. In the midst of the story, while Amal was listening
to it with rapt attention and laughing at the quirky humor of the happenings, Charu entered
the room.

The story remained scattered, disoriented. Charu clearly understood that her untimely arrival
in the room disrupted a fine company.

Amal asked: “Bouthan, how did you return so early from the invitation?”

Charu said: “Ah, I see. It seems I returned a bit too early.” She turned back, in an attempt to
leave.

Amal said: “Yes, thank God, you came back early. I was wondering when you would come
home. Look, I have a new book to read out to you, The Evening Bird by Manmatha Datta.

Charu: “Not now, I have some work to do. “

Amal: “Then order me to do your work, I will comply.”

Charu knew that Amal would come to her with this new book; she had planned to start with
her effusive praise of the author Manmatha to arouse envy in Amal, and Amal, she thought,
would read out from the book in a mocking, sardonic tone. Imagining their reading session,
Charu was brimming with impatience. She left the venue of the invitation untimely, feigning
illness, disregarding all requests and pleas of the hosts. “It would have been better for me to
stay where I was. I shouldn’t have come back here.” She thought now, several times.

But what about the shameless Manda? She was alone with Amal in this room all this while,
laughing and frolicking. What would people think if they saw this? However, it was difficult
for Charu to rebuke Manda regarding this issue. What if Manda reverted back with her own
example of frolicking with Amal? But her association with Amal was so different altogether.
She had inspired Amal to compose his writings, she had discussed literature with him, but
Manda never had those objectives in mind. She had planned to entice the simpleton Amal,
Charu thought, and it was only her duty to save poor Amal from this impending doom. But
how would she convince Amal about the conniving plans of this crafty lady? What if that
fueled Amal’s temptations further?

“Poor dada (elder brother),” thought Charu. He was toiling day in and day out with her
husband’s publication and Manda was quietly contriving to ensnare Amal. Dada was
spending his days, unperturbed with ample faith in Manda. How could Charu stay calm after
what she had seen today with her own eyes? “How unfair!” She thought.

Amal had been a nice, agreeable person before; however, things started changing since his
popularity as a writer began to soar. Charu was the only one responsible for his writing. What
was that fateful moment when she stimulated his desire to write? Could she exert her
influence on Amal now, the way she could do earlier? Amal was now being fed by the
pampering indulgence of many; he would be unaffected if he omitted her from his life.

It became clear to Charu that Amal would be in a grave danger, while being in the hands of
these contriving lot of people. Amal didn’t consider Charu as his peer now; he thought he had
surpassed her. He was the writer now, while Charu was only a reader. Charu planned to solve
this issue.

“Oh, you simpleton Amal, bewitching Manda, and poor Dada,” she said to herself.

Chapter 6

The copious young clouds of the Bengali month of Asharh gathered in the sky. An
inexplicable darkness crystallized in Charu’s room. Near the open widow, she bent over a
notebook, scribbling in it, lonely, lost in her own furtive world.

She didn’t notice when Amal surreptitiously entered the room and stood behind her. Charu
continued writing in the smooth, gentle light of the rainy day, and Amal continued reading
secretly. There were a couple of Amal’s printed, published writings lying beside Charu, upon
which she would model her own compositions.

“Why do you say that you cannot write, then?” Amal’s sudden utterance in the room startled
Charu. She quickly hid her notebook. “This is so very mean!” She said.

Amal: “But what did I do, after all?”

Charu: “Why were you spying on my writing?”

Amal: “Because you won’t let me see it otherwise.”

Charu was about to tear up her writing. Amal snatched it away from her in a moment. “If you
read it, I swear to never ever speak to you in this life,” Charu said.

“And if you forbid me to read it, I swear to never ever speak to you in this life,” Amal
retorted.

Charu: “For heaven’s sake, do not read it, thakurpo !”

Finally, it was Charu who had to surrender. Deep within, her restless mind was eager to show
Amal her composition, but she didn’t think she would feel so much shame and hesitation
while actually presenting it to him. She ultimately gave in to Amal’s pleas as he started
reading it out, but her hands, feet froze in embarrassment. “Let me bring some betel leaves,”
she said and left for the next room on the pretext of dressing betel leaves.

Upon finishing reading, Amal said: “It is wonderful!”

At this, Charu forgot to add khoyer to the betel leaves. “You don’t have to make any more
fun of me. Give me back my notebook,” She said.

Amal said: “No, you won’t get it back now. I will make a fair copy of this and send it to a
magazine.”

“No, never, you won’t do that,” Charu said.

This created a ruckus between the two. Amal was unrelenting till the end. When he had
sworn to her several times and convinced her that it was fit for sending out to publications,
she gave in, albeit hopelessly. “It is so difficult to compete with you in anything. You are so
invincible, really!” She said.

“Now I must show this to Dada too,” Amal said.

Hearing this, Charu left dressing the betel leaves and lifted herself from her seat in haste. She
attempted to snatch away her notebook from Amal. “No, you must not tell him about this. If
you tell him, I will stop writing immediately,” she said.

Amal: “This must be a serious misunderstanding on your part, Bouthan. I am sure dada will
be elated to see your writing, whether he expresses it to you or not.”

Charu: “Let it be; I do not ask for his elation.”

Charu had promised to herself that she would start writing and give Amal a pleasant surprise;
she thought she would not stop until she proves herself to be worthier than Manda. For the
past few days, she had written quite a lot and then tore off the pages. Whatever she attempted
to write became a replica of Amal’s writing. When she tried to compare both, she discovered
that parts of her writing sounded as if they had been directly quoted from Amal’s
compositions, and only those seemed good writing to her, the rest appeared raw, immature.
Charu imagined Amal finding those parts and laughing at them, which made her tear up the
writings to pieces and discard them in the pond, lest Amal happens to see even a bit of them
by sheer chance.

The first composition she created was named ‘The Clouds of Shravan (monsoon)’. She had
thought to herself that she had written a unique piece, seeped in the emotional fervor of her
imagination. Suddenly, with conscious scrutiny, she discovered that the piece was very akin
to Amal’s essay, ‘The Autumn Moon’. In his essay, Amal had written: “Dear moon, why are
you hiding amidst the clouds like a thief?” And Charu had written: “Dear friend Kadambini,
where did you appear from suddenly, and steal away the moon under your blue drape?”

Finally, since Charu was not able to transcend the literary boundaries set by Amal, she
decided to change the subject of her compositions. Instead of the moon, clouds, the shefali
flower, the Indian nightingale, she wrote a piece named, ‘Kalitala.’ There had been a temple
of Goddess Kali near the silhouetted darkness of a creek in her ancestral village. She wrote
the piece about the fertile imagination of her child’s mind, her fears, her curiosity, her queer,
eccentric memories centered on the temple and the ancient myths of the village folks
surrounding the greatness of the Goddess. The beginning of the piece had been influenced by
the poetic opulence of Amal, but as she proceeded with the piece, it became defined by its
earnest simplicity, replete with the linguistic nuances of a lucidly narrated village tale.

Amal snatched away this writing from Charu and finished reading it. To his opinion, the
beginning of the writing was quite delightful, but the poetic effect was not maintained till the
end. Anyway, this was quite a commendable attempt of a novice writer, he thought.

Charu said: “Thakurpo, let us start a monthly publication of our own, what do you say?”

Amal: “But how will it survive without enough of silver coins?”

Charu: “But there would be no investment in our publication. It would be hand-written

entirely, no hassle of printing. It would only publish both of our writings, and nobody else
will get access to it. We would release only two copies, one for you, and the other for me!”

Had it been some days earlier, Amal would have been enthused at this proposal. However,
times had changed Amal, and he no longer loved these secret liaisons. He was not content
these days unless he could address a herd of people in his compositions. Nevertheless, he
maintained a façade of enthusiasm for old times’ sake and replied: “That would be great fun.”

Charu said: “But you have to promise me that you won’t publish your writing anywhere else
apart from in our own publication.”

Amal. “But the editors would kill me then!”

Charu: “Is it? But don’t we have weapons to kill them as well?”

Thus, it was decided and a committee consisting of two editors, two writers, and two readers
was formed.

Amal said: “Let the magazine be named ‘Charu-path’ (Charu-reading).” Charu said: “No, it
would be named Amala.”

Charu had forgotten the anguish and irritation of the interim period, by virtue of this new
arrangement. There was no way for Manda to enter their monthly literary publication and for
other outsiders, too, its doors remained bolted.

Chapter 7

One day, Bhupati came up to Charu and said, “Charu, what a surprise! Had anyone ever
thought before that you would turn a writer?”

Charu’s face reddened in astonishment. “Me, a writer? Who told you? Impossible!”

Bhupati: “Well, dear, you are caught red-handed. And this is the living proof.” He showed
her the latest edition of the magazine, ‘Sharoruho’ (Lotus).

With shock and disbelief, Charu discovered the writings that she had accumulated as secret
treasures to be released only in their handwritten monthly magazine. All those cherished
writings had been published in ‘Sharoruho’ along with the names of the writers.
Charu felt as if someone had freed her dear pet birds from their cage, where she had nurtured
them lovingly. For some time, her sense of shame and embarrassment of being caught at the
hands of Bhupati was overshadowed by a feeling of anger towards Amal, the traitor.

“And look at this now,” Bhupati said, while he presented to her the open pages of
‘Bishwabondhu’ (Friend of the World), a popular newspaper. It carried an essay titled, ‘The
Contemporary Bengali Writing Style.’

Charu pushed it away with her hands. “What use is this to me?” She said. Her mind,
overpowered with anguish towards Amal, refused to concentrate. “Just read it for once,”
Bhupati cajoled her.

Hence, Charu obliged him with a cursory glance at it. The reviewer had written a rather
critical essay, slandering the exaggerated, hyperbolic prose style of a group of contemporary
Bengali writers. Among them, he had harshly ridiculed the style of Amal and Manmatha
Dutta, and, in comparison, widely praised the effortless ease and spontaneity as well as the
deft word painting and visual details of the compositions of young, emerging writers like
Mrs. Charubala. He also emphasized the fact that the writers of Amal’s ilk must consider
imitating the style of her compositions to ensure literary success; otherwise, they would
undoubtedly be doomed.

Bhupati laughed out while reading this. “Now that’s what we call ‘learning applied against
the teacher’,” he said.

Charu was in two minds after reading this. On the one hand, this generous praise of her debut
publication filled her with joy; on the other, her heart was filled with unexplained pain. She
tried to push away, with all her might, the delectable elixir of accolades which had been right
in front of her mouth.

She discovered Amal’s subtle scheming behind all of this. Amal had decided to surprise her
by publishing her writing, and, later, following the publication, when a positive, praiseworthy
review of her work had been published, he had decided to show her both of them together to
pacify her anger and to encourage her further. “So why didn’t Amal come to show her the
review when it was published?” She thought to herself. He might have been tremendously
hurt by the negative review of his own writing by the reviewer, and he obviously didn’t want
Charu to see any of these; so he had hidden the publications away from her all this while.
The little, humble sanctuary of literature, that Charu had built as their own clandestine world,
had been shattered by a hailstorm of praises. Charu felt as if an enormous hail had attacked
and destroyed that world entirely, and it pained her immensely.

After Bhupati went away, Charu sat, lonely and dejected, in her bedroom, while the pages of
both ‘Sharoruho’ and ‘Biswabandhu’ lay open before her.

In an attempt to surprise Charu as before, Amal entered the room behind her back silently
with a notebook in his hand. When he reached near her, he noticed her rapt in the review
published in ‘Biswabondhu.’

Amal went away from the room as discreetly as he came there. “Charu is overwhelmed with
joy at the accolades her writing has received and the brickbats I have received for my own
writing,” he thought to himself. Suddenly, his soul was embittered to think of Charu’s
response. This stupid review might have surely made Charu think of herself as far more
superior than her mentor, he assumed, enraged. She should have torn the newspaper to pieces,
burning them away till the last dying embers.

He stood at the doorway of Mandakini’s room, brimming with anger, and summoned her with
a loud voice: “Manda Bouthan (sister-in-law)!”

Manda: “Come dear, come inside. How lucky am I today! I didn’t ask for you, and you came
unexpectedly.”

Amal: “Would you care to listen to a couple of my new compositions?”

Manda: “Well, you had promised to read them out to me for a long time, but did not do so.
Let it be, you would rather be in danger if someone takes offense at this.”

Amal retorted, somewhat strongly. “Who would be offended by this and why? Ah well, that
can be taken care of, you listen to it now.”

In a conscious effort to exhibit her keenness, Manda sat attentively. Amal started reading out
his writing to her in a grandiloquent way.

Amal’s writing, as always, sounded rather alien to Manda; she never found any meaning or
destination in it. To hide her dumb expression, she lit her face with a fake, pleasurable smile,
pretending to listen to him with extreme eagerness. This ignited Amal even further, while his
voice soared higher every moment.

He was reading: “Just like Abhimanyu, during his mother’s gestation, had only learnt to enter
inside the military array, and had not learnt to exit from it, in the same way, the river
current nestled in the stony womb of the mountain cavern, has only learnt to direct itself
forward, not to look behind and change its course. Alas, river current, alas, youth, alas time,
alas the vain world, all you can do is to move forward, you never ever return to the glorious
pathways of your past, those strewn with the golden pebbles of your verdant memories. It is
only the human mind that wants to look backwards; it doesn’t care to look for the eternal and
transcendental truth beyond the ephemeral universe.”

Around this time, Manda noticed a shadow in her doorway. She pretended to overlook the
shadow and continued to look into Amal’s face with steadfast, transfixed eyes and
unwavering attention, as he read out to her.
The shadow dispersed in a moment.

Charu had eagerly waited for Amal; she had planned to assault the ‘Biswabandhu’
publication in front of him, and also to rebuke him for breaking his promise and sending their
private writings to monthly journals.

The time of Amal’s arrival had passed, but he did not come to her yet. She had even selected
a writing of hers to read out to him, which lay in front of her.

Suddenly, she heard Amal’s voice from somewhere near her. It seemed to her like Manda’s
room. She stepped out of her room, like someone struck by an arrow, and approached the
doorway of Manda’s room discreetly. Amal was reading out a fresh new writing to Manda,
one which she hadn’t heard yet. Amal was reading: “It is only the human mind that wants to
look backwards; it doesn’t care to look for the eternal, the transcendental truth beyond the
ephemeral universe.”

Charu failed to maintain the silence of her footsteps while returning from Manda’s doorway.
She became extremely impatient and anguished with the memory of the shocking incidents of
the day. She was sure of the fact that Manda was not following a word of Amal’s writing,
and, yet Amal, with all his stupidity, was feeling content, satisfied to read out his writing to
her. She yearned to shout and tell this to both of them; however, her footsteps conveyed her
wrath to them. She returned to her bedroom and bolted the door with a thud.

Amal stopped his reading momentarily, while Manda smiled to him, hinting towards Charu’s
anger. “What is this nuisance of Bouthan?” Amal thought to himself. “Does she think of me
as her slave? Why wouldn’t I have the right to read out my writings to anybody else? Such a
torture!” He raised his voice further as he thought of this, and continued reading out to
Manda.

After the reading session, while passing by Charu’s room, he looked at the room once and
found the door bolted.

Charu had heard Amal’s footsteps and realized that he passed by her room, and that he never
bothered to stop by and ask for her. Overcome with anger and dismay, she opened the pages
of her new notebook and started to tear each and every page of it until the torn pieces piled up
in front of her. “Alas, what was that ill-fated moment when the idea of writing had struck
her,” she thought.

Chapter 8
The jasmine flowers in the garden by the verandah emanated their fragrance in the evening.
The stars were twinkling amid the broken clouds in the gentle, soothing evening sky. Charu
had neither tied her hair today, nor did she change her clothes. As she sat by the window in
the haunting darkness, the gentle breeze slowly caressed her untied tresses. She didn’t
understand why tears flowed from her eyes incessantly.

Bhupati entered the room during such a moment, his face pale, gloomy and his heart heaving.
It was not yet time for him to come to Charu’s room. He would often visit her quite late
these days, followed by a rigorous schedule of checking the proofs of his newspaper. Today,
he came to Charu right after the evening, as if in his search for some unknown solace.

No lamp was burning in the room. Bhupati looked at Charu’s dim figure in
the faint light that streaked through the window near the verandah, and then slowly stood at
her back. Charu didn’t turn to see him, even after hearing his footsteps. She sat by the
window, still, statuesque.

Bhupati was quite surprised to discover her in such a state. He called her: “Charu!”

At his summoning, Charu suddenly regained her consciousness and stood up. She didn’t
really expect Bhupati’s arrival now. He came close to her, and as he softly stroked her hair
with his fingers, he asked her, with all his affection: “Why are you sitting alone in the dark,
Charu? Where did Manda go?”

Charu felt that the entire day, with its strange turn of events, had conspired against her
wishes. She was quite sure in her mind that Amal would come to her asking for an apology,
and her eager mind, anxiously waiting for him, could not take Bhupati’s unexpected call.
Unable to restrain herself further, she burst into tears.

Bhupati was in utter shock at Charu’s sudden outburst. “Charu, what’s happened to you,
Charu?” He enquired.

Charu found it very difficult to explain what really happened to her. It was nothing special.
Could she complain to Bhupati that the reason for her grievance was that Amal had betrayed
her? Could she tell him that Amal had read out his fresh, new writing to Manda instead of
reading it out to her? Bhupati would surely laugh it off, rather casually. It was impossible for
Charu to present this rather trivial incident as a cause of her anguish. She was quite unable to
fathom why she was in such deep dismay, and this pained her even more.

Bhupati implored her: “Tell me, Charu, what’s happened to you. Did I do anything wrong to
you? You know quite well how occupied I am with the publication of the newspaper; if I did
hurt you in any way, please know that I didn’t do it willfully.”

Charu did not have the answer to any such question from her husband. She became impatient
and anxious with Bhupati’s questions; she would feel rather relieved if he went away right
now.

With no answer from Charu, Bhupati repeated in his loving, imploring voice, “I am really
guilty of staying far away from you, Charu, but I promise I will make things better. From
now on, I won’t remain busy with the newspaper always. You will get as much of my
company as you want.”

Charu replied, impatiently: “It is not about you.”

“Then what is it about?” Bhupati asked. He sat beside her on the bed.

Charu couldn’t suppress her indignation. “Let it be, I will tell you at night,” She said.

After a momentary pause, Bhupati uttered: “Ok, let it be.” Slowly, silently, he left the room
and went away. It seemed he wanted to say something to Charu, but the circumstances did
not allow him to tell her.

Charu could feel that her husband went away from the room in an untold anguish. She
thought of calling him back once, but didn’t know how to explain things to him. Her heart
heaved with repentance, but she didn’t know any remedy for it.

When the night came, she meticulously arranged for her husband’s dinner and sat in the room
with a hand fan.

Suddenly, she heard Manda summoning their servant Braja in a shrill voice. When Braja
appeared before her, she asked: “Has Amal babu finished his dinner?” “Yes,” Braja
answered.

Manda said: “His dinner is finished, and yet you did not take the betel leaves to him?” She
started scolding Braja for no reason.

Just then, Bhupati arrived in the room and started eating; Charu waved at him with her hand
fan.

Charu had promised to herself that she would talk to Bhupati gleefully, gently. She had even
prepared what she wanted to say to him. But the authoritative, rebuking tone of Manda’s
voice disrupted all her careful arrangements, and she was unable to speak a word to him
while he sat for dinner. In fact, Bhupati also seemed rather unmindful and depressed, and also
disinterested in the food. Charu asked him once: “Why aren’t you eating anything today?”

Bhupati tried to protest. “Why? I didn’t eat any less today,” he answered.

When they both came together in the bedroom at night, Bhupati asked her: “What were you
about to tell me tonight?”

Charu said: “Listen, for some days, Manda is behaving in a weird way, and I don’t like it at
all. I don’t feel like having her with us anymore.”

“Why? What did she do?” Bhupati asked.

Charu replied: “I feel ashamed to see how she behaves with Amal these days.”

Bhupati laughed at this. “Have you gone mad? Amal is such a young, immature boy–,” he
said.

Charu: “See, you don’t know about so many things happening in the household; you are only
interested in picking up stories from outside. Anyway, I feel pity for poor Dada (elder
brother). Manda never bothers to enquire when her husband has his daily meals, but when it
comes to Amal, she creates such uproar, rebuking the servants at the slightest pretext.”

Bhupati: “Ah, you women are so suspicious about little things!”

Charu was angered by his comment. “Oh, that’s okay then, we women are suspicious. But let
me make it clear to you, I will not tolerate such shamelessness in my own house further.”

Bhupati was amused and also satisfied to know of such a baseless apprehension of Charu. As
a chaste, virtuous wife, she was being extra cautious, eyeing with suspicion on the purity of
the household, lest even an imaginary disgrace touches their lives. There was an inexplicable
sweetness and nobility in this act of her, he thought.

He kissed Charu’s forehead in respect and affection, and said to her: “You need not create a
furor about this, dear. As Umapada is going to practice law in Mymensingh soon, he will take
Manda along.”

Finally, to get rid of his own turmoil and these unwelcome discussions, Bhupati picked up a
notebook from the table and said: “Do read out your writing to me, Charu, will you?”

Charu snatched away the notebook immediately. “You won’t like it; you would rather love to
make fun of it,” she said.

Bhupati was quite hurt with Charu’s words, but he smiled, hiding his pain. “Ok, I promise I
won’t laugh at it; I will listen to you with such stillness that you will be under the illusion that
I am asleep,” he said.

But Charu did not pay heed to Bhupati’s pleas. Soon, the notebooks were lost in a pile of
various drapes and covers.
 Chapter 9

Bhupati couldn’t convey to Charu everything that happened to him. Umapada used to
manage his publication entirely. His responsibilities included gathering funds, settling the
debts of the press and the market, paying the servants their wages and so on.

However, one fine morning, Bhupati was astonished to receive a legal notice from the
solicitor through his newspaper vendor. The notice declared a debt of Rupees 2700. Bhupati
summoned Umpada immediately and asked him: “What’s the matter? I had already given you
the money. The debt should not exceed four or five hundred.”

Umapada replied: “Then there must have been some wrong calculations on their part.”

But his misdeeds couldn’t be hidden for long. For quite a while, Umapada was using Bhupati
unscrupulously. Not only did he exploit Bhupati’s publication, but he also incurred lots of
debt in the market, using Bhupati’s name. He had built a house in his village, the raw
materials for which were mostly bought using Bhupati’s name, and he had settled most of
those debts from the funds of Bhupati’s newspaper.

When he was caught in the act, he retorted, in a rough, nonchalant voice: “I am not eloping
anywhere, am I? I will work hard and pay you back all your money gradually – believe me, if
a penny is left unpaid, I swear I will change my name!”

This was not enough solace to Bhupati’s bruised heart. He was not as dismayed by the
monetary loss he encountered as he was at this sudden, unexpected betrayal. From the cozy
comfort of his room, he had stepped his feet on a nadir.

On the same day, he went to visit Charu in her room, quite untimely. His heart, restless and
anxious, knew there was at least one place in the world which he could trust, and he was
eager to feel the momentary warmth and glory of that sole shelter he had. Filled with anguish
at that time, Charu had extinguished the evening lamp in her room and sat in the dark, by the
window of the room.

Umapada was ready to go to Mymansingh the very next day. He wanted to elope from the
scene before the debt collectors came along. Bhupati hated to speak to Umapada as he
noticed his cunning ways. On his part, Umapada was relieved by Bhupati’s silence and
considered he was fortunate not have to confront his brother-in-law now.

Amal came up to Manda’s room and enquired: “Manda Bouthan, what is the matter? What
are all these packing arrangements for?”
Manda: “Well, we have to go away from here soon. Can we stay here forever? We can’t.”

Amal: “But where are you going?”

Manda: “To our village.”

Amal: “But why? What problems did you have in staying here?”

Manda: “I did not have any problems in staying here. I was doing fine, was living peacefully
among all of you. But maybe that was creating problem for somebody else.” She cast a
glance at Charu’s room.

Amal listened to all of this, silently, with a sullen look. Manda said: “Oh, what a shame! You
must have thought badly about me.”

Amal decided to maintain his silence regarding this discussion. However, he was quite sure in
his mind that Charu had injected some negative thoughts about him and Manda in Bhupati’s
mind.

With these lingering thoughts, Amal came out of the house on to the streets. He wished he
wouldn’t have to go back to his Dada’s house again. If Dada believed in his wife’s words and
took him as a culprit, then he would have to tread the same path as Manda had taken. He
thought of Manda’s farewell as a precursor to his own banishment from the house, which
would happen sooner or later. It was a truth which was left unuttered. His next course of
action was thus determined clearly – he would have to leave the house as early as possible.
But how would he reconcile with the fact that Dada was nurturing wrong notions about him?
For all these days, Dada had trusted him wholeheartedly, had given him shelter in his own
house and had been his sole benefactor. How would Amal go away without convincing him
that he was pure and unblemished all along, that he had never betrayed an iota of trust that
Dada had placed on him?

Bhupati, on the other hand, was dumbfounded with shock over his close relative’s betrayal,
the hasty reminders of the debt collectors, the unsettled accounts and the empty treasury. He
was absolutely alone in his misery, getting ready to fight back all his pains and the burden of
his debts.

Just then, Amal entered the room like the whiff of a tempest. Lost in his unfathomable
thoughts, Bhupati was astonished at his sudden arrival. “What’s the news, Amal?” He
enquired. Suddenly, he feared he was about to hear yet another terrible news from Amal.

Amal said: “Dada, do you have any reason, whatsoever, to suspect me of any vice?”

Bhupati was surprised to hear this. “Suspect you, of all people?” He asked. However, he
thought to himself, “The world is so strange and unpredictable; it won’t be surprising if I
would ever have to suspect Amal.”

Amal: “Did Bouthan (sister-in-law) complain to you about my character or morality

recently?”

Bhupati thought to himself: “Ah, this is it then, thank God! The vanity or conceit born out of
affection.” In his mind, he feared worse things, but during these tumultuous times, he had to
listen to such trivial things too. He had to reconcile with both ways in the most prudent way
he could.

If it were any other day, Bhupati would have made fun of Amal for speaking like this, but he
was not in a gleeful mood to do that now. He only said: “Have you gone mad, Amal?”

Amal repeated his question, so as to ascertain the truth. “Didn’t Bouthan say anything about
me?”

Bhupati replied: “You know she loves you, so even if she has said something, there is no
reason to take offense about that.”

Amal: “I would better go away from here in search of a job, Dada.”

At this, Bhupati rebuked him. “Amal, you are behaving like a child. Continue your studies
now; you can look for a job later on.”

At this, Amal came back from his brother’s room with a glum face, and Bhupati sat down to
calculate the accounts for the last three years of his publication against the receipts provided
by his customers.

Chapter 10

Amal had decided to confront his sister-in-law about all that was brewing in his mind for
quite some time now. In his mind, he kept on repeating some very strong words that he was
determined to tell her.

After Manda went away with her husband, Charu decided to summon Amal on her own and
to pacify his anger. But that had to be on the pretext of sharing her writing with him, she
thought. She had recently crafted an essay, imitating Amal’s writing, as she realized quite
well that Amal did not admire her independent style of writing.

In her new composition, Charu had reproached the full moon for expressing her abundant
splendor. She wrote: “All the light of the moon in its sixteen phases is embedded in the
fathomless dark of the day of the new moon and even a tiny ray of it is not lost. Therefore,
the pitch dark is more complete and meaningful than the brilliance of the full moon.”

Amal had exhibited all his writings to the world, whereas Charu had not done so, and the
analogy of the full moon and the pitch dark sky was a metaphor through which Charu
expressed this.

While this was happening, Bhupati sought the help of one of his friends, Motilal, in order to
get rid of his approaching debts.

Motilal had borrowed a few thousand rupees from Bhupati once when he had faced a
problem. Bhupati went up to him quite hesitatingly that day, asking to repay him the money.
After his daily bathing rituals, Motilal was cooling off in his room with a fan and was
preparing to write the name of Ma Durga thousand times on a piece of paper placed on a
wooden box. Upon seeing Bhupati entering the house, he greeted him in the warmest,
friendliest tone: “Ah, come inside, Bhupati. Why, you are rarely seen these days!”

However, when asked about the money, his tone changed. “What are you talking about? Did I
borrow money from you recently? I don’t remember at all,” he said.

When reminded about the date and year he had borrowed from Bhupati, he said: “Oh, well,
that has been over such a long time back.”

In Bhupati’s eyes, the world outside and its visage were going through a sudden sea-change.
The abrupt unmasking of his familiar world shook him, jolted him profusely. Like a
terrorized flood victim running to cling to the highest peak to save himself from the water,
Bhupati ran towards Charu’s room in the inner apartments of his house to hide himself from
the dubious outer world. “The world may betray me, but Charu will remain everfaithful to
me,” he thought to himself.

When he entered Charu’s room, he found her seated on her bed with a pillow in her lap and a
notebook nestled on the pillow. She had leaned over the notebook and was scribbling in it
with rapt attention. Only when Bhupati came closer to her and stood beside her, she became
consciousness and sat over her notebook in an attempt to hide it from him.

Having been overwhelmed with anguish for quite some time, Bhupati was doubly hurt by
Charu’s sudden, unnecessary act of cautiousness in hiding away her writing from him.

Slowly, he went up to Charu and sat beside her on the bed. The spontaneous flow of Charu’s
composition was disrupted by her husband’s sudden presence. She sat by him, silent,
uncomfortable.

Bhupati did not have anything to give Charu that day, nor did he have words for her. He had
come to her with empty hands, seeking her love. Just one question of concern from Charu or
a bit of her attention would have worked as a remedy to his bruises and pain. But the
treasure-chest of Charu’s love and affection remained locked that day. The silence between
them in the room grew stronger and crushed them. Bhupati waited for a while and, then,
slowly left the bed and the room with a sigh.

As he approached Charu’s room hastily, Amal was rehearsed in his mind some strong words
that he wanted to convey to her. He stopped to find Bhupati’s pale, gloomy face on the way.
“Dada, are you feeling sick?” He asked.

Amal’s affectionate words evoked a surge of tears in Bhupati and his heart heaved with
irrepressible pain. After quite a bit of self-restraint, he replied warmly: “Nothing happened to
me, Amal. Is any of your writings appearing in a journal soon?”

At this, Amal forgot all the strong, bitter words he had saved for Charu. He quickly came up
to her room and asked her: “Bouthan, do you know what happened to Dada?”

Charu: “I really didn’t understand, Amal. See, his opponent journal may have slandered
him.”

Amal nodded his head.

Charu was comforted and content with this sudden, unforeseen arrival of Amal and his easy
demeanor. She thought of it as an opportune moment to talk about her writing. “You know,
today when I was writing my new essay ‘The light of the day of the new moon’, your brother
was just about to see it, but I managed to hide it away from him.”

Charu was sure that Amal would pester her to show him her new composition. With that
intent, she started opening the pages of her notebook. But Amal looked at her face with a
fierce gaze for a few moments, and suddenly disappeared from the room. Charu found it
difficult to gauge what his thoughts were. She felt like a bewildered traveler trudging the
mountains, startled to discover a bottomless pit at the end of the mist, in which she was just
about to step her feet. Amal left her room silently, and a astonished Charu could not fathom
the significance of such an awkward gesture on his part.

Chapter 11

Bhupati called for Charu in their room quite untimely. He said to her: “Charu, we got a very
good marriage proposal for Amal.”

Charu was rather unmindful at the moment. She asked: “What proposal, you said?”

Bhupati: “A marriage proposal for Amal.”

Charu: “Why? Didn’t he like ‘me’ enough?”

Bhupati laughed out loud, hearing this. He added to Charu’s benign, humorous comment:
“Well, I haven’t yet asked Amal if he liked you or not. And even if he did, don’t I have a wee
bit of right on you? I am not ready to leave that, you see!”

Charu: “Oh, what nonsense are you speaking? I heard you say, you got a marriage proposal
for yourself.” Her face flushed with embarrassment.

Bhupati: “Oh, had it been that, would I run to you so eagerly to convey the news? There was
no hope of getting any tips for that, anyway!”

Charu: “Ok, a marriage proposal for Amal? Then what is the delay for? Go for it
immediately!”

Bhupati: “The rich, renowned lawyer of Bardhaman, Raghunath Babu has recently asked for
Amal’s hand in marriage with her only daughter. He wants to send him to London after the
wedding.”

Charu was astonished. She asked: “To London of all places?”

Bhupati replied: “Yes, to London.”

Charu seemed to be amazed. “Will Amal go to London? That is an amusing piece of news!
Well, why don’t you tell him about this yourself?”

Bhupati: “I was thinking, why don’t you call him and convince him about it, before he hears
it from me?”

Charu: “Me? I have told him countless times. He never listens to me. I cannot tell him about
it.”

Bhupati: “What do you think, then? Won’t he agree to this?”

Charu: “You know I have told him so many times already, but could not convince him ever.”

Bhupati: “But this time, the proposal is really lucrative and it would not be wise of him to
deny it. You know how much debt I incurred recently; it would not be possible for me to
shelter him for long now.”

Amal was summoned to the room. When he came, Bhupati told him: “Amal, Raghunath
Babu, a lawyer from Bardhaman has proposed his daughter’s marriage with you. And he also
wishes to send you to London after the wedding.”
Amal said, rather nonchalantly: “If I have your permission for this, I have no objection.”

Both Charu and Bhupati were amazed to know of Amal’s reaction. It was beyond their
expectation that Amal would agree to this proposal so easily and instantly.

Charu taunted Amal at his sudden display of obeisance. “Ah, well, he will agree only after
obtaining his brother’s permission…What a loyal younger brother! Where was all your
loyalty hiding all these days, dear?”

Amal’s face lit up in a smile, unable to provide an answer to his Bouthan (elder sister-in-
law)’s easy banter.

Seeing his silence, Charu wanted to instigate him even further; and said, in a jeering,
mocking tone: “Better put it this way then, you are the one craving to get married now! What
was the need, then, to avert it for so long with this stupid pretense? Hunger in the belly,
coyness in the face, isn’t it?”

Bhupati added fuel to this discourse. He replied: “If he did it, you should know he did it for
you entirely. Lest you envy the idea of having a sister-in-law!”

Charu blushed to hear this, and started quarreling with Amal. She said: “Envy? And me?
What are you saying, Amal? I never envy anyone. It is not right on your part to say things
like this.”

Bhupati: “Oh, well, can’t I even indulge in joking with my own wife?”

Charu: “No, you can’t. I do not like this kind of a joke.”

Bhupati: “Ok, then, it is a grave sin to joke with you. Please forgive me for this. Anyway,
what about this marriage proposal? Is it final, then?”

Amal replied in the affirmative.

Charu: “But why do you want to rush into this marriage? Don’t you even have the time to see
the girl and decide whether the alliance is suitable for Amal? I did not know all this while that
you were so impatient to marry.”

Bhupati: “Amal, if you want to see the girl before marrying her, I can arrange for that. I heard
that she is quite beautiful.”

Amal protested: “No, Dada. I do not feel the need to see her now.”

Charu: “No, do not listen to him. How is it possible to consent to the marriage before even
seeing the bride? If he doesn’t want to see her, we can see her on his behalf.”

Amal: “No, Dada. I do not really feel the need to delay this any further.”

Charu: “Oh, is it so urgent, then? A little delay will break your heart, is it? Then go and wear
your wedding topor and start for the journey right now. What if somebody snatches away
your priced possession from you?”

However, no amount of mockery could alter Amal’s mind now. He was determined to leave
the house as soon as he got a chance.

Charu instigated him even further: “I never knew, Amal,that you were so eager to elope to a
foreign land so soon. Tell me, were we treating you so badly here? Aren’t you satisfied
enough with your life, unless you transform yourself into a Sahib with a coat and a hat? And
would you even recognize us poor black souls after returning from London?”

Amal replied: “If this were not true, why would anyone ever go to London?”

Bhupati accompanied Amal in his easy humor. “Well, Charu, that dissociation with us black
people is natural, you know. That is the whole point why people migrate there. However,
don’t you worry, as long as I am there, I will be your staunch admirer!”

Content with Amal’s reply, Bhupati sent a letter to Bardhaman immediately. The date of the
wedding was then fixed.

Chapter 12

Meanwhile, Bhupati’s publication became defunct due to the lack of funds. All of a sudden,
he had to give up his quest to serve the masses through his editorial pursuits, which had
become his only way of life. The road that he had traversed out of habit and compulsion for
all these twelve years came to a sudden, abrupt cessation. Bhupati was not at all ready to face
this vacuum in his life. All his endeavors, suddenly halted, looked into his face like hungry,
destitute children; he took them along with him and made them stand before his loving,
caring, affectionate wife.

But what was she thinking at that moment? Her heart pined and complained: “Strange
indeed! It is great news that Amal is getting married. But how couldn’t he hesitate for one
moment before leaving us to marry in an unknown family? How could he forsake us to go
away to London so soon? We sheltered him with so much love for such a long time, but how
easily he took the opportunity to bid farewell to us, as if he was waiting for this chance! How
concocted and sugar-coated were his words! It is so difficult to recognize the true color of
people. Who knew that a writer of his stature had no heart at all?”
Charu tried hard to compare Amal’s cold, compassionless heart with her own and ignore him,
but she failed. Deep within, an indescribable agony continued to torment her like heated
spears, while she thought to herself several times: “Amal will leave one of these days, yet he
didn’t come to meet me even once, so that we could talk and resolve the tension that had been
brewing between both of us.” Every day, she woke up with a feeling that Amal might come
to visit her, and restore their easy, pristine friendship, but Amal did not turn up. Finally, when
the day of Amal’s farewell drew near, she summoned him herself.

Amal hesitated. “I will be coming after a while,” he said. Charu seated herself on a stool by
the verandah, tying her open hair casually around her head. Since morning, the clouds
crystallized in the sky, making the air heavy and sultry. She started blowing a hand-fan and
waited.

Gradually, as time passed and Amal did not turn up, she stopped blowing the hand-fan. An
irrepressible anger, agony and impatience started to tear her up, as she said to herself: “It
doesn’t matter if he doesn’t turn up.” However, her mind raced to the door as soon as she
heard any human footsteps.

The clock at the far-away church struck noontime. Bhupati would come up now to have his
lunch. But there was still half-an-hour left; if Amal still came, she promised she would stop
the cold, silent war that they were waging with each other. How could she bid him farewell
like this? Amal was estranging her, trampling over the unblemished, eternal relation between
the two same-aged souls, the togetherness, the quarrels, the outbursts of affection, the
endearing vine of their pleasurable moments of discussions and sweet nothings, and its
soothing shadow, which delighted her, enriched her. Wouldn’t he repent one bit for it?
Wouldn’t he shed a single tear to honor this priceless relationship?

Almost half-an-hour almost passed. She untied her tresses, entangling and disentangling a
bunch of her hair in her fingers, while she tried hard to resist her tears.

Meanwhile, her servant came up to her and said: “Ma Thakrun (Madam), we need to get
some coconut water for Babu.”

Unable to resist her emotions, Charu untied the key-strings from the end of her sari and threw
away the kitchen key in front of his feet. Puzzled at her sudden outburst, the servant picked
up the key and went away.

A silent anguish pushed its way from Charu’s heart all the way to her throat.

Bhupati came in for lunch, as usual. While Charu entered the room with her hand-fan to serve
food to her husband, she noticed Amal in the room, seated with Bhupati. Charu avoided
looking at his face.
Amal asked her: “Bouthan (sister-in-law), did you send for me?”

Charu replied: “No, let it be. It’s of no use now.”

Amal: “Then I beg your leave. I have a lot of packing left to do.”

Charu looked into his eyes with an ironic glance. “Go,” she said.

He looked into her eyes for once, and went away.

Bhupati usually stayed with Charu for a while after completing his lunch. But today he was
extremely occupied with settling his accounts and transactions. He said to Charu: “I can’t sit
and rest with you for long today, Charu, I am tied up with a lot of things, you see.”

Charu said: “Yes, go then.”

Bhupati thought that Charu was offended by his sudden permission of leave. He said: “But
this does not mean that I will leave you at once; I can still rest for a while here.” But he still
saw the anguished expression on Charu’s face, which made him all the more repentant. He
sat with her for a while, but could not speak much. Finally, after much endeavor, he managed
to say: “Amal is going away tomorrow; you will feel lonely for quite some time now.”

Charu suddenly went away to another room to fetch something, and didn’t answer her
husband. Bhupati waited for her for a while, and then went away.

While she looked into Amal’s face, Charu had noticed his thin, frail form today. The youthful
charm and vigor of his appearance had withered away, and she felt an unexplained sting in
her heart to see that. She had no doubt that he was plagued by his forthcoming farewell, but
then, why did he behave so strangely with her? Why did he evade Charu like this, causing her
so much pain while leaving her?

While these thoughts occupied her mind, she was startled to suddenly think about Mandakini
in this context. What if Amal loved Manda, and his reactions were a result of Manda leaving
the house? “No,” she thought, “was it possible for Amal to have such a tainted soul, easily
lured by a married woman? This cannot be!” She wanted to get rid of her suspicion with all
her might, but it crawled up to her like a crafty snake, and bit her with all its venom.

Meanwhile, the day of Amal’s farewell arrived. The clouds of their estrangement still
hovered around Charu’s mind. Amal came up to her, and said with a trembled voice:
“Bouthan, it is time for me to go now. Do look after Dada well; he is going through a crisis,
and you are his only solace.”

For some time, Amal had been noticing the depressed look on Bhupati’s face and had come
to know about his predicament upon enquiring from others. He was shocked to discover how
Bhupati had been struggling with his misfortune silently without seeking help from a single
soul he knew, yet was resolute not to let his relatives, the ones he sheltered, nurtured, be
affected by his own crisis. He thought for a while about Charu, and his own life, and swore to
himself: “To hell with the Autumnal Moon and The Light of the Day of the New Moon. I will
call myself a man only when I become a barrister and can help Dada financially.”

The last night prior to Amal’s farewell, Charu had been awake for a long time, thinking about
her parting words to him; she had smiled and been sad, lighting up and sharpening the words
several times which she had carefully stored for him. But she remained silent for the entire
time during his farewell. She could only say: “Would you write letters to me, Amal, now that
you would be gone?”

Amal stooped his head to the ground in a gesture of pranaam. While he left, Charu ran away
to her bedroom and bolted the door tight.

Chapter 13

Bhupati had gone to Bardhaman to arrange for Amal’s marriage. After the ceremony was
over, Amal went away to England, and Bhupati came back home. His good-natured spirit that
trusted everyone had been bruised by the happenings, and he gradually became indifferent to
the world outside. The earlier political assemblies and associations held no interest for him
anymore. He thought he had deceived himself all these days with such useless pursuits. He
felt he had thrown away the best assets of his life in a dump yard, as the pleasant days of his
life slipped away, unnoticed.

After Amal’s marriage, he thought to himself: “At least, this task of mine is completed
smoothly. It is such a relief.” He left his earlier associations and came home to Charu, like a
bird returning to its nest at the onset of dusk. He thought to himself, rather determinedly: “No
more of roaming anywhere; this is the place for me to settle down now. The paper boat which
I played with is drowned; there is no place for me other than home.”

Perhaps, Bhupati had nurtured this preconceived notion that he would not have to lay any
special claim to his wife; she was the starry presence who kindled her own light, the light
which was inextinguishable by external forces. When there was a tumult in his outer world,
he did not, for once, think about examining the fissures in his own home.

He returned home from Bardhaman in the evening and had his dinner promptly. He assumed
that Charu would be extremely eager to know the details of Amal’s wedding and his
subsequent journey to England. So he went to their bedroom without any delay and seated
himself on the bed. Charu was absent; perhaps, she was busy with her daily chores. While
consuming tobacco, he felt fatigued and sleepy. He was startled in the midst of his
intermittent trance-like state and kept thinking why Charu still did not come to the room.
Finally, he called after her and asked: “Charu, why are you so late today?”

Charu answered, nonchalantly: “Yes, I came a bit late today.”

He waited to listen to her eager questions, but she did not ask any question at all, which
dismayed him. “Doesn’t she care for Amal, then?” he thought. “As long as he was there in
the house, Charu frolicked and entertained herself with his presence. And as soon as he was
gone from the house, she became indifferent about him?” he questioned himself. Such
curious behavior from Charu seemed dubious to him. Is it true, then, that Charu only knows
how to be entertained, and is not capable of loving anyone? Such indifference from a woman
is not at all a good sign, he thought.

When Amal was in the house, their frivolous pleasures, their easy friendship and gaiety
uplifted Bhupati’s spirit. The childish sweet nothings between the two of them, their
temporary scuffles and making up, the funny games they played and the conspiracies they
shared conveyed a sense of pleasant humor to him. While he had noticed Charu caring for
Amal and pampering him, he was glad to be introduced to her tender, affectionate heart.
Today, he was amazed to see Charu’s changed stance and wondered if all this was
superficial. Wasn’t there a source for all such affectionate displays in her heart, then? He also
thought: “If Charu really has no heart, where will I find shelter, then?”

In order to examine her feelings for the moment, Bhupati started a conversation with her.

“Charu, were you well all these days? Is your health okay?” he asked her.

Charu answered briefly: “I am well.”

Bhupati: “You know Amal’s wedding went well.”

He remained silent after this, while Charu tried hard to say something relevant in this context.
However, words failed, and she stood, stiff, statuesque.

It was not Bhupati’s nature to observe things in the house minutely, but since Amal’s farewell
had affected him deeply, he was pained by Charu’s unusual indifference. He wished to
discuss about Amal with Charu as he had assumed that she, too, was deeply pained by his
absence. And he wanted to unburden the agony of his heart in the process.

In the bed, he again told Charu: “The bride is quite pretty…Charu, are you sleeping?”

Charu replied: “No, I am not.”

Bhupati: “Poor Amal went away to England alone. You know, when I went to see him off
before his departure, he cried like a child. My heart melted to see his emotions, and tears
welled up in my eyes, too. There were two other Sahibs in the car; they were quite amused to
see two grown up men crying.”

In the pitch dark of the room, Charu turned to the other side of the bed, and then, after a
while, suddenly left the bed and went away from the room. Startled, Bhupati asked her:
“Charu, are you feeling sick?”

When Charu didn’t answer, he raised his body from the bed. He heard a feeble sound of
weeping and went to the verandah adjacent to the bedroom. Charu lay on the ground,
prostrate, trying to stifle her tears. He was astonished to see Charu’s intense emotional
outburst and wondered if he had misjudged her. “She is such an introvert; she does not want
to express her pains to me,” he thought. He knew the intense love and the agony that bruised
her heart. Her love might not be expressive and apparent like ordinary women, as Bhupati
had never seen the ecstasy and exhilaration of love in her. Today, he realized the emotion of
love had bloomed and spread in her innermost being. As Bhupati himself was unable to
express his emotions, he knew Charu’s intense emotions cocooned in the crevices of her
heart. He felt a sense of contentment.

Bhupati sat beside Charu on the ground and touched her softly, without saying a word. He did
not know how to give her solace. He did not understand that when she attempted to smother
her pain, she did not like the presence of a spectator in the ordeal.

Chapter 14

Bhupati had retired from the duties of his publication and had also painted an image of his
future in his own mind. He had promised to himself not to hope or strive for impossible and
unattainable goals, and decided to stay within a closely-knit world comprising of Charu, his
studies, and the little domestic responsibilities of their lives together. He had thought of
rekindling his abode and his life with the easily available, humble and beautiful homely
pleasures, which would establish peace and serenity around him. He thought of their lives
together henceforth, woven with smiles, chatting and light-hearted banter, the easy everyday
arrangements of entertaining each other, which was not difficult to achieve, yet which would
result in happiness galore.

But, gradually, he realized that the small pleasures of life, too, were difficult to attain.
Though it was not an object bought with a price, it was not within easy reach and he did not
know the way to find it himself.

Bhupati was frustrated as his relationship with Charu could not be revived, and he blamed
himself for it entirely. He was sure that in all these twelve years, while he was busy with his
newspaper, he has had lost the practice of talking intimately with his own wife. He went to
their room every evening without failure and spoke a few words to her, to which she would
reply curtly, but the conversation did not proceed beyond that. He started to feel ashamed at
his incapacity to forge intimacy with his wife. He had thought this was an easy task, but he
himself felt stupid enough not being able to accomplish it. It was easier for him to give talks
in assemblies.

One evening, he had envisioned he would have a memorable time with Charu and fill the
evening with smiles, humor, romance and his affectionate touch. But it seemed difficult for
him to spend that evening. After a period of voluntary silence, he thought of leaving the
room, but he was reluctant as he thought of Charu’s reaction.

“Do you want to play cards, Charu?” he asked her. Unable to find any other alternative,
Charu agreed to it. She brought along the cards quite unwillingly, and after playing for some
time, lost easily and voluntarily. There was no enjoyment, no contentment in the game at all.

One day, after some conscious deliberation, Bhupati asked her: “Charu, I was thinking about
bringing along Manda to our place again. You seem to be so lonely here.”

Charu was annoyed at the mention of Manda’s name. She snapped at him: “No, I don’t need
Manda at all.”

Bhupati was pleased to see Charu’s aversion towards Manda. “She is a pure, chaste woman,
after all; so she cannot keep her patience when she sees an aberration to chastity in the
house,” Bhupati thought to himself.

But as her initial wrath and annoyance waned, she thought it might be a good idea to bring
back Manda. Perhaps she would be able to keep Bhupati in good humor. She knew Bhupati
was looking for emotional contentment through her, and she felt agonized in her inability to
give it to him. She knew he had left every other place in the world and depended only on her
to derive the pleasures of his life; she feared to see his eager dedication for her because she
was unable to respond to it. She wanted this to end soon. Why didn’t her husband divert his
attention towards any other pursuit, like another new publication, maybe? She thought.
During all these years they had been together, Charu did not have to think about entertaining
him. Bhupati, on his part, had never demanded any attention from her, never asked for
happiness from her; he had never groomed Charu to cater to his own needs either. Recently,
his sudden demands from Charu bewildered her, puzzled her. She did not know what he
wanted, what gave him peace and contentment, and even if she knew, it was not easy for her
to provide them.

If Bhupati would have approached her slowly, it would not be so difficult for Charu to
respond to him. However, it was his sudden, unpredictable act of begging for love and
affection that embarrassed her.
She replied again: “Okay, bring along Manda; if she is here, she can look after you well.”

Bhupati smiled at this: “Looking after me? That is not needed.”

He felt anguished, torn inside. “I am such a worthless man; I cannot make Charu happy in
any way,” he thought.

Then, he diverted his attention towards literature. When his friends came to meet him in the
house, they were astonished to see him reading the poetry of Tennyson, Byron, and also the
fiction of the Bengali author, Bankim Chandra. They started to mock him, make fun of his
sudden love towards poetry and literature. He replied: “Well, you know, even a dry bamboo
can bear flowers, but nobody knows when the right time is.”

One evening, when they were together in their room, Bhupati lit the large lamps in the room
and said to Charu with some hesitation: “Will I read to you something, Charu?”

Charu replied: “Yes, sure.”

Bhupati: “But what shall I read?”

Charu: “Whatever you wish to.”

Bhupati was a bit sad to see a look of disinterestedness in Charu; still he continued: “Will I
translate a few lines of a poem by Tennyson and read them to you?”

Charu replied: “Yes, read it.”

But the reading session did not continue smoothly, due to his hesitation and lack of
enthusiasm. He groped for proper Bengali words for a while. Then, looking into Charu’s
blank eyes, he soon understood that she was not concentrating at all. Loneliness resounded in
the little room lit with lamps where they sat together.

After a couple more futile episodes, Bhupati abandoned the idea of sharing his literary
interests with his wife altogether.

Chapter 15

After a massive injury, the nerves are so numbed that the feeling of pain does not seep into
the being at once. At the beginning of their estrangement, Charu could not feel the intensity
of the pain arising out of Amal’s absence. But gradually, as the days passed, Charu’s
domestic life seemed more and more hollow with the void that Amal’s absence had created.
The revelation of this hollowness stupefied Charu. She felt uprooted from a bountiful
orchard, stranded in a desert, forlorn, lost. The expanse of the desert extended every passing
day. The existence of this desert, this excruciatingly painful barrenness, was unknown to
Charu all this while.

In the mornings, when she woke up, her heart skipped a beat as she remembered that Amal
was nowhere around her. During the day, when she would sit in the verandah to dress betel
leaves, she would remember at every instant that he would not trail behind her. Sometimes,
unmindfully, she would dress an abundance of betel leaves, and then suddenly remember
there was nobody to have so many of them. When she entered the kitchen, it would suddenly
strike her that she would not have to make breakfast for Amal. As she loitered alone inside
her quarters, her restless mind reminded her that Amal would not return to her from college.
Her expectations to relish the pleasures of a new book, a new writing, new exciting news or
other sources of amusement diminished; there was nobody she would have to sew for, to
write for, nobody for whom she could buy any precious gift.

Charu was astonished to see she was writhing in pain and was restless; the endless pangs that
tormented her heart scared her. She kept questioning herself, “Why so much of pain? Has
Amal been so indispensable to my life that I am tortured thus by his absence? What has come
over me after so many days? All the people I see around, the servants, the street workers
seem so content, unperturbed while returning from their day’s work, and look at me! Oh
Lord, why did you put me in such grave danger?”

She kept questioning herself thus, and was surprised to discover that there was no remedy for
her agony. Amal’s memories had surrounded her being overpoweringly and there was no
way she could escape them. Her husband Bhupati was of no help either; instead of protecting
her from the tormenting rush of Amal’s memories, the affectionate man kept reminding her
of Amal every day.

Finally, after an ongoing battle of turmoil in her own self, Charu gave up altogether. She
admitted defeat without further opposition and started nurturing Amal’s memories in her
heart with utmost love and care.

She would take pride in meditating on his memories – a silently nurtured pursuit that became
the most glorious aspect of her life.

She had fixed a certain time for this meditative pursuit, taking a break from her daily
domestic chores. At that cherished moment, inside her silent, bolted room, she ruminated on
each incident of her life with Amal; she would call his name repeatedly, as she flung herself
on the pillow, pressing her mouth on it. She could hear his voice, responding to her call,
reverberating across the oceans. At this, she would close her tearful eyes and utter: “Amal,
why did you leave me? What was my fault? Why didn’t you even bid adieu to me properly?
If you had, it wouldn’t have pained me thus.” She uttered with an intense emotional fervor, as
if Amal was right in front of her: “Amal, I have never forgotten you, not even for a day, not
even for a single moment. The finer aspects of my being have blossomed only for you. I will
devote my life to revere your presence within me every day.”

Thus, Charu built a clandestine tunnel inside the deep, dark trenches hidden beneath her
everyday world of domestic chores and responsibilities. In the pitch-dark of that soundless,
uninhabited world, she had constructed her own sacred temple of tears and agony. Nobody in
the world, not even her husband, had the right to enter that world. It was the most secret, the
deepest and the dearest place in Charu’s heart. She entered through its doors, getting rid of
the mask she wore in her domestic life, laying bare her true, unblemished soul. When she
came out of it, she wore that mask yet again, setting foot on the daily world of mirth and
mundane engagements.

Chapter 16

Charu had abandoned the world of conflicts taking place in her own mind, as she took
shelter in the huge kingdom of her grief. It gave her some solace and also made her more
devoted and caring towards the needs of her husband. When Bhupati slept in their room, she
knelt down before his feet in surrender. She was flawless in her domestic duties, in caring for
people in the household, and never failed to respect her husband’s wishes. She knew
Bhupati would be saddened to see his kith and kin sheltered in his house uncared for; so she
became the perfect hostess for them. Thus, her days ended with fulfilling all these domestic
duties, and consuming the leftovers of her husband.

Bhupati’s youth seemed to be rejuvenated with this outpouring of love and care. After all
these years, it seemed that he was remarried to his wife. With a newfound ecstatic
exuberance, he bloomed, keeping aside his mundane anxieties. He felt as if he was
overpowered by a sudden surge of hunger, a conscious, intense desire to consume the
pleasures of life after being stricken by an ailment. He started his secret reading of poetry,
unknown to his friends, unknown to Charu, and said to himself: “At long last, I have been
able to discover my own wife, even if it is at the cost of losing my newspaper and being
ravaged emotionally.”

One day, Bhupati asked Charu: “Why have you stopped writing, Charu?”

Charu replied: “My writing? That’s so immaterial anyway.”

Bhupati: “But I tell you the truth, Charu; I have never read such flawless Bengali in the
writings of any other contemporary author. I must say, I agree with what ‘Biswabandhu’
journal had written about your style.
Charu: “Ah, please stop.”

Bhupati came out with an issue of the ‘Shararuha’ (Lotus) journal, and started comparing the
linguistic styles of Charu and Amal. Charu’s face flushed with embarrassment. She snatched
away the journal from her husband and covered it with her sari.

Bhupati thought to himself: “It is difficult for one to sustain writing without the company of a
fellow writer.” He was determined to practice the pursuit himself, so that he could revive her
interest in writing.

He started writing secretly in a new notebook. He took much pain to follow the dictionary,
erasing and copying multiple times to attain perfection. It was an act of much effort and
struggle, and gradually he developed a feeling of trust and affinity with his own writing.

Finally, when he was satisfied with the content of his writing, he made a friend copy it and
then gave it to Charu for her perusal. He came up to her and said: “Charu, a friend of mine
just started writing. Since you know how much I fail to understand literature, I thought of
checking it with you. Do read it and see how you like it.”

He went away, nonchalantly, after he handed it over to her. Charu, however, saw through his
deceptive words.

She read the writing, and laughed to herself at its content and craft. Alas! She thought. While
she was dedicated to revere him, worship him with all her might, this childish squandering of
Bhupati hurt her acutely. Why this meticulous effort to earn accolades from her? It would
have been much easier for her to worship him, adore him if Bhupati would stay the way he
was, if he did not try to overtly attract her attention. In her heart, she ardently wished Bhupati
would never consider he was inferior to her, in any way.

She closed the notebook, and reclined on the pillow, her eyes wandering far across the
window. Her thoughts went to the time when Amal would bring over his new writings for her
review.

In the evening, Bhupati stood at the verandah adjacent to their bedroom, and started
examining the flower pots with deep intent. He was brimming with curiosity to know what
Charu felt about his writing, though he did not have the courage to ask her about it.

Charu initiated the conversation. “Is this the first literary piece of your friend?”

Bhupati replied: “Yes, it is.”

Charu said: “It is fantastic. It doesn’t look like his first attempt at writing.”

Bhuapti was ecstatic to hear such effusive praise from Charu and started thinking of ways to
establish the writing as his own. He didn’t like its anonymous status any more.

After this, his notebook was soon filled with more of his writings. Most importantly, he soon
revealed that they were his own creations.

Chapter 17

Charu had always been aware of the dates when Amal’s letters from England arrived. First,
he sent a letter from Eden in Bhupati’s name, where he conveyed his pranaam and regards to
his Bouthan (sister-in-law). Bhupati received another letter from Amal sent from Suez; Charu
received his pranaam in that letter too. Another one of his letters came from Malta, where he
conveyed his formal regards to his Bouthan in a post-script.

However, Charu did not receive a single letter or personal note from Amal addressed to her.
She browsed through the letters he had addressed to Bhupati time and again, and was shocked
to discover there was not even the slightest hint about her in those letters, apart from
conveying the formal regards.

For the last few months, Charu had taken refuge in the quiet, somber, melancholic moonlight
of her memories of Amal. Amal’s silent indifference towards her shattered that furtive world
of melancholy she had built within her. She felt her heart torn, shredded to bits as her life of
relentless domestic duties was shaken by sudden, deep tremors.

Sometimes, late at night, Bhupati would wake up from sleep to see Charu disappear from her
bed. He would search for her all around, and find her seated at the window of the south-
facing room. When she would notice Bhupati coming near, she would quickly stand up and
say: “It was so hot inside the room, so I thought of having some fresh air.”

Anxious to hear about Charu’s discomfort, Bhupati would try to fix the fan at their bedside.
He would be tense and apprehensive at the thought of Charu’s deteriorating health, while she
would smile at him and say: “But I am doing well. Why do you worry about me when there is
no reason to?” As for Bhupati, he made a meticulous effort to see this precious smile of his
wife.

When Amal had embarked on his journey to England, Charu thought he did not get enough
chance to write to her while en route. She was sure he would write long letters to her once he
would reach there. But such long letters never arrived.

On the days the air mail reached their house, she would remain restless, impatient amidst all
her daily chores and conversations. However, she did not dare ask Bhupati about it, lest she
would have to hear the bitter truth that there was no letter addressed to her.
Meanwhile, one day when a letter from Amal was expected to arrive, Bhupati came up to
Charu slowly and his face lit up with a smile. “I have something for you. Do you want to see
it?” He asked her.

Charu, startled by his gesture, said: “Yes, please show it to me.”

In an attempt to have some fun with her, Bhupati teased her. This made Charu even more
restless, as she tried to snatch her most cherished object hidden under the wraps of her
husband’s shawl. She thought to herself: “I knew it…I knew since today morning that my
letter would arrive today – all this waiting cannot go in vain.”

Bhupati’s jestful spirit implored him to have more fun with Charu. He continued teasing her,
as he started to move around the bed. Charu sat on the bed, annoyed and her eyes welled up.

He was elated to notice such eagerness in Charu as a way of unfolding her treasure. Finally,
he pulled out his notebook from his shawl and placed it on her lap, as he added, with a tinge
of affection: “Do not be angry, Charu. Read it.”

Chapter 18

Amal had let Bhupati know that he was under tremendous pressure due to his studies, and
that he would not be able to send letters to them for quite some time. In spite of that, Charu
was immensely distressed when his air mails did not arrive for some time.

In the evening, when Bhupati came to her, she started chatting with him in a casual tone, and
after some time, asked him nonchalantly: “Listen, do you think we can send a telegraph to
Amal in England asking about his health?”

Bhupati replied: “I don’t think it would be necessary. He had sent a letter two weeks back. He
wrote to me that he is very busy with his studies now.”

Charu: “Ah, well, then it is of no use. I was just thinking if something untoward has happened
to him suddenly, if he has fallen sick. After all, such things can happen to one visiting a
foreign land for the first time.”

Bhupati negated Charu’s thoughts. “I don’t think so. If he had fallen sick, we would have
been informed by now. Also, do you know how expensive it is to send a telegraph to
England?”

Charu: “Is that so expensive, really? I thought it would just take one or two rupees.”
Bhupati: “What are you talking about? It would take almost hundred rupees to send a
telegraph there.”

Charu: “Then forget about it.”

A couple of days after this conversation, Charu sent for Bhupati and said to him: “One of my
sisters lives in Chinsurah now; can you go to her today and see how she has been doing?”

Bhupati was surprised at this sudden request. “Why? Has she fallen sick?”

Charu replied: “No, she is doing well, but you know how happy they would be to see you.”

At his wife’s request, Bhupati took his carriage and headed to Howrah station. However,
when he was on his way, a bullock-cart stopped in front of his carriage.

Just then, a familiar postman noticed Bhupati inside the carriage and handed him a telegram
sent from England. Bhupati was tense and perplexed the moment he saw the telegram in his
hands. Had Amal been sick all of a sudden? He opened the telegram with much trepidation,
and read its contents: “I am doing well.”

“But why? What was the meaning of this message, after all?” He wondered, and scrutinized it
some more, only to discover that it was the reply to a pre-paid telegram.”

He canceled his visit to Howrah that very moment. Instead, he returned home and handed
over the telegram to Charu. Her face turned pale the moment she saw the telegram in
Bhupati’s hands.

Bhupati was shocked and astonished to see the turn of events. “I do not understand the
meaning of all this,” he said, and enquired about it. Soon, he discovered that Charu had
pawned her own jewelry to borrow the money required to send the telegram.

This hurt him immensely. “Was there any need for Charu to do all this? If she had requested
me, I myself would have sent the telegraph. Why did she have to send for the servant secretly
to pawn her jewels in the market?” He asked himself.

Bhupati pondered over these questions time and again, and wondered about Charu’s motive
behind such an act. A tinge of suspicion clouded the nooks and corners of his mind. He dared
not look into it directly, and tried to forget it with all his might, but it kept stinging him,
paining him till he could no longer control it.

Chapter 19
Amal was doing well, but still he didn’t write to his brother or to Charu. How could he be so
estranged from his dear ones? How Charu wished she could confront him, face-to-face, and
get the answer to this question. But there was a sea of silence between them which she could
not cross. She sank deeper and deeper into the crevices of their cruel, helpless separation, one
that was beyond respite or remedy.

This made her even more vulnerable. She abandoned her daily chores, made mistakes in
everything, while the servants stole away the household goods. People in her family noticed
this unusual indifference of hers and started gossiping, but she remained unfazed.

She would get startled and her face would lose its color if Amal’s name were mentioned. She
had to find a secret nook for crying in the midst of her daily conversations.

Eventually, Bhupati saw her condition and it led him to some harsh realizations about life –
life appeared dry, barren, old and meaningless to him. He also realized the futility of his mad,
useless exuberance of the days that he had passed in between, and the memories of those days
embarrassed him immensely. Is it fair to dupe a dull, inexperienced monkey, one who does
not recognize jewels, with fake stones? He thought.

He remembered how his heart had melted at Charu’s pampering and affectionate advances.
He started whipping himself silently, and cursed himself for being such an imbecile fool.

Finally, after much inner turmoil, he remembered how he had created his compositions with
utmost love and care. Upon remembering, he frantically rushed to Charu and asked her:

“Where are those writings of mine, Charu?”

Charu replied: “They are with me.”

Bhupati demanded: “Give them to me now.”

Charu was making snacks for him. “Do you need them right now?” She asked.

“Yes, right now,” he replied.

Charu put away the frying utensil from the oven, opened the chest and came out with the
notebook and the papers on which Bhupati wrote.

Bhupati, impatient, fuming inside, snatched them from her and threw them into the hot
cauldron.

Shocked by the entire act, Charu tried to retrieve them from the cauldron and asked him:
“What did you do?”

Bhupati tried to resist her by holding her hands with all his might. “Let it be!” He roared.

Charu stood by his side, dismayed, stupefied. All his writings burnt to ashes in front of her.
Looking into their last dying embers, her heart heaved with deep sighs. She left slowly,
keeping aside her routine kitchen chores.

As for Bhupati, he did not intend to destroy his writings in front of his wife. But the moment
he saw the fire burning in the kitchen, he was overtaken with a mad fury and anguish. Since
he could not exercise enough self-control, he flung his compositions into the fire right in front
of Charu.

As the precious words turned to ashes, Bhupati started to calm down. Charu went away from
the room, silent, dejected, as she carried the burden of her sins within her. Dismayed, lost,
Bhupati saw her fading away from his eyes. When he looked in the room, he found out that
she had made a special platter for him, the one she knew he loved.

Bhupati stood by the Verandah, leaning over the railing, and thought about Charu’s tireless
endeavor to please him. All her pursuits appeared to him as acts of deception, and the
realization of it filled him with uncontrollable pathos. He was not only tormented with
Charu’s deceiving simplicity and exhibition of love, but also realized how in her pursuit to
camouflage her real feelings, her heart was oozing with blood every single moment. Bhupati
said to himself: “Alas, you poor soul! I did not need all this love at all. All these days, while
love eluded me, I did not even get to realize that. I did not even realize my loveless existence
while looking after endless pages of my publication and while proofreading. I did not need
this display of affection at all.”

With this epiphany, Bhupati distanced his own life from Charu’s. Just the way a physician
looks after his ailing patient, he looked at his wife with detachment and objectivity. He
thought of this petite, delicate woman and of the astounding way she is connected to the
microcosm of her household. Neither did she have anybody in whom she could confide nor
the emotions which she could easily convey to others nor did she have a place where she
could lay open her heart and cry out. However, in spite of all such obstacles, in spite of all her
inexpressible, insurmountable pain that was being accumulated within her every single day,
she maintained her composure as a simple, unperturbed person, as his normal, casual
neighbor, performing her endless domestic chores tirelessly.

At night, Bhupati entered their bedroom and saw Charu standing by the window, gazing
outside with tearless, transfixed eyes. He slowly came close to her and stood by her side.
Silently, he placed his hand over her head, as she looked at him, wordless, calm.
 Chapter 20

Bhupati’s friends were inquisitive. “What is the matter with you? Why so busy?” They
asked.
Bhupati replied: “Well, with the newspaper.”

“Newspaper? Yet again?” They asked. “Why do you want to put yourself into trouble again?”

Bhupati answered: “No, I am not publishing it myself this time.”

“Then?” They asked, amazed.

“Oh, there is one upcoming newspaper based in Mysore; they have summoned me to be their
editor,” Bhupati informed.

“So you are migrating to Mysore, leaving everything behind? Are you taking Charu along?”
They asked.

Bhupati: “No, some relatives are coming over to give Charu company.”

“So this editorial bug will never leave you!” They joked.

Bhupati replied: “Well, you need some bug to keep yourself alive!”

The day he was leaving, Charu came up to him and asked: “When are you coming back?”

Bhupati said: “Write to me whenever you feel lonely, I will be there.”

After bidding farewell, when Bhupati came close to the door, Charu ran to him frantically
and clutched his hands. “Please take me along with you. Don’t leave me alone here,” She
pleaded.

Bhupati stared at Charu, stunned by her sudden gesture. His grip over her hands loosened,
and he moved away from her and stood by the verandah.

He realized why Charu was so intent in accompanying him now. The house, wrapped with
the memories of Amal, his association with Charu and his estrangement, was burning her
from inside like wildfire. She wanted to abandon the house and its memories forever…“But
couldn’t she have thought about me once? Where would I run to? Wouldn’t I get the
opportunity to get away from the woman who meditates about another man every single
moment? Couldn’t I get any respite from giving her company in a friendless, foreign place?”
Bhupati imagined how miserable those evenings, those nights would be, when he would
come back home, fatigued, to a silent, grief-stricken wife. How long would he be able to hold
her close to him, to provide her the solace, the support she would need to unburden her
agony? How many more years would he have to live with this excruciating reality? How long
would he have to live with the broken pieces of his own little world, his own shelter, crushed
in front of his own eyes?

He came up to Charu and said: “No, I won’t be able to take you with me.”

Instantly, he noticed her face, pale, bloodless, like white paper, as she clutched the edges of
the bed.

Bhupati changed his mind at that instant. “Charu, get ready. Come along with me,” he said.

“No, let it be.” Charu replied, sternly.

***