SARATCHANDRA CHATTOPADHYAY

The Saratchandra Omnibus

Volume 1

SRIKANTA
Translated by Aruna Chakravarti
DEVDAS
Translated by Sreejata Guha
PARINEETA (ESPOUSED)
Translated by Malobika Chaudhuri
PALLI SAMAJ (THE VILLAGE LIFE)
Translated by Malobika Chaudhuri
NISHKRITI (DELIVERANCE)
Translated by Malobika Chaudhuri

PENGUIN BOOKS
 Contents

About the Author

SRIKANTA

The River

Exile

Forbidden Fruit

Journeys’ End

DEVDAS

PARINEETA
(Espoused)

PALLI SAMAJ
(The Village Life)

NISHKRITI
(Deliverance)

Footnotes

SRIKANTA

The River

Exile

Forbidden Fruit

Journeys’ End

Copyright Page
 PENGUIN BOOKS

THE SARATCHANDRA OMNIBUS

VOLUME 1
Aruna Chakravarti is Principal of Janki Devi Memorial College, Delhi.
Her translation of Srikanta fetched her the Sahitya Akademi Award.
She has also translated Sunil Gangopadhyay’s Sei Somoy (Those
Days) and Prothom Alo (First Light) for Penguin. Her novel The
Inheritors was published by Penguin in 2004.

Sreejata Guha has translated the writings of Saratchandra

Chattopadhyay, Rabindranath Tagore, Saradindu Bandyopadhyay
and Taslima Nasrin for Penguin. Her best-selling translation of
Devdas was published by Penguin in 2002.

Malobika Chaudhuri runs Mono Translation Bureau, a multi-lingual

translation agency in Kolkata. Her translation of Parineeta was
published by Penguin in 2005.
SRIKANTA
 The River

1
AS I SIT DOWN TO TELL MY STORY IN THIS FADING
AFTERNOON OF MY WANDERING life, I am flooded with
memories.
From childhood onwards, I have carried the mark of shame
branded on me by friends and strangers alike, so that I can no longer
view my life as anything other than a prolonged stretch of ignominy.
Yet, looking back, it seems to me that the cross I carry is
undeserved. It seems to me that only some chosen ones are pulled
by invisible strings to the centre of God’s amazingly diverse creation
and exposed to all its nuances. He who is thus chosen is not the
proverbial good boy who fares well in examinations and succeeds in
life. He is a compulsive rover but is not among those who travel in
luxury in the company of friends, and write romantic travelogues. He
is intelligent but impractical and eccentric. Since his passion for
experience overwhelms all norms of accepted conduct he is unloved
and ignored by those around him and gradually driven to a state of
exile within the very society that reared him. Then, knocked about
and defenceless, he disappears one day carrying a burden of guilt
that grows heavier with each passing year.
But let me just tell my story—even if that is easier said than done,
for though two legs may be all that one needs to go from place to
place, a hand that can hold a pen is not the sole requisite for writing
a travelogue. And I am singularly unfortunate in this that God has not
blessed me with the faintest trace of a romantic imagination. I see
with these eyes only what there is to see. Where there are trees and
mountains, I see trees and mountains. Where there is water, I see
nothing but water. I may look up at clouds till my head spins but not a
strand of those dark tresses that unfailingly appear to the eyes of
poets is visible to me. I have stared at the moon till my eyes were
glazed but seen no semblance of a beautiful face. It is not, therefore,
for me to tell a romantic story. I can only describe the events of my
life as they actually happened, and that is what I shall do.
But first let me tell you about him who, in my early youth, aroused
the wanderlust that must have lain dormant within me. His name is
Indranath. I say is though I do not know if he is alive or dead. One
morning, many years ago, he walked out of our lives and never
returned. How the memory of that day still haunts me!
I met him for the first time at a soccer match played between
Hindu and Mussalman boys in our school compound. It was almost
evening. I was watching enthralled, when a sudden commotion
accompanied by the sounds of slaps and cries of ‘Catch the
scoundrel’ and ‘Break his legs’ took me completely by surprise.
Within seconds the crowd had dispersed but I stood dazed and
stupid till a sharp blow on my head with the butt of an umbrella
brought me back to a sense of my surroundings. By then I was
already enclosed in a ring of Mussalman boys, armed with
umbrellas, that advanced menacingly.
All of a sudden someone hurled himself at the ring and,
penetrating it with lightning speed, stood in front of me. He was a
boy of about my height with a hawk-like nose, a high forehead, a
sprinkling of pock-marks on a dark face and arms that hung down to
his knees. He could swing those arms with surprising agility (as I got
to know later) and deliver enormous punches on the noses of his
adversaries. (His name, I discovered, was Indranath.) ‘Don’t be
afraid. Just follow me,’ he hissed in my ear. I pressed my body
behind his and within two minutes we were out of the ring.
‘Get away,’ he shouted.
I started running, then stopped short and asked, ‘What about you?’
‘Get away, you fool,’ he thundered.
But, fool or no, I would not escape alone. I stood my ground and
said firmly, ‘No.’
 Indra said, ‘Then get beaten. See that?’
He pointed with his finger at another gang of advancing boys, then
suddenly changing his mind, he yelled, ‘Let’s run as fast as we can.’
I was a village boy who had been sent to my aunt’s house in the
city to be educated. If I could do anything well it was to run, and now
I ran for my life. It was dark by the time we reached the main road
and there were lights in the shops. There was no chance now of
being overtaken. I was panting and my throat was dry. But Indranath
spoke in a normal voice—just as though he hadn’t got into a fight
and run over a mile.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Sri—kan—ta.’
‘Srikanta? Oh!’ Indra fished in his pocket and brought out a
handful of dry leaves. Cramming some into his mouth he shoved the
rest into my hand.
‘I gave the rascals a proper licking,’ he said, his jaws working.
‘What leaves are these?’ I asked timidly.
‘Shiddhi.’*
‘Shiddhi? I don’t touch shiddhi.’
But if I was shocked so was Indranath.
‘You don’t?’ he exclaimed. ‘What sort of an ass are you? Come on
—eat them. You’ll have a good trip.’
But unfamiliar with trips, good or otherwise, I shook my head and
returned the shiddhi leaves which Indranath promptly put in his own
mouth.
‘Have a cigarette, then.’ Indranath took two cigarettes out of his
pocket, lit them and put one into my hand; then shaping his own like
a funnel, drew upon the other so long and deep that it was reduced
to half its length in a single pull. Scared out of my wits, I whispered,
‘If someone sees you …’
‘Everyone knows,’ Indranath said, then puffing nonchalantly he
turned the street corner and disappeared from view.
 My first meeting with Indranath is etched in my memory in bold,
clear strokes. Yet, to this day, I cannot say if the feelings aroused in
me that day by that strange boy who defied social norms with such
supreme confidence were of liking or aversion.

A month later. It was a summer night, hot and dark without a breath
of wind. We lay on the terrace, restless and unable to sleep though it
was well past midnight. Suddenly the sweet strains of a flute floated
up from below, from the dense forest that lay to the south-east of the
house. Originally a mango and jackfruit orchard, it had been
neglected over many years and had turned wild and well-nigh
impenetrable. Pishima (my paternal aunt) sat up on her string-cot
and asked her eldest son, ‘Who could that be, Nabin? Could it be
Indra?’
‘Who else would enter that jungle at this hour? And who can play
the flute like that?’ Barda (the eldest brother) answered.
‘Durga! Durga!* Is he coming through Gosain Bagan?’ Pishima
glanced at the dense black mass below and shivered. ‘So many
people have died of snakebites in that jungle. What is the boy doing
there? Why doesn’t his mother keep him at home?’
‘He is taking a short cut,’ Barda smiled. ‘Why should he walk miles
on the main road when there is a shorter route. The jungle may be
swarming with lions and tigers for all that the daredevil cares.’
‘Bless the boy,’ Pishima sighed. The strains of the flute—a sweet
Ramprasadi** hymn—came closer, then faded away.
This was Indranath. On our first meeting I had admired his
strength and courage. Tonight, I kept wishing, over and over again till
I fell asleep, that I could play the flute like him.
I wanted to make friends with Indranath but got no opportunity. He
didn’t go to school anymore. I was told that the Sanskrit pandit had
once been very unjust to him—had wanted to make him wear a
dunce-cap, as a matter of fact. Deeply hurt, Indranath had done
something unspeakable, then vaulting over the school wall, had
gone home never to return. Indranath told me later that what he had
done was nothing much. He had merely cut off the small tuft of hair
that sprang from the pandit’s otherwise shaven head as he sat
dozing in his chair. And although, on his return home, Panditji had
found his hair safe and sound in his coat pocket, he had been very
angry and had complained to the headmaster. Consequently, Indra
abandoned the pen in favour of the oar. From the time he left school,
he was continually seen on the Ganga, sailing his small dinghy from
dawn to dusk, through wind and rain and storm and sun. Sometimes,
he would let the current carry him as far out as it would. Drifting
aimlessly, he would disappear for a week, even a fortnight. It was on
one of these escapades that I renewed my acquaintance with him.
It had been a day of incessant rain—the sky heavily overcast with
clouds. Darkness had come on well before the evening was over and
the rain still fell in torrents. My cousins and I had had an early supper
and now sat with our books on the floor of the living room, trying to
do our lessons by the light of an oil lamp. At one end of the veranda,
Pishemoshai (my paternal aunt’s husband) lay snoring on his canvas
cot. At the other, old Ramkamal Bhattacharya sat puffing at his
hookah—eyes glazed with his daily dose of opium. The servants
congregated on the porch as someone recited Tulsidas in a nasal
voice. Inside, the three of us squirmed under the iron discipline that
Mejda (the second brother) thought fit to impose on us. Jatinda and I
were in Class VI, Chhorda* in Class VII and Mejda, after failing a
couple of times, was gravely preparing to appear once again for the
Entrance. We were supposed to study from 7.30 to 9 p.m. To prevent
us from talking and wasting his valuable time, Mejda had devised
certain safeguards for himself. As soon as the study hour
commenced, he took up a pair of scissors and began cutting out
some twenty to thirty slips of paper. On each slip he wrote out a
caption such as: TO SPIT, TO BLOW NOSE, TO DRINK WATER, etc.
These slips were then distributed amongst the three of us.
 The system worked somewhat like this: Jatinda goes up to Mejda
with a TO BLOW NOSE-ticket. Mejda signs it and writes From 8.33 to
8.34–5 just below his signature. The moment Jatinda leaves the
room, Chhorda presents his TO SPIT-ticket. Mejda returns it
unsigned. Chhorda sits glumly for thirty seconds, then presents his
TO DRINK WATER-ticket. This time Mejda signs it and writes From 8.41
to 8.47. Chhorda goes out with a gleam in his eye and Jatinda
comes in. He hands his TO BLOW NOSE-ticket to Mejda who checks
the time, then sticks it in a register he keeps for the purpose. Thanks
to this system, not a minute of our study hour was wasted and I am
convinced that the Goddess Saraswati herself came half way with us
when we retired for the night. But Mejda’s examiners were so short-
sighted that they never recognized his passion for scholarship and
his immense respect for time. Like blundering fools they failed him
year after year. But that, unfortunately, is the way the world goes and
there is no point regretting it.
That evening was no different from any other. After Chhorda’s
return, I went up with my TO DRINK WATER-ticket. Mejda had just
opened his register to apprise himself of the number of times I had
expressed a similar desire in the last two days, when I heard a loud
roar behind my back followed by a series of frantic screams from my
three cousins. I spun around but before I could see anything, Mejda
had knocked down the lamp and lay writhing and groaning in the
dark. Pandemonium broke loose. Pushing my way out of the room, I
found a rudely awakened Pishemoshai clinging to his two younger
sons and screaming at the top of his voice, ‘Beat the rascal. Beat the
life out of him.’ Within a few minutes, servants, lights, and people
from the neighbourhood filled the yard and the guards at the gate
dragged in the escaping thief. But when the lamplight fell on the
culprit’s face we were petrified with horror for it was old Ramkamal
Bhattacharya—half dead with fear and the thrashing he had received
at the hands of the guards. Then, while one dashed water on his
face, another fanned him vigorously, Pishemoshai asked him, ‘What
made you run, Ramkamal Babu?’
Trembling violently the old man quavered, ‘It wasn’t a tiger! It was
a bear. A great big bear. It came rushing out of the living room.’
‘It wasn’t a bear, it was a wolf,’ Chhorda and Jatinda clamoured in
unison. ‘It was sitting on the doormat with its tail tucked in.’
It was at this point that Mejda, recovering from his fit, opened his
eyes and murmured, ‘The Royal Bengal tiger,’ and passed out again.
But tiger or wolf or bear, whatever it was, where was it? Several
people took up lanterns and began looking for the animal. Suddenly
Kishori Singh, the chowkidar, bellowed, ‘There! There!’ and leaped
on the veranda. A mad scramble followed. Everyone had to be on
the veranda and be there first. At one corner of the yard stood a
pomegranate bush and it was in the bush that the animal crouched.
Within seconds, the people in the veranda had pushed their way into
the living room and locked the door, Pishemoshai calling out wildly
over and over again, ‘Bring guns, bring spears!’ But even if there
were guns and spears in the vicinity, who was going to risk his life
trying to cross the yard?
At this juncture, Indra made an appearance. He had been walking
past the house when he heard the commotion and decided to
investigate. Instantly, a hundred voices cried out to him, ‘Tiger! Tiger!
Run for your life.’ Nonplussed, Indra dashed into the house, then
having heard the story, went out again. He picked up a lantern and
started peering into the pomegranate bush. The women of the
house, watching from an upstairs window, nearly fainted at the sight
and Pishima began sobbing and chanting the 108 names of Durga.
The guards stood at a safe distance egging him on and assuring him
that they would have joined him if they had weapons. Indra had a
good look and announced, ‘I don’t think it is a tiger.’ Before he could
finish his sentence, the Royal Bengal tiger emerged, brought his
front paws together and began sobbing in a human voice.
 ‘No, Babu moshai,’* it pleaded in perfect Bengali, ‘I am not a tiger.
I’m Chhinath Bouroopee.’
Indra gave a delighted laugh. Ramkamal Bhattacharya ran out,
wooden clog in hand. In his excitement, he let out a torrent of abuse
in broken Hindustani. ‘Haramzada!’ he screamed crashing the clog
on the tiger’s back. ‘Because of your tomfoolery I was beaten to a
pulp by these khottas.**
How dare you come here and frighten us like this?’
Chhinath alias Srinath went on sobbing and pleading his case. He
lived in Barasat, he said, and earned his living as a Bohurupee.***
Every year, around this time, he came up to town to earn a few
rupees. Only a day earlier he had come dressed as Narad muni and
had sung to the ladies of the house. If the little boys hadn’t panicked
and knocked the lamp over he would have announced himself. But in
the commotion that followed, he had lost his nerve and had hidden
himself in the pomegranate bush. Pishemoshai continued to rant and
threaten the poor creature cringing at his feet till Pishima took
matters in her own hands. ‘Thank your stars it was not a real tiger,’
she called out to her husband, ‘and let the poor man go. As for your
valour and that of your guards—the less said the better. A little boy
showed more courage than all of you put together.’
Pishemoshai glared about him with an expression that said, ‘Had I
wished, I could have squashed this impertinence but it is beneath my
dignity to argue with a woman.’ Completely ignoring his wife, he
thundered, ‘Cut off the rascal’s tail.’ Delighted at the command, the
guards pounced on the hapless Srinath and within seconds the long
tail of straw and velvet was severed from the tiger’s body.
‘Keep the tail,’ Pishima called out in disgust. ‘It may come in useful
someday.’
Indra asked, ‘Do you live in this house, Srikanta?’
‘Yes, where are you off to so late at night?’
‘Late at night? It is barely evening. I’m going out fishing in my
dinghy. Want to come?’
 ‘But it is already dark. Won’t you be scared on the river?’
‘No,’ Indra laughed. ‘It’s wonderful! And the darker it is, the better
the fish bite. Do you swim?’
‘Very well.’
‘Then come.’ He caught me by the hand. ‘I find it difficult to pull
against the current by myself. I’m looking for someone who isn’t
afraid of the river.’
Till that moment the possibility of violating the rules of the house in
which I was a guest and of walking out into the night with a total
stranger had never presented itself. I should have had doubts but I
didn’t. I followed him without a word. Looking back, I realize that I
could never have resisted Indra’s call. The vision of riding high on
the crest of a wave on that dark rainy night was so alluring that when
I came to the edge of Gosain Bagan I did not falter for an instant.
Like one possessed, I walked through that dense jungle to where the
Ganga swirled and foamed between steep banks of rock under a
leaden sky. An ancient ashwatha tree stood on the bank looking like
a massive black knot. About fifty feet below it, Indra’s tiny row-boat
tossed about like a nutshell in the rushing water. I was not a coward
but when Indra pointed to the rope which held the boat and said,
‘Hold it tight and go down carefully. If you slip no one will ever find
you again,’ my heart missed a beat. Nevertheless, I asked, ‘What
about you?’
‘I’ll untie the knot as soon as you reach the dinghy. Don’t worry
about me. There are plenty of grasses and roots that I can use as
footholds.’
I gripped the rope with both hands and started inching my way
down the slippery rocks. It seemed to take ages but I was in the boat
at last. Then Indra released the rope and swung himself down the
cliff. I shut my eyes in horror. My heart beat violently. For a minute or
two the roar of rushing water filled my ears. Then a light laugh made
me look up. It was Indranath. Giving the boat a shove he leaped in.
The little dinghy took a sharp spin, then shot off like a comet over the
dim expanse.
 2

WITHIN SECONDS WE ENTERED A CAVERN OF

IMPENETRABLE DARKNESS. THE world was wiped out. Only a
vast body of water—violent and indomitable—stretched as far as the
eye could see. And on its heaving breast a frail bark, carrying two
children, tossed about in a weird dance. The night, like a gigantic
Kali, swirled her ink-black hair winding Heaven and Earth in its
strands and her sharp teeth gleamed out of the frothing peaks in a
cruel smile. We were too young then to comprehend the
magnificence of the sight but I have never forgotten it. All around us
the turbulent waters eddied and whirled, exploding into sprays of
jewels or leaping forward with a deafening crash in a mad race
towards the sea.
I was aware that the dinghy was moving in a slanting line across
the Ganga. What I couldn’t fathom was towards which point, in the
darkness ahead, was Indra steering. Indra broke the silence with the
question: ‘Are you scared, Srikanta?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good! If you can swim you have nothing to fear.’
I suppressed a sigh. What difference did it make? Would I ever be
able to swim across this infinite stretch of water against such a
strong current? We floated on in silence. After a long time, a series
of thuds reached our ears—they were muffled at first, then increased
in volume.
‘What are these sounds, Indra?’
‘That’s the surf pounding on the bank. Did you hear that crash?
The land is breaking under the weight of the water.’
‘Is the tide very strong, then?’
‘Terribly strong. That reminds me. It rained last night. We’d better
not sail too close to the bank. If the boat gets hit we’ll be ground to
pulp. Will you take the oars, Srikanta?’
 Putting them in my hand, Indra pointed with his finger. ‘Do you see
that dark patch there? That’s a sandbar. There’s a sort of creek
winding through it which we must enter. But be very careful. If the
fishermen catch us they’ll crack our skulls with their poles and bury
us in the bog.’
‘Then let’s not go through the creek,’ I said, very scared.
Indra laughed. ‘But there’s no other way. We can’t go by the big
bank. Our little boat would get buried in the sand. Even a ship won’t
be safe tonight.’
‘Then let’s forget about the fishing,’ I said lifting the oars. The boat
spun violently and went back several yards.
‘Coward!’ Indra hissed angrily. ‘Why did you come, then?’
I was fifteen years old at that time and the word ‘coward’ stung. I
dropped the oars into the water and recommenced straining and
pulling in the direction he had indicated.
‘That’s the spirit.’ Indra smiled. ‘But we must be very careful. I’ll
take the boat past the tamarisks and through the cornfields so
cleverly that they’ll never guess. And even if they see us they won’t
catch us. Listen, Srikanta, if they get too close when they’re chasing
us in their dinghies—just jump out and swim underwater as far as
you can get. They won’t be able to see you in the dark. We can
spend the night at Satwa, then swim across in the morning and go
back the way we came.’
‘Satwa? Isn’t that a great way off?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Indranath answered. ‘Not more than twelve or thirteen
miles. When you get tired, just keep floating. There’ll be plenty of
driftwood on the water. You’ll see!’
I dared not voice an opinion but my heart sank at the prospect. To
swim so many miles across these swollen waters on a night when
visibility was practically nil, then spend hours waiting for the dawn in
an unknown place was not as easy as Indra made it sound. On the
other hand, landing anywhere else was ruled out. On this side of the
river the surf rose twenty feet high.
 I plied the oars in silence for a while, then asked, ‘What about the
dinghy?’
‘The other night I did just as I said. Next morning I went and
brought back my dinghy. I told the fishermen that someone had
stolen it and brought it here.’
As we approached the mouth of the creek, a row of fishing-boats
with flickering lights came into view. Wedged between two
sandbanks, the creek stretched out like a wide canal. We sailed in a
curve to the other end where the eroding soil had created
innumerable shallow lagoons concealed from each other by forests
of tamarisk and casuarina. Guiding the dinghy gently through one of
these we entered the creek. From this point, the fishing-boats looked
like dark clumps in the distance. A hundred yards up the creek and
we reached our destination—the fishermen’s mayajal which, while
keeping a vigilant eye on the mouth of the creek, they had left
unguarded. In the summer, when the creek runs dry, fishermen drive
strong poles of bamboo firmly into the ground from one end to
another and hang their nets on the outer side. This is called a
mayajal. When the rains come and the water rises, shoals of larpe
fish come swimming into the creek then, hitting the fence, leap
beyond it and get trapped in the nets. Indra lifted out five or six king-
sized rui and katla weighing from ten to twenty seers each and threw
them into the dinghy in the twinkling of an eye.
‘That’s enough. Let’s go,’ he said picking up the oars. The boat,
still rocking with the struggling fish, sped like an arrow over the dark
water.
We sailed in silence for the next two minutes and then, with a
violent jerk, the boat swerved and entered the field on the left.
‘Why! What’s the matter?’ I called out in alarm.
‘Shh!’ Indra pushed the boat a little further and said, ‘The
fishermen have seen us. They are coming in their dinghies. Look
there!’
 It was true. Ploughing the water with ferocious strokes, four
dinghies, like four black ogres, were rapidly advancing up the creek.
There was no escape now, for the nets were behind us, the
fishermen in front of us and the cornfield would not provide adequate
cover.
‘What shall we do, Indra?’ A sob stuck in my throat as visions of
being hacked to pieces and being buried in quicksand rose before
my eyes.
‘Don’t be scared,’ Indranath said bravely but his voice quivered a
little. He continued to push the boat with desperate strokes further
and further into the field. The land lay submerged in water—breast
high in places, knee deep in others—and over the water the dripping
maize rose to a height of fifteen feet. Above our heads, the sky was
as black as pitch and all around us impenetrable forests of tamarisk
and bamboo stretched away as far as the eye could see. The
fishermen’s voices came wafting on the air, suspicious and angry.
We crept along inch by inch, the oars getting stuck in the slime.
Suddenly the boat tilted and I found myself alone.
‘Indra,’ I whispered.
‘I’m in the water,’ he whispered back. ‘I’m towing the boat. I have a
rope tied around my middle.’
‘Where are you taking it to?’ I asked.
‘To the big river. It is just a little ahead.’ I breathed more easily now
and the boat moved painfully on. Suddenly a loud clanging on tins,
accompanied by a crackling of bamboo stems, burst in on us.
‘What is that?’ I asked, startled.
‘Farmers on a machan are shooing away a wild pig.’
‘A wild pig? Where is it?’
‘How can I say? Can I see in the dark?’
I sat silent, cursing the impulse that had made me come out on
this crazy adventure. Yet I was sitting in the boat while Indra, neck
deep in mud and slime, was struggling against the dense foliage.
From time to time a violent swaying of the maize stems filled me with
horrifying visions of the wild pig crouching among them. I
communicated my fears to Indranath but he laughed them away:
‘Those are snakes rustling among the leaves,’ he said.
‘Snakes!’ I gasped, ‘What kind of snakes?’
‘Oh! All kinds. Adders and kraits and cobras. They get flushed out
of their holes when it rains and climb up the stems. Don’t you see
that there’s not a speck of dry land anywhere?’
I could see that well enough. What I could not see was how Indra
took it all so calmly.
‘They don’t bite,’ he continued, ‘they’re dead scared themselves.
Two or three huge ones just glided past me. They must be water-
snakes. And even if they bite—well, one has to the one day.’
Indranath said all this in a normal, everyday voice while I sat
frozen—in mortal terror that a snake would swing itself down from a
maize stalk and fall with a thud into the dinghy.
But what was Indranath? Was he a man, a god or a demon? If he
was a man, what was he made of? If he had a human heart why did
it know no fear? On the day of our first meeting he had risked his life
for me—a complete stranger. That night, even as he confronted a
terrible death, over and over again, the smile never left his lips. Many
years have passed since. I have travelled far and wide and seen
many kinds of men. Yet I can solemnly swear that, to this day, I have
not seen one like Indranath.
But to get back to my story. After sometime the sound of rushing
water reached my ears. I realized that we were approaching the
edge of the forest beyond which the river churned and foamed with
its deadly currents. Indra came up and sat in the dinghy, his face
relaxed and smiling.
‘We’ve reached the river,’ he announced. ‘We are safe.’
Even as he said these words a terrible shudder passed over the
dinghy as the current sucked it out of the lagoon and flung it across
the water in a magnificent arc. The wind rushed into my face—the
blood into my head. I shut my eyes. When I opened them again the
dinghy was shooting like a meteor over the breast of the Ganga and
the moon, rising behind massed clouds, was pouring out a stream of
opalescent light that, on touching the river, turned it into a sheet of
silver.
 3

‘I AM DREADFULLY SLEEPY, INDRA. CAN’T WE GO HOME?’

‘Of course you’re sleepy,’ Indra smiled as tenderly as a woman,
‘but we can’t go home just yet. I have a lot of work tonight, Srikanta.
Why don’t you lie down on that plank and sleep for a while?’
I obeyed him but sleep wouldn’t come. Gazing up at the sky, I
watched the moon weaving in and out of the clouds while the roar of
the water filled my ears. I’ve often wondered about that night. I was
not old enough to spend hours watching the play of moonbeams on
clouds, yet that is just what I did. Perhaps, after the fearful events of
the night, my soul sought a tranquil and beautiful world in which I
could rest myself. Time slid slowly by. Then, all of a sudden, the
moon dipped behind the clouds and swimming across in a curve,
rose again in the eastern sky. I lifted my head. The dinghy had
changed direction. I wanted to ask where we were going but a
strange lassitude crept over my senses. My head fell back and I
passed into a kind of trance.
Crash! The dinghy’s keel scraped against a sandy shore. I sat up.
What place was this? Before I could ask, Indra said: ‘You wait in the
boat, Srikanta. I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t be scared. There are
fishermen’s huts a little way up the bank.’
My courage had been put to the test over and over again that
night. I could not fail. I was young then and youth knows no logic but
its own. I have often thought that behind the contradictions that
characterized the love of the young Radha and Krishna of
Vrindavan, some youthful logic was at work. The wise try to explain
this logic, the pious to moralize—but comprehension eludes one and
all. Only those who, spurning analysis and comment, submerge
themselves body and soul in bhakti, are rewarded with a bliss that is
akin to madness. Joyous with song and ecstatic with prayer, they
drink at the fount of a divine passion which, to this day, is shrouded
in mystery. Some such logic, incomprehensible even to me,
prompted my answer. With a sinking heart and quivering lip, I said:
‘Why should I be scared? Go wherever you like.’
Indranath walked away, then, as if remembering something,
rushed back to the dinghy.
‘Listen, Srikanta,’ he said urgently, ‘if people come to you asking
for fish don’t give them any. Even if one of them looks exactly like
me. Tell him to pick what he wants with his own hands, but don’t you
go near him. Not on your life. Understand?’
‘Why, Indranath?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’ Indra ran in the direction of the fishermen’s huts.
All the hair on my body stood on end. I knew what he meant and
the knowledge made the blood freeze in my veins. Many terrors had
beset me that night but they paled in comparison with this one. As I
sat in the dinghy, the air around me grew thick with muffled whispers.
I dared not look up for there were figures in white peeping slyly from
behind the trees. Would Indranath never come? The voices swelled
—grew louder. There was a swimming in my brain, a dark mist
swirled in front of my eyes. Shutting them tight I grabbed my poité
(the sacred thread worn by Brahmins) and began winding it
feverishly around my thumb.
After aeons, it seemed, human voices and footsteps reached out
to me as if from a vast distance—Indranath’s voice talking in
Hindustani to two fishermen. But was it really Indranath? I
remembered something I had been told as a child—that spirits may
take on the semblance of mortal beings but can leave no shadows. I
opened my eyes, warily, to apply this supreme test. Yes, there they
were—three shadows, dim but unmistakable, gliding towards the
dinghy. Nearly fainting with relief I watched the two men come up, lift
the fish with practised hands and drop them into a net. Then,
pressing something into Indra’s hand (whose faint tinkle suggested
money) they walked away as rapidly as they had come.
 We set sail once more, this time along the bank. I sat silent, my
breast heaving with many emotions among which disgust and a sort
of self-pity were uppermost. So Indra stole the fish to make money!
And he did not hesitate to involve me in the crime. For stealing of, or
for, money was a crime. Village boys like us stole fruit from people’s
orchards and fish from their ponds as a matter of course. That,
though wrong, was not stealing as I saw it. Until the moment of that
little clink in the dark, the fish-stealing had been a wonderful
adventure. Now it lay heavy on my heart.
Indra broke the silence. ‘You weren’t scared even a little bit, were
you, Srikanta?’
‘No,’ I answered shortly.
‘No one but you could have sat alone in the dark,’ Indra said
enthusiastically. ‘I don’t have another friend like you, Srikanta. I do
love you. Whenever I come out in my dinghy I’ll call for you. Shall I?’
I sat in sullen silence. Indranath did not seem to notice. Suddenly
the clouds parted and moonbeams rained down on my companion’s
face. In that face I saw something—I can’t say what—that wiped out
all my grosser feelings. I turned to him asking eagerly, ‘Have you
ever seen them, Indra?’
‘Seen whom?’
‘Those—people—who ask for fish.’
‘No I haven’t seen them. I’ve only heard of them.’
‘Can you come here alone?’
‘I always come alone.’
‘Don’t you feel scared?’
‘No, I chant “Ram Ram” as I go along. Then they dare not come
near me. There’s tremendous power in Ram’s name. You can chant
“Ram Ram” and walk right past a snake. But not if you’re scared.
They always know if you’re only pretending. They can see right
through you.’
The sandbank gave way to a pebbly shore. The tide was much
lower on this side of the river. ‘Do you see that jungle there?’
Indranath lifted an oar and pointed with it. ‘We’ll be going through it.
I’ll stop the boat there and leave you for a few minutes. You don’t
mind, do you, Srikanta?’
I could not say that I did mind—not now that Indranath had
complimented me on my courage. The old fears returned despite his
assurances of the power that Ram’s name invests on its chanter. I
was in no mood to test their truth—not if it meant sitting alone in the
dinghy under some ancient banyan tree in the middle of the forest.
There was one saving grace, however. There was no fish left in the
dinghy. So the fish-lovers would probably leave me alone. But there
would be others, I thought—those who love nothing better than a
drink of warm blood and a bite of a boy’s tasty flesh.
As the dinghy approached the forest the wild tamarisks and
tussocks stared as if in horror at the foolhardiness of two children of
men. Some even shook their heads in warning. Had I been alone I
would have heeded them but my helmsman rowed rapidly past the
waving branches towards an inlet that had enlarged itself into a sort
of lake with only one opening northwards.
‘There’s no bank here. Where will you moor the boat, Indra?’ I
asked.
‘There’s a little bank further up beyond that banyan tree.’
An unpleasant odour hanging on the air grew sickeningly strong
with every gust of wind. I covered my nose with the edge of my dhoti.
I said uneasily, ‘There’s something rotting here, Indra.’
‘Corpses!’ he announced. ‘There’s a lot of cholera about. The
poorer villagers can’t afford to burn their dead. They just touch the
bodies with a flaming tussock and throw them in the water.’
‘Where, Indranath?’
‘Right from that end to this. This is a burning ghat. Arre arre, don’t
look so scared. Those are only jackals fighting amongst themselves.
Come and sit by me.’
I shut my eyes and crept up to where he sat. He put an arm
around my shoulders and said, ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,
Srikanta. I come to this ghat quite often all by myself. If you take
Ram’s name thrice no one can come near you.’
‘Indranath,’ I begged, ‘let’s not stop here. Let’s go home.’
‘No, Srikanta,’ he said firmly, ‘I can’t go home—not before I give
this money to someone I know. I’m three days late as it is. They’ll be
waiting for me.’
‘Give it to them tomorrow.’
‘No, Srikanta, don’t ask me to do that. Come with me if you like but
don’t breathe a word about it to anyone.’
The dinghy crept out of the shadows and the bank where we were
to alight, came in view. Looking on it, bathed as it was in moonlight, I
felt a momentary joy dispelling the terrors of the night. But, even
before the keel could touch the pebbles, Indra had leaped out with a
startled exclamation and in that moment I too saw what he had seen.
The body of a boy, six or seven years old, lay in the water. The head
rested on the bank. He could not have been dead for more than
three or four hours for the wave-washed limbs were as smooth and
firm as sculpted marble and the face, turned up to the moon,
gleamed like a flower. Looking on that face in the hushed silence of
the night, broken by an occasional nightbird’s call or the scream of a
jackal, I had a strange vision. I saw the pain-tortured boy leap into
Mother Ganga’s lap. I saw her clasping him to her breast, nursing
him tenderly and washing his limbs with her tears. Then, with infinite
love, she laid her soothed and sleeping child on this watery bed.
I glanced at Indranath. Tears were pouring down his cheeks.
‘Move aside, Srikanta,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ll put him in the dinghy
and row him out to the river where the jackals can’t pet at him.’
Tears had come to my eyes too on seeing Indranath’s. Yet I was
dismayed by the suggestion. It is one thing to weep over a person’s
distress—it is quite another to get involved with it. Besides, born as I
was in a conservative Hindu family which carried in its veins the
purest of pure Brahmin blood, the idea of touching a corpse was
repugnant to me. The weight of a whole tradition was upon me in an
instant and I felt hedged in by many taboos. I did not know what
disease the boy had died of, what his caste was, what his lineage. I
wasn’t even sure if the necessary rites had been performed over his
body before it was thrown into the water. I expressed my doubts to
Indranath. ‘We don’t know his caste. We can’t touch the body,’ I said.
Indranath slid one arm under the boy’s head and the other below
his knees and, lifting him as easily as he would a knot of grass,
placed him tenderly on the plank on which I had lain. Giving the
dinghy a push, he seated himself and said, ‘Corpses don’t have
castes.’
‘Of course they do,’ I answered with some heat.
‘No, Srikanta. Look at our dinghy. At one time it may have lived as
a mango or a rose-apple tree. But now it is dead wood. It is nothing
but a dinghy.’
I realize now that Indranath’s argument was a childish one. Yet it
must have contained a sharp grain of truth which pricked me at that
time and does so to this day. Indranath often said things like that.
Wild and indisciplined as he was, with little or no formal education,
his view of the universe was original and dynamic. Speculating on
the source of this philosophy, so many years later, I am convinced
that it sprang from his basic honesty—the truth within him that
recognized the all-pervasive truth beyond and became one with it.
Deception, after all, does not exist in nature. It is confined in the
minds of men alone. Brass, when it is passed off as gold, will remain
brass though the buyer and the seller are both caught in a web of
falsehood. The universe admits nothing but the truth—this Indranath
saw as clearly as if it was reflected in a mirror within him. That is why
his responses were always instinctive and sure.
Reflecting on this aspect of Indranath’s character, I recall an
incident that took place ten or twelve years later. One evening, the
town buzzed with a rumour that the body of an old Brahmin lady was
lying uncremated in a house in the next mohalla. On making
inquiries, I found out that she had been on a pilgrimage to Kashi but,
having fallen ill on her way back to Calcutta, had alighted at our
station and had taken shelter with a distant relative. She had passed
two days and nights in terrible anguish and had died that morning.
This relative had been to England many years ago and was, for that
reason, treated as an outcaste. Consequently, no caste-Hindu would
defile himself by touching the body of the dead woman. For, though
a staunch Hindu herself and just returned from a pilgrimage, she had
committed the unforgivable offence of dying in the house of one who
had upon him the stigma of excommunication. Some of us got
together and cremated the body but on returning from the burning
ghat we found our own doors locked against us. We heard that the
leaders of the community had approached every Hindu family in our
absence with the decree that unless we shaved our heads, ate cow-
dung and begged forgiveness we were to be denied entry into the
house. Not knowing how to deal with the situation we went to Doctor
Babu for advice. A skilled physician with a large practice, Doctor
Babu had made himself indispensable to the local Bengalis by not
charging them his professional fees. On hearing our story he was
livid with anger. He announced that from that day onwards he would
not treat the families of those self-styled leaders—even if they lay at
the point of death. No one knows how the threat got conveyed but by
evening the elders had come up with a fresh verdict. The shaving of
the head was waived. All we were required to do was to apologize
and to partake of the holy matter already mentioned. On our
rejecting the verdict, the second half of it was deleted. An apology
would be enough. When even that was denied them, the leaders
announced that, this being our first offence, they had forgiven us
unconditionally. At this point Doctor Babu stepped in. He declared
that things would only come back to normal if an apology was
forthcoming from their side. In consequence, many a grey head was
seen entering the doctor’s residence that evening. What passed
between them I do not know but by morning the doctor’s anger had
cooled and we were permitted to enter our homes without performing
any penitential rites.
But I am digressing wildly. My sole intention in recording this
incident is to stress the gap between the two philosophies of death—
the ignorant child Indra’s and that of these men, so far ahead of him
in years and experience. And I am convinced that had Doctor Babu
not given their moral conditioning such bitter medication they would
never have been cured of their malady.
To return to the events of the night. By the time we had reached
the river and had lowered the body into the water the night was
nearly spent. A pearl-grey mist was creeping over the eastern sky as
we watched the child floating away, past the dripping tamarisks and
wild reeds, weaving in and out of patches of light and shadow.
‘Let’s go, Indra,’ I said.
‘Where?’ He lifted a face contorted with pain and compassion.
‘You said you had to go somewhere.’
‘No. We’ll leave that for another day.’
‘Very good,’ I cried joyfully, ‘then let’s go home.’
Indra stared at me for a few seconds, then asked, ‘Do you know
where the dead go, Srikanta?’
‘No, I don’t. They go to heaven. Let’s go home, please.’
‘Everyone can’t go to heaven. Some stay on the earth—at least for
a while. As I was laying him in the water he whispered in my ear. I
heard him clearly. He said “Bhaiya”.’
‘You are frightening me, Indra,’ my voice trembled and tears
sprang to my eyes. ‘I think I’m going to faint.’
Without a word Indra picked up the oars and started propelling the
boat towards the middle of the river. Suddenly he spoke in a sombre
voice: ‘Ram Ram, Ram Ram. He’s in the boat, Srikanta, sitting just
behind me.’
Sky, river and Indranath blacked out in an instant and I fell, face
forward, on the floor of the dinghy. When I came to I was lying on the
plank and Indranath was sitting at my feet. The sky was streaked
with dawn and the dinghy rested by a bank.
‘Get up, Srikanta,’ Indranath said, ‘we’ll have to walk the rest of the
way.’
 4

THE SUN HAD JUST RISEN OVER THE RIVER WHEN I

ENTERED THE HOUSE dragging my feet. Joyful cries of ‘He’s here’
and ‘Srikanta is back’ rushed out at me from all directions. Jatinda,
who was about my age, got so excited that he ran from room to room
announcing my return; then, clutching my hand, dragged me to
where Mejda was sitting solemnly over his books.
‘Here he is, here’s Srikanta,’ he announced. Mejda glanced up at
me, then lowered his eyes in the manner of a tiger who, having
secured his prey, can take his time over the eating. This was the
same cousin under whose supervision we were studying last night
and whose blood-curdling screams had chased the Royal Bengal
Tiger out of the house and into the pomegranate bush.
‘Satish,’ Pishima’s voice called from within the house. ‘Just look
into the almanac and see if it is all right to eat brinjal this morning.’
Pushing open the door she entered the room, then catching sight of
my pale face and bloodshot eyes she exclaimed: ‘Why? Where were
you all this time, you good-for-nothing boy? Worrying me to death! I
couldn’t sleep a wink the whole night. Why are your eyes so red?
You haven’t caught fever, have you?’ Coming closer she laid a hand
on my forehead and cried out to the others in the room. ‘Just as I
said. He’s burning all over. Never in my seven lives have I seen a
boy like this one. You deserve to be tied down and stung with
nettles, you rascal. Now come upstairs and go straight to bed.’ And
totally forgetting her earlier preoccupation with brinjals, she drew me
along with her.
‘Srikanta! Don’t leave the room,’ Mejda commanded in a terrible
voice.
‘Why not?’ Pishima asked but before Mejda could answer she was
shaking her head vigorously. ‘No. No lessons now. He must eat first
and get some sleep.’ She took me by the hand and led me to the
door. This was too much for Mejda. Forgetting himself he shouted,
‘Stay where you are, Srikanta. Don’t you dare leave the room.’
Even Pishima was startled for a moment, then collecting herself
gave Mejda a long and level look. ‘Satish,’ she said in a voice like
thunder. ‘I know that you often beat and bully the little ones. I haven’t
said anything till now but, after today, if I ever catch you touching one
of them I’ll have you tied to a pillar and whipped by the servants. It is
no concern of yours if they study or do not study. Pass your own
exams first.’ Saying this she took me away with her leaving Mejda
sitting in gloomy silence. Upstairs, in her room, she helped me
change my clothes, then stuffing me with an enormous quantity of
milk and hot jalebis, put me to bed scolding me heartily all the while.
Then, informing me that it was only with her death that her bones
would get a rest, she went out of the room. I heard her lift the catch
and walk away.
Five minutes later there was a little click at the door and Chhorda
came running in, laughing and out of breath. Throwing himself on the
bed he whispered: ‘Ma has ordered Mejda to keep away from us. He
is to study in a separate room. Barda will help us with our studies.
We needn’t be afraid of Mejda anymore.’ Bringing his thumbs
together he wiggled them gleefully. Jatinda, who had followed
Chhorda, was determined to take the credit for what had happened.
‘It is I,’ he announced, slapping his chest like a doughty warrior. ‘It is
I who brought this about. Had I not taken Srikanta to Mejda, Ma
would never have given such an order. You should both be grateful
to me. You must give me your new top, Chhorda.’
‘Take it from my desk,’ said Chhorda who, till that moment, had
valued his top above everything else in the world.
I realized then how much more precious to him was his
independence! Adults are often unaware that children value their
freedom and yearn for their fundamental rights in exactly the same
measure as they themselves. Mejda, exploiting his position as the
elder brother, had denied us our legitimate rights as human beings.
We were like slaves to his whims and moods. Every Sunday he
would make us walk miles in the hot sun to call his friends over for a
game of cards. On summer afternoons, we had to take turns in
fanning him as he slept and in winter, while he lay reading a book in
the cosy comfort of his quilt, one of us had to be on hand to turn the
pages. Whenever the fancy took him he would call out in a terrible
voice, ‘Keshav, take out your geography book. Jatin, go and cut a
strong switch from the casuarina tree and bring it to me,’ which
meant that a flogging was inevitable. That protest was possible,
never occurred to us. No wonder, then, that our joy at his
degradation knew no bounds.
My fever rose that night and I was confined to bed for a week. Ten
days elapsed before I was allowed to go to school and another
month before I met Indranath again. It was Saturday—I remember
that distinctly. The rains were over and the river had begun to shrink.
I sat, fishing rod in hand, at one of the streams that meandered away
from the Ganga trying to catch the catfish that swarmed in the
shallow waters. Among the other boys who sat at different points
along the bank I noticed one catching an incredible number in rapid
succession. His face was hidden from view by a clump of reeds.
Only the swift dipping and jerking of his line was visible from where I
sat and that was enough to tell me that he was an expert fisherman.
I decided to sit next to him. As I approached the clump, a familiar
voice spoke: ‘Come and sit on my right side, Srikanta.’
On hearing that voice a tremor passed through me and the blood
leaped up in my veins. I was speechless with the many emotions
that warred within me. I am aware that terms like these are worn
clichés that come nowhere near expressing my feelings of that
moment. But, with my limited powers of self-expression, what
alternative do I have but to fall back on them? Where can I find
words that will truly mirror the strange complex of emotions that I
struggled with in that moment of reunion with Indranath—the delight,
the yearning and the dread. I sat next to him but could not speak.
 Indra broke the silence with a question. ‘Did you get a thrashing
that morning, Srikanta?’ I shook my head. His face lit up. ‘I knew you
wouldn’t. I prayed very hard to Ma Kali. “Don’t let Srikanta get
beaten,” I begged and begged. She’s a very benign goddess—is Ma
Kali. If you have true faith in your heart she will always grant your
prayer. Then no one can beat you.’ Saying this he put down his line,
brought his hands together and touched his forehead in reverence.
Hooking some bait onto his line he dropped it in the water and
said, ‘Had I known you were going to get fever I could have
prevented that too.’
‘How?’ I asked.
‘I would have plucked lots of jaba* and thrown them at Ma Kali’s
feet. She loves jaba. She’ll give a boy whatever he prays for if he
brings her blood-red jaba. Everyone knows that. Don’t you?’
‘Didn’t you get fever after that night?’ I asked.
‘Me?’ Indranath was amazed. ‘I never get fever. I never fall ill. If
you pray to all the gods and goddesses twice every day, they’ll come
and stand before you. You’ll see them clearly. Then you’ll never fall
ill. No one can touch a hair of your head. You can go where you like,
do what you like, exactly like me.’
I nodded, then dropping my line in the water, asked softly:
‘Whom do you take with you in the dinghy?’
‘Where?’
‘To the other bank. To catch fish?’
‘I don’t go anymore.’ He put down his rod and tackle on the grass.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘She made me swear—’ Indranath left the sentence in mid-air and
clammed up as though alerted.
But I had not forgotten that exchange of money in the dark.
‘Who made you swear? Your mother?’ I probed.
‘No, not my mother.’ Twining the tackle around the rod he asked
suddenly, ‘You didn’t tell anyone where we went that night? Did you,
Srikanta?’
 ‘No,’ I answered, ‘but everyone knows I went with you.’
He sat silent for a while, frowning a little. Once he opened his
mouth as if to say something, then changing his mind shut it again.
Breaking off a reed he circled it slowly in the water, his face turning a
rich red as he stared at the breaking ripples. Suddenly he blurted
out: ‘Do you have any money, Srikanta?’
‘How much?’
‘Say—about five rupees.’
‘Yes.’
I had the money and I was delighted to give it to him. But
Indranath didn’t seem to share my joy. He hung his head and said
glumly: ‘I can’t repay it.’
‘I don’t want you to repay it,’ I announced with some spirit.
I tried to search his face but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He went
on staring into the water for a long time. At last he spoke.
‘I don’t want it for myself. I want to give it to someone I know. They
are very poor, Srikanta. They don’t get enough to eat. Will you come
with me and give the money yourself?’
Something stirred in my memory.
‘Is it the same person? The one you wanted to visit that night?’
‘Yes,’ Indranath murmured absently. ‘Didi won’t touch my money
anymore. If you don’t come with me she won’t take your money
either. She’ll think I’ve stolen it from my mother’s trunk.’
‘Is she your bon (sister)?’
‘No, she’s not my sister but I call her Didi. Will you come,
Srikanta?’ Then, seeing me hesitate, he added hastily, ‘We’ll go
during the day. Tomorrow is a Sunday. If we start at noon we’ll be
back by the evening. We’ll meet here tomorrow at twelve o’clock.’
His pleading eyes left me powerless to refuse. With the promise
that I would accompany him the following day, I went home.
I spent the whole evening in an agony of anticipation—the memory
of that terrible night rousing a whole range of discordant emotions.
All night I tossed and turned in my bed waiting for the dawn but when
it came my first thought was: ‘Do I have to go? What if I don’t keep
my word?’ Nevertheless, I reached the clump of reeds at the
appointed hour with the five rupees in my pocket. Indranath was
already there sitting in his dinghy. On seeing me, his face broke into
a smile. I took my place beside him without a word and we set sail
once again.
Reliving that memory now, when the shadows of death are already
darkening around me, I thank my Maker in all humility for helping me
overcome my fears and hesitations. For what followed was an
experience I have never forgotten. That afternoon, I discovered a
presence that has remained with me to this hour. It was out of this
encounter, in the most impressionable years of my life, that my
lifelong vision of woman has been formed. I have argued and
reasoned with myself but none of it could ever shake the conviction
that a woman is essentially noble, chaste and loving. If there is evil
surrounding her she can, I am convinced, shed it like a worn
garment at any given moment and take her place among the purest
and brightest of spirits. My friends tell me that this is a foolish
preconception unsupported by logic and reason. I do not protest for it
is true that I have no convincing arguments to counter theirs. All I
have are primary instincts that have swelled and strengthened with
the passing years.
When we reached the burning ghat, the sun still blazed, high over
the horizon. We tied the boat to the exposed roots of a gigantic
banyan tree that stood just beyond it, and started walking through
the forest. A hundred yards away from the bank, we came upon a
goat track winding away to the right. Indranath took it and I followed.
Ten minutes later a dilapidated hut, fenced in with wattles, came into
view. Indranath untied the rope with which the fence was fastened,
pushed it open and went in beckoning me to follow. Then he secured
the fence once again retying the rope with care. I stared around me
for I had never seen such a dwelling place in all my life. Set in the
heart of the forest, the hut was overshadowed by two huge trees—
an enormous fig whose branches towered up to the sky and a great
shaggy tamarind—so that even in mid-afternoon there was a sense
of impending dusk. A flock of hens came cackling out at the sound of
our footsteps and a couple of goats, tied to the tamarind tree,
bleated dolefully. As we approached the hut, the sight of a huge
python coiling and uncoiling in the yard sent me scrambling up the
wattle fence to the utter panic of the hens who scratched and
fluttered wildly. Indra gave a merry laugh and, picking up the python
by the neck, threw it on one side. ‘He is quite harmless, Srikanta,’ he
said. ‘His name is Rahim.’
Still seated on the fence, I looked around me. On the threshold of
the hut, on a pile of filthy sacking and rags, lay a man as thin and
brittle as a bamboo. He was racked with a violent fit of coughing. He
had long, tangled hair wound up in a knot high on his head and rows
of beads round his neck. He wore saffron robes which were torn and
dirty and his long beard was tied to his matted locks with a filthy
turban. I recognized him instantly by his garb. He was a snake
charmer whom I had often seen wandering about our town with his
gourd flute and basket of snakes. Five or six months earlier he had
performed in our own courtyard. This man, whom Indra addressed
as Shahji, motioned to us to sit down, then pointed to the hookah,
chillum and pile of ganja that lay in one corner. Indra got up instantly
and, preparing the ganja, brought it to him without a word. Shahji
paused in his coughing and took a deep draught covering his nose
and mouth with his left hand so that not a whiff of the precious
smoke was wasted. Then, giving his head a violent shake, he
passed the hookah to Indra saying, ‘Piyo (Smoke).’
Indra pushed it away and shook his head. Shahji threw him a look
of surprise as if to ask, ‘Why not?’ But before Indra could enlighten
him he had gripped the hookah with both hands and recommenced
sucking at it with greedy lips. Pull after pull he took of the noxious
substance in-between fits of a rasping cough that threatened to
shatter his emaciated chest. Finally, when all the drug was
consumed, he put down the hookah and proceeded to converse with
Indra in a low voice. I could hear little of what was being said and I
understood still less but I noticed one thing—Shahji was speaking in
Hindi and Indranath in Bengali.
As the afternoon waned, Shahji’s voice rose higher and higher and
became increasingly hysterical. A stream of filthy abuses issued
from his lips. Had I known then, as I do now, to whom they were
addressed, I would have grabbed the old man by his beard and
shaken the life out of him. Suddenly his voice trailed away and his
body crumpled up like a bundle of orange rags and became still.
Indra and I sat silently watching the scene. Then, bored with the long
conversation and its aftermath, I said, ‘It will soon be dark, Indra.
Let’s go to your Didi.’
‘I’m waiting for Didi. This is her home.’
‘But these people are snake charmers. They are Mussalmans,’ I
said, shocked beyond belief.
Indra’s face paled and his eyes reflected some inner pain. ‘That’s
not the whole truth,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll tell you about it someday.’
Then, equally swiftly, his mood changed. With a merry gleam in his
eye he said, ‘I can charm snakes, Srikanta. Do you want to see me
try?’ Dashing into the hut he brought out Shahji’s flute and basket of
snakes. Lifting the lid of the basket just a little, Indra put the flute to
his lips.
‘Don’t open the basket, please, Indra,’ I begged. ‘What if a cobra
comes out?’
Indra did not bother to reply. Swaying his head to the strains of his
flute in the manner of snake charmers, he uncovered the basket. I
watched in horror as an immense cobra shot up three feet high and,
darting a wicked-looking forked tongue from its fanned out hood,
stung viciously at the basket lid. Then, lashing out at the gourd flute
in Indra’s hand, it slithered out of the basket and crawled inside the
hut. Indra leaped into the yard with a startled exclamation and I ran
to the safety of the wattle fence with shaking legs.
 ‘It’s a different snake,’ Indra’s voice trembled with shock. ‘It’s not
the one I know. This one is absolutely wild.’
Fear, helplessness and anger brought tears to my eyes. ‘Why did
you do such a thing? What if it comes out and bites Shahji?’ I asked.
Indra looked guilty and ashamed, ‘Shall I close the door of the
hut? But perhaps it is hiding just behind the door.’ Then suddenly
losing his temper, he shouted, ‘Serves the old rascal right if he gets
bitten. Stuffing himself with ganja and keeping wild snakes in the
basket. Ah! Here is Didi. Don’t come near. Stay just where you are.’
I turned around and looked at Indra’s Didi. ‘Fire smouldering
beneath ashes,’ I thought. There was an expression in her eyes that
I could not fathom. It conveyed a sense, dimly—for I was little more
than a child then—of unswaying devotion to something held dear
over centuries and aeons, through many cycles of human life. She
was wearing a yellow sari and lac bangles in the manner of
Mussalman women of Bihar but in the parting of her hair the
vermilion mark of Hindu wifehood burned like a flame. Against her
left hip she held a stack of firewood and a small basket filled with
greens and vegetables dangled from her right hand.
‘What is it?’ she asked as, putting down her wood, she proceeded
to untie the rope that secured the fence.
‘Don’t come in,’ Indra called out excitedly. ‘A huge snake has
escaped from the basket and is crawling about the hut.’
She smiled up at me and spoke in Bengali. ‘It is strange, is it not,
that a snake should be found in a snake charmer’s hut? What do you
say, Srikanta?’ Then, turning to Indranath she asked, ‘How did it
escape?’
‘It crawled out of the basket. It is a wild snake. Shahji has had a lot
of ganja and is fast asleep. He won’t wake now even if we scream
our lungs out. What shall we do?’
Didi smiled and said, ‘So you took the opportunity of showing off
your snake-charming skills to Srikanta. But never mind. I’ll catch it for
you.’
 ‘No, Didi, no!’ Indranath pleaded, ‘I won’t let you touch it. It will kill
you.’
Didi’s eyes misted as they gazed at Indranath. ‘Silly boy,’ she said
in a voice of infinite tenderness. ‘Nothing will happen to your Didi. I’ll
catch it in a minute.’
Picking up a lamp that hung from the bamboo machan, she lit it
and entered the hut. Within seconds she was back, the snake
dangling from her right fist. Without a word she shoved it into the
basket and shut the lid. Indra ran to her and touched her feet. She
stroked his face lovingly and touched her fingertips to her lips.
 5

ON HEARING INDRA’S ACCOUNT OF THE EVENING’S EVENTS,

DID I SHUDDERED and said, ‘It was very wrong of you to play with
danger like that. What if the snake’s fangs had touched your hand
instead of the flute? Promise me you’ll never do such a thing again.’
Indranath beamed at her. ‘I’m not such a fool, Didi, that I did not
protect myself first. See what I’ve got?’ Untying a knot in the corner
of his dhoti, he brought out a tiny dried up root tied with a thread. ‘If I
hadn’t had this with me I could never have escaped. I begged and
begged Shahji and at last he gave it to me.’ He thought for a few
moments and added, ‘And even if the snake had bitten me, so what?
I would have woken Shahji up and got him to apply the poison stone.
How long does it take the stone to suck out the poison? Half an
hour? One hour? No, it doesn’t take that long, does it, Didi?’
Didi’s eyes were on him but she did not speak. Indra went on
excitedly, ‘You have so many poison stones, Didi. Why don’t you give
me one? I’ve been asking you for ages.’ His voice changed—
became sullen and resentful. ‘I do everything I can to please you and
you keep putting me off. If you don’t want to give it to me, why don’t
you say so straight out and I’ll stop coming.’
Indranath was too full of his own grievances to see anything
around him but I noticed the shame and anguish that crept into Didi’s
face. Forcing a smile on her wan lips, she asked Indranath, ‘So you
come to your Didi’s house only for poison stones and snake-charms,
Indra?’
‘What else?’ Indra said bluntly and, glancing at the sleeping
Shahji, he muttered, ‘He doesn’t teach me anything. He only takes
my money. But I’m not going to depend on him anymore. I know,
from the way you caught the snake, that you are no less than Shahji.
I’m going to learn all the mantras from you.’ Glancing once again at
the pile of rags in the corner he said reverently, ‘Shahji smokes ganja
and all that but he is a genius, Srikanta. He can put life into a corpse
three days old. Can you do that, Didi?’
A peal of laughter burst from Didi’s lips and died in the air in a few
moments. An unnatural calm descended. But Indra neither saw nor
heard. ‘You can’t fool me,’ he went on, ‘you’ve learned everything
from Shahji. I know that. Just teach me all you know and I’ll be your
slave for the rest of my life. How many corpses have you raised,
Didi?’
‘I can’t put life into the dead, Indranath,’ Didi said quietly.
‘Shahji hasn’t taught you that? Then it must be very, very difficult.
But he has surely taught you to fly cowries?’
‘I haven’t even heard of flying cowries.’
Indra looked at her with disbelief in his eyes. ‘Don’t pretend. Of
course you know all about it.’ Then turning to me, he asked:
‘Have you ever seen flying cowries, Srikanta? You take two
cowries, murmur some mantras and throw them out of the window.
They fly through the air till they spot a snake. Then they stick fast to
the snake’s hood and fly back to you dragging the snake behind
them.’
Turning to Didi he continued, ‘Even if you haven’t learned to fly
cowries you must have learned all the other arts. Like sealing the
body, sealing the house, throwing dust and all that. And if you
haven’t, how did you catch the snake?’
Didi sat silent for a while. Then raising her head, she said, ‘I have
no knowledge of such things, Indra, even though I am a snake
charmer’s wife. The reason for that—well, it is a long story. I would
like to tell it to you and Srikanta. It will be a load off my chest. I have
carried it for a long time. Too long.’ Her voice trailed away and her
eyes resumed their old expression. She caught our gaze and added,
‘Will you believe me?’
I spoke up for the first time that evening. ‘I’ll believe every word
you say, Didi.’
 She turned to me with a smile. ‘I know you will. Only mean and
base people shut their eyes to the truth and take pleasure in thinking
ill of others.’
Another stretch of silence. The shadows of twilight faded away
and darkness set in. A sliver-thin moon rose high above the fig tree
and its beams, filtering through the leaves, etched a pattern of light
on the dim earth below. Suddenly her voice came out of the
darkness, ‘I thought I would unburden myself tonight but I see that
the time has not yet come. But I have something to say to you, Indra.
Take my advice. Don’t run after Shahji anymore and don’t give him
money. We have nothing to give you in return—neither charms nor
mantras. We cannot raise the dead or send cowries flying through
the air. I don’t know if anyone can. We certainly cannot.’
I believed every word she said but Indranath, despite his long
association with her, did not. He said angrily, ‘How did you catch the
snake, then?’
‘That was just a trick of the hand, Indra.’
‘It means you have cheated me all these months.’ Indra stood up
and his voice trembled with fury. ‘Both of you have cheated me. You
have taken my money and stuffed me up with lies and false
promises. Cheats! Tricksters! Scoundrels! I’ll show you what’s what.’
By the light of the kerosene lamp that burned dimly in a corner, I
saw Didi’s face turn as white as a sheet as she answered fearfully—
hesitantly, ‘We are snake charmers, Indra. Deceiving is our
profession.’
‘I’ll take care of your profession. Just you wait.’ Indra dragged me
away by the hand. ‘Let’s go, Srikanta. They’re both the same—liars
and cheats. We won’t stay here a minute longer.’
I could not blame Indranath, for his hopes had been cruelly
dashed, but I could not take my eyes off Didi’s anguished face. I
pulled my hand from Indra’s grip and taking the five rupees out of my
pocket put them down where she sat. ‘I brought this for you. It is my
own money,’ I said.
 Before Didi could say a word, Indra pounced on the coins and
picked them up. ‘You don’t have to give her anything, Srikanta.
They’ve had enough from me. I don’t care now if they die of
starvation.’
‘But I brought the money for Didi,’ I protested.
‘Don’t call her Didi. She’s no one of ours.’ Indra grabbed me by the
shoulder and pushed me towards the fence.
It was at this moment that Shahji woke up. Disturbed by the
commotion and Indra’s loud voice, he sat up and blinked. ‘Kya hua?
Kya hua? (What’s the matter?)’ he asked looking from one face to
another. Indra let go of me and rushed up to where he sat.
‘You old scoundrel!’ he shouted. ‘Stuffing me with lies! I’ll skin you
alive and bury you in lime. Then we’ll see who comes to raise you
from the dead.’
Shahji sat like a statue—his eves blank. We had reached the
fence once more when his voice came out to us from the dark. For
the first time that evening I heard him speak in Bengali. ‘Come here,
Indranath. Tell me what has happened.’
‘You are frauds and tricksters,’ Indra said going back to the
veranda. ‘You don’t know any mantras. Why did you lie to me? Why
did you make me serve you like a slave and bring you money?’
‘Who told you I don’t know any mantras?’
Indra pointed to the silent, bowed figure without any hesitation.
‘She did. She told me that deceiving is your profession.’
On hearing these words, Shahji’s eyes burned like live coals.
Looking at them my blood froze. I watched in mute horror as he
staggered up to where she sat and pushing away the matted locks
from his face, asked in a terrible voice, ‘What did you tell Indranath?’
Indra gave me a push and said, ‘Come on. Let’s go home. Can’t
you see how late it is?’
It was late but my feet would not move. I stood rooted to the
ground till Indra grabbed my arm and dragged me to the fence.
 ‘Why did you tell him that?’ Shahji’s harsh tones floated out from
behind us. There was no reply and we pressed on.
We had hardly gone thirty yards when a blood-curdling cry
shattered the silence of the night. Indra let go of my arm and ran in
the direction of the hut. I followed but in my haste I was flung
headlong into a vast bush of thorn berries that stood by the path.
Extricating myself with difficulty, for I was pricked and scratched all
over, it was some time before I reached the hut. Stepping into the
yard, I nearly stumbled over Didi’s unconscious form lying on the
ground.
At the other end, guru and disciple were engaged in a deadly
combat. A murderous looking spear lay on the ground where they
wrestled. Shahji had a wiry strength despite his thinness. But he was
no match for Indranath. Within a few minutes, Indra had flung him
down and, sitting on his chest, had gripped his throat with both
hands. I ran and pulled Indra away. Had I not done so, Shahji’s
snake-charming career might have ended that night.
When I managed to separate the two, after a lot of pulling and
pushing, I noticed something that made me whimper in terror. Indra’s
clothes were drenched with blood that flowed from a three-inch cut
on his forearm. Tearing a strip from his dhoti, he handed it to me and
said, ‘Don’t cry, Srikanta. Tie this tightly round my arm. The drug-
eating bastard threw the spear at me.’ Then, turning to Shahji, he
said, ‘If you dare move an inch I’ll step on your throat and pull your
tongue out. You don’t know me.’
Shahji sat still, looking at him with the eyes of one of his own
venomous snakes.
‘I don’t trust you,’ Indra continued, ‘you’re a murdering swine. I’m
going to tie your hands.’ Yanking the snake charmer’s turban off
Shahji’s head, Indra tied his wrists with strong knots. Shahji did not
protest or try to stop him. He submitted to everything without a word.
Indra picked up the heavy stick with which Shahji had struck Didi
and threw it to one side. ‘Ungrateful wretch,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve given
him so much money. I’ve even stolen for him. And he didn’t think
twice before throwing the spear at me. Keep an eye on him,
Srikanta. I must take care of Didi.’
Sprinkling water on her face and fanning her vigorously Indra
continued, ‘Ever since Didi told me not to give him money he has
beaten her every day. She said to me, “If you had earned it, Indra, I
would have taken it from you but I can’t let you do what you are
doing.” She made me swear that I would never bring Shahji any
money again. He couldn’t take that. He beat her mercilessly. Didi
earns a few rupees by selling dung cakes and wood. She feeds him
out of that and even buys him ganja. But it isn’t enough for the dirty
scoundrel. I’ll set the police after him or he’ll kill Didi some day. He’s
a murderer. I know it.’
I thought I saw a look of alarm spring into the man’s eyes. A
shudder passed over his frame and he lowered his eyes. It was only
for a moment but I’m convinced that the shaft had gone home.
Indra’s words had awoken a memory as shameful as it was vile.
It was well past midnight when Didi opened her eyes. Another
hour passed before she recovered fully. Then, after hearing the full
story from my lips, she stood up. Walking over to Shahji, she
released him from his bonds. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she said.
After Shahji went into the hut, she called Indra to her side and
taking his right hand in hers she placed it on her head. ‘Swear on my
head, Indra, that you’ll never come to this house again. Leave us to
our fate. Stay away and forget that we ever existed.’
Indra stared blankly at her for a few moments. Then, bursting like
a bomb, he shouted, ‘You don’t blame him even though he tried to
kill me. But because I tied him up I’m being asked to leave the
house. You are both the same. Selfish and ungrateful. Come,
Srikanta. Not a moment more in this house.’
Didi stood like a figure of stone. Why she did not utter a word of
protest or explanation was incomprehensible to me then. Later,
much later, I understood the meaning of her silence. I left the five
rupees on the floor of the veranda and followed Indranath out of the
hut.
Stepping into the yard, Indra delivered his final shot, ‘What else
can you expect from a high-born Hindu girl who elopes with a low-
class Mussalman? Depraved, immoral creatures! To hell with the pair
of you! I have nothing to do with you from this moment onwards.’
Saying this, he rushed out of the yard, and crossing the jungle, came
to where the boat was moored.
As it moved rapidly away from the bank, I saw Indranath lift his
arm and dash the tears away from his eyes. The dinghy floated on
past the tamarisks and tussocks. The burning ghat came into view
but tonight it held no fear. I sat, dazed and silent, unaware of time
and its passing. When the dinghy reached our bank, the night was
almost over.
As I climbed out of the boat Indra said, ‘Go home, Srikanta, and
keep away from me in future. You’ve brought me bad luck everytime.
I’ll never take you out in my dinghy again.’
He rowed rapidly away towards the deeper waters and in a few
minutes, became a fleck on the horizon
 6

I DID NOT EVEN TRY TO CHECK THE SOBS THAT SHOOK MY

CHEST AS I STOOD on the bank looking at the fast disappearing
dinghy. I loved Indranath. For his sake I had risked expulsion from
the house in which I was being educated. But he had no use for my
love. He had accused me of bringing him bad luck and had left me
alone to find my way back home through the dense forest at that
time of the night.
His harsh words had wounded me so deeply that for months after
that I turned my face away if I encountered him in the streets. The
breakdown of our friendship was, to me, a source of pain which
welled afresh with every glimpse of him. But he seemed not to care.
He had so many friends and followers. He was the hero of the cricket
and football clubs. In the gymnasium, his performance was
unparalleled. Why he had singled me out in the first place and then
abandoned me was a mystery I could not fathom. I suffered but did
not attempt to resume our old relationship. When I heard the other
boys talk of Indranath as if they owned him I sat in silence. Not by a
word did I betray the fact that I knew him intimately and that he had
said I was his best friend. I had understood, as early as then, that
lasting friendships were not possible except between equals. This
understanding served me well in later years when the chance of
friendship with many ‘superior’ people came my way. I learned not to
take them too seriously, for unequal friendships do not last. At some
stage or the other, one friend becomes the master and the other his
slave.

Three or four months passed before I spoke to Indranath again. It

was during Kali Puja which the Datta family celebrated every year
with a good deal of fanfare. Among the cultural events organized that
year was a performance of Meghnadh Badh.* I was very excited, for
though I had seen many jatras** in my native village, this was to be
my introduction to the theatre. I rushed around helping to set up the
stage and felt very important when the man who was to act the part
of Ramchandra that evening asked me to hold a rope. On the
strength of this acquaintance, I had pleasurable visions of being
invited to the green room, before the play commenced, to the
chagrin of the other boys who were sure to be kept out. But alas! I
stood outside the torn curtain that served as the door to the green
room for hours. Ramchandra went in and out time and again but did
not deign to throw a glance at me.
When the first bell rang at ten o’clock, I abandoned all hopes of
entering the green room and came and sat in the audience. The play
began. I watched spellbound as Meghnadh, seven feet tall and five
feet around the girth, raved and ranted on the stage. The curtain fell
and rose again. It was Lakshman’s cue. He had barely begun his
speech when Meghnadh suddenly leaped in from nowhere causing
the boards to totter and creak horribly. Four of the five footlights
toppled over. Worse followed. Meghnadh’s golden cummerbund
gave way with a loud snap. Pandemonium broke loose among the
audience. Some yelled at Meghnadh to sit down. Others shouted for
the drop of the curtain. But brave Meghnadh did not falter in the face
of duty. Dropping his bow he held his slipping dhoti with one hand
and, with the other, flung arrows at his enemy with undiminished
vigour. Who had ever seen such a battle? Or a hero of this stature?
Bowless and with one hand out of action he fought on till Lakshman
was put to flight and the scene was over. I was watching entranced
when I felt a tap on my back. It was Indranath.
‘Didi has sent for you, Srikanta,’ he whispered.
I stood up. ‘Where is she?’
‘Come with me,’ he said.
He walked away and I followed him till we reached the bank where
his dinghy was moored. We took our places in silence and Indra set
the boat adrift. The night was already waning by the time we reached
the hut. By the dim light of a kerosene lamp I saw Didi sitting on the
threshold with Shahji’s head in her lap. A dead cobra, stretched out
to its full length, lay at his feet. Didi told us what had happened quite
calmly. Shahji had been sent for by a rich man of the locality to catch
a snake that had been observed in his house. Shahji had succeeded
in drawing out the snake and, flushed with triumph, had spent all the
money he had been given on toddy. He had come home roaring
drunk and, ignoring Didi’s warnings, had proceeded to charm the
snake he had caught. It was only afterwards, just before putting the
snake away in the basket, that he had become careless. Bringing the
snake’s mouth close to his own he had made kissing sounds at it.
The snake had responded by stinging him viciously in the neck.
Wiping her eyes with the edge of her faded sari Didi said, ‘Even as
he was dying he knew he had to kill the snake first. “Come, let’s die
together,” he said and, pressing his foot on the snake’s head, he
stretched its body out to that length with both hands.’ She pointed to
the dead snake and added, ‘They died together.’
Removing the covering from Shahji’s face, she kissed the lips,
rapidly blueing with snake venom, with great tenderness and said,
‘What had to happen has happened. I bear no grudge to God.’ After
a moment of silence she continued, ‘I have no one but you two in the
world. So, young as you are, you must bear my burdens. There is an
open space in the jungle behind the hut. I thought I would lie there
after my death but Fate willed otherwise. When morning comes you
must help me to carry him there. He has suffered untold misery in
this life. Now, God willing, he will find some peace.’
‘Are you going to bury Shahji?’ Indra asked.
‘Yes. He was a Mussalman.’
‘Are you one too?’
‘Yes,’ she replied without hesitation.
Indranath looked at her with uncomprehending eyes. It was
obvious that he had not expected this reply. It seemed to me that,
despite his knowledge of Shahji’s faith, Indra had hoped that Didi
had retained her own religion and was still one of us. As for me, I
would not think of her as anything other than a high-born Hindu
woman.
With the first glimmerings of dawn, Indra went out into the jungle to
dig a grave for Shahji. Then the three of us carried the body out and
placed it in the grave and covered it with earth. Twenty feet below
the little clearing where Shahji lay, the Ganga flowed tempestuous
and strong. Around the grave were tall trees festooned with
creepers. A chill breeze blew and birds sang out of the leafy
branches. We sat around the grave, the roar of the river in our ears,
waiting for the sun to break out of the eastern sky.
Suddenly, Didi flung herself on the mound of earth with a piercing
cry, ‘Where shall I go? To whom shall I turn?’
Indra lifted Didi’s head from where it lay on the earth and placed it
tenderly on his lap. ‘Come home with me, Didi,’ he said. ‘My mother
will look after you. You are no Mussalmani! You are a Hindu like us.’
Didi lay as if in a swoon. At last she arose and climbing down the
bank waded out into the river. We followed her. She took off the iron
hoop that encircled her wrist and threw it in the water. Then,
breaking her lac bangles against a rock, she scooped up a handful of
earth. With this she scoured out the sindoor from the parting of her
hair. Then, dipping her head thrice in the Ganga, she bathed. As she
walked back through the jungle, the rising sun irradiating her dripping
form, she looked the image of a newly-widowed Hindu woman of
high birth and lineage.
Back in the hut, as we sat together, Didi told us that Shahji was
her husband. Indra asked in disbelief, ‘Are you not a Hindu, then?’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘My father was a Brahmin. So was my
husband.’
‘Why did he change his religion?’ Indra probed.
‘That I cannot say for certain. But when he did I was obliged to do
the same, for a woman must embrace her husband’s faith. I did not
give up the faith of my ancestors of my own accord. Nor have I ever
done anything to tarnish it.’
‘That I know,’ Indra said in a voice thick with emotion. ‘That is why
—forgive me, Didi—I have often wondered why you were here; how
you could so forget your birth and upbringing. But I won’t listen to
another word. You must come home with me to my mother.’
Didi sat in silence for a while. Then, raising her head, she said
decidedly, ‘I can’t go anywhere, Indranath.’
‘Why not, Didi?’
‘I know my husband has left some debts. I cannot leave without
repaying them.’
Indra lost his temper. ‘Yes, he owes money in the toddy and ganja
shops,’ he said. ‘But what is that to you? Who will dare ask you for
money? You come with me and I’ll see who tries to stop you.’
Didi smiled at him. ‘Crazy boy! No one and nothing can stop me
except my own conscience. My husband’s debts are my debts. How
can I run away from them? Go home today, and take Srikanta with
you. Come back again after two or three days.’
I had been listening quietly all this while. Now I spoke. ‘I have
another five rupees at home. Shall I fetch them?’
Before I could complete the sentence, Didi came up to me and,
taking me in her arms, pressed my head against her breast. Then,
kissing my forehead very tenderly, she said, ‘No, Srikanta. That will
not be necessary. But I shall remember your offer to my dying day.
May God dwell in your breast and make your heart weep for the
afflicted through all the years of your life.’ Tears flooded her eyes and
rolled down her cheeks.
Around eight o’clock we got ready to leave. Didi walked part of the
way with us. Before turning back she took Indra’s hand in hers and
said, ‘I will not take the liberty of giving you my blessing, Indranath,
for you are far above it. God follows you like a shadow and will make
you His own.’
 Indra touched Didi’s feet and said in a tearful voice, ‘I can’t leave
you alone in this jungle, Didi. Something tells me I’ll never see you
again.’
Didi did not reply. Turning, she walked rapidly away wiping her
eyes with the edge of her sari. We stood and watched her weaving
her way through the path till the forest swallowed her up. She didn’t
look back and we both knew why.
Three days later I found Indranath waiting for me outside the
school gate. His face was pale, his feet bare, and dust coated his
legs right up to the knees. I had never seen him like that for he came
from a rich family and was always neat and well-dressed. He came
up to me and whispered urgently, ‘Didi has gone away. I don’t know
where. I’ve been looking for her since yesterday. She left a note for
you in the hut. Here.’ He handed me a piece of rough paper and
walked away without a backward glance. I sat down right where I
was and opened the note. Though many years have passed since
then, I can more or less remember what she had written:
Srikanta,
I am leaving you but my blessings are with you and will ever remain
so. Don’t grieve because I’m gone. I know that Indranath will wear
himself out looking for me. Try to stop him if you can. You are both too
young to understand fully what I am about to write in this letter. Yet, in
the hope that you will do so when you are older, I am tempted to
unburden myself. You may wonder why, instead of telling you about
these events in my life, I am putting them down on paper. I wanted to tell
you once. But I couldn’t for my story is also my husband’s and that is a
painful record of guilt and depravity. I do not know what sins I have
committed in this life. But I know, without a doubt, that the sins of my
previous birth are grievous and innumerable. I did not wish to add to
them by lowering my husband in your eyes. It is not that I can do so now
because he is dead. Yet I cannot go away either, without sharing my
lifelong anguish with you and Indra.
Srikanta, your unfortunate sister’s name is Annada. My father was a
wealthy man and a Brahmin of high lineage. We were two sisters. To
take the place of the son he never had, he brought home a poor Brahmin
boy and married him to me. He wanted to educate him and make a man
of him. But though he succeeded in the first endeavour he failed
miserably in the second. My widowed elder sister lived with us. My
husband murdered her one day and disappeared from the house. He
was never traced so it is possible that he left the country. You will wonder
why he did this terrible thing. I cannot enlighten you for you are children
and have no knowledge of such things. But someday, when you are
older, you will understand. Then you will also sense the shame and
humiliation which this deed heaped on my head. That fire burns in my
breast to this day!
Seven years passed before I saw my husband again. He was wearing
the garb in which you have seen him, charming snakes before a crowd
in front of our house. He was unrecognizable—but not to me. He told me
that he had undertaken this dangerous venture for my sake but that was
a lie. Nevertheless, at dead of night, I left my father’s house. I went away
with my husband but everyone knew that I—a Hindu wife—had eloped
with a Mussalman snake charmer. I have carried this stigma all these
years and will do so till the day of my death. While my husband was alive
I could not reveal the truth. I knew my father. He would never forgive the
killer of his flesh and blood. Now that my husband is dead I could go
back. But who will believe my story after all these years? There is no
place for me in my father’s home. Besides, now I am a Mussalmani!
I had a pair of earrings hidden away which I sold to pay my husband’s
debts. I have not spent the five rupees you left with me that first day.
They are lying with the owner of a dry goods shop that stands at the
corner of the path from my hut. He has instructions to hand them over to
you. Go to him and reclaim the money. Don’t be disappointed because I
return it. I take with me something far more precious—your tender little
heart locked away in my breast. Don’t grieve for me, Srikanta. Suffering
doesn’t frighten me and pain cannot torture me anymore. My sweet little
brothers! If the wishes of a chaste wife have any value in God’s eyes
may your friendship never die.
your loving sister,
Annada
 7

I WENT TO THE SHOP AND STOOD BEFORE THE

OWNER.UNTYING A TINY RAG bundle he took out a pair of earrings
and five silver rupees. He handed me the coins with the words,
‘Bahu sold me her earrings for twenty-one rupees and paid off
Shahji’s debts. Then she went away—I don’t know where.’ Making a
mental estimate of what Shahji had owed, he added, ‘She had only
five annas and one pice with her when she left.’
So twenty-two pice were all that Didi had when she started out on
her long and arduous journey into the world! Tears rushed to my
eyes at the thought. To hide them from the old man I turned and
walked away. My ego was hurt because she had returned my money.
‘She took from Indra but not from me,’ I thought resentfully. I was a
child then and did not realize that Indra and I were not the same in
Didi’s eyes. She could accept his charity but not mine for Indra was
Indra and I was far beneath him.
I have travelled far and wide in my later life but I never set eyes on
Didi again. Through my youth and manhood, whenever I thought of
her and her stoic adherence to her ideals, I was filled with
resentment against God and Man. In a country like ours, where Sita
and Savitri are deified for their chastity, why was Didi made to suffer
such shame and humiliation? Why was her brow, pure and shining
as that of any goddess in heaven, blackened with the stain of a false
faithlessness? I would rave against God, ‘You took from her
everything she had. Her father, sister, friends and relations. You
even robbed her of her faith. But what did you give her in return?
She, who should have taken her place with the brightest beings of
your creation, has had to live out her life bowed down by the
condemnation of the world. What justice is in this?’ I would ask in
despair. I longed to go to her father and reveal the truth. I wanted to
proclaim to the world that Annada was no wanton but a shining
example of chaste wifehood—a woman whose devotion to her
husband had been like a bright and unwavering flame.
For many days after he gave me the letter there was no sign of
Indra. But whenever I walked by the river I saw his dinghy tossing
about in the water under the open sky. Only once, after our trip to the
hut on the night of Shahji’s death, did we sit in the boat again. That
was the last time for both Indra and me. I remember it well not only
because it was our last boat ride together but because, on that trip, I
came across the most perfect embodiment of selfish self-
centredness that I have yet to see.
It had been a bitterly cold day and, by dusk, the wind was blowing
needles of ice on our hands and faces. It had rained the day before
and the sky shone clear and frosty. A full moon, swimming in the sky,
bathed the earth in liquid silver. I was poring over my school texts
when Indra walked in.
‘There’s a play being performed in—village,’ he said. ‘Want to
come?’
I was crazy about the theatre so I jumped at the offer.
‘Get ready and come to our house in five minutes,’ he said and
vanished.
I dashed upstairs, pulled a wrapper around me, and ran after him.
The place he had mentioned was some distance away and could
only be reached by train. But when I got to his house, Indra informed
me that he proposed to take the dinghy. I was disappointed, for
going by the river meant hard work at the oars and a long stretch of
exposure to the cold night air. Besides, it was much slower than the
train and we might not reach in time.
‘The boat will go like an arrow in this gale. We won’t be late,’ Indra
said encouragingly. ‘A cousin of mine is here from Calcutta and he
wants to go by the Ganga.’
We got the boat ready and took our places in it. But time went by
and there was no sign of Indra’s cousin. I waited with mounting
impatience, tortured by thoughts of the scenes I would surely miss.
 At last a dim figure appeared on the bank. I got a bit of a shock for
I had never seen anyone dressed quite like that. A heavy woollen
overcoat was buttoned right down to his knees. His head and neck
were wrapped in layers of cap and muffler. Gloves on his hands and
silk stockings and pumps on his feet completed the ensemble. It was
obvious that this Calcutta babu had taken every possible precaution
against the inclement winter of the west. Making a face at our
beloved dinghy, he stepped into it in the manner of a potentate, one
hand resting heavily on Indra’s shoulder and the other gripping mine
like a vice. Then, comfortably ensconced in the best seat, he glared
at me and asked, ‘What is your name, boy?’
‘Srikanta.’
‘Srikanta!’ He gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘What is the Sri for?
Kanta is a good enough name for you. Come, don’t go on sitting
there like a dummy. Prepare a hookah for me. Indra—give the boy
the hookah and tobacco. Let him make himself useful.’
‘I’ll prepare your hookah, Natunda,’ Indra said in an embarrassed
voice. ‘You take the oars, Srikanta.’
I did not reply. Neither did I move from my place. I prepared the
hookah but my rapturous mood of a few minutes ago changed to one
of deepest gloom. I had never been spoken to in that tone of voice. I
had never even seen a servant being spoken to like that. But he was
a babu from Calcutta with an IA degree and Indra’s cousin as well,
so I was forced to swallow his insults.
After a few puffs, Indra’s Natunda asked, ‘Where do you live, boy?
What is that on your shoulders? A wrapper? What a filthy rag it is! It
stinks from a hundred yards away. Take it off and spread it on the
plank. Something is poking me.’
‘Take mine,’ Indra said quickly. ‘I’m not cold,’ and removing his
woollen shawl, he flung it towards his Natunda who folded it neatly
over the plank and sat on it without a moment’s hesitation.
We crossed the river within half an hour for it had shrunk
considerably with the onset of winter. But no sooner did we touch the
opposite bank than the wind dropped. The sail sagged and the boat
came to a halt.
‘What do we do now?’ Indra asked Natunda.
‘Give the boy the oars. Let him pull the boat.’
Indra laughed at the ignorance of his city cousin. ‘That would be
quite useless. It’s impossible to row in still water like this. We’ll have
to go back.’
‘Then why did you bring me in the dinghy, you fool?’ Natunda
gnashed his teeth at Indra. ‘You’ll have to get me there tonight. I
don’t care how. I’ve been invited to play the harmonium.’
‘There are others who can take your place.’
‘Hmph,’ Natunda grimaced. ‘Others who can take my place! As if
one could find a decent harmonium player in these backwaters. I
don’t want to listen to any of your nonsense. You promised to take
me there and you will. How you do it is your business.’
Sensing Indra’s predicament I volunteered a suggestion, ‘Maybe
we could tow the boat, Indra?’
Even before the words left my mouth, his cousin snarled viciously
at me, ‘Why don’t you do so then instead of sitting here hunched up
like an animal?’
Indra and I looked at each other. There was no way of reaching
our destination other than towing the boat. The water was as cold as
ice as we stepped into it and our hands and feet, cut to pieces on
shell and rock, grew numb and blue. But the man for whom we were
suffering these torments was as indifferent and unconcerned as the
plank he sat on. From time to time he barked out a word of
command at which we had to stop the boat and minister to his needs
—which mainly involved the preparation of a fresh hookah. Then, as
we strained and pulled at the heavy boat with all our childish
strength, he smoked his hookah with comfortable sucking sounds.
Once when Indra requested him to take the helm, he refused point-
blank declaring that he had no intention of removing his gloves and
catching his death.
 ‘You can keep them on …’ began Indra but he was cut short.
‘Yes and ruin them on your dirty rudder. Don’t be stupid. Just carry
on with whatever you are doing.’
I can say, in all honesty, that never before or after this encounter
did I set eyes on a person as unadulteratedly selfish and mean as
Indra’s Natunda. Through our nightmarish journey he sat as stiff as a
board afraid to move lest a drop of water fall on his precious clothes
and spoil them. Worse followed. The fresh air over the Ganga acted
as a tonic and gave him an appetite that increased with each
passing hour. Around eleven o’clock he could bear the pangs no
longer.
‘Are there no shops nearby, Indra?’ he called, ‘Can’t you get me
something to eat?’
‘There’s a village just ahead, Natunda. I’m sure we can buy some
food.’ ‘Then hurry up and get me there. You, boy! Can’t you pull
harder? Don’t you get enough to eat?’
After some time we arrived at the village. Here the bank was wide
with a long shelf of sand stretching far into the river. We dragged the
boat onto shallow water with a mighty effort and heaved a sigh of
relief. The babu from Calcutta stood up. ‘I’m cramped from sitting in
this nasty boat,’ he declared. ‘I must stretch my legs.’
There being no question of his wetting his feet, Indra lifted him out
of the boat and carried him far out where the sand gleamed dry and
white in the moonlight.
As the two of us set out for the bazaar Indra said, ‘Why don’t you
come too, Natunda? You’ll be frightened here all by yourself. People
around here are honest. No one will steal the dinghy.’
‘Frightened?’ Indra’s cousin snarled at him. ‘What do you think of
me? I am Calcutta born and bred—not a Bihari rat like you. I fear
nobody and nothing—not even Death. If you think I’m going to walk
through your dirty villages you’re mistaken. The natives stink so—
they make me puke.’
 The solution, as he saw it, was that Indra should proceed to the
village to buy food and that I should stay behind to prepare his
hookah as and when he needed it. Indra was not averse to the idea
but I rebelled outright. No force on Earth was going to make me stay
here alone with this man! I shook off Indra’s restraining hand and
walked with him, away from the vicinity of his cousin. From behind us
came the sounds of a nasal chant accompanied by a vigorous
clapping of hands. ‘Tinkle, tinkle teacup,’ sang the Calcutta born and
bred aristocrat as he walked up and down the bank.
I could see that Indra was acutely embarrassed by his cousin’s
behaviour. ‘Calcutta folk,’ he murmured. ‘They are not used to our
kind of climate.’ He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.
‘Hmph!’ I grunted.
Indra then proceeded to give me an account of his cousin’s
outstanding academic achievements. ‘He’ll pass his LA in a couple
of years and become a deputy,’ Indra prophesied in a desperate bid
to wipe out my annoyance and kindle a spark of admiration for his
cousin.
Many years have passed since that night. I have no knowledge of
what became of Indra’s cousin—whether he rose to the eminence of
a deputy or not. But it is possible that he did. For, if what I hear is
true, his was the stuff that Bengali deputies are made of.
Indra’s Natunda was in the first flush of manhood at the time I’m
writing about. It is generally believed that during this period the heart
is at its largest and the mind at its most expansive. Yet, in the few
hours that we were together, he managed to dispel this view totally
and completely. Fortunately there are not many like him in the world,
else it would be difficult to live in. But I digress again. Let me get on
with what happened for it is more important that I give my readers
the conclusion to the night’s adventure.
Indra and I reached the grocer’s shop in a few minutes. As we had
anticipated, the shop was shut and the owner, with his doors and
windows locked securely against the cold, was sunk in a slumber so
profound that not all the clamour of the world could wake him. Indra
and I banged on the door and yelled with all our might but to no
avail. We were dealing not with a gentleman of leisure for whom
sleep is a luxury, but with a hardy yokel who worked like a machine
from dawn to dusk and, having assumed the horizontal position, was
lost to the world. After half an hour of trying we had to give up and
return to the bank empty-handed.
The dinghy bobbed up and down where we had left it but where
was Natunda? The beach stretched stark and white as far as the eye
could see. Not a shadow of the Calcutta cousin marred its gleaming
surface.
‘Natunda! Natunda!’ Indra and I shouted till our lungs were fit to
burst but nothing save the reverberations of our own voices came
back to us. We stared at one another as a terrible thought took
possession of us. For a man to be attacked and killed by a wolf was
not an uncommon occurrence in these parts. In winter, packs of
wolves frequently descended on unsuspecting villagers and dragged
babies out of huts and goats from their pens.
‘It—it—couldn’t be a wolf—could it, Srikanta?’ Indra’s voice shook.
At this voicing of my fears, a trickle of ice water ran down my spine
and goosebumps broke out all over my body. I didn’t like Indra’s
Natunda but I hadn’t wished him such a terrible fate.
As we strained our eyes scanning that vast expanse of sand, an
object, gleaming in the moonlight, caught our attention. Going
towards it, we discovered that it was one of Natunda’s much prized
pumps. Indra broke down completely. Flinging himself on the wet
sand he howled like a child. ‘What shall I do? How can I face my
aunt, Srikanta? I won’t go home. I just can’t go home anymore.’
As I stood watching him, jumbled thoughts in my head took shape
and acquired a focus. I remembered that when we were rapping on
the grocer’s door and shouting his name, a loud chorus of barking
dogs had reached out to us from the bank. Intent on our purpose we
hadn’t given it a thought. But now it was obvious that the dogs had
seen the wolves attacking Natunda and had set up an alarm—which
we had foolishly ignored. I could still hear faint sounds of barking
from a distance which left no doubt in my mind that somewhere,
further up the bank, a pack of wolves was feasting on Indra’s cousin
and that the pye-dogs of the village were looking on and barking with
all their might. Indra sat up suddenly, grim determination on his face.
‘I must go to Natunda,’ he said.
‘Oh no.’ I laid a hand on his arm. ‘You can’t do that. Have you
gone mad?’
Indra shook me off and walked to the dinghy. Picking up an oar he
threw it over his right shoulder. Then, taking a large knife out of his
pocket, he held it, blade upwards in his left hand. With eyes blazing
out of a face that was pale and drawn with anxiety, he said, ‘You stay
here, Srikanta. If I don’t return send word to my parents.’
I knew that his mind was made up and I made no further
protestations. Picking up a length of bamboo from the dinghy I
followed him as he strode purposefully up the bank. Indra turned
around and, snatching the bamboo away, flung it into the water.
‘Why should you risk your life, Srikanta?’ he said. ‘What has
happened is through no fault of yours.’
‘It isn’t your fault either,’ I replied.
‘That is true,’ he admitted, ‘I told Natunda not to come by the river.
He wouldn’t listen. But I can’t return home without him. I have to go.’
I knew that. I also knew that I could never let him go alone. I
retrieved my weapon from the river and the two of us walked in the
direction of the barking dogs. As we went along Indra warned me,
‘Don’t try to run on the sand. Jump into the water if they attack.’
After walking about half a mile we came to a sand dune. As we
climbed to the top we saw some five or six pye-dogs, a little distance
up the bank, apparently guarding some object immersed in the
water. From time to time they set up a chorus of barks. As far as we
could see there was no trace of any other animal—not even a jackal.
‘Natunda!’ Indra shouted.
 ‘Here I am,’ the object called out sobbing loudly, in a voice
surprisingly like that of the brave babu from Calcutta. The dogs
yelped and ran as Indra and I rushed forward and pulled the near-
fainting Natunda out of the water. Torrents of water ran from his
overcoat, muffler, cap and gloves and the shining pump on one
stockinged foot was bloated like a drum. We understood, without
being told, that the canine population of the village had been so
charmed by his melodious rendering of Tinkle, tinkle teacup that they
had rushed towards him in appreciation. Later, his nervous bid for
escape had startled them into giving him a chase. Slipping and
scrambling over the sand he had lost a shoe. Then, in a desperate
attempt to elude his pursuers, he had jumped into the freezing water
and had been standing neck-deep in it for the past half hour. But
wonder of wonders! The first words that came out from between his
chattering teeth, as we dragged him out of the water, were, ‘My other
pump?’
Then, one by one, he mourned the fate of his greatcoat, his cap,
his muffler and his gloves—alternating his lamentations with curses
on the pair of us for setting him on the shore instead of carrying him
to the boat where he could have removed his wet clothing without
messing them up with sand. All through the journey homeward, he
raved and bemoaned the fate that had cast him in the company of
savages like us who hadn’t even seen such things as an overcoat,
pumps, a muffler and gloves and therefore, had no idea of their
value. What filled us with a kind of awed admiration was that his
body, which he had hitherto jealously protected from the smallest
drop of water, did not feature in his lamentations.
It was past two o’clock at night when the dinghy touched our bank.
With my wrapper tucked around his middle—the same wrapper
whose stink had made him swoon earlier in the evening—and Indra’s
shawl around his shoulders, he allowed himself to be led home,
grumbling all the while at being forced to touch to his body rags too
filthy for him to wipe his feet on. However, all this abuse fell on our
ears as sweetly as raindrops on a yam leaf. Our relief at being able
to bring him home alive glowed within us so warmly that even the
penetrating cold of that winter night meant nothing to us. Wrapping
the edge of my thin dhoti around my bare chest and back I walked
home, my heart singing with happiness.
 8

I OFTEN WONDER, WHEN SITTING DOWN TO WRITE, HOW IT

IS THAT CERTAIN events in one’s life are remembered as clearly as
if they had occurred just the day before while others are clean
forgotten. Wise men tell us that memory is like a mesh through which
the unimportant sinks beneath the weight of the important and is lost.
I do not agree for, in my memory, many trivial incidents stand out
bright and clear while others, which should have been preserved and
cherished, have rusted and been reduced to dust.
One such remembrance had lain dormant in my consciousness till
a chance meeting brought it to light. It happened many years later—
at a period of time when even the memory of Didi had been misted
over. I had been invited to a hunting expedition by a prince who had
been a class fellow of mine at school. I had done his sums for him
time and again and in consequence, though princes ordinarily have
short memories, he had kept in touch. We had exchanged letters
even after we had both passed the Entrance examination and gone
our own ways.
One day, quite by accident, I ran into him. His father had died in
the intervening years and he had inherited the estate. He was
organizing a hunting party which he invited me to join. He had heard,
he said, that there was no one who could beat me with a rifle in
these parts. He had also heard of certain other talents I had acquired
as I stepped into manhood—talents that entitled me to a friendship
with a prince who had money to burn.
But I must confess, in all modesty, that what he had heard were
exaggerated reports from kind relatives and friends. However, let
that pass. The Shastras tell us not to turn down the appeals of
princes. So, being a Hindu and a Brahmin, I decided to follow the
doctrines of our illustrious forefathers and accept his invitation.
 On reaching the camp, after a twenty-mile elephant ride from the
station, I found that the hunting expedition had all the trappings of a
luxurious safari. Five tents had been set up. One, exquisitely fitted
up and furnished, was for His Highness exclusively. One was set up
as a kitchen. Of the other three, one housed his retinue of friends,
one his servants, and the last—set a little apart from the others—had
a couple of dancing girls in it. These, with their attendant musicians,
had been brought along to entertain the prince and his party after
each day’s hunt.
Twilight had set in by the time I announced my arrival. As I
approached His Highness’ tent I could hear strains of music coming
from within. The entertainment had clearly been going on for some
hours, for my host had reached such a stage of inebriation that his
happiness on seeing me made him fall back with a thud on the silken
cushions. The other occupants of the tent gave me a thunderous, if
somewhat confused, welcome for not one of them knew me. The
singing girl stopped her song and sat, eyes downcast, on the velvet
rug. This young woman had been procured at great expense from
Patna. I was impressed by His Highness’ taste, for she was beautiful
as well as a skilled singer with an extremely melodious voice.
On my host’s recommendation I asked Pyari—for that was her
name—to resume her singing. She smiled and looked pleased. I
could see that she was relieved to find among her audience one man
sober enough to appreciate her singing. For the rest of the evening,
till late into the night, it seemed as though she sang for me alone. I
had the strangest feeling that she was trying to drown the drunken
revelry around the two of us with all the beauty of her person and the
sweetest of her songs. I was so transported that when the singing
came to an end, I could find no adequate words of appreciation. I
mumbled a conventional word of thanks at which Pyari smiled and
lowered her eyes. Then, bringing her hands together in a namaskar
—not a salaam—she prepared to depart.
 I looked at the sleeping, semi-conscious forms around me and
suddenly found my voice. ‘Baiji,’ I said in Hindustani, ‘I bless the fate
that has brought me here. I am looking forward to the privilege of
hearing you every evening for the next fortnight.’
She stood still for a few seconds, then coming up to me said softly
in Bengali, ‘His Highness has paid me handsomely to entertain him
and his friends. So sing I must. But why should you waste your time
toadying for a prince’s favours? Leave this place. Go home tomorrow
morning as early as you can.’
I was so startled by her words that I stood and stared dumbly at
her retreating back as, with a swish of her silken garments, she
swept out of the tent.
The first hunt was scheduled for the following morning. We were
eleven hunters in all with fifteen guns between us, of which six were
rifles. Innumerable hampers of food and wine borne by servants
accompanied us as we rode out to our destination. The place
selected was a huge dried up carcass of a river with enormous silk-
cotton trees stretching for miles along one bank. Opposite was a
beach of white sand dotted with catkins and wild grass. I could see
no signs of game except some doves cooing contentedly from the
branches of the silk-cotton trees and a few curlews and herons
flitting over the stagnant water.
Baiji’s words rang in my ears as I watched my fellow hunters
regaling themselves with whisky in-between an animated discussion
on the strategy of the hunt. I threw down my gun. His Highness
noticed the action.
‘You are not yourself, Srikanta. Is anything wrong?’
‘I don’t shoot birds,’ I answered shortly.
‘Why not?’ he asked, amazed.
‘I haven’t used grape-shot since I grew a moustache,’ I answered.
‘I’m out of touch.’
My host laughed till tears ran down his cheeks, his unrestrained
delight at my witty remark was reinforced, I am convinced, by the
golden liquid he had been imbibing so freely.
But the rest of the company was not amused. One of them—a
Bihari named Sarayu—glowered at me. ‘Is there anything shameful
about shooting birds?’ he asked testily.
‘Not for everyone,’ I replied. ‘There are always exceptions.’ Then,
turning to my host I said, ‘If you’ll excuse me I’ll return to the camp. I
don’t feel too well.’
Entering my tent I first ordered a cup of tea, then lighting a
cigarette, lay back against the silk cushions. I had barely taken a
couple of puffs when a servant appeared and, salaaming
respectfully, requested me to accompany him to Baiji’s tent as she
had expressed a desire to see me. I had been half hoping for, half
dreading, such a call.
‘Why does she wish to see me?’ I asked.
‘I can’t say.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Baiji’s khansama.’
‘Are you a Bengali?’
‘Yes, I am a barber by caste. My name is Ratan.’
‘Is Baiji a Hindu?’
‘Yes.’ Ratan laughed. ‘Would I work for a Mussalmani?’
Leading me to the door of his mistress’ tent, Ratan disappeared. I
lifted the silken curtain and walked in. Last night, dressed as she
was in baggy trousers and a veil, I had thought her a Mussalman
prostitute from the north. Now, seeing her as she sat alone waiting
for me, I realized that she was a Bengali and a high-caste Hindu. A
milk-white garad* sari was draped around her slim body and long,
wet hair streamed down her back. She had a tray in front of her with
betel leaves, nuts, catechu and lime in little compartments. A highly
ornamented pipe and bowl with tobacco in it stood on one side.
She rose smiling as I entered, and pointing to the velvet rug
beside her, invited me to sit. ‘I would rather not smoke in your
presence,’ she said in the voice of an old acquaintance. ‘Ratan! Take
the pipe away.’ Then, as Ratan removed it, she said apologetically, ‘I
can’t offer you my pipe. But I will send for some cigarettes.’
‘You don’t have to,’ I answered shortly. ‘I have some in my pocket.’
‘That’s good,’ she said rather naively and went on, ‘Make yourself
comfortable. We have a lot to tell each other. Strange are the ways
of God. I never dreamed that I would meet you here of all places.
You went with His Highness to the hunt. What made you come
back?’
‘I was disgusted with the hunt.’
‘So you should be. How cruel men are! Taking innocent lives for
pleasure. Is your father well?’
‘Father is dead.’
‘Dead!’ she exclaimed. ‘And your mother?’
‘She went before Father.’
‘So—that’s why—’ She bit her lip and her eyes swam. I thought I
had imagined it but when she spoke I knew I hadn’t for her voice was
soft and had a hint of tears in it. ‘You have no one, then, to care for
you. I can see that you are not married. Are you still with Pishima?
What about your studies? Have you given them up with everything
else that was good in your life?’
Till this moment I had patiently answered her questions, satisfying
her unaccountable curiosity regarding the intimate details of my life.
Now I lost my temper. ‘Who are you?’ I asked roughly. ‘I don’t think I
have seen you before. Why do you ask me so many questions?’
‘Who am I?’ She smiled. ‘I am Pyari. But if my face means nothing
to you, the name my parents gave me won’t either. Besides I am not
from your village.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘That I won’t tell.’
‘What is your father’s name?’
Pyari bit her tongue and shook her head. ‘He’s dead and gone to
heaven. I can’t soil his name with my impure lips.’
 ‘Well,’ I said with mounting impatience. ‘At least tell me how you
know me. You can do that, can’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Pyari dimpled back, not offended in the least. ‘But wall you
believe what I say?’
‘Try me.’
‘I know you from the moment I knew myself. It is stupid of me but
that’s how it is. You have made me weep so often and so long that,
had the sun not dried my tears, I would have been standing in a
pool. Do you believe that?’
I did not. I thought this another bit of vivacious flattery that women
of easy virtue employ to captivate men. I realized, later, that the
mistake was mine. I had forgotten that her lips had always been
formed like that—as if a mocking smile lurked at the corners of the
twin arches. I made no answer.
She studied my face for a few moments and gave a delighted
laugh. ‘You are not as stupid as I thought. You know that such words
mean nothing—that they are the tricks of my trade. But let me tell
you something. Men far cleverer than you have been duped by
words like these. And if you are so clever why can’t you find yourself
a better job than that of a professional toady? You are no good at it
anyway. Why don’t you quit and go home?’
Anger surged through me and hot words rose to my lips. Curbing
them I said quietly, ‘A job is a job even if I’m no good at it. But it’s
time I took my leave. People will talk about us if I stay too long.’
‘You should feel flattered if people talk about us. Why should you
regret an acquaintance with me in your present circumstances?’
I turned away from her and moved towards the door. From behind
me came peal after peal of shameless laughter. ‘Dear friend,’ she
mocked. ‘Don’t forget me and my pool of tears. Repeat the story to
His Highness and his friends and it may be the making of you.’
I walked out without a word, her taunting words stinging my back
like a cluster of scorpions. Back in my tent I drank my tea and lit a
cigarette with trembling fingers. Forcing my confused brain into some
semblance of order I asked myself, ‘Who is this woman and why did
she behave so strangely?’ But however hard I tried to recapitulate,
nothing in my past reminded me, even vaguely, of Pyari. Yet she
obviously knew me and all about me. She knew my background and
character. She had as good as told me that being a prince’s toady
was not my natural vocation. She had even inquired after Pishima.
She had said many other things that made little sense to me. But
one thing was clear. For some reason, known only to herself, she
wanted me out of the way. Puzzling over this I tossed about on my
bed unable to sleep. When the hunters returned in the evening I
pleaded a headache and kept to my room. From where I lay I could
hear Pyari’s singing and the drunken cheers of her audience far into
the night.
In the next few days I noticed a change in the mood of the hunting
party. The fiery enthusiasm of the first day seemed to have waned
and the hunters were loath to leave the camp. Things being as they
were, I expressed a desire to leave. Not that I was particularly
unhappy or uncomfortable where I was. It was the presence of Baiji
that put a severe constraint on me. The moment she entered the
room I had the strongest urge to get up and walk away. When I
couldn’t do that I would turn my face away and pretend an
absorption in something or someone else. The fact that she was
desperately trying to meet my eyes was not lost on me.
It being decided that I would leave on Saturday afternoon, His
Highness had arranged a special session of music after breakfast.
After the singing was over the men sat on, chatting idly on various
topics. Somehow the conversation veered around to the subject of
ghosts and one of the company—an elderly Bihari gentleman and a
resident of the village in which we were camping—had an interesting
contribution to make. He announced that if any one of us doubted
the existence of spirits, he should visit the village burning ghat that
night for, it being a Saturday and a new moon night in conjunction,
the spirits would be abroad for people to see and hear. I
remembered my childhood fears and laughed aloud.
The old gentleman threw me a sharp look and asked, ‘You don’t
believe me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? Any special reason?’
‘No.’
‘Then you should believe me. You Bengalis sneer at the
supernatural because you’ve read a few pages of English. Bengalis
are godless and unclean—un-Hindu.’
I was shocked at the man’s rancour and his offensive
generalizations. But I spoke quite calmly, ‘I don’t wish to argue with
you. If not believing in ghosts makes me unclean and un-Hindu, so
be it. But one thing is certain. If anyone claims to have seen a ghost
he is either deceived or deceiving. That is my considered opinion.’
The old man looked at me with blazing eyes and clutched my arm.
‘Can you go to the burning ghat tonight?’ he asked in a tone of
challenge.
‘I certainly can,’ I answered. ‘I’ve often done so in my childhood.’
‘Don’t make false claims, Babu,’ he snarled. Then he proceeded to
tell his audience a series of hair-raising tales about the burning ghat
which was no ordinary burning ghat but a mahasamsan*. He told us
of people who had seen Kali and her demons playing a ball game
with a hundred human skulls; of others who had heard demoniac
laughter. He talked of white foreigners who had lost their lives in their
attempts to test the truth of his assertions. He told these stories well
and with conviction and I could see that many of my co-hunters were
paralysed with fear.
Suddenly I became aware of Pyari. She had crept up to where I
sat and was listening open-mouthed. Her shoulder rested against
mine and I felt her tremble. Noting the effect his words had on his
audience, the old Bihari turned around and looked triumphantly at
me. ‘So, Babu saheb,’ he asked with a sneer. ‘You will go tonight?’
 ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘As you wish. If you lose your life—’
‘If I lose my life I won’t blame you. But I won’t go unarmed. I’ll take
my gun.’
At these words, a torrent of invective burst from the company—not
against me alone. My entire community came under censure.
Bengalis were anglicized and atheistic. They did not follow the Hindu
way of life. They ate meat and other unclean food. They hesitated
when it came to killing birds but thought they could shoot down
ghosts and demons. And, for all their brave words, they were
cowardly at heart. All this and much more my fellow-toadies poured
into the willing ears of the prince till, unable to bear it any longer, I
got up and walked away.
Just before dusk, a young man named Purushottam accosted me
outside my tent. I knew him slightly and liked him for, though a
Bihari, he was not as much of a Bengali-hater as the others. He also
talked and drank much less and had admitted that he was no hunter.
‘Srikanta Babu,’ he said. ‘Take me with you tonight. I’ve never
seen a ghost in my life and I shouldn’t miss this fine opportunity.’
‘You don’t believe in the supernatural?’ I asked, laughing.
‘Not a bit.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it doesn’t exist.’
He proceeded to give me many rational arguments in support of
his claim. I was not particularly impressed by his arguments for I
knew that fears of this kind are not resolved by arguments. I didn’t
want to take him along but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Strapping his dhoti tightly between his legs he picked up a length of
oiled bamboo. ‘Srikanta Babu,’ he said, ‘you may carry a gun if you
like. But I am confident that I can keep all ghosts and demons at bay
with my stick.’
‘Will the stick be in your hand when the time comes?’
 ‘Rest assured it will. The burning ghat is two miles away. We
should leave the camp by eleven o’clock.’
An hour or so before we were to start, I was pacing outside my
tent speculating on what the supernatural was all about. It was not
that I feared the coming ordeal for my terror of the dead had passed
with my childhood. I did not believe that spirits exist. Even Indra, who
did, never claimed to have seen any. Yet, my throughts repeatedly
went back to an experience that I had had on just such a dark and
moonless night five or six years ago. That day had also been a
Saturday. I remember that distinctly.
Nirupama, whom I called Nirudidi, was a virgin widow who lived in
the town in which I had been reared. Large-hearted, self-sacrificing
and devout, she was loved and looked up to as a model of Indian
womanhood by her family and neighbours alike. Then, one day, she
was thirty years old at the time, it was discovered that she was
carrying a child. The shock and horror of the Hindu community knew
no bounds. Its guardians were of such immaculate character
themselves and so zealous of the community’s moral welfare that
they were forced to advocate a policy of ruthless ostracism. She was
compelled to leave her home and take refuge in a hut at the edge of
the forest. When she lay dying of puerperal fever after six months of
intense suffering, not one of her family or friends were at her side. I
was young and couldn’t do much for her. But I sat by her watching
her die.
It was a dark and stormy night. After twelve o’clock the wind
increased in velocity and rain fell in torrents. I sat half dozing in a
broken chair by Nirudidi’s bedside when I heard her voice, strong
and clear, ‘Srikanta.’
I started up and went to her.
‘Srikanta—go home,’ she whispered.
‘In this pouring rain?’ I asked, amazed.
‘Yes. Go quickly before they get you.’ I touched her forehead. It
was burning. ‘She’s in a delirium,’ I thought. To appease her I said,
‘I’ll go in a few minutes. As soon as the rain stops.’
‘No! No!’ She sat up excitedly. ‘Don’t wait another moment. Go
now.’
‘Why, Nirudidi?’ I was frightened by the passion in her face and
voice.
She clutched my arm and pointed to the closed window. ‘Can’t you
see them?’ she whispered. ‘Those soldiers with dark faces peeping
into the room? They’ve come to take me away. They’ll kill you if you
stay.’
Then, for the rest of the night, she tossed and turned, screaming
all the while, ‘There, there—at the window—under the bed. They are
coming. They’ll kill you. Run, Srikanta, run.’
I was so terrified that I would have run out into the storm and rain if
it wasn’t for those ‘soldiers with dark faces’ who stood just outside.
Nirudidi’s passionate conviction that I was in danger was dispelled
only with her death—just as dawn was breaking over a storm-tossed
sky. Thinking of that night brought on the dull ache that crept into my
heart whenever I remembered Nirudidi.
‘Babu,’ a voice broke in on my thoughts. It was Ratan’s. ‘Baiji
sends her regards and requests you to meet her in her tent.’
I was astonished at this intrusion and extremely displeased. To
send for me at this time of the night was a liberty Pyari had no right
to take—particularly after her offensive behaviour the last time we
were together. I looked sharply at Ratan but on his face was the
bland incomprehension of the well-trained servant.
‘That is quite impossible,’ I said, controlling myself with an effort. ‘I
must leave in a few minutes. Tell your mistress that I’ll see her
tomorrow.’
‘She wishes to see you tonight, Babu.’ Ratan’s voice was firm but
respectful. ‘If you can’t go to her tent she will come to yours.’
‘I’m sorry, Ratan,’ I said with all the patience I could muster. ‘I can’t
see her tonight. I’ll see her tomorrow. I promise.’
 ‘Then she will come to you. In the five years that I’ve worked for
her I have never known her to change her mind.’
My blood boiled at these words. Was there no limit to the woman’s
audacity and irrational demands? I felt trapped. I had no intention of
gratifying her whims but if she really came to my tent, as she
threatened to do, my already worn reputation would be in shreds.
‘Wait a minute, Ratan,’ I said, and entering my tent I pulled on my
boots and picked up my rifle. Then, in a militant mood, I walked over
to Baiji’s tent.
She stood by the entrance, waiting. Looking me up and down she
said without preamble, ‘You are not going to any burning ghat. Is that
clear?’
I was startled enough to stammer foolishly, ‘Why, why?’
‘Because even if you don’t believe in ghosts—they exist. If you go
tonight you’ll never come back,’ and suddenly, incomprehensibly, her
face crumpled and she burst into tears. This was something so
unexpected that I stared at her, speechless with astonishment.
‘All your life you have been the same—stubborn and rash,’ she
continued between sobs. ‘Will you never grow up? I won’t let you go
alone. That’s certain. If you insist on going I’ll come with you.’
‘Fine. Come along,’ I said.
My sarcasm was not lost on her. Her eyes dried—turned hard and
jewel bright.
‘What do you think of yourself?’ she cried passionately. ‘Don’t you
have a family and a society to go back to? What will people say
when they hear that you went on a ghost-hunt accompanied by a
prostitute? Who ever dreamed that you could sink so low—could
degrade yourself like this?’
She bit her lip and fresh tears welled up in her eyes. Suddenly my
anger melted away. I thought I recognized Pyari.
‘Does public opinion really matter?’ I asked gently. ‘Did anyone
dream that you would degrade yourself the way you’ve done?’
 At my words a smile, like a faint ray of autumn sunshine, flickered
over her face. But it was only for a moment. Then her eyes clouded
once more and she asked in a frightened voice, ‘What do you know
of me? Can you tell who I am?’
‘You are Pyari.’
‘Everyone knows that.’
‘Do you want me to admit that I know more about you than anyone
else here? If you really wished that, you could have revealed your
true identity on the very first day. But you didn’t and neither will I. I
must go now. It is getting late.’
Swift as a flash of lightning, Pyari stood in front of me. ‘I won’t let
you go,’ she said.
‘Why won’t you let me go?’
‘Because real ghosts exist and confronting them is dangerous. I
swear I shall scream if you insist on going.’
I burst out laughing. ‘I have never seen a real ghost,’ I said, ‘but I
admit to having seen fakes. They laugh and cry and block one’s
path. And sometimes they even devour human flesh.’
Pyari’s face went white. ‘So you do recognize me,’ she said at last,
‘but what you said about fakes is incorrect. They do not devour
human flesh—at least not of those they love. They have their near
and dear ones just as you do.’
‘You are speaking of yourself,’ I said with a smile. ‘Are you a
ghost?’
‘What is a ghost? One who inhabits the earth even after death.
That is what you meant, didn’t you, when you spoke of fakes? It is
true that in a sense I’m dead too. But I didn’t die of my own accord
nor did I announce my death. My mother did that for me.’
The moment she said that all my doubts vanished. She was
Rajlakshmi—a young Brahmin widow of our village. She had
accompanied her mother on a pilgrimage and never returned. She
had died of cholera in Kashi—so her mother had announced after
coming back alone. Pyari’s face and form had not struck a bell but I
had been intrigued, from the moment I saw her, by a habit she had of
biting her underlip whenever she was agitated or angry. The vaguest
of feelings nagged me that somewhere, in the distant past, someone
had done just that. Now I knew that the prostitute, Pyari, was the
Kulin widow, Rajlakshmi. I stared at her in mute horror.
About ten years ago, when I was still with my parents, a Brahmin
lady came to live with her brother in our ancestral village. Her Kulin
husband had driven her away after taking another wife and she had
nowhere else to go. She had two daughters—Suralakshmi and
Rajlakshmi. Rajlakshmi was eight years old at the time and
Suralakshmi—twelve. Rajlakshmi was very fair but no beauty. Her
skin was pale and waxy from years of untreated malaria. Her
abdomen was distended due to an enlarged spleen and stuck out
from her thin frame like a drum. Her arms and legs were like sticks
and only the faintest copper-coloured down covered her head. She
used to come to the village pathshala where I was the head boy. I
was a great bully and so great was Rajlakshmi’s fear of me that she
would roam the forest every day in search of ripe bainchis (a wild
berry) which she would string into a garland and offer to me as a
bribe for leaving her alone. If the garland was not long enough for my
liking I would take her up on her lessons and slap her hard if she
couldn’t answer my questions. She never rebelled or expressed any
grievance. After the beating she would sit quietly in a corner biting
her lip gloomily.
Then a marriage was arranged for the two girls. Her uncle was on
the point of being excommunicated by the village elders for his
inability to find grooms for his nieces when he discovered that the old
cook in the house of the Dattas, was a Kulin Brahmin and therefore,
an eligible party for his elder niece. Offering fifty-one rupees as
dowry, he started the negotiations. But the prospective bridegroom,
though he looked fat and foolish, was self-interested enough to drive
a shrewd bargain.
 ‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed, shaking his head vigorously. ‘You have
no idea of current prices. You can’t pet a pair of healthy rams for fifty-
one rupees and you’re looking for a son-in-law. Make it hundred-and-
one and I’ll marry both the girls. Nothing can be fairer than that. The
least you can give me is the price of two bullocks.’
No one doubted the justice of his claims but the uncle was poor
and had daughters of his own. After a great deal of haggling and
entreaty, the sum was brought down to seventy rupees and
Suralakshmi and Rajlakshmi were married in a single night.
Next morning, the wily Brahmin left the village for his hometown of
Bankura—the seventy rupees tucked securely in the folds of his
dhoti. No one ever heard of him again. Within a year and a half of
the marriage, Suralakshmi died of splenetic fever and another year
and a half later Rajlakshmi was sanctified by her death in Kashi.
‘I can read your thoughts,’ Pyari said suddenly.
‘What are they?’
‘You’re saying to yourself, “Poor girl! How badly I treated her when
we were children. I made her pick berries from thorny bushes and
beat her mercilessly if she couldn’t pick enough. And she never
complained—never asked for anything in return—till tonight. Let me
give her what she wants. I won’t go to the burning ghat if it makes
her happy.” That’s what you were thinking, weren’t you?’
I burst out laughing and Pyari joined in. ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I
knew that you would not spurn me once you realized who I was. The
love one bears in childhood is never lost. But why are we standing
outside? Come in and sit down. I have so much to tell you. What are
you laughing at?’
‘I’m laughing at the skill with which women like you can charm a
man into submission to their will.’
‘I don’t deny my skills but I wouldn’t try them on one who has held
me in the hollow of his hand since my earliest childhood. How
strange that you forgot me so completely! You should be ashamed of
yourself.’ Pyari laughed till her diamond ear drops trembled and
twinkled in the starlight.
‘I was so little aware of you that forgetting you was the most
natural thing in the world. In fact I’m surprised that I remember you
now. But it’s nearly twelve o’clock. I must go.’
Pyari’s smile vanished—her face became ashen. She said in a
small voice, ‘Even if there are no ghosts—there are snakes and
other wild creatures in the jungle. You must admit that.’
‘I know that and I’ve taken every precaution.’
‘I knew I couldn’t stop you,’ Pyari sighed. ‘Still I tried. Well, go if
you must. But remember—if anything happens to you in this
godforsaken place you’ll find no one but myself at your side. Your
rich and powerful friends will not spare you a glance. You boasted to
my face that you were unaware of me. That was a very manly thing
to do. But I, being a woman, cannot return the compliment when the
time comes.’
Her words clutched at my heart but, ignoring them, I said with a
sneer, ‘Thank you for your kindness, Baiji. I have no one in the world.
It gives me great satisfaction to know that there is one who will not
disown me when I am in trouble.’
Pyari’s eyes blazed. ‘You knew that all along. Yet you call me Baiji
and insult and humiliate me. I wish I could disown you. That is what
you deserve. But women are disgusting creatures. If they love once,
they are lost forever.’
‘Very good,’ I said. ‘I hope some evil befalls me tonight. Then your
love can be put to the test and you may come out in flying colours.’
‘Durga! Durga!’ Pyari shuddered and said, ‘Don’t say such things.
You don’t have to test my love. Doubt it by all means. Only come
back alive—and well.’ Her voice broke and she turned her face
away. ‘I was born unfortunate and will die so,’ she said. ‘It is not for
me to look after you in health and nurse you in sickness. If I could—
well, it would be the one good thing I did in this life.’
 ‘Who knows?’ I taunted her. ‘God may grant you your heart’s
desire.’
I did not know then that my words were prophetic. As I walked out
of the tent I could hear Pyari call ‘Durga! Durga!’ after me. I walked
rapidly across the dark expanse of the mango grove, then along the
bank of the river till I stood on the bridge. My mind was in a whirl.
How strange and incomprehensible was the female psyche! And
how wonderfully superior to the male! Years ago, a little girl with thin
arms and legs and a stomach like a drum had offered me her infant
adoration in the form of bainchi garlands. And I had been totally
unaware. I had ignored her and later forgotten her. But she, through
all the bitter battles of her life and all the degradations of her
profession, had kept my image burning bright and clear within her.
She had professed many a false love but had cherished and
preserved her true love. The more I thought of it, the more it
overwhelmed me.
Ba-ap! A night bird shrieked. I came to with a start. Before me
stretched a vast tract of sand with a thread-thin stream of water
twisting painfully on its surface as far as the eye could see. Clumps
of catkin, ten feet high, dotted the landscape. From where I stood
they looked like giant men who had just walked across as I had
clone, to see the dance of the demons. Above my head, out of a
dense velvety sky, innumerable stars and planets stared at the earth
below. Not a leaf stirred. Not a sound marred the silence of the night
save the beating of my heart. I turned my face westwards where the
burning ghat lay. Tall silk-cotton trees with spreading branches stood
before me like sentinels guarding the dead. As I walked through
them, a low moaning sound came to my ears—like the soft
whimpering of an exhausted child who has wept for his mother so
long and so loud that he can weep no more. I recognized the sound.
It was the cry of a baby vulture who had lost his mother in the dark. I
looked up and found that I was right. Above my head, the branches
of the silk-cotton trees were hung with the dark shapeless forms of
hundreds of vultures.
When I reached the burning ghat, I realized that the old man’s
description of a hundred human skulls was not a wild exaggeration.
The ground was criss-crossed with the bones of innumerable
skeletons, brittle and bleached white by a million suns. Interspersed
among them, the grinning skulls gleamed wickedly in the faint
starlight. The balls and rackets were there but where were the
players? I fitted some cartridges into my gun and sitting on a sand
heap, waited for the game to begin.
Suddenly, I thought of Pyari. She had pointed out the illogicality of
risking my life to see something that I knew did not exist. ‘Why did I
come?’ I asked myself. ‘To put to the test an old man’s foolish
assertions and prove him wrong in the eyes of the world? Or to
prove my own valour before a bunch of ignorant Bihari yokels who
had said Bengalis were cowards?’
All of a sudden, a gust of wind whipped up a cloud of dust and
leaves and swirled them across my face. Then another and another.
The forest came alive with the moaning and crackling of silk-cotton
stems and the skeletons around me breathed deeply. I shivered in
spite of myself. I knew that it was only the wind passing through the
cavities of the skulls. But, try as I would, I could not subdue the
primeval fear that, however deeply buried beneath layers of
conscious reasoning, rose up now to awe and frighten the fear of life
after death. I sensed that if I could not control this fear there was no
knowing what would happen to me. I knew, now, that I shouldn’t
have come. I was no Indranath. I had neither his courage nor his
faith. I yearned to see something living—even a tiger or a wolf—but
nothing lived. The dead surrounded me on all sides. The air grew
thick with their sighs and muffled moans. I felt, rather than saw, the
skeletons arise and position themselves all around me. One of them
stood close behind, breathing down my ear and neck. I didn’t turn my
head but I saw him—a vast, gaping skull with monstrous nose holes
through which air gushed out as chill as death. My legs shook under
me. I tried to control them but I couldn’t for they were not mine. ‘I
must not faint,’ I repeated over and over again to the beat of my
thumping heart.
From the leaves of the silk-cotton tree, the baby vulture
whimpered on. Then others joined him and the chorus of moans
surged and billowed around me like the waves of an unknown sea.
Through the terrible clamour that crashed into my ears, one sound
acquired a focus—became distinct. Babu-u-u-u followed by Babu
sahe-e-e-e-b. It roared and dipped, swelled and ebbed. Then the
clamour died away.
Human voices reached out to me. Words that I understood fell on
my ears as sweetly as dewdrops on flowers.
‘Don’t shoot. For God’s sake, don’t shoot. It is I—Ratan.’
I tried to call out but no sound came. With a tremendous effort I
managed to turn my head. Three or four men bearing lanterns were
rapidly approaching the sand heap on which I sat. As they drew near
I recognized them. They were Pyari’s guard, Ganesh, her tabla
player, Chhotu Lal, Ratan and the village chowkidar.
‘It is three o’clock, Babu,’ Ratan said. ‘Come back to the camp.’
I stood up.
‘I envy you your courage, Babu,’ Ratan said as we walked away.
‘We were four together and we were frightened to death.’
‘Why did you come, then?’
‘We have been given a month’s wages for coming here tonight.’
Then coming closer he whispered, ‘After you left I saw Ma sitting in a
corner and crying. She told me to take Ganesh and Chhotu Lal and
go after you. But I hesitated. I was scared and I didn’t know the way.
Then Ma asked the chowkidar to go with us.’ Ratan shuddered and
gripped the edge of my coat. ‘Did you hear a baby crying, Babu?
What was that but a ghost? We would surely have lost our lives
tonight if Ganesh Pande had not been with us. He is a Brahmin and
ghosts are scared of Brahmins.’
 I was too exhausted to protest or laugh. ‘Did you see anything,
Babu?’ Ratan probed.
‘No.’
‘Are you offended because we came after you? If you had seen
the way Ma cried—’
‘No, Ratan. I’m not in the least offended.’
As we approached the camp, the chowkidar, tabla player and
guard took their leave. Ratan said, ‘Ma wanted to see you before you
went to your tent.’
I hesitated. My whole being went out to Pyari. I visualized her
sitting before a flickering lamp with tears in her eyes waiting
anxiously for my return.
‘Come,’ Ratan said.
I shut my eyes and looked within myself, flashing a powerful beam
in all the nooks and corners. I saw a thousand drunken devils leap
up at her name. I felt them throbbing in my blood and hammering at
my heart. No. I could not go to Pyari like this.
‘Come, Babu,’ Ratan said again.
‘No, Ratan.’ I was surprised at the calm of my voice. ‘Not now.’
‘Ma has been waiting—’
‘Give her my regards and my apologies. I will see her tomorrow
before I leave. I’m very sleepy. Good night, Ratan,’ and leaving him
staring after me in puzzled indignation, I walked away towards my
tent.
 9

THERE IS NO GREATER FOOL IN THE WORLD THAN THE MAN

WHO ATTEMPTS to analyse himself for he has taken into his own
hands a task that he should have left to God. Some go even further.
They attempt to draw conclusions about others—even characters out
of books. ‘So and so could never have acted as he did,’ and ‘The
reaction of such and such is most unconvincing,’ they proclaim
confidently and, in nine cases out of ten, win the acclaim of readers.
They are successful critics and respected for their ability to pull
another’s created world to pieces. I am ashamed of such men. It is
not that I resent their criticism. Far from it. The world is full of flaws
and my books certainly are. What I do resent is their ignorance of the
complexities that make up the human psyche and their proud
parading of this ignorance. They have no knowledge of the many
emotions that lie dormant in the consciousness, ready to erupt and
explode at a spark.
Let me speak for myself. From childhood onwards, I had cherished
an image of womanhood and held it close to my heart. Needless to
say it was that of Annada Didi. Day by day it had grown brighter and
more chiselled under my jealous care. I had wept innumerable tears
over it, made promises to it and dreamed dreams. I had believed in
its immortality. If someone had told me, even a week ago, that my
image was made of clay and could be reduced to dust by a singing
girl’s smiles and tears I would have called him mad. For I was as firm
as a rock about one thing—that only the woman who could reach the
height of stoic idealism that Annada Didi had set as a standard,
could find a place in my heart. Yet, the morning after my night’s vigil
at the burning ghat, I woke up with a strange pain lacerating it—a
pain irretrievably linked with Pyari’s tear-filled eyes and trembling
mouth. But how could such a thing happen? How could Pyari’s
memory throw a shadow on Annada Didi’s? What did the two have in
common? One wore a crown of thorns—the other wallowed in silk
and velvet. One was the picture of renunciation—the other of erotic
extravagance. I had thought that my heart, sealed as it was with
Annada Didi’s burnished gold, would never admit baser metal. But
alas! Unworthy and despicable brass had shattered the gold and
tumbled joyfully in, filling all the nooks and corners.
I am aware that my critics are getting impatient. ‘Why all this
beating about the bush?’ they grumble at me. ‘Why don’t you
confess the honest truth—that you were falling in love with Pyari?
And since that is the truth don’t drag your Annada Didi into it.
Whatever you may say, however you may say it, one thing is certain.
The image of stoic idealism that you say was stamped in your soul,
must have been as insubstantial as mist. Otherwise you could never
have replaced it with that of a prostitute’s physical perfections.’
I will not argue my case for I know that argument will get me
nowhere. People will call me a humbug and a hypocrite and I must
resign myself to hearing these words. Yet, I was not a hypocrite. The
only sin I was guilty of was that of omission. I had not kept track of
my unconscious motivations. Today, when one—the least worthy of
them—rose up and proudly claimed the highest seat I was
bewildered and could not control it. My head was bowed in shame
but my soul danced on a wave of ecstasy.
‘Babu Saheb!’
I sat up in bed. It was the prince’s servant. With a respectful
salaam he bade me come to His Highness’ tent as a large crowd had
gathered there, anxious to hear the events of the night.
‘How do they know I went?’
‘His Highness’ guard saw you return at dawn.’ I washed the sleep
out of my eyes and, changing into fresh clothes, walked over to the
prince’s quarters. As I entered, I was welcomed by a chorus of
voices clamouring all at once. The old man who had challenged me
yesterday stood by the prince, his eyes burning with a fanatical light.
Pyari and her musicians occupied one corner. I looked in her
direction but she refused to meet my eyes. She sat in sullen silence,
eyes downcast—face averted.
When the clamour subsided. His Highness spoke, ‘Well done,
Srikanta! You’re a brave man. What time was it when you reached
the burning ghat?’
‘Between twelve and one o’clock.’
The old man spoke, ‘It was the most inauspicious hour. The moon
had dropped its last digit by half past eleven and amavasya had set
in.’
Several people spoke at once but my host’s voice—anxious and
frightened—rose above the others. ‘What happened then? What did
you see?’
‘Human skulls and skeletons.’
‘Were you at the edge of the burning ghat?’
‘I walked right in and sat on a sand heap.’
‘Could you see anything from where you sat?’
‘A vast sandy shore.’
‘And—?’
‘Tussocks and catkins and silk-cotton trees.’
‘And—?’
‘The river …’
‘I know all that,’ His Highness broke in impatiently. ‘Didn’t you see
anything else? Anything—you know what I mean?’
‘I saw a couple of bats. They flew over my head,’ I said, laughing
at my host’s expression. The old Bihari came forward and asked in
Hindustani, ‘You didn’t see any spirits?’
‘No.’
My reply was disappointing to a tent full of people. The old man
voiced the collective indignation.
‘What you are saying is nonsense,’ he cried passionately. ‘You
haven’t been to the burning ghat.’
I smiled at this childish outburst. His Highness gripped my arm.
‘Tell me truthfully, Srikanta. What did you see?’
 ‘I told you, I saw nothing.’
‘How long did you stay?’
‘Three hours.’
‘In three hours you saw nothing and heard nothing?’
‘I heard a good deal.’
At this everyone in the tent sat up. Some of them crept up close to
me, their faces avid with curiosity. I told them of the night-bird that
had shrieked ba-ap; of the baby vulture that had whimpered for his
mother; of the sudden gusts of wind that had set the skulls sighing
and moaning and of the skeleton that had breathed a cloud of icy
vapour over my neck and ear. I think I told my story well for long after
it was over my audience sat silent—as still and grave as rows of
stone figures.
At last the old Bihari spoke. ‘Babuji,’ he said, ‘you are a true
Brahmin, or else you would never have come back alive. But
promise this old man that you’ll never take such a risk again.
Blessed are the parents who gave you birth. It was their penance
that saved your life.’
He then proceeded to explain the phenomena I had described in
terms of the supernatural, and so strong was his language and so
great his histrionic power that even I—unbeliever as I was—felt
runnels of ice-water trickling down my spine. I sensed a trembling
body close behind me. I turned my head and saw that it was Pyari.
She had left her place and had crept up to where I sat. Her eyes
were enormous in a face as white as paper and her cheeks were
streaked with unwiped tears. Whenever I thought of Pyari, in later
years I thought of her like that. That white-flower face, rain-drenched
and drooping, was welded in a flash to the deepest sources of my
being. At the conclusion of the discourse she rose quietly and
bowing to the prince, begged leave to retire. Then, without a glance
at anyone else, she walked out of the tent.
I was to have left the camp that morning but, overcome by a
curious lethargy and depression—the result, no doubt, of my night’s
vigil at the burning ghat—I decided to take His Highness’ advice and
postpone my departure. I returned to my tent and lay down but sleep
wouldn’t come. I thought of Pyari and of how she had refused to
meet my eyes. In the few days that I had known her, she had been
deep and tender, spirited and provocative, even sharp and shrewish
at times, but never cold—never aloof and withdrawn. Yet her
indifference did not hurt. It gladdened and warmed my heart. I knew
little of the psychology of young women but something—the minutest
fragment of the collective knowledge of the world that lay unbeknown
within me—told me that this was another expression of Pyari’s love.
Her indifference did not spring from pride or dislike but from a sense
of injury. I had ignored her entreaties; had not thanked her for
sending a search-party and had refused to meet her after my return.
She was suffering—as only a woman can suffer—from what she
believed to be a thwarted and unrequited love.
I slept fitfully through the day—the hope that Ratan would come
for me making me restless. But afternoon waned into evening and
still Ratan did not come. The conviction that Pyari would send for me
was so strong that I felt sure Ratan had come into my tent and,
seeing me asleep, had left. ‘The fool!’ I thought angrily. ‘Why couldn’t
he wake me up?’
I was assailed by a sense of loss. The mellow green-gold winter
afternoon could have been ours together and I had wasted it in dull,
stupid sleep. There was no doubt in my mind that Ratan would come
again after dark. He would leave a message or a note or an invitation
to come to Pyari’s tent. The sun was quite low in the west but it
would take some hours for darkness to set in. What could I do to fill
in the hours before Pyari sent for me? Shading my eyes with my
hand I looked out on the landscape.
A vast sheet of shimmering water lay ahead, I walked towards it
and sat on the crumbling bank. It was an enormous lake nearly a
mile across—so old that no one knew its age or history. The locals
believed that villages had once flourished around it and drawn their
source of life from its waters. Then a terrible wave of cholera had
devastated the land. There had been a mass exodus and the lake
had been abandoned. Over the years, large parts of it had been
reclaimed by the forest swamp. From where I sat I could see
deserted homesteads crumbling to dust and dark brooding tamarisks
creeping over the lake on stealthy feet. The water was still and black
except where the slanting rays of the setting sun turned it into liquid
gold. Then the gold burnt out into ashes and the mauve-grey mists of
twilight fell over the lake. A jackal slunk out of the jungle and stood
for a moment silhouetted against the fading light.
It was time I rose and went back to the camp. But some power
beyond my control willed me to stay. I thought of the many people
who had inhabited the land around the lake before pestilence had
stricken their ranks. Gaunt, grim-faced men passed me like figures in
a shadow show. Women, long dead and gone, rose from the lake
and walked away, dripping water as they went. The ghosts of little
children laughed and played as they bathed in the twilight. I saw
innumerable men and women in the last throes of death, staggering
to the lake on unsteady feet only to drop down—their thirst
unquenched.
‘Babuji,’ the old man had said, ‘death is not the end. The unhappy
soul lingers on, thirsting for the joys of the flesh long after the body is
consumed to ashes.’
In the morning light that had streamed into the tent, his words had
fallen on deaf ears. Now, in this desolate darkness, they took shape
and form and were imbued with a deeper meaning. I understood, in
a flash of intuition, that if anything truly exists in life—it is death. We
nurture our joys and sorrows, loves and hates, desires and
renunciations through all our living years for the supreme moment of
consummation that is death. After that—what? I had never asked
this question before. Today, I did.
A light footfall behind me shook me out of my reverie. I looked
back but there was no one and nothing but the deep, dense gloom. I
stood up and started on the walk back. What hour was it? By the
look of the sky it was well past midnight. How long had I sat by the
bank of a dead lake communing with creatures who had long since
shed their mortal frames? Were my nerves playing tricks on me?
Why else did I feel I had been walking for hours and hours?
Something that looked like a gigantic bamboo clump loomed ahead
of me. Had it been there when I walked to the lake? On reaching the
spot, I found that my eyes had deceived me. It was the shadow
thrown by three immense tamarind trees which, entwined together
for centuries, reared up hydra-headed to meet the sky. A thread-thin
track serpentined below it. It was so dark that I could not see my own
hand. A drumming sound filled my ears which I knew to be the
beating of my heart. I shut my eyes and walked rapidly past the
spreading tangle of trees. When I opened them again I saw
something I dimly recognized—almost as if from another life—the
bridge across the river on which I had stood last night. How did I get
here? My legs trembled and almost gave way. But, driven by a force
I did not understand, I ran till, my lungs fit to burst, I stood on the
bridge viewing the mahasamsan at my feet. But the inexorable
footsteps that had driven me from one land of the dead now led me
to another. I climbed down the bridge as if in a dream, walked
through the forest of silk-cotton trees till I came to the burning ghat.
Almost fainting with weariness, I sank down in the dust and shut my
eyes. The footsteps I had followed did not falter. They went ahead
growing fainter as they entered the heart of the mahasamsan.
 10

IF MY READERS EXPECT ME TO EXPLAIN THE EVENTS OF THE

NIGHT I MUST beg leave to cry off. Why I walked those long miles
from the lake to the burning ghat and whose footsteps lured me on is
a mystery—even to me and I prefer to let it lie undisturbed. This
distaste for analysis does not indicate a regression in terms of my
distrust of the spiritual. Far from it. In fact, my nightmarish journey
from one dead man’s land to another puts me in mind of a strange
character I had known in my boyhood.
He was an old, half-crazed peasant who begged for a living during
the day and played funny tricks on his benefactors at night. Draping
a white sheet on a ladder, he would walk about with it to the terror of
the villagers. Sometimes he covered his face with soot and, peeping
through windows, called out to the occupants in a nasal voice.
During the day he was the picture of humble obsequiousness. At
night he transformed himself into a malicious imp—so clever that
though many suspected him, no one ever caught him. When he lay
dying he confessed everything and with his death the village was rid
of its ghosts. But he never explained why he had played these
pranks and what he had gained by them. That remained a mystery—
perhaps even to him. Some such character may have been abroad
on the night of my sojourn from the lake to the burning ghat.
To go back to what I was saying. When I dropped down at the
edge of the burning ghat, the footsteps I had been dogging grew
faint and were lost in the sounds of the night. As they faded on the
air, they said to me, ‘For shame. Did you walk all these miles only to
stop like a coward on the threshold? Take courage. Come all the
way. Come right where our hearts beat. Become one of us.’
I don’t know if I heard these words or only felt them in my blood as
it pounded and pulsed in my brain. Then, for a long while, I sat
motionless till my eyes glazed and the blood grew cold and heavy in
my veins. But, even in that state of suspended life, a spark of
consciousness urged me to turn back, to flee to the mortal world
where I belonged. But I could not move. A lassitude, sweet and
heavy, weighed down my limbs. I was content to sit where I was,
alone with the night.
I realized then, as never before, that night had a beauty
unparalleled by any other universal phenomenon. Darkness flowed
out of a vast vault of sky and I floated on its waves. How exquisite
was this ocean of unfathomable darkness! I wondered who the fool
was who first taught man to glorify light and discredit the dark.
Darkness is the first, the primeval truth that lies at the heart of
Creation, I thought. It broods over all that is deep, inexplicable,
eternal and infinite in the Universe. Pervading darkness shrouds the
source of all light and all life—that is God. Even Death—the one
inexorable truth in the life of all created things—is a journey through
chasm after chasm of impenetrable darkness. Just such a wondrous,
awesome darkness must have filled Radha’s eyes with the love that
flooded the world! My whole being quivered in ecstasy at the
throught. I was in the midst of death and Death, like the eternal lover,
was strange and darkly beautiful. I rose and followed Death’s silent
footsteps.
‘Beloved,’ I murmured as I went, ‘release me from the pain and
weariness of living. Carry me on your wings to that infinite darkness
that is your domain. Give me a place with those you love.’
I walked on like a soul possessed till, reaching the heart of the
crematorium, I sank down among the dust and bones. I don’t know
how long I sat there but after what seemed only a little while the
darkness lifted from one end of the sky and Venus—star of the
morning—rose, pristine and pure, from the other. Voices, low and
muffled, were at hand. Gradually they grew louder and more
insistent. Then someone spoke from out of the trees.
‘Srikanta Babu!’
‘Who is that? Ratan?’ I responded instantly.
 ‘Yes. Come away from there. Ma is waiting for you in the cart.’
‘Are you going away, Ratan?’
‘Yes. We left the camp before dawn.’
I walked through the forest to the bridge where the cart with its
bullocks stood silhouetted against the grey sky.
Pyari pushed away the curtain that hung in front and said, ‘I knew
it was you the moment the cart-driver said he could see someone
among the trees. Get in. I have something to say to you.’
‘I can’t. I have to get back to the camp.’
Pyari put out a hand and pulled me in. The cart moved on.
‘Don’t make a scene in front of the servants.’ She almost
screamed the words. ‘Sit down for God’s sake.’
Stunned by the passion in her face and voice I sat, quite meekly,
waiting for whatever was coming.
‘Why did you come here again tonight?’ Her voice was sharp.
‘I don’t know,’ I said and it was the truth.
‘That’s a lie.’
‘It isn’t. I didn’t wish to come. I don’t know why I did.’
‘Do you mean to tell me you were blown away from your tent by
the spirits?’ Her voice had a sneering edge to it and her hot fingers
gripped mine like a vice.
‘No. I walked all the way. But why and when I cannot say.’
Pyari fell silent at these words. Her eyes, dark and frightened,
stared into mine.
‘Rajlakshmi,’ I said gently, ‘let me tell you everything.’
I described the events of the night as best as I could. As I did so I
could feel the hand that still held mine grow cold and tremble like a
leaf. But she didn’t speak a word. After a while I said, ‘I must go.’
‘No! No,’ Pyari murmured as if in a dream.
‘But I must,’ I insisted. ‘Don’t you see? People will think we have
gone away together.’
‘Does it matter what people think? They are not your guardians. I
beg you, Kantada—don’t go back to the camp. Another night there
will kill you. Don’t come with me if you don’t want to. Go home or
anywhere you please—but don’t, for God’s sake, go back to that
terrible place.’
‘My clothes …’ I began helplessly.
‘Let them be. If your friends wish to, they can send them after you.
If not—bear the loss. They are of little value.’
‘That is true. But you forget something. Can the loss of my
reputation be borne as lightly?’
As I said these words, the cart turned a bend and the eastern sky
came into view. I looked from one rose-flushed face to another and it
seemed to me that the two had something in common. Both faces—
that of the morning sky and the prostitute Pyari—reflected the glow
of a wondrous sphere of pure flame as it spun through darkness and
chaos.
‘Why are you silent, Rajlakshmi?’ I asked gently.
Pyari smiled. ‘You know why, Kantada?’ she said lightly, ‘I have
signed so many false documents in my life that my hand stops at
signing a true deed of gift. Go if you must. But promise me you’ll
leave the camp before evening.’
‘I promise.’
Pyari pulled a ring from her finger and placed it on my feet. Then
touching her forehead to the ground she rose and dropped it in my
pocket.
‘I have another favour to ask of you,’ she said. ‘Will you write me a
letter as soon as you reach home?’
‘I will.’
I climbed out of the cart and walked away. I did not look back even
once but I knew, to a certainty, that the cart stood still in its tracks
and a pair of dark, agonized eyes gazed upon my form till it faded
from view.
The sun was well above the horizon by the time I reached the
camp. My eyes fell on Pyari’s tent—deserted and reduced to cloth
and bamboo. I felt a lump in my throat. Averting my face I walked
purposefully on.
As I pushed aside the curtain that hung in front of my tent,
Purushottam stirred in his sleep and said, ‘You went out early,
Srikanta Babu.’
I did not reply. Stretching out to my full length, I shut my burning
eyes.
 11

AS SOON AS I REACHED HOME, I WROTE MY PROMISED

LETTER TO PYARI. HER reply came just as promptly. It contained
no invitation to visit her in Patna but the last line of the letter was
intriguing. ‘Remember me in your sorrow if not in your joy,’ she
wrote. But, both in sorrow and in joy, her memory grew hazy and
promised to fade away altogether as the days went by.
Then a strange thing happened. It was Holi night—I remember
that well. Exhausted from the excitement of the festival, I lay on my
bed—too lethargic even to wash the colour from my face and hair.
The window by my pillow was wide open and a huge ashwatha tree
that stood just outside it had a glorious full moon trapped in its
branches. This I remember clearly. Then, I don’t know when, I rose
and walking out of the door went straight to the railway station,
bought a ticket to Patna and got onto the train. When I woke up the
next morning, the train was standing at Badh station. Patna was only
a few miles away.
Suddenly, I have no idea why, I got off the train. I stood on the
platform watching it glide away, gently at first, then gathering
momentum on its path towards Pyari. Putting my hand in my pocket I
fished out a two anna bit and ten pice in loose coins. This will do for
the present, I thought and a curious happiness welled up within me. I
walked to a sweet shop and had a lavish breakfast of chire (flattened
rice), rich curd and molasses (which took care of half my cash) after
which I set out to explore the village. I wandered about for sometime
realizing, quite soon, that excellent as the food was, the air and
water of the village were to be condemned, for the enormous meal I
had eaten got digested so soon and so thoroughly that I felt as if not
a grain had passed through my lips in years. I decided to leave the
place. As I stood reflecting on which direction I should take, I saw a
thin column of smoke rise from a mango grove just a little distance
away. Smoke indicated fire and fire meant cooking. I decided to
investigate.
The most wonderful of sights met my eyes as I pushed my way
through the dense undergrowth. It was a makeshift ashram with
every evidence of good living. What could be a holier combination?
Tea, bubbling in a huge brass pot, ejected clouds of fragrant steam.
A young sanyasi was milking a goat, an older one stirring bhang in a
stone pot. Hookahs for smoking ganja were scattered about. Two
camels, two mules and a plump milch cow with her calf were
tethered to the trees. Amidst all these riches the Baba sat, coated
with ashes from head to toe, eyes closed with devotion and ganja
fumes. I was so entranced by the scene that I decided to become a
part of it. ‘To hell with Pyari,’ I thought.
I clutched the Baba’s feet and said in a piteous voice, ‘I am your
unfortunate, errant son, Babaji. Show me the true light. Give me the
privilege of serving you and so lead me to a higher state of
existence.’
Babaji smiled into his ashen beard. ‘Go home, son,’ he said in
Hindustani. ‘The path of the ascetic is planted with thorns. It is not for
you.’
‘Babaji,’ I implored, ‘the Mahabharata tells us that the demons,
Jagai and Madhai found salvation through service to a rishi. Am I
even lower than them that you do not deem me worthy of serving
you? Keep me as the lowliest of all your servants and I will attain
moksha. I know I will.’
Babaji was pleased. ‘You speak right, my son,’ he said with an
indulgent smile. ‘As Ramji wishes!’
The elder of the two disciples now came forward with a huge glass
of tea which he handed to the Baba. The Baba sipped from it and,
having had his fill, distributed the dregs among the company. For, by
virtue of touching the holy man’s lips, the tea had become prasad.
Then, it being too early for bhang, Babaji ordered me to prepare a
chillum of ganja. The speed and efficiency with which I accomplished
this task won his approval. ‘You have many talents, my boy,’ he said.
‘You are fit to be my disciple.’ Thrilled at the turn my life had taken, I
touched his feet.
Early next morning, I bathed in the river and put on the garb of my
new calling. I was given a full suit of saffron, a dozen rows of
rudraksha beads and a pair of heavy brass bangles. I took up a
handful of ash from the censer and rubbed it on my face and hair for
greater effect.
I couldn’t resist the temptation of seeing how I looked. I winked at
Babaji and asked for a mirror. I could see that Babaji had a sense of
humour. He smiled conspiratorially and opening a tin trunk, handed
me a small mirror of the type that barbers use. I retreated with it to a
safe distance and examined myself. I couldn’t stop laughing at the
face that looked back at me. No one could recognize me now for the
elegant young man who had consorted with princes and been
entertained by singing and dancing girls, only a few days ago. After
an hour or so, when my mirth was under control, I returned the mirror
to my guru maharaj and sought a formal initiation into my new life.
My humble request pleased him exceedingly but he forebore to grant
it.
‘Wait a month or two, my son,’ he said.
Then he proceeded to treat his disciples to a discourse on the life
of the ascetic. He told us that it was based on a stoic renunciation of
the joys of the flesh and a total submergence of self in the Eternal
and the Infinite that was represented in the world by the guru. He
spoke bitterly of charlatans who had tarnished this noblest of callings
and enjoined upon us to follow his instructions to the letter, for only
by so doing could we avoid the pitfalls that lay on the road to
salvation.
He then proceeded to give us some practical advice. He told us
that the fruits and leaves of certain bushes and shrubs contain
properties that, if inhaled or partaken of orally, act as a miraculous
aid to the kind of renunciation and submergence he advocated.
However, along with this treatment, care must be taken to feed the
body on substances that help to sublimate the mind and keep one’s
thoughts and actions pure and holy. The spiritually uplifting foods
recommended by Babaji—roti, milk, butter, ghee, curds, chire, sugar,
etc.—were all freely available in our ashram. I was an obedient
disciple and followed my guru’s instructions closely. The result was a
blossoming in health and looks which my body had not seen in
years. In a few days, the faintest swell of a paunch became visible
beneath my ascetic’s robe.
There were only two things that irked me in my new calling. One
was the mandatory begging for alms that was an integral part of the
life of a sanyasi. I found it most distasteful but, it being one of the
primary tasks allotted to me, I couldn’t escape it. In time, however, I
came to accept it and it was made endurable by the fact that Bihari
women, as a rule, were more open-handed than their Bengali
sisters. Unlike the latter, the women I begged from never advised me
to try next door or asked point-blank why a hulking young fellow
couldn’t work for a living. On the contrary, the moment they saw a
saffron robe they voluntarily offered a portion of what they had. The
second—the mosquito menace—threatened to shake the
foundations of my new found faith. During the day, life in the mango
grove was idyllic. But the moment the sun set, such a buzzing and
stinging was let loose that the temptation to abandon my great quest
for moksha became irresistible. But the days passed and, as the thin
Bengali skin I deplored grew thicker and less vulnerable, I was
enabled to come to terms with this as well.
While things were in this state, our guru was struck with a sudden
inspiration. One morning, after a bath in the river, I came back to the
mango grove in search of some spiritual refreshment, when I heard
Babaji chanting some verses in praise of Bharadwaj muni—who was
a great servant of Ram and the presiding deity of Prayag.
Bharadwaj muni basahi prayaga
Jinhi Ram pada ati anuraga …
 Babaji sang in a cracked nasal voice. The message was clear:
pack up and begin the journey to Prayag. There was nothing to do
but obey. Strapping our belongings on the backs of the camels and
gathering our livestock together, we set off. After walking five miles
or so we reached the outskirts of a village named Bithaura and
entered a grove of wild lichees and rose-apples. The sun was setting
and the green leaves were dappled with gold. It was such a
charming scene that it won Babaji’s instant approval. Spotting a
spreading banyan tree, he ordered us to unpack and set up our
camp in its shade. Though I wondered how long it would take us to
get to Prayag at the rate we were going, I was not disappointed for I
was in no hurry.
Why I still remember this village and its name is another story and
I propose to tell it here. One day, as I was doing my rounds, my eyes
fell on a Bengali girl through the open door of a courtyard. I was
intrigued for, in the five or six days we had spent in Bithaura, I had
never seen a Bengali—male or female. I noticed that her sari was of
the cheap local weave that Bihari village women wear. But the
manner of wearing it was distinctly Bengali. Sanyasis enjoy
privileges that other men don’t. I walked in through the open door
and stood face-to-face with her. I can never forget the eyes that
stared into mine. She was a child, no more than ten or eleven, but
despair and agony streamed out of every feature, and every limb of
her small face and form.
‘Alms for a sanyasi, beti?’ I said in Bengali. Her eyes held mine for
a few seconds. Then her lips began to tremble and she burst into
tears. I was alarmed for, though there was no one in sight, I could
hear voices within, speaking in the local dialect. If someone came
out and saw us together, what would they think? I stood irresolute,
wondering if I should attempt to console her or rush out of the house.
Before I could do either she sobbed out a string of questions in fluent
Bengali.
 ‘Where are you coming from? Do you live in Bardhaman district?
Do you know a village there called Rajpur? When are you going
back there? Do you know Gauri Tewari of Rajpur village?’
‘Is that where you come from?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ The girl wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘My
father’s name is GauriTewari. My brother’s name is Ram Lal Tewari.
Do you know them? I have been married these three months but I
haven’t had any news from home. How are Ma, Baba, Khoka,
Giribala? Do you see that house by the banyan tree? That is my
sister’s husband’s house. Last Monday my sister hanged herself
from a hook in the kitchen. Her in-laws say she died of cholera.’
‘Why did she hang herself?’
‘She was terribly homesick. She used to cry all the time. She
wouldn’t do the work she was told to do. She wouldn’t eat. So they
tied her by her hair to a beam and kept her hanging for a whole day
and night. That’s why she killed herself.’
‘Are your in-laws Bihari too?’
‘Yes.’ Fresh tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. ‘I can’t understand
what they say. I can’t eat their food. I cry all day and all night. But
Baba doesn’t come to take me away.’
‘Why did your father marry you off to a Bihari?’
‘Because we are Biharis. Our caste name is Tewari. My father
couldn’t find husbands for us in Bengal. He was forced to send us
here.’
‘Do your in-laws beat you?’
‘Don’t they? Look!’ And she showed me bruises and welts on her
arms, back and neck. ‘I’ll the too like Didi,’ she sobbed bitterly, ‘I’ll kill
myself.’
I couldn’t stand there another moment. Turning my face away to
hide the tears that were burning in my eyes, I walked out of the
house.
She came after me. ‘You’ll go to my father? You’ll tell him to come
and take me away? If not I’ll—’
 I nodded my head vigorously stopping her in mid-sentence. Then,
with the little girl’s impassioned plea ringing in my ears, I rushed out
of the house.
A small grocer’s shop stood at the end of the road. As I entered it,
the grocer rose, greeting me with the deference due to an ascetic.
When I asked for a postcard and a pen and ink instead of foodstuffs,
he complied, though not without a surprised stare. I sat down and
wrote a letter to Gauri Tewari. I described the exact circumstances in
which I had found his daughter and repeated, word for word, what
she had said. I did not hesitate even a little to inform him that his
elder daughter had committed suicide. With the warning that the
younger one would follow in her sister’s footsteps if he did not come
to her aid immediately, I ended the letter, signed my true name and
addressed it to village Rajpur, in district Bardhaman. I don’t know if
the letter reached him or, if it did, if he took any action. But the
memory of the child-bride remains with me to this day. Everytime
that innocent, stricken face comes before me, my heart is filled with
a terrible hatred for our ancient heritage—our great Hindu culture
which, under cover of its network of caste and creed, encourages
and propagates the most sordid discrimination against the women of
our land.
Hindu philosophers tell us that it is by virtue of our strict adherence
to the levels and gradings spelled out by the caste-system that our
culture has been able to survive for centuries where so many others
have crumbled away to nothingness. I am well aware that, in the
face of this great historical truth, the violent deaths of two tender
young girls in an obscure village of Bihar may be dismissed as
unimportant. But is the survival of any religion or culture the sole test
of its greatness? Innumerable tribal faiths have survived for centuries
in India, Africa, America and in the many archipelagos of the oceans
of the world. Some of them are older than civilization itself and are
governed by laws that make our flesh creep. What, then, is the worth
of such survival, based as they are on the dominance of one class
over another and of men over women? How did Gauri Tewari feel
when he was forced between two alternatives—the loss of his
daughters or the loss of his place in the Hindu order? What choice
did the poor man have but to sacrifice his daughters, faced by the
pressures of his inherited faith? What is the worth of a structure that
cannot accommodate the lives and well-being of two innocent
children? Could a truly great religion be so inflexible and static?
Mercifully, our thoughts are neither seen nor heard. I left the shop
—the picture of a calm, steadfast, Hindu ascetic. I found Babaji in a
foul mood. He complained that the people of Bithaura were lacking in
deference to sadhus and holy men. The alms they gave was
insufficient and he had no desire of prolonging his stay. I welcomed
his suggestion of moving, for a secret urge to visit Patna was making
me restless. And I had had enough of the villages of Bihar. They
didn’t stand comparison with those of Bengal. Everything about them
—their women, trees, rivers—was drab and uninteresting. Oh, for the
lush luxuriance of rural Bengal! Had I never left it I would never have
learned to value it. Our ponds choke with rotting sedge—our
abdomens with diseased spleens. Our air is thick with malaria!
Factions and squabbles divide every family and every clan and each
village is the sworn enemy of every other. But it is my land and I
remembered it with nostalgia. The urge to cast off my ascetic
leanings and flee from these dull, unfamiliar surroundings became so
strong at times that I could barely resist it.
The next day we left Bithaura and continued on our journey. My
secret wish was not gratified for Patna was ten miles off the direct
route to Prayag. I came to terms with my disappointment with the
thought that, in my present state of sainthood, I should not lust in my
heart for such an unworthy object as Pyari. One evening we set up
camp at a little village called Chhota Bagia—about fifteen miles away
from Ara station. Here I became acquainted with a Bengali
gentleman whose real name I do not propose to disclose. He was
middle-aged and very warm and effusive. I never learned why he
had left his native Bengal and settled down in this remote village of
Bihar, and how he had acquired his property. It was obvious that he
was in comfortable circumstances. He had a young, second wife and
three or four children. I met him once again many years later, but he
did not know who I was. This did not surprise me. Benevolent men
like him prefer to let their good deeds lie in the dark. Since he is
about to feature in my story for a little longer and since I respect his
desire to remain incognito, I shall give him a pseudonym. Let us call
him Ram Babu.
The morning after our halt we heard that there was a severe
outbreak of smallpox in Chhota Bagia and its surrounding villages.
People are apt to be more generous to the mendicant in times of
stress. In consequence, Babaji was inspired to break journey and
take a well-earned rest. In return for a pinch of ashes from the
censer and a sprinkle of water from our holy urn, we were
overwhelmed with gifts. Food, livestock and money poured into the
ashram. I noticed something about the psychology of renunciation
that my subsequent encounters with holy men have confirmed. The
true sadhu cannot resist the goods of the world even if his life is at
stake. Like the locals, Babaji believed in the principle: Javat jeevat
sukhang jeevat (while you live, live happily). But, in his pursuit of
sukhang jeevat, Babaji forgot that one must be alive to enjoy life.
Treating the risk of catching smallpox as of little importance, he
encouraged us to make our rounds and collect as much as we could
from the distraught villagers.
It was in these circumstances that I first met Ram Babu. One
morning he burst into the ashram sobbing out a tale of woe. One of
his sons was stricken with smallpox and the other lay delirious with
high fever. Seeing a fellow-Bengali in distress, I went with him to see
what I could do. I would like to skip over the events of the next three
weeks. How the boys escaped the jaws of death and regained their
health is a long story and it would tire me to tell it and the reader to
hear it. I will just mention the event that changed the course of my
life.
When Babaji was ready to move on, after ten days or so, Ram
Babu’s wife threw herself at my feet. ‘Sanyasi Dada,’ she wept. ‘You
are not a real sanyasi. You are loving and humane. If you desert me
now, my sons will die. I know they will.’
Ram Babu joined his pleas with those of his wife. I couldn’t refuse.
I told Babaji that I could not leave just yet but that I would join him
either on the road to Prayag or in it. Babaji received my proposal
coldly and tried to make me change my mind. Then, giving up the
attempt, he advised me to join him as soon as I could and departed.
The boys recovered but the pestilence raged on, increasing in fury
every day. Soon people started leaving the village. The evening
before Ram Babu and his family were to leave, his wife came into
my room.
‘Sanyasi Dada,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come with us to Ara? We
can catch our separate trains from there.’
‘I’ll do that,’ I said, ‘but you must give me a place in your bullock-
cart.’
‘Why?’ she asked in genuine astonishment. ‘We have only two
carts and there is just enough room for our luggage and ourselves.’
‘I can’t walk all the way, bon,’ I said. ‘I feel very unwell. I have high
fever.’
My new sister’s face paled. ‘Fever? How terrible! You can’t mean
it,’ she said and, without waiting for a reply, she walked out of the
room.
A strange lassitude had been weighing down my limbs for the past
few days. I had ignored it, putting it down to the sleepless nights I
had spent nursing the two boys. But last night I had vomited several
times and from morning onwards my body burned with fever. After
my hostess left, I sank into an exhausted sleep. When I awoke it was
broad daylight. The house was deserted and locks hung from every
door. From the outer room, where I lay, I could see the cattle track
winding its way to Ara station. At least five or six carts passed this
path every day—their owners intent on flight.
By late evening I was able to find myself a place in one of these.
The old Bihari who befriended me dropped me off outside Ara station
at crack of dawn. There was a tin shed under a tree which had once
been used as a waiting room for passengers. It had become so
dilapidated over the years that it was no longer fit for human use.
Stray cattle and dogs sheltered in it against the rain. I was dragged
into this shed by a couple of coolies and a young man that the Bihari
had called in from the station. This young man laid me down on
some tattered bedding that must have been his own, stifling my
feeble protests with the assurance that he never used it. Then,
bringing me a bowl of hot milk, he asked me if I wanted to inform
anyone of my condition.
I realized that I was very ill and, if such high fever persisted, would
lose consciousness in a few hours. But I couldn’t come to a decision
as to whom I should inform. When he visited me again in the
evening, carrying a bowl of water and a lantern, I called him to my
side and said, ‘If I pass into a coma, abandon me to my fate. But
before that write a postcard to Pyari Baiji of Patna. Tell her that
Srikanta lies, mortally sick, in a tin shed outside Ara station.’
The young man rose saying, ‘I’ll send off a telegram immediately
and also write a letter.’
To this day I regret the fact that I did not get to know him better.
There was no time, for within a few hours of our conversation, I lost
consciousness. Five or six months later, when I had regained my
health, I made inquiries at Ara station and was told that he had died
of smallpox a couple of months before then. All I could gather about
him was that he had come from East Bengal and was a railway
employee, earning fifteen rupees a month.
My last thought before I crossed the twilight zone between the
conscious and the unconscious states was, ‘May God grant that
Pyari receives the message.’ After that—merciful oblivion.
 The first thing I became aware of on regaining consciousness was
the ice bag on my head. I was lying on a bed in the middle of a
spacious room. A small table stood by my side with some medicine
bottles on it. Someone in a red checked wrapper was lying on a
string-cot that stood by the wall. I remembered, as if from a dream,
faces passing before me; hands lifting me on to a palki; my head
being shaved and medicine being poured down my throat. Then,
someone spoke in a voice I recognized.
‘Banku, isn’t it time we changed the ice?’
A young man of eighteen or nineteen rose from the string-cot. ‘I’ll
change it,’ he said, ‘but why don’t you take a rest, Ma? The doctor
said it isn’t smallpox. Why do you worry—?’
‘Goodness,’ Pyari’s voice cut him short. ‘Can women ever stop
worrying? I’m quite all right, son. You change the ice and go back to
bed.’
Banku obeyed and presently faint snores came from the string-cot.
I softly called out, ‘Pyari!’
Pyari’s face appeared above mine instantly. ‘Do you recognize
me? How do you feel now?’ Very tenderly she wiped the sweat off
my brow with the edge of her sari.
‘Better,’ I said. ‘When did you come? Are we in Ara?’
‘Yes. We’re going back home tomorrow.’
‘Home?’
‘Home to Patna. Where else can I take you in this state?’
‘Who is the boy, Rajlakshmi?’
‘My stepson. But he is no less to me than a blood son. He lives
with me and studies in Patna College. Now don’t talk anymore. Try
and get some sleep!’
She covered my mouth with her hand. I took it in mine and turning
over on my side, fell asleep.
 12

I WAS SUFFERING FROM SOME FEVER BUT NOT FROM

SMALLPOX. IT MAY HAVE had a medical name but whatever it was
—it was unknown to me. I gathered that Pyari had come post-haste
to Ara the moment she received the telegram. Renting a house on
the very day of her arrival, she had had me shifted and had brought
all the doctors of Ara—good, bad and indifferent—to my bedside. It
was well that she had done so, else the readers of Bharatvarsha*
would not have been tested for their patience.
Early next morning, Pyari woke Banku up. ‘Go to the station and
reserve a second-class compartment to Patna. Don’t delay, son. The
sooner we leave this place the better.’
Banku rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘Are you in your senses,
Ma? The gentleman is too ill to be moved.’
‘Get up and see him for yourself and then decide,’ Pyari said with
a smile.
Banku rose and, after examining my condition, washed, changed
his clothes and departed for the station. It was still quite early and we
were alone in the room.
‘Pyari,’ I murmured.
Pyari was resting on a string-cot at the foot of my bed. She sat up
with a start. ‘What is it? Are you awake?’ She leaned over me and
ran her fingers through my hair.
‘I have been awake for some time.’
‘The fever has broken. Try to rest. You will soon be well.’
‘How long have I been ill?’
‘Thirteen days.’
Then, assuming the voice and manner of an elderly matron, she
said, ‘It is better not to use that name in front of the boy. Why don’t
you call me Lakshmi? You have always done so.’
‘I’ll try to remember.’
 Then I said what I had been planning to say to her ever since I
came out of the coma. ‘Have you not suffered enough for me? Why
do you want to prolong it? Give up your plan of taking me with you.’
‘What do you wish me to do?’
‘I think I shall recover in three or four days. Stay with me till then.
After that—go home.’
‘And what about you?’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Don’t worry. I’ll manage.’
‘That you will.’ Pyari smiled and sat on one side of the bed. ‘I know
this fever will leave you—if not in three days, in ten or twelve. But
who can cure you of your other malady—the real one?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You think something, say something else and do yet a third. This
has been your problem ever since I can remember. You know very
well that I won’t let you out of my sight before a month is out. Yet you
advise me to go home and not suffer for you any more. If you were
really so concerned about my sufferings—never mind—let me tell
you what I saw when I first came to Ara. A sanyasi in a filthy saffron
robe with lashings of rudraksha beads and hair caked with dirt, lying
on a tattered sheet under a tin roof. I was so shocked I didn’t know
whether to laugh or cry.’ Her eyes filled and, lifting a hand she wiped
the tears away. ‘What a day that was! Banku asked me who you
were. I had nothing to say. Was ever a mother in such a
predicament? Honestly, I rue the day I first saw you in the pathshala.
I have suffered since then as no woman in the world has ever
suffered. And now, when smallpox is raging in the town and I’m
worried to distraction, you tell me to go away and leave you to your
own fate.’
We left for Patna that very night. A young doctor accompanied us
with a case full of medicines against emergencies. Within a fortnight
of our arrival I felt well enough to move about. One morning I
decided to explore the house. As I went from room to room, I noticed
something that puzzled me. I was familiar with houses of this type.
Their interiors were invariably dark and ornate and crammed with
love tokens from a variety of donors. Carved furniture, pictures,
glass-cases, mirrors and chandeliers fought for supremacy in every
existing inch of space. I always had a curious feeling, on entering
one of these houses, that the battle was a vicarious one—that the
inanimate objects were involved in a struggle to ensure a place for
their animate masters somewhere within its walls. In contrast, the
rooms in this house were light and airy and the furniture, though
expensive and beautiful, was limited to the essentials. I also felt that
whatever there was, was selected by the mistress herself in
accordance with her own needs and tastes. There was no sign,
anywhere, of trespassers encroaching on her domain. I noticed
another thing that seemed odd in the house of a famous singing girl.
There were no musical instruments and no audience hall.
As I walked along the upstairs gallery, I came upon a room that I
instantly recognized as Pyari’s bedroom even though it was
completely different from what I had imagined. The floor was of milky
marble, the walls pure and shining white. A narrow bed with a
spotless cover was placed against one wall. A wooden rack with
some clothes hanging from it stood at the other. A third item of
furniture was an iron safe. That was all. The stark simplicity of the
room was like a blow to my unprepared senses. A strange
reluctance to put down a shod foot on that polished marble made me
stoop at the threshold and take my shoes off. Then I walked in and,
suddenly overcome with fatigue, sank on the bed. A slight shiver of a
breeze blew in from the branches of a neem tree that reared its head
just outside the window. As I watched the sunlight glinting through
the leaves, the sound of a sweet crooning filled my ears. I turned my
head. Pyari had come into the room. Her sari was dripping wet from
her early morning dip in the Ganga. Without glancing in the direction
of the bed she walked straight to the rack and stretched out an arm.
I said quickly, ‘Why don’t you take your sari to the ghat?’
 Pyari gave a startled laugh. ‘When did you come creeping into my
room like a thief? No, no—don’t go. I’ll change in the other room.’
Then, garad sari in hand, she walked away, her footsteps light as air.
Within five minutes she was back—a pleased smile on her face. She
sat on the bed by my side and said, ‘There’s nothing of value in my
room except myself. What did you come to steal? Not me, I hope.’
‘I’m not such an ingrate. To wish to steal you would be
unforgivable. I am guilty of many sins but avarice is not one of them.’
Pyari’s smile vanished and a pallor spread over the glowing face
of a moment ago. I realized that my careless words had pained her.
In an effort to cover up I said quickly, ‘Does anyone steal what
belongs to them? Why should I want to steal you?’
But she was unimpressed. ‘You needn’t try to please me,’ she said
bluntly. ‘I am overwhelmed with gratitude that you deigned to send
me a message when you thought you were dying.’
‘Lakshmi,’ I said in a genuine effort to bring back the radiance that
I had robbed from that lovely face on this bright, sunny morning. ‘You
must know my true feelings. Had you not come for me that day, my
corpse would be rotting by now in the dirt and filth of the tin shed. No
one would have cared to even dump me in the local hospital. It was
my great good fortune that, in my delirium, your words “Remember
me in your sorrow if not in your joy”, came back to me. I owe my life
to you.’
‘You admit that?’
‘I do.’
‘Then I may claim what is mine whenever I like.’
‘You may. But my life is of such little value that you will find it
useless.’
The smile came back to Pyari’s face. ‘I’m glad that you’ve
discovered your true worth after all these years,’ she said and grew
solemn again.
‘You have recovered well enough,’ she added after a pause.
‘When do you propose to leave?’
 I was startled for I hadn’t expected such a question.
‘I have nothing special to get back to,’ I said. ‘I would like to stay
on for a while.’
‘But my son might wonder about us if you stay too long.’
‘Is that so important? You are his benefactress. You need not fear
him. I’m very comfortable here. I’m not leaving just yet.’
Pyari’s face became sullen and a little resentful. ‘You don’t see the
practical side,’ she said and, biting her lip, abruptly left the room.
The next day, as I lay in an easy chair watching the sunset from
the western veranda, Banku joined me. I took kindly to the boy.
There was a simplicity and innocence about him that I liked.
‘What do you study, Banku?’ I asked.
‘I passed my Entrance last year.’
‘Are you in college now?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many brothers and sisters are you?’
‘I am the only son. But I have four sisters.’
‘Are they married?’
‘Yes. Ma arranged and paid for their marriages.’
‘Is your own mother alive?’
‘Yes. She lives in our ancestral village.’
‘Has your stepmother ever been to the village?’
‘Oh yes! She only returned from there six months ago.’
‘Doesn’t her presence create a disturbance there?’
‘It does. The villagers ostracize us but I can’t throw my mother out
because of that. And such a gem of a mother! Who has a mother like
mine?’
I wanted to ask him the reason for his excessive devotion but
stopped myself just in time.
He continued enthusiastically, ‘What harm has Ma ever done
anyone? She sings for a living. What is wrong with that? Is it not
much better than idling away one’s time in gossip and scandal-
mongering? Ma pays for the education of ten boys from our village.
She distributes clothes and blankets to the poor every winter. Are
these not to be admired?’
‘Certainly they are,’ I agreed.
‘Only last year we fired bricks and rebuilt our house. Ma decided to
enlarge the quarry and convert it into a pond because of the acute
scarcity of water in our village. But the villagers are so wicked—they
refused to draw water from it.’
‘Good God!’ I cried. ‘They preferred to go without water than to …’
‘That’s just it,’ Banku interrupted with a laugh. ‘How long can such
senseless malice last? People started coming to the pond on the sly
—first the Shudras, then the Brahmins and Kayasthas. But the
villagers did not allow Ma to perform the consecration ceremony.
She was deeply hurt but did not utter a word of protest.’
‘This is cutting off the nose to spite the face,’ I said.
‘Exactly!’ Banku agreed enthusiastically. ‘Who wants to be part of
such a community? I’m glad we are outcastes and can keep to
ourselves. What do you say, Srikanta Babu?’
I smiled and nodded. I saw that the boy really loved Pyari. He went
on singing her praises, with mounting enthusiasm, till he realized that
he was doing all the talking and my role was reduced to that of an
audience. Slightly shamefaced, he changed the subject.
‘You’ll be with us for a little longer, I hope.’
‘No. I intend leaving tomorrow morning.’
‘Why?’ he asked, genuinely astonished. ‘You look far from well yet.
Do you feel fully recovered?’
‘Till this morning I did. Now I’m not so sure. I have a slight
headache.’
‘Then why do you wish to leave? Is there anything that disturbs
you here?’
The boy scanned my face for telltale marks. I watched him in
silence. I saw a clean, honest face—simple and childlike. I wondered
if I should tell him the truth. Before I could do so, a slow crimson
spread over Banku’s cheeks—downy with the first flush of manhood.
 ‘Don’t leave just yet,’ he pleaded. ‘Your presence makes Ma very
happy’ Then, blushing fiercely, he rose abruptly and left the room.
I saw that the boy was simple but not unintelligent. I realized now
what Pyari meant when she had said that if I prolonged my stay
Banku might wonder what our relationship was. My conversation
with Banku did something else for me. I understood Pyari as I had
never done before. I saw that, beneath her glamorous exterior, lay
maternal yearnings that tore at her heart. She was beautiful, wealthy
and sought after by the highest people in the land. She was
completely free to live the life she chose. Yet, from the moment that
she had stepped into the role of a mother to some ordinary village
children, she had bound herself with invisible chains. Her own loves
and lusts, her hopes and desires paled into insignificance before her
respect for her new found maternity. She could cheerfully gamble
away the former for one look of love and trust on her son’s face. I
was filled with wonder at the thought. I imagined her exotic,
passionate youth—the luxuriant days, the moon-kissed nights.
Someone who had loved her deeply had given her the name of Pyari
—the name with which she had assumed her new identity. Yet, she
had not hesitated before abandoning both for the sake of her son.
The sun dipped and sank. Looking at it I experienced the strangest
sensation. My whole being was suffused with the rose-gold hues of
that magnificent sunset. I felt my heart melt and merge with that
great ball of fire. I loved Pyari. I knew that without a doubt. We were
drawn irresistibly to one another, linked by memories that dated from
our early childhood. But Banku’s mother stood between us like a
colossal peak and we had to respect her presence.
‘I must break all bonds with Pyari,’ I thought. ‘When I leave
tomorrow morning, it must be forever. On no account must I yield to
the temptation of leaving the slightest thread hanging between us.’
I sat, watching the twilight fade. Dusk came flowing in from the
river wrapping me in a cool, soft haze.
‘Why are you sitting out in the cold with a headache?’
 Pyari crossed the veranda, censer in hand, as she went from room
to room fumigating them with incense smoke.
‘It isn’t cold at all, Lakshmi,’ I smiled up at her.
‘Well! There’s a chill wind blowing.’
‘You are wrong, there’s no wind at all—chill or warm.’
‘Everything I say and do is wrong! But your headache is a fact,
isn’t it? Why don’t you go and lie down? Where is Ratan? Why can’t
he rub your temples down with eau-de-cologne? The servants in this
house are the most idle bunch of no-goods I’ve ever seen.’ And with
that Rajlakshmi went about her own business.
After a while Ratan came in with eau-de-cologne and cool water.
He looked a bit shamefaced. ‘How was I to know you had a
headache, Babu?’ he grumbled. ‘Ma becomes so unreasonable at
times. When she’s in a bad mood we servants get the worst of it.’
‘Why is she in a bad mood?’
‘How am I to know? Big people can afford to have moods …’
Pyari’s voice cut in from the dark, ‘If working in big people’s
houses is so painful, Ratan, why don’t you just leave? I told you an
hour ago that Babu had a headache. What were you doing all this
while? And now you dare to talk about me behind my back. Start
looking for another job from tomorrow. I can’t keep you anymore.’
She departed as silently as she had come and reappeared almost
immediately. ‘I hear you are going home tomorrow.’
I meant to leave Patna but I had no plans of going home.
‘Yes, I’m leaving tomorrow morning,’ I said.
‘What time is your train?’
‘I’ll start early and board the first train I can get.’
‘I’d better send someone to the station for a timetable,’ Rajlakshmi
announced to the world at large and went in.
Ratan completed his ministrations and left.
The household noises died away and the world was wrapped in
slumber. Only I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned on my bed
tortured with the question of what I had done to offend Pyari. Why
was she so eager for my departure? I was aware of her predicament
but, as we were both reasonably intelligent and self-disciplined, I
failed to see what danger lay in my presence. I tried hard to stifle the
pain that welled up in my heart at the thought that perhaps, after all,
she did not love me as I had thought.
Sometime in the night, I do not know how late it was, I was
awakened by a light footfall. Rajlakshmi entered the room. She lifted
the lamp that burned at the table by my bed and stood it behind the
door. Then she closed the window through which a draught of cold
air was blowing straight from the river. For a moment or two she
stood still. Then, coming up to my bed, she put her hand in through
the mosquito net and felt my forehead and chest. After that she
buttoned my shirt and, pulling the cover up to my shoulders, tucked
me in as tenderly as she would a child. Her stealthy footsteps and
secret ministrations were embarrassing to me till I reminded myself
that she had nursed me back to health out of a deep coma. She left
as silently as she had come, shutting the door gently behind her. All
my tension eased away and my whole being was flooded with
peace.
She had come in secretly and I let her go the same way. She
never guessed how much of herself she had left behind in my heart
on that night of my desolation. I awoke the next morning—my body
burning with fever. My eyes smarted and my head felt as heavy as a
stone. But go away I must, I thought. I couldn’t trust myself a minute
longer in her house. I realized that the self-control with which I had
proudly encased myself was as delicate and brittle as the thinnest
glass and could be shattered to fragments at the flick of a finger. I did
not mind my own defeat. I minded hers. I had to leave her for her
own sake. She had washed herself clean from the impurities of her
past life. She had struggled with her deepest love and found the
strength to reject it in return for the love and respect of her children.
If I snatched her away from this bright world that was her due, I
would be making a poor return for the noblest, purest love the world
had ever seen.
‘How do you feel this morning?’ Pyari entered the room with a pale
and anxious face.
‘Not bad. I’m well enough for the journey.’
‘Must you go? I mean—must you go today?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I must.’
‘Will you write me a letter as soon as you get home? We’ll be
worried about you.’
I was awed by the unwavering light in her eyes. ‘Certainly,’ I said,
making my mind up, there and then, to go home as she had wished.
‘I’ll write to you the moment I get home.’
‘I too will write. I have something to ask of you.’
Before stepping into the palki, I looked up at the house. I saw
Pyari standing on an upstairs veranda—her hand on a column. Her
face was as smooth and blank as polished marble. I suddenly
remembered Annada Didi. Many years ago, centuries it seemed to
me, she had stood with just such an expression on her face. The
same look of resignation had been in the eyes that gazed at the
blueing face and twisted lips of the dead Shahji. Those eyes had
haunted me all these years but I had not read their meaning. Today,
looking at another pair of dark, unwavering eyes, a dim perception
came into my own. A great love draws two hearts together with a
magnetic force. But it also has the power to pull them apart with
equal ruthlessness. If my love for Pyari had been formed of base
metal I could never have resisted the temptation of being by her side
—through eternity. I had voluntarily rejected this haven of love and
peace for Pyari’s ultimate good.
‘Don’t grieve for me, Pyari,’ I murmured in my heart. ‘You gave me
my life. I cannot squander it away on ignoble aspirations. That would
be insulting your gift. Wherever I am, whatever I do, I shall hold that
life as my dearest possession.’
 Exile

1
WITH MY PARTING FROM PYARI, A CHANGE CAME OVER ME.
IT WAS AS IF MY life was split in two. One part of me went through
the motions of living. But the other—was Pyari’s. It was because of
her that the sky was a brighter blue, the earth more green and the
breezes of heaven gentler and more balmy. The world was mine and
I was of the world. I floated on a sea of divine content.
Many years have passed since. I have lost the contentment I
speak of but I have no regrets. It is enough for me that I once
experienced a joy beyond compare. What fills me with an awesome
wonder is the thought of the divine power that, working within me,
enabled me to overcome the tensions and frets within and without,
and kept my soul dancing on a wave of ecstasy. If I had only vested
that great happiness in the hands that hold the world instead of
Pyari’s frail, vulnerable ones, I would not have lost it the way I have
done.
I wrote my promised letter to Pyari immediately after my return
from Patna. Her reply came several months later. She expressed her
concern for my health and advised me to get married and settle
down as soon as possible. Ending with the plea that, owing to her
various commitments, she might not find the time to write, she
requested me to drop a postcard, now and then, and apprise her of
my well-being.
 That was all. The castle I had built in the air crumbled to dust. If a
few pieces fell to the ground I did not waste my time looking for
them. I may have wept a little—I don’t remember. Anyhow, another
six months went by.
One morning, as I was about to leave the house, the postman
brought me an envelope. It bore my name in a shaky female hand.
As I drew out the contents, a small piece of yellowing paper fell out
of a larger folded one. It was in my mother’s hand and bore her
signature. It was in answer to a letter written by her Gangajal*
thirteen years ago, just after the latter had had the misfortune of
giving birth to a daughter. Distraught and unhappy, she had poured
out her woes to my mother, hinting at her poverty and the difficulties
of finding suitable husbands for daughters. My mother had written
back, comforting her with the promise that if the worst came to the
worst her own son would accept her Gangajal’s daughter as wife.
I read the letter over and over again. It was no less than a legal
document. Without giving it a thought, she had bound me to her
promise as surely as if she had been an experienced lawyer. Not a
loophole had she left for my escape! Why her Gangajal had
preserved the document for thirteen years without staking her claim
was obvious. She had hoped that someone better than me would
turn up. When no such thing happened and her daughter’s physical
enhancements started drawing the attention of her neighbours in a
not too neighbourly way, she was forced to draw out the weapon in
her possession.
If my mother had been living, I would have swallowed her alive for
putting me in this position. But she was so far above my reach that I
couldn’t touch her toenail with the mightiest leap. I decided to try my
luck with her Gangajal and with that pious intention, I boarded the
train to her village the same night. When I reached her humble
cottage, travel-stained and weary, it was mid-afternoon and Gangajal
Ma was taking her afternoon nap. She started up on seeing me and,
though she did not recognize me at first, she shed so many tears
over me and lamented my motherless state so thoroughly that I was
quite alarmed. Then, assuring me that no one stood more in the
place of my dead mother than she herself, she asked me
innumerable questions on what money and lands my father had left
me; what jewels my mother had possessed; why I didn’t work for a
living and if I did what salary I could expect. All this and much more
she wormed out of me with consummate skill in a remarkably short
period of time.
It did her no good, however, for it was evident, at the end of it, that
her hopes had been severely dashed. In a final effort she told me,
with a mournful face, that a relative of hers had made a fortune in
distant Burma—a land whose cities had streets paved with gold and
where Bengalis were at such a premium that they were lifted bodily
from ships carrying them the moment the latter touched the shore,
and carried away by Englishmen to be showered with jobs, money,
power and prestige. For the first time in my conversation with
Gangajal Ma I sat up, alert and interested. It was not that her
description of the wealth and status enjoyed by Bengalis in Burma—
a foolish misconception and one shared by many others as I later
found out—enthused me particularly. My roving instinct which had
lain dormant for so many years was roused by the thought of that
fabled land which one could reach only after crossing an infinite
stretch of wild and violent sea. I longed to go.
I had taken it for granted that Gangajal Ma had given up her idea
of securing me for her daughter. I was wrong. That night, after
serving my meal, she sat by me and treated me to a long monologue
on happiness in marriage and how it rested on the girl’s fate alone.
She cited many examples (corroborating them with names and
dates) of marriages arranged after careful consideration of the
wealth, education and lineage of the groom, coming to naught
because the girl was not fated to enjoy them. On the other hand,
many marriages which were considered unfortunate during the
negotiations turned out very happy and in many cases men who
were both uneducated and poor, miraculously attained wealth and
status solely by virtue of being the husbands of their wives.
I told her, as firmly as I dared, that though I had no quarrel with
wealth and status I had no intention of securing them through
marriage and, in any case, there was no guarantee that her daughter
was one of the lucky ones. But she brushed aside my fears and
wishes. Having had me in her power for thirteen years she was loath
to let me off so lightly. She spoke to me sentimentally of mother love
and what a beautiful thing it was; of mothers’ promises and how it
was the duty of all grown-up sons to redeem them or else the mother
might suffer pangs of guilt even in paradise. My fears had reached
alarming proportions and my tired brain ran in circles desperately
seeking a loophole of escape when Gangajal Ma suddenly
announced that there was an eligible bachelor in the next village who
was prepared to marry her daughter with a dowry of five hundred
rupees.
I heaved a sigh of relief but it was only for a moment. Five hundred
rupees! Where would I find such a sum? I tried to reason with
myself. Why should I bind myself to an idle promise made by a
woman long dead and gone? But, however hard I tried, I could not
shake off the sense of responsibility. My mother had given her word
and there was no escape. Satisfying Gangajal Ma for the present
with the promise that I would return with the money in a month’s
time, I departed.
The only person I could think of approaching for the five hundred
rupees was Pyari, but I hesitated. It was over a year now since I had
seen her or even heard from her. Except for that one letter I had
written after leaving Patna, and her brief reply, there had been no
correspondence between us. Yet, surprisingly enough, I arrived in
Patna one evening with the ostensible objective of begging Pyari to
finance the marriage of a poor village girl. As I walked in through the
gate, the two uniformed guards who sat on either side stared at me
as if they had never seen the likes of me in all their living years. I
realized that unbathed, unshaven and shabbily dressed as I was, I
was an anomaly in these surroundings. I wondered why Pyari had
exchanged her old and courteous durwan for these arrogant
strangers.
Undecided about whether I should ignore them and walk in or to
seek permission to enter, I stood hesitating, when Ratan came
running out of the house and, touching his forehead to the ground at
my feet, asked with a beaming face, ‘What are you doing outside,
Babu? Why don’t you come in?’
‘I’ve just arrived, Ratan. How are you all?’
‘We are well. Go right upstairs, Babu. I’m going out to buy some
ice. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘Is your mistress upstairs?’
‘Yes,’ and with that Ratan departed.
As I went up, snatches of conversation and sounds of gay laughter
wafted down from a room at the top of the stairs. I was surprised, for
that room had not been in use the last time I had been here. It had
had furniture piled up at one end and only Ratan entered it, once in a
while, to dust and sweep. As I walked in through the door, my
surprise turned to amazement. The marble floor was covered with
the finest carpets over which spotless white sheets were spread.
Velvet cushions and bolsters were scattered about and resting
against them, half-lying, half-reclining, sat a group of men. My
entrance must have startled them for they stared at me as though
they were seeing a ghost. Although they wore dhotis like Bengali
gentlemen, I guessed that they were Biharis from the embroidered
muslin caps on their heads. A tabla player with his instrument
occupied one corner and near him, a harmonium in front of her, sat
Pyari Baiji herself, resplendent in silk and brocade, and flashing with
jewels.
The blood drained from her face as she looked up at me. After
what seemed hours (though it was only a few seconds) she forced a
smile to her wan lips and said brightly, ‘Arre! It is Srikanta Babu.
What a surprise! How long have you been in Patna?’
‘I arrived today.’
‘When? Where are you staying?’
I looked around me in a daze. I couldn’t find my voice for a minute
but when I did, it was steady.
‘You don’t know everyone in Patna,’ I smiled. ‘Their name would
mean nothing to you.’
The gentleman who sat in the centre of the room, and was
probably the chief person in it, now extended a cordial welcome.
‘Come, Babuji. Take a seat,’ he said, patting the cushion beside him
with a smirk. Without saying a word he had conveyed to the
company that he knew, to the last detail, what my relations were with
Pyari. My face burned. With a word of thanks I bent down to untie my
shoe laces debating furiously with myself as to what my conduct
should be. In the few seconds that I had, I decided that I would not
betray, by a word or glance, the hurt bewilderment that had taken
hold of me. As I went in and sat in the place indicated, I knew that
my face bore not a trace of the storm that was raging in my heart.
Flashing a brilliant smile at Pyari I said, ‘Baiji Bibi, if I had had
Sukhdev muni’s address I would have dragged him here and tested
his powers of resistance. What have you done? You have drowned
us all in the ocean of your beauty.’
The Bihari gentleman, who was from Purnea and understood
Bengali, smiled at this fulsome praise and wagged his head in
appreciation. But a slow, rich red crept up from Pyari’s neck and
suffused her face till even her ears were flaming. That this was
prompted not by pleasure but by anger and humiliation was not
hidden from me.
I turned to the company and said, ‘My arrival seems to have
disturbed you in your merry-making. Please forgive me. Let the
singing continue.’
 The Bihari gentleman slapped me on the back in a gush of fellow
feeling. ‘By all means,’ he cried, ‘Pyari Bibi! Let us have another
song.’
Pyari pushed away the harmonium and stood up. ‘After dusk,’ she
said shortly and went out of the room.
After her departure, the gentleman started conversing with me in a
low voice. He was a zamindar from Purnea, he said, and a relative of
the maharaja of Darbhanga. He had known Pyari Baiji for seven
years and admired her singing. She had performed in his ancestral
home on several occasions and he himself came to Patna three or
four times a year, staying up to ten days sometimes, to hear her
sing. Only three months ago he had spent a week in her house. He
then asked me bluntly why I had come. Before I could think of a
suitable reply, Pyari came into the room.
‘Why don’t you ask Baiji that?’ I said.
Pyari threw me a sharp look but her voice, when she spoke, was
gentle and subdued.
‘He is from my village,’ she murmured.
‘Babuji,’ I said in a hard, bright voice glancing out of the corner of
my eye at the pensive form that stood by my side. ‘Where there is
honey—bees will congregate, be they from the same village or
otherwise.’
The Purnea zamindar didn’t seem to appreciate what I said. His
face darkened and grew solemn and when his servant came and
announced that all had been arranged for the evening’s puja, he
rose and left without a word. The tabla player and the other men in
the room followed.
Ratan came in and asked Pyari, ‘Ma, which room shall I prepare
for Srikanta Babu?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pyari said angrily. ‘Can’t you do any thinking for
yourself? Is there a dearth of rooms in the house?’ And she swept
out of my sight with an arrogant swish of silk and brocade.
 I realized that my unexpected arrival had thrown the domestic
arrangements out of gear.
Pyari returned in a short while and, giving me a long and level
look, asked quietly, ‘Why this sudden visit?’ and, without waiting for a
reply, ‘Do you intend to stay here for the night?’
‘If you invite me to do so—I will.’
‘Why do you talk of invitations? You are welcome to stay. Only—
you may be a little uncomfortable. You see, the room you had last
time …’
‘Is occupied by the Babu,’ I said finishing the sentence for her.
‘That’s no problem. I’ll sleep in one of the rooms downstairs.’
Pyari stared. ‘Do you really mean to tell me that all this does not
affect you? Since when have you become a saint?’
‘You don’t know me, Pyari,’ I thought. Aloud I said, ‘Why should it
affect me? And talking of comfort, the poorest room in your house is
more comfortable than the railway platform. I shall be fine. If there is
a shortage of bedding—don’t worry. I have a blanket with me.’
Pyari was silent for a while. Then she said spitefully, ‘I’m quite sure
you do. But if I were you, I would rather sleep out in the fields than
endure such humiliation.’
I laughed at the passion in her voice. I knew what she wished to
hear from my lips but deliberately, stubbornly, I made my voice calm
and detached. ‘I’m not such a fool, Pyari,’ I said, ‘that I do not
understand your predicament. I know that, had it been in your power,
you would have given me the best room in the house as you did the
last time I was here. But the matter is so trivial that it is hardly worth
discussing. Tell Ratan to show me my room. I’m terribly tired.’
‘You are wise,’ Pyari said. ‘I’m relieved that you understand.’ Then,
suppressing a sigh, she added, ‘But you haven’t told me why you
have come.’
‘There are two reasons but I’ll tell you only the second.’
‘Why not the first?’
‘It has become irrelevant.’
 ‘Let us have the second, then.’
‘I’m going to Burma. I may never see you again—at least not for
many years. I wanted to see you once before I left.’
At this point, Ratan came and announced that my room was ready.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I must sleep for a while, Pyari. Come to my room
after an hour or so if you can. I have something more to tell you.’
When Ratan led me upstairs to Pyari’s bedroom I was surprised.
‘Why this room, Ratan? I was supposed to sleep downstairs.’
‘Downstairs? You to sleep downstairs? Are you joking, Babu?’ And
Ratan smiled and turned to go.
‘Just a minute, Ratan,’ I said. ‘Where is your mistress to sleep?’
‘I’ve made a bed for her in Banku Babu’s room.’
I looked around me. There was no sign of the narrow cot and
wooden rack that I had seen on my earlier visit. A vast, intricately
carved four-poster stood in the middle of the room with snowy sheets
spread over a high luxurious mattress. A small table stood on one
side with a lamp, a few books and a bowl filled with jasmine on it. It
was obvious, at one glance, that no servant’s hand had done all this.
The room bore, in all its details, a loved one’s touch. Even the bed
had been made by Pyari—I had not a doubt.
Pyari’s pain and humiliation at my feigned indifference was crystal
clear to me for I knew and understood every nuance of her character
and temperament. My abrupt entrance had startled her into
somewhat uncharacteristic behaviour, but no one knew better than I
what lay in her heart. She had expected, even hoped, that I would
betray a sense of grievance and jealousy. It was to that end that she
had flung her childish barbs at me. But I had ignored her deepest
needs. I had affected a cruel unconcern in the proud conviction that
it expressed my strength and manliness. The thought filled me with
guilt. I tried to sleep but sleep would not come. I waited for her
footfall in eager anticipation.
I may have dozed off for a few minutes. I woke up suddenly to find
Pyari sitting by me—her hand on my chest. I sat up.
 She said without preamble, ‘People who go to Burma never return.
Do you know that?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Then …’
‘Even if what you say is true, why should it affect me? I don’t leave
anyone behind for whom I must return.’
‘Don’t you?’
It was a simple question but it hit me in a vulnerable spot which I
had not known existed. In the past I had successfully hardened my
heart to all her pleas and tears. But now, to my horror, my self-
control suffered a complete breakdown. Without knowing what I did, I
murmured, ‘There is one. I admit it. If I ever come back, it will be for
your sake alone.’
Pyari flung herself on me and wept without restraint. I felt her body
shaking with sobs and warm tears trickling down my chest onto the
sheet.
‘Get up, Pyari,’ I said, laying a hand on her head. She did not
reply, nor did she raise her head. I held her face between my palms
and forced her to look up.
‘No, Pyari, no,’ I said, and wiped away her tears.
‘Tell me,’ she said hoarsely, ‘tell me truthfully—that man’s
presence here—you don’t think ill of me?’
‘No.’
‘But—but you know I’m not a good woman. You know I’ve led an
immoral life.’
I was silent. It was a paradox and I had no way of resolving it. I
knew all there was to know about her. Yet I could not think of her as
immoral and depraved.
Suddenly she sat up—her head held high.
‘May I ask a question?’ she said, her voice hard as nails. ‘Why is it
that a man, however degenerate, is allowed to change his ways and
come back to his family and the society in which he was born while a
woman, should she commit the tiniest error, finds all doors locked
against her?’
I had no answer.
‘I was young and innocent. People exploited me and made me
what I am. Now that I seek a new identity, why won’t you give it to
me?’
‘No one can stop you from reforming yourself. Even if society
won’t accept you there are other means of escape from the life you
lead.’
Pyari gazed on my face long and full and there was something in
her eyes I could not fathom.
‘Very well,’ she said, ‘then you can’t stop me either.’
A slight cough was heard and Ratan stood by the door.
‘What is it, Ratan?’ Pyari asked, sitting up.
‘It is very late. The cook has dozed off in the kitchen. Isn’t it time
Babu had his meal?’
‘Gracious!’ Pyari looked guilty and shamefaced. ‘I lost track of the
time. You must all be hungry.’
She went down quickly and brought my meal, as she always did,
with her own hands. Then, after I had eaten, she came up to my
room and flung herself at the foot of the bed. It was one o’clock.
‘I have passed many sleepless nights for your sake,’ she said. ‘I’m
going to keep you awake tonight whether you like it or not. I’ve
thought it over. I can’t let you go to Burma.’
‘What am I to do, then? Keep drifting as I am?’
Pyari did not condescend to reply. She asked me another question
instead. ‘Why do you wish to go so far away?’
‘I want work. I’m not going there for my own amusement.’
Pyari sat up angrily. She fixed her eyes on my face and said in a
passionate voice, ‘You may fool the whole world but you can’t fool
me. God will never forgive you if …’
‘I know all that,’ I interrupted. ‘But what do you want me to do?’
 Pyari looked pleased at this appeal. ‘I want you to give up your
wandering ways. I want you to marry, settle down and raise a family.’
‘Will that really make you happy?’
She nodded so vigorously that her earrings trembled and twinkled.
‘That’s a relief,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact that is one of the
reasons I came to Patna. To tell you that I’m to be married.’
‘Really? Do you really mean it? I’ve prayed and prayed to Ma Kali
and at last she has answered my prayers. But please remember that
I shall choose the girl.’
‘You can’t. The girl has been chosen already.’
A shadow fell over the laughing face. ‘That is good news,’ she
said.
‘I don’t know if it is good news or bad. All I know is that my
marriage is settled. There is no way out.’
Suddenly, Pyari lost her temper. ‘All lies!’ she shouted. ‘Why do
you always trifle with me?’
‘What I have just told you is the absolute, unadulterated truth. See
these.’ I pulled the two letters out of my pocket and handed them to
her.
She took them but said resentfully, ‘I don’t read other people’s
letters.’
‘Then you needn’t worry about other people’s futures either.’
‘I’m not worrying in the least.’
But she did not return the letters. After a while, she walked up to
the table and read the letters by the light of the lamp. After what
seemed an incredibly long time, she returned to the bed. ‘Are you
asleep?’ she asked softly.
‘No.’
‘I can’t let you marry this girl. I knew her as a child. She was not a
nice girl.’
‘You read Ma’s letter?’
‘Yes, I did. There is nothing in it that can be considered binding.
And even if there is, I won’t let you marry her. That’s final.’
 ‘What kind of girl would you have me marry?’
‘I can’t answer that straightaway. I must think it over and then
decide.’
‘If I am to wait for the girl you approve of, I may as well resign
myself to being a bachelor—in this life at least. In my next birth we
shall see. So be it. I’m in no hurry. But the girl has to be married off.
Five hundred rupees will do it. Her mother told me that.’
Pyari sat up in her excitement. ‘I’ll send the money tomorrow,’ she
cried joyfully. Then, sobering down, she added, ‘Believe me, I object
to this match only because she’s not the right girl for you. Otherwise
…’
‘Otherwise what?’
‘Otherwise nothing. I’ll find a girl worthy of you and then talk about
it.’
‘Your efforts will be wasted,’ I said. ‘You’ll never find a girl worthy of
me.’
She was silent for a long, long while. Then she asked suddenly,
quite out of context, ‘Will you take me with you to Burma?’
‘Do you have the courage to come with me?’
Pyari’s eyes held mine. ‘Do you really believe I don’t?’
‘What about all these? Your house, furniture—all your
possessions?’
‘I’ll give them all to Banku. What is my wealth to me if, in spite of it,
you are forced to go to Burma to earn your living.’
I made no comment. I stared out of the window into the dark
expanse outside.
‘Is it necessary to go that far?’ Pyari put out a feeler. ‘Will my
money never be of any use to you?’
‘No. Never.’
‘I knew that. But will you take me with you?’ She placed a soft,
moist palm on my foot.
I remembered the day Pyari had practically asked me to leave her
house out of her consideration for Banku’s feelings. I had marvelled
at her strength of mind. Tonight I witnessed a total collapse of the
rigid self-control that was such an integral part of her character. Her
soft voice, humble with love, threatened to shatter all my powers of
resistance. But I did not succumb.
‘I can’t take you with me,’ I said. ‘But I’ll come back to you the
moment you call. Whatever I do, wherever I am, I shall be yours and
only yours.’
‘Only mine?’ she cried out in wonder.
‘All my life.’
‘Then you’ll never marry? Never lead a normal life?’
‘No. I will never do anything that makes you unhappy.’
Pyari’s lip trembled and her eyes swam. ‘You will live the life of an
ascetic? For a woman like me?’
‘That I will. It is not much of a sacrifice for what you have given me
has fulfilled me completely. You must always remember that,
Rajlakshmi.’
Her eyes held mine briefly. Then, flinging herself on the bed, she
burst into a storm of passionate tears.
The house was dark and silent. Not a mouse stirred. I had a
sudden vision of the night looking in through the window at her
exquisite counterpart—born of the same womb, as rapturous, as
passionate—performing her heart-breaking act. I felt her quiet eyes
rest on Pyari. I saw a gentle smile hovering about her mouth as with
a last, lingering look, she turned away and was lost in the first pearly
light that streamed from the east.
 2

THERE ARE SOME MEMORIES THAT NEVER FADE NO MATTER

HOW MANY YEARS roll by. Pyari’s last words, just before I left
Patna, still ring in my ears as clearly as if they were uttered
yesterday. ‘I’m not an ignorant child,’ she had said, weeping bitterly.
‘I know I must be punished for what I have done. But what is being
meted out to me is too painful to be borne. Our society is too
unequal—too cruel to its women. It will suffer for this some day. A
terrible punishment awaits it—as God is my witness!’
Why Pyari cursed Hindu society the way she did was known to
herself and to her God. It was not totally unknown to me either but I
chose to remain silent.
As I stepped into the carriage, Pyari rushed up to me. ‘You are
going so far away. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. I have one
last request. Will you grant it?’
‘I will.’
‘The way you live,’ she murmured. ‘If anything happens, God
forbid, will you send me word?’
‘I will.’
Pyari wiped my feet with the end of her sari. She said hesitating,
humble, ‘Do you have to go? Don’t go.’
I averted my eyes from her streaming face and trembling lips. The
carriage moved on. The clamour of creaking wheels and horses’
hooves exploded in my ears but through it all I heard her soft, almost
inaudible sobbing all the way to the station.
 3

ONE FOGGY MORNING, A WEEK LATER, I STEPPED OFF THE

TRAIN AT THE Koilaghat area of Calcutta. A khaki-clad coolie
swooped down on my tin trunk and bedroll like some bird of prey and
vanished out of sight in the twinkling of an eye. I scanned the crowd,
forcing back the tears of panic and fury that stung my eyes, but it
was several hours before he reappeared. As the train was entering
the station, I had observed herd upon herd of motley-coloured
animals packed between the road and the jetty. Coming closer I
recognized them for what they were—not animals but men, women
and children who had spent the night in the cold and the fog in the
hope of securing some space to sit in on the boat that was to carry
them across the black water. I had a reservation for the deck but my
heart quaked at the thought of forcing my way through this turbulent
sea of humanity to the entrance of the jetty.
There were people from the length and breadth of India—from
northernmost Kabul to southernmost Kumarika. There were
foreigners too. A group of Chinese in black vests dominated the
scene. Suddenly, as if at a signal, the fifteen or sixteen hundred
people stood up and started forming lines, as meek and docile as a
gigantic flock of sheep. I wondered why, for, as far as I could see,
there was no sign of a ship, not even in the distant horizon.
I asked a man in the crowd, ‘What is happening? Why has
everyone stood up?’
‘Dog-tori,’ he mumbled.
‘What?’
‘Dog-tori. For the Pi-lage.’
I was no wiser for this communication. Nevertheless I decided to
follow the instincts of the herd and wedge myself somewhere in the
line. But, try as I would, not a chink could I discover in the solid wall
before me. Finally, at the tail end of the queue, I found some
Mussalmans from Khidirpur standing, not with the belligerence of the
others, but rather awkwardly in scattered twos and threes. There is
one characteristic that distinguishes the Bengali from the other races
of India. He is more sensitive to humiliation. That being made to wait
for hours like sheep and goats is an affront to human dignity was writ
large on the faces of these men. I decided to join them. They worked
as tailors in Rangoon, they said, and had made the trip several
times. They explained to me that all the passengers were required to
go through a medical examination because the authorities feared
that some may be carrying the plague.
After what seemed hours, a white doctor and his assistant were
seen approaching and the examination began. I could not see much
of what was going on for the stretch before me was formidable.
However, as the line diminished, I noticed that the examination
involved a stripping of the body down to the hips and a probing into
all those private parts that might conceal a lump. I heard the
exclamations of fear and pain as men, women and children were
subjected to the insensitivity and ruthlessness that characterize the
white race in its dealings with the coloured and I cursed the passivity
that has been bred in the Hindu from time immemorial.
When my turn came, I shut my eyes and surrendered to the
inevitable. Mercifully, it lasted only a few minutes. I was declared fit
to travel. The next step was to find a place in the boat.
One who has never mounted the deck of a ship has no idea of
how it is done. Packed into a congealed mass of stinking bodies, I
was alternately pulled forward and pushed backwards in a series of
jerks that bore a closer resemblance to the motion of a giant
machine than to the movements of human beings. I reached the
deck, almost swooning from lack of air, but there was no way I could
stop there. The relentless pressure from behind propelled me on to a
gaping hole through which a flight of dark steps led to the monstrous
cavern of the ship’s hold. The mighty stream of Punjabis, Bengalis,
Madrasis, Gujaratis, Marathas, Afghans, Chinese, Marwaris and
Biharis gushed into the cavern with the force and turbulence of a
mountain cataract. I may have lost consciousness for a few
moments for I have no memories of the downward flight. When I
came to, I found myself standing, dazed and stupid, at one end while
my travelling companions were already seated and chatting with
their neighbours. The floor of the hold was miraculously partitioned
into thousands of segments with sheets and blankets, steel trunks
and wooden crates. It was at this moment that my coolie
reappeared.
‘I have kept your luggage on the deck, Babu. Shall I bring it
down?’
‘No. On the contrary, take me out of here if you can.’
Movement was impossible without stepping on people’s bedding
and stumbling over their possessions for, barring the few inches of
space on which my feet were planted, there was not a spot of
unoccupied territory on the floor of the hold. The coolie gripped my
hand and with commendable speed and efficiency, got me out of the
hold without seriously disturbing the floor arrangements. Then,
leading me to my tin trunk and bedroll, he took his tip and departed.
I looked around. Here too the floor space had been neatly
apportioned among the travellers and there was no room for a
latecomer like me to spread my bedding. There was nothing for me
to do but sit on my trunk and watch the magnificent expanse of the
Ganga over which the steamer was now inching along. I had been
thirsty for a good while now and the terrible ordeal of the last two
hours had done nothing to ease it. But I had neither a glass nor a
pitcher with me. In the hope of borrowing one from a fellow-Bengali, I
walked gingerly towards the steps that led down to the hold. As I
stood at the top, a deafening clamour assailed my ears, the likes of
which I had never heard in all my living years. It sounded as if a
gigantic cowshed, the one owned by King Virat of the Mahabharata
perhaps, was on fire—such a snorting, bellowing, stomping, fuming,
raving, raging, came from below. With a quaking heart I peeped
down the hole and what a sight met my eyes! Each member of that
vast sea of humanity was engaged in singing his national or
provincial anthem with a ferocity that only matched his neighbour’s. It
seemed as if the ship was carrying as its cargo all the musical talent
to be found from Kabul to the Brahmaputra, from Kumarika to the
distant borders of China.
I have heard it said that Shakespeare, the great bard of England,
believed that the man who loved music was incapable of murder. But
Shakespeare, possibly, hadn’t heard the kind of music that drove a
man to murder. While I stood rooted to the ground, I saw a man
making frantic signs to me from below. I climbed down and pushed
my way through the crowd, ignoring the indignant looks and
exclamations that followed me till I came to where he stood. When
he realized that I was a Brahmin, he folded his hands with great
humility and introduced himself as the ‘famous’ Nanda Mistri of
Rangoon. Beside him sat a corpulent woman in her forties with
enormous red eyes rolling in her head above which her unnaturally
thick eyebrows met—as fierce and bushy as a field of tussock.
‘Babu moshai,’ Nanda Mistri said, rubbing his hands. ‘This is my wi
—’
But before he could finish, the woman had lashed out at him as
venomously as a hooded cobra. ‘Wife!’ she spat out the word. ‘He
dares to call me his wife! Are you my wedded husband? I warn you,
Mistri—don’t you dare ruin my reputation with your evil lies.’
I stared, shocked beyond belief.
Nanda Mistri went on rubbing his hands and trying to placate her.
‘Why do you lose your temper, Tagar?’ he asked humbly, ‘What is
the difference? We have lived together for twenty …’
‘So what if we have lived together for twenty years? Does that
make us man and wife? Since when has the daughter of a Boshtom-
born been the wife of a Shudra? Have I ever let you enter my kitchen
or touch my food? Not even my sworn enemy can say that of me.
Tagar Boshtomi would rather die than besmirch the caste she was
born into,’ and Tagar rolled her eyes at me in pride and triumph at
her illustrious birth.
Put in his place, so severely, Nanda Mistri mumbled angrily, ‘You
heard what she said, Babu? Caste! As if there is anything left of it
after all these years. I am a simple man and I put up with her
arrogance. Anyone else …’ and looking into the eyes of his
companion of twenty years he gulped and left the sentence in mid-
air.
I borrowed a glass and departed. All the way back to my tin trunk, I
couldn’t stop laughing at the Vaishnavi’s logic. But immediately
afterwards I reminded myself that Tagar was, after all, a foolish
illiterate woman. There were many educated and respectable men in
the cities and villages of Bengal who fell back on a similar logic when
faced with the prospect of losing caste. But males—no matter what
they do or say—are protected from mockery in our society. We laugh
at women—never at men.
Towards evening, clouds started massing in the east and after
midnight, strong winds, accompanied by intermittent rain, set the
ship rocking drunkenly. However, the morning dawned calm and
clear, and the steamer resumed its staid and stately motion over the
blue water. I hadn’t suffered any ill effects, possibly because I had
experienced the motion of a boat over and over again from my early
childhood. I wondered how Nanda Mistri and Tagar had fared in the
night. I went down to the hold as soon as it was light and found the
pair sitting solemnly in their corner. The musicians of yesterday were
sprawled all over the floor around them. It would obviously take them
a little while longer to be able to sit up and resume their singing.
‘How did you pass the night, Mistri?’ I asked.
‘Well enough,’ replied Nanda with a yawn.
‘Well enough!’ Tagar bared her fangs at Nanda. ‘Have you taken
leave of your senses? It was the worst night of my life—Ma-go-Ma!*
What a commotion!’
‘Why? What happened?’
 Nanda Mistri grinned up at me. ‘Nothing much, Babu,’ he said.
‘Have you seen the Calcutta vendors prepare sade batrish bhaja?
With three flicks of the thumb at the bottom of the cone they make
the thirty-two-and-a-half ingredients jump and dance about till rice,
beans, peas, chhola, matar, masur, arhar—all become as one. That
is exactly what happened last night. We all rolled about the ship from
this end to that. Fortunately, a true Boshtom-born doesn’t lose caste
or else my Tagar—’
‘Again! You dare utter those blasphemies again.’ Tagar glared at
Nanda like a wounded bear ready to spring.
Nanda apologized hastily and, pulling a long face, sat staring at
the roof of the hold. A few yards away from them, a pair of
Kabuliwalas, coated with filth and grime from head to foot, were
busily stuffing large pieces of roti into their tangled beards, quite
oblivious of the fiery darts showered on them from Tagar’s saucer-
like eyes.
After a while, Nanda got restive. ‘Are we never going to eat?’ he
asked plaintively.
I was puzzled. ‘It is barely dawn,’ I said, ‘After a while …’
‘We had a fine large pot of rosogollas with us,’ Nanda said
tearfully. ‘I had been begging Tagar to open it ever since we boarded
the steamer. “Let’s have some,” I said. “Why do we deny ourselves.”
But would she listen? “I want to take it with me to Rangoon,” she
insisted. Now take it with you to Rangoon if you can.’ (This to Tagar.)
Tagar made no answer to the charge. Snorting angrily she
continued to roll her fiery eyes at the hapless Kabulis.
‘What happened to the rosogollas?’ I asked, unable to contain my
curiosity.
Nanda glanced briefly at Tagar. ‘I don’t know that. All I saw in the
morning was the broken pot, there,’ he pointed with his finger, ‘and
the syrup all over the bedding—here, see. If you want more
information ask those rascals,’ and he glared balefully at the Kabulis.
 I was dying to laugh but I controlled myself with an effort: ‘Forget
the rosogollas,’ I said. ‘Don’t you have chire with you?’
‘That we do.’ Nanda brightened visibly. ‘Show Babu moshai the
chire, Tagar.’
Tagar kicked a small bundle viciously in my direction.
‘Whatever you may say, Babu moshai,’ Nanda said, recovering his
bonhomie of a few minutes ago. ‘Kabulis may be unholy and unclean
but they are true to their salt. They ate our rosogollas but they
offered us a stack of their rotis in exchange. Put them aside carefully,
Tagar. They may come in handy for your malsa bhog.’*
I burst out laughing at Nanda’s joke but one look at Tagar and the
blood curdled in my veins. Her face was mottled with fury and her
voice, coming out of her deep chest, rumbled like thunder, shocking
the shipful of sleepers into a rude awakening.
‘You dare taunt me about my caste?’ she bellowed. ‘You rotten
worm! You dare talk of caste with your vile Shudra mouth? I warn
you, Mistri …’
‘No, no, Tagar,’ Nanda was the picture of abject humility. ‘I didn’t
mean to taunt you. It was a joke—I swear on my head—it was only a
joke.’
‘A joke?’ Tagar’s voice rose higher and to the thunder of her voice
was added the lightning of her eyes. ‘What kind of a joke? You have
the gall to tell me to use a mlechha Mussalman’s roti for my
Govinda’s malsa bhog? Go stuff them into your Shudra stomach! Go
feed them to your pig-father’s ghost.’
At this Nanda could contain himself no longer. He leaped into the
air like an arrow released with a twang from a tensed string-bow.
‘You filthy harlot!’ he screamed grabbing her by the hair. ‘You dare to
utter my father’s name with your foul mouth?’
‘A hundred times! I’ll say it a hundred times, you son of a whore, if
you dare bring my caste on your evil tongue.’ Tagar sprang to her
feet and the two were locked in a deadly combat which threatened to
shatter the very floorboards they stood upon. The battle raged on.
The Hindustanis forgot their nausea and applauded enthusiastically.
The Punjabis turned up their noses in disdain. The Utkals ran hither
and thither squeaking like frightened mice. I stood rooted to the
ground. Never in my wildest dreams had I believed such a vulgar
display possible—particularly from people who belonged to my own
community. I walked away from the scene, my face flaming.
As I came to the foot of the steps, the Jaunpuri durwan who had
been watching enthralled, nodded approvingly at me. ‘Bengali
women are good fighters, Babuji. They don’t give up.’
I couldn’t look him in the face. I ran up the steps back to my trunk
on the deck.
 4

I HAVE NO IDEA OF HOW LONG THE BATTLE LASTED OR HOW

IT ENDED; what the terms of the truce were and whether they were
honoured, for I did not venture into the hold again. It was clear that
Tagar and Nanda had led this cat-and-dog life for twenty years and
there was no reason why they should not continue to do so—for
another twenty.
All day tattered wisps of clouds blew from one end of the sky to
another. Then, late in the afternoon, the wind dropped. A dense
blackness, appearing on the horizon, spread rapidly like a stain over
half the sky. I noticed the crew glancing fearfully upwards; then
darting about their tasks with feverish haste.
I called an elderly sailor to my side, ‘O hé mian!* Will there be
another storm tonight, do you think?’
‘Get down to the hold, moshai,’ he said, by way of a reply. ‘The
captain says a cyclone is coming.’
Within a few minutes I realized that his warning was not an idle
one. The deck passengers were ordered to enter the hold. Those
who resisted were forcibly dragged from their places by the second
officer and pushed down the steps. My trunk and bedroll were taken
down but I eluded my protectors and slipped away. I couldn’t bear
the thought of entering the hold for I had heard that when a severe
storm or cyclone was imminent it was customary to seal the hold in
the interest of the ship’s safety as well as that of its cargo. But safety
did not appeal to me—not just then. I had never seen a cyclone—not
even on land. I hadn’t an inkling of what it was like, to see, to hear, to
feel—and the prospect of experiencing one at sea set me quivering
with anticipation. I told myself that even if the ship broke into a
million pieces and I was flung out to sea—it would be a wonderful
death. Who would exchange that buoyant engulfing by the waves
under the open sky for a slow squeezing out of life in a suffocating
death trap in which thousands of humans dashed about like rats,
cracking their skulls and drowning by inches. That was my first
passage to Rangoon. I had no idea then, that monstrous sharks
swarmed the waters about the king’s ships and that a sea-death
might well follow a terrible ripping of flesh and a crunching of bones
under the waves.
Towards dusk, the mild drizzle changed into a heavy downpour
and the wind increased in velocity. I decided to look for shelter. As I
stepped onto the deserted deck I caught a glimpse of the captain
examining the sky with a telescope. Afraid of being caught and sent
down to the hold, I slipped away again till, in my wanderings all over
the ship, I found what I thought was an excellent hideaway. Piled one
on top of another, at one end of the deck, were several immense iron
crates with livestock in them. I climbed up to the topmost one. I was
safe. Little did I know, then, what fate had in store for me!
By now the rain had become a lashing torrent and the gale was
whipping up flecks of salt foam that hit my face and settled on my
lips. The sky grew darker by the minute and the ship bobbed up and
down on a steadily swelling sea. This is the cyclone, I thought. I had
yet to discover the real thing.
Suddenly the ship’s whistle blew a blast so shrill and penetrating
that a tremor ran through my frame. I looked up at the sky and was
amazed to find the cloud cover gone. Before I could react to this
strange phenomenon, an unearthly rumble rose from the bowels of
the sea and, gathering momentum, exploded against my eardrums
with a deafening clap. And with that came the storm.
Nothing I had experienced in my life before or after was
comparable to what I experienced then. There was a story my
grandmother used to tell me often in my childhood, as I snuggled
against her breast on dark winter nights, of a prince who had dived
into a pond and brought up a silver box with the lives of seven
hundred demons trapped in it in the form of a golden bee. And as he
crushed the bee between his palms, the demons, crazed with pain,
had trampled the earth and rocked the sky in the last throes of death.
Something of the kind was happening now but the demons
numbered—not seven hundred but seven million and seventy.
The gale had become so violent that it threatened to tear the very
Earth from its axis. I had taken the precaution of tying myself tightly
to the iron pole that rose from the deck or else I would have been
blown away as lightly as a leaf. As it was, the wind strained and
pulled against the wrapper which bound me, so viciously, that it
threatened to snap any minute. The water around the ship’s hull
bubbled upwards, pushed by the water beneath. Gripping the pole
with all my might I looked out to sea.
And then—my eyes viewed that which made me bow my head and
utter a humble prayer. ‘My Maker,’ I murmured, ‘You gave me eyes
with which to view your world. But, tonight, in your boundless bounty,
you have shown me that which lay beyond my wildest dreams—that
which is peerless among your creations.’ For, even as I looked, a
vast body of water gathered itself from the heart of the ocean, and
rising like a mighty mountain peak that threatened to shatter the sky,
began gliding majestically towards the ship. Its crown of glittering
phosphorescents shone like rows of jewelled lamps against the blue-
black sky and in their light that darkly beautiful, that awesome,
wondrous face was revealed.
My body and soul quivered in ecstasy. ‘Oh! Lord of the waves!’ I
exclaimed, ‘though death at your hands be imminent let me spend
my last moments feasting on your beauty.’
The ship’s whistle continued to blow in trembling spurts. The
terrified voices of the sailors, calling hysterically upon Allah to save
them from death, rose above it. The cataclysmic wave that was to
engulf us—that which had been dreaded and awaited—was now
upon us.
A deafening explosion rent the air and then the heavy velvet of salt
water curled and foamed around me and above and beneath me. I
thought the ship had sunk and that we had all drowned and were on
our way to the subterranean chambers of the Sea King’s palace,
there to feast and make merry as his guests. But in half a minute the
ship crested the wave and the water gushed out. Wave after wave
crashed against the ship, flooded the deck and ran out in a few
seconds. Below me, the sheep and goats bleated fearfully and the
ducks and hens dashed their wings against the bars in a frantic
attempt to escape a watery death. Then they fell silent. Clutching the
iron pole with both hands I managed to elude death by drowning.
But now a new fear gripped me. If I had to stay here much longer,
dripping water from head to foot, with the wind cutting into my flesh
with blades of ice, I would certainly die of pneumonia. My teeth
chattered and my hands and feet turned numb with cold. I had to get
out of the place and get out fast.
I thought of entering one of the pens but changed my mind. That
was even more dangerous and the pen might well be my watery bier.
The thing to do was to make a dash for one of the cabins in the
thirty-odd seconds that the ship crested the wave before it went
down.
I untied the wrapper and slid down the pole but the cabins were
not near enough to reach in one go. I had to crouch down on the
deck thrice, as the great tidal waves threatened to sweep me out to
sea, then get up and run again before I reached a second-class
cabin. But the door was locked. I hammered with all my might but the
iron door did not yield an inch. Once again I ran, crouched, and ran
again in the direction of a first-class cabin. This time I was lucky. The
door opened. It was unoccupied. Heaving a sigh of relief I dashed in
and sank down on the bed.
By midnight, the rain and the gale had exhausted themselves but
the sea roared on and wave after wave was hurled at the ship’s hull
till the grey dawn glimmered over the eastern horizon.
When morning came, I went clown to the hold to find out how my
travelling companions, particularly Nanda and Tagar, had fared in the
night. Nanda had comically likened his experience of the night before
last with the dancing of the ingredients in a cone of sade batrish
bhaja and had confessed that they had returned to their original
positions only a short while ago. I wondered how he would describe
the events of last night.
As I descended the steps, a sickening stench of vomit and faeces
rose like a cloud, assailing my nostrils so devastatingly that I could
barely breathe. Before me, sprawled in unnatural shapes and
positions, lay a field of bodies over which a gigantic grinder, of the
kind women use to grind their spices, seemed to have rolled. The
ship’s doctor was attending to them while jamadars cleaned up the
mess. Doctor Babu looked me up and down. It was evident that he
thought me a second-class passenger. Yet he feigned great
astonishment. ‘You look quite fresh,’ he remarked. ‘Did you manage
to get hold of a hammock?’
I shook my head. ‘What I got hold of was a crate—an iron crate.
That’s why I look so fresh.’ Then observing the doctor’s
astonishment, I added, ‘I am a third-class passenger like these
others but, lacking their strength of body and will, I shrank from
entering this hell of hells. I spent part of the night sitting on a crate
among the chickens and ducks, and the rest in an unoccupied first-
class cabin. It was a clear case of trespass.’
The story of my adventures entertained Doctor Babu so much that
he instantly invited me to share his cabin for the rest of the journey.
On my declining the offer, he insisted on lending me his deckchair,
which I accepted.
Several hours later, as I lay on the borrowed chair, half dead with
exhaustion and hunger, one of the Mussalman tailors from Khidirpur
came up to me and said, ‘Babu moshai, a woman from the lower
deck has sent for you—a Bengali woman.’ It must be Tagar, I
thought, and what should she want me for except to act as an
intermediary in her caste war with Nanda? But why me? I was in no
mood to humour her.
‘Tell her I’ll come after a while,’ I said.
 The messenger looked crestfallen. ‘She’s in deep distress,’ he
said. ‘She begs very humbly that you come to her aid at once.’
The terms ‘deep distress’ and ‘begs very humbly’ didn’t quite fit in
with Tagar’s personality but there was no doubt in my mind that it
was she who had sent for me.
‘What about the man with her? What is he doing?’ I asked.
‘It is his illness that has upset her so. That is why she seeks your
help.’
After last night anybody might well be ill! Thinking this, I got up and
accompanied the man who led me—not to Tagar and Nanda—but to
the extreme end of the hold where, partially hidden by some
enormous coils of rope, sat a young woman in her early twenties. On
a piece of dirty matting by her side lay an emaciated young man. His
eyes were closed and his breath came in gasps. I was surprised that
I had not noticed them before for the woman’s face had something in
it that held the eye. It was not a beautiful face—at least, not of a
conventional beauty. A high forehead is not generally regarded as an
asset in the female physiognomy but this woman’s large forehead
was rendered attractive by the intelligence and force of character
that was stamped on it. There was something about her that
reminded me of Annada Didi. She was dressed in a cheap red-
bordered cotton sari. Not a speck of gold adorned her body. Her only
ornaments were a pair of conch bangles and the bright red sindoor
that filled the parting of her hair. The iron hoop of wifehood hung
from her wrist.
She rose at my approach and addressed me with a directness that
surprised me as I was completely unknown to her. ‘You are
acquainted with the doctor,’ she said, looking straight into my eyes.
‘Would you ask him to come and examine him?’ she said, pointing to
the man on the mat.
‘I made his acquaintance only this morning,’ I answered, ‘but he
seems a kind man and will surely come.’
 ‘If he expects a fee,’ she said coolly, ‘we cannot pay. In that case
you must help me take the patient upstairs.’
‘The ship’s doctor’s services are free, I believe,’ I said. ‘But what is
the gentleman suffering from?’
I had thought that the man was her husband, so I got a bit of a
shock when she leaned over him and asked, ‘When did the stomach
trouble start? Before you left home?’ Then, on the man’s nodding his
head, she turned to me and said, ‘He was suffering from dysentery
even before we boarded the ship. Then he had fever. It is very high
this morning.’
I bent down and touched the sick man’s forehead. The fever was,
indeed, very high. I left her and went upstairs to call the doctor.
After examining the patient and leaving medicines and
instructions, Doctor Babu turned to me. ‘Come, Srikanta Babu,’ he
said. ‘Let’s go up to my cabin and have a chat.’
‘You have no objections to tea, I hope,’ he asked after we had
settled down.
‘None at all.’
‘And biscuits?’
‘Even less.’
As we sat sipping our tea, Doctor Babu asked me a strange
question.
‘How did you manage to find your way into that set up?’
‘The lady sent for me.’
Doctor Babu wagged his head with an air of wisdom. ‘That’s only
natural,’ he said. ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Then it might not be a bad idea! Hmmm! The man is suffering
from typhoid and his constitution isn’t strong enough to fight it. He
won’t live long—that’s certain. You’d better keep an eye on the
woman or someone else will steal her from under your nose.’
‘I don’t understand a word of what you are saying,’ I said sharply.
 But Doctor Babu was neither embarrassed nor offended. ‘What do
you think, Srikanta Babu?’ he went on, following his own line of
thought. ‘Do you think the man seduced her or was it the other way
around? She’s quite forward, isn’t she? And very articulate.’
‘What makes you so sure they aren’t husband and wife?’
‘Experience. There are couples like them on every boat. Last time
there was a pair from Belghoria. Once you reach Burma you’ll see
what I mean.’
His words were confirmed, over and over again, during my years
in Burma. But that was much later. At that moment, an acute
depression overtook me. Taking leave of the doctor, I went down to
the hold to see Nanda Mistri.
Nanda and Tagar were just settling down to their midday meal.
Nanda glanced briefly at me and asked, ‘Who is the woman, Babu?’
‘What is that to you?’ Tagar snarled. She had a headache and had
tied a piece of cloth tightly around her head. The face below the
bandage was red and hot.
‘Look, Babu,’ Nanda appealed to me, ‘have you ever seen a
woman with a fouler mind? A Bengali girl with a sick husband is
travelling with us and I can’t even ask who she is.’
Tagar threw her bandage off and her headache along with it.
Fixing her protuberant cow-eyes on mine, she said coldly, ‘Babu!
Men like this creature here have passed through my hands in
dozens. I know them inside out. Tell him not to try any tricks with me.
Is he a doctor that he goes rushing off to see the sick man the
minute I go upstairs to fetch water? Who is she to him? I warn you,
Mistri—if I ever catch you even looking at her I’ll break your …’
‘Are you my keeper?’ Nanda sprang up excitedly at her words.
‘Am I your pet monkey that I’ll dance to your tune? I’ll visit the sick
man whenever I like. Do what you can.’
‘We’ll see,’ Tagar said darkly, winding her piece of cloth back on
her head.
 I walked away from them, back to my chair on the deck. Twenty
years was a long time, I thought. Enough to make Tagar appreciate
the fact that where there were no legitimate claims, only vigilance
and a show of ownership kept a relationship going. She dared not
relax her hold on Nanda, even infinitesimally, for the moment she did
that, he would roll away from her hands as callously as her youth
and beauty had. But the woman she had recognized as a potential
rival, about whom Doctor Babu had made those snide remarks—who
was she? Where did she come from? What was her history? Tagar
and Doctor Babu had boasted of their experience in such matters,
and claimed that they couldn’t be fooled. But I, who had known
Annada Didi, could not accept their assessment without question.
Yet, try as I would, I could not attune myself to the complete absence
of womanly modesty in her speech and manner. The doctor had
called her ‘forward’. She was that indeed! The fact irked me, despite
myself.
I was sent for, once again, late that night. Informing me that her
companion was much better, she proceeded to tell me about herself.
Her name was Abhaya, and she came from a Kayastha family of the
Uttar Rarhi clan from a village near Baluchar. The man with her was
from the same village. His name was Rohini Sinha. Abhaya’s
husband had migrated to Burma eight years ago, leaving her in her
native village. He had kept in touch for the first two years—sending
her letters and small sums of money from time to time. For the last
six years, however, there had been a complete absence of
communication. Her mother, her sole surviving relative, had died last
month. Alone, abandoned by her husband and totally without
support, she had found it impossible to stay on in her ancestral
home. She had then taken the decision to journey to Rangoon, look
for her husband and claim maintenance. She had asked her Rohini
Dada to accompany her and he had agreed. Now, in her candid,
forthright manner, Abhaya extracted a promise from me to help her
in her search once we set foot on Burmese soil.
 I must confess that something—a faint distaste—held me back
from responding wholeheartedly to Abhaya’s friendly overtures. Yet,
try as I would, I could not put a finger on what it was that I found
distasteful. There was not a trace of coquetry in her manner nor any
garrulity in her speech. Common sense, warmth and honesty,
together with a deep respect for the man who had stood by her,
emanated from her personality.
‘Srikanta Babu,’ Abhaya asked suddenly, ‘Do you blame me for
what I have done? Would it have been better for me to spend the
rest of my life in passive acceptance of my fate instead of making an
effort to reclaim what is mine? A young woman without a male
protector is so vulnerable in our society. There are so many ways in
which she can be exploited.’
‘Do you have any idea of why your husband has ceased to
communicate with you?’
‘None at all.’ Then, reflecting a little, she added, ‘All I know is that
he lives in Rangoon and works for the Burmese Railway. I have
written many letters but have received no reply. Yet they must have
reached him for not one came back to me.’
I knew the reason for her husband’s silence. Doctor Babu had told
me many stories about Burma—how Bengali men often took
Burmese wives and started new families. Many never returned at all.
They even died there and were buried according to Burmese rites.
Abhaya threw me a sharp glance and said, ‘You believe he is dead
—don’t you?’
I shook my head. ‘On the contrary, I’m convinced he is alive and
well.’
Abhaya stooped quickly and touched my feet before I could stop
her. ‘I pray that you are right, Srikanta Babu. I want nothing more in
life than my husband’s health and happiness.’ We were silent for a
while and then Abhaya said, ‘I know what you are thinking.’
‘Do you?’
 ‘Don’t I? Am I not a woman and a wife? Do you think your
suspicions have not been mine? But I am not afraid. If it comes to
that—I can live quite amicably with a co-wife.’
I did not speak. But Abhaya read my thoughts as if from a book.
‘You are wondering if my acceptance of her will be enough. She may
not accept me.’
‘If that is how it is—what will you do?’ I asked, struck by her
perception.
Abhaya looked frightened and her eyes grew moist. She said, ‘In
that case you must help me, Srikanta Babu. My Rohini Dada is too
simple—too good. He won’t know what to do.’
I promised to help her if I could but added that it might not be a
good idea to bring in a third person to sort out marital differences.
‘These things are best handled by the two persons concerned,’ I
said, and she agreed with a sigh.
The ship was due to reach Rangoon at noon the next day. But
from sunrise onwards I detected a certain restlessness and dread
among the passengers. A new word, kerentin, was on everybody’s
lips. On making inquiries I discovered that the word was quarantine. I
was told that the British government, anxious to prevent the spread
of the plague, had cordoned off a section of the shore, about ten
miles downstream from Rangoon, and put up a row of sheds in
which passengers from India were required to spend ten days before
they were allowed to proceed to the city. The rule, however, was
relaxed in the case of passengers with influential relatives in Burma
who could obtain a sanction from the Port Health Officer on their
behalf.
Doctor Babu called me into his cabin and gave me all the
information. ‘You should have made arrangements to avoid the
quarantine before coming out, Srikanta Babu,’ he said. ‘These ten
days are hell for the passengers. They are treated worse than
animals. For one thing—no coolies are allowed to enter the
quarantine sheds. Then everything is ripped open and sterilized in
boiling water. What with the heat, the dust—’
‘Is there no way of getting out of it, Doctor Babu?’ I asked quite
alarmed.
He shook his head. ‘No! But I’ll have a word with the English
doctor’s clerk. He may be willing to vouch for you—’
Before Doctor Babu could complete his sentence, a commotion,
accompanied by loud curses and screams, sent us hurrying to the
deck. What we saw there shocked me beyond belief. The second
officer of the ship was engaged in viciously kicking and cursing some
five or six sailors who ran screaming helter-skelter in a desperate
attempt to escape the heavy boots. I had observed the English
youth’s arrogance and domineering ways and I knew that Doctor
Babu had had words with him on several occasions.
‘This is highly irregular,’ Doctor Babu said, his voice choking with
fury. ‘You’ll regret it some day—I warn you.’
The Englishman turned round nonchalantly. ‘Why? What have I
done?’
‘You have no right to kick the sailors.’
‘How does one manage cattle without kicking them?’
Doctor Babu was a bit of a nationalist. He said hotly, ‘They are
human beings—not animals. My countrymen are gentle and meek.
That is why they do not report you to the Captain. And you know
they won’t—so you dare heap these indignities on them.’
Suddenly the Englishman smiled—a wide smile of pure delight.
Taking the doctor by the elbow he pointed a finger and said, ‘Look,
Doctor, they are your countrymen, you ought to be proud of them!’
Looking in the direction of the pointing finger, I saw the men who
had been kicked only a few moments before peeping from behind
some barrels and grinning from ear to ear. The Englishman laughed
again and, wagging his thumbs in front of the doctor’s face, walked
away swelled with triumph.
 I glanced at Doctor Babu. Anger, revulsion, humiliation and
despair struggled against each other on his face. He walked rapidly
up to the men and said harshly, ‘What are you grinning at, you
rascals?’
At this, a good measure of self-respect returned to our
countrymen. They stopped laughing and, advancing aggressively,
spoke as if in one voice, ‘Who are you to call us rascals? Are we
your servants that we have to take your permission before we
laugh?’
I dragged Doctor Babu away, back to his own cabin. Holding his
head between his hands he sank down on the bed. ‘God,’ he
groaned, pulling savagely at his hair. Not another word could he
utter.
At eleven o’clock the small steamer that was to carry the
passengers to the dreaded quarantine docked alongside the ship.
Everyone got busy packing and getting his luggage together. I was in
no hurry, for word had reached me that the doctor’s clerk had agreed
to sponsor me. As I stood idly on the deck watching the sailors at
work, a voice spoke behind me. It was Abhaya’s.
‘Why haven’t you packed?’
‘I don’t have to. I’m getting off at Rangoon.’
‘You can’t do that,’ she said. ‘You must come with me.’
‘Impossible!’ I exclaimed, astounded at her tone. ‘I’m not going to
the quarantine.’
‘Then I’m not either,’ she announced. ‘I’d rather jump into the sea
and drown. I’ve heard about it. It’s a horrible place. I won’t go there
without you.’
I stood and stared at her.
‘I didn’t dream that you could be so cruel,’ she continued, dabbing
at her eyes with the edge of her sari. ‘Come, get your things
together. You know I have a sick man on my hands—you’ll just have
to come with me.’
 I realized that Abhaya was involving me in her life to an extent that
I had never sought. But I couldn’t refuse her.
As the steamer glided away with me on board, I saw Doctor Babu
making frantic signs from the deck of the ship. ‘You don’t have to go,’
he shouted waving his arms. ‘Come back. You’ve been given
permission.’
‘Many thanks,’ I yelled, ‘but another command has come my way.’
The doctor’s eyes fell on Abhaya and Rohini Babu. He smirked
and added, ‘Very good. But why did put me through the ordeal of
getting you a sponsor?’
‘I’m truly sorry. I beg forgiveness.’
‘You are forgiven. Goodbye and good luck.’
And Doctor Babu waved a friendly hand in farewell.
 5

QUARANTINE, UNDER THE BRITISH REGIME, IS A FORM OF

IMPRISONMENT FIT only for the lowest of the low. And anyone who
cannot pay more than the minimum ten rupees for a passage to
Burma is automatically relegated to that category. And since such
people have few or no possessions (thus the British mind analyses)
it is perfectly in order that they carry their own luggage through the
half mile walk from the jetty to the encampment. Although I cannot
disprove this logic, the reality of being off-loaded on the burning
sands of a strange river with an alien sun raining its fiery beams on
my head and the steaming air clogging my lungs, was too much for
me. My fellow passengers, with the adaptability and resilience I have
already admired, expertly shifted the heavier among their belongings
on to the heads and backs of their women and, picking up an odd
pot or a blanket, walked briskly to the encampment. Within minutes
the three of us were left alone, staring at each other while our
luggage, strewn in untidy piles, littered the shore.
Presently, Rohini Babu sank trembling on the sand and, leaning
against a bundle, shut his eyes. Prolonged dysentery, fever and
fatigue had reduced him to such a state that he could barely sit—let
alone walk. Abhaya was a woman. Thus the only bridge between the
encampment and the boxes and bundles that represented our
worldly possessions was myself.
Although I’m quite sure that the more idealistic among my readers
will praise me to the skies for my selfless service to my fellowmen, I
have to admit that anything but love and pity for Abhaya and Rohini
Babu dominated my emotions of the moment. Self-disgust and self-
pity were uppermost. I kept telling myself that no greater ass than
myself was ever born on this planet. But what filled me with wonder
was how Abhaya had unerringly picked me from a shipful of
passengers to carry her loads when I looked just as human as
anyone else.
A low laugh from Abhaya made me turn round and look at her.
Worry, despair and extreme fatigue were marked on her
countenance but her laughter rang out pure and clear. I was
surprised. I had expected her to cringe before me in gratitude and
humility for what was she, after all, but an ignorant village girl?
Instead she laughed again and said, ‘If you think you are being
shamelessly exploited you are quite wrong, Srikanta Babu. No one
could have prevented you from going your own way. That you chose
to come with me was owing to your own generosity. Not everyone
gets an opportunity of proving their generosity to the world. You
should thank me for providing you with one. But come, let’s leave our
things here for the present and carry Rohini Dada to the shed.’
I took the sick man on my back and proceeded to the quarantine
camp. Abhaya followed, carrying what she could—a small tin box.
The rest of our luggage was left where it lay but, fortunately, nothing
was lost. We had it brought to us later the same day.
Looking back on the quarantine, I’m forced to admit that the reality
was much better than our expectations. Barring a few initial
difficulties, life in the quarantine shed was not unendurable. This was
almost entirely due to Abhaya’s efforts and the fact that money can
buy comfort even in hell. The doctor had called her ‘forward’ from the
little he had seen of her in the boat. He had no idea of how ‘forward’
she could be when the need really arose. For all practical purposes;
my work was over the moment I deposited the sick man at the
entrance of the encampment. After that she took over.
‘You are tired and deserve a rest, Srikanta Babu,’ she said. ‘You’ve
done your bit. Now I’ll do what needs to be done.’
I was tired. My legs shook under me and the sweat ran in streams
down my head and back. Nevertheless, I asked, ‘What will you do?’
‘Goodness! There’s heaps of work. First I must send someone to
fetch our luggage. Then I must get hold of a good room, get it
cleaned, make the beds and cook a meal. No, no! Don’t get up. I’ll
get everything organized in a few minutes.’ Saying this she turned
and walked purposefully in the direction of the quarantine office.
Within half an hour a chaprasi came and escorted us to the room
in which we were to stay. I looked around and was pleasantly
surprised. It was a fair-sized room, airy and well ventilated. A British
lady doctor was getting it cleaned under her personal supervision.
Two string-cots stood against the walls with bedding spread on them.
Our luggage had arrived and was neatly stacked in one corner. Bags
of rice and lentils, flour, potatoes, ghee and firewood and even new
vessels for cooking, were piled in the other. Abhaya was talking
energetically, in broken Hindi, to a South Indian doctor.
She turned on seeing us approach. ‘Rest for a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll
have a quick bath and get a meal going. A rice and dal khichri will do
for now.’ She picked up her gamchha* and sari and bowing
deferentially to the lady doctor, walked away with a sailor in tow.
The days of our quarantine, organized as they were by Abhaya,
passed pleasantly enough. But, surprisingly, I didn’t get to know her
any better than I had on the boat. I noticed that her attitude to me
had something contradictory in it. On the one hand, she would not
allow the slightest thread of intimacy to develop between us.
Something about her manner stood stark and forbidding like a stone
wall reminding me every moment that we were merely passengers in
transit awaiting the arrival of our destinations and that, once there,
we would be as nothing to one another. On the other, she looked
after my creature comforts as tenderly as if I were the closest of
relatives. She would take all the hardest tasks upon herself. If I
offered to help, she would laugh and say, ‘Let me do it. After all, I am
responsible for the situation we are in. Neither you nor Rohini Dada
would have been here if it weren’t for me.’ Her intelligence and
capacity for action made me wonder at her husband. But I was
certain that, once she found him, he would learn to value her. For,
brute though he was, he was a man, and what man would spurn
such an asset?
Then, one day, the quarantine was over. By tire time we got our
permits, Rohini Babu was fully recovered and we set out together for
Rangoon. It was decided that I would help them to find suitable
accommodation before I went my way. I also promised Abhaya that I
would try my best to seek out her husband.
The day of our arrival in Rangoon coincided with that of an
important Burmese festival. The streets were thronged with votaries,
dressed in bright silks, on their way to and from the temple. There
was a predominance of women, for the Burmese do not confine their
women to the zenana as we do in India. Old, young and middle aged
were dressed alike in vibrant colours with flowers in their hair, behind
their ears and around their necks. Many of them were beautiful with
complexions of pale gold and luxurious hair falling well below the
knees. They were all bareheaded and completely free in their
movements. Laughing, chattering and singing, they surged up and
down the streets like cascades of colour.
I was charmed. This is as it should be, I thought. I couldn’t help
comparing them to Indian women and wondering what we had
gained by depriving them of the freedom that their Burmese sisters
enjoyed. Were we any happier in our women than the Burmese men
were in theirs? Could they spread the sweetness and light that the
latter did so freely and spontaneously? ‘Far from it,’ I thought, with a
stab of envy. ‘If our women could only break their shackles and stand
equal to men …’
My train of thought was rudely interrupted by a commotion just
behind me. I turned around. Three women had just descended from
a carriage and were arguing with the coachman about the fare. The
latter—an Indian Mussalman—kept repeating that he had asked for
eight annas while the passengers insisted, loudly and harshly, that
five annas was the fare they had settled. Within a few minutes the
argument got beyond the verbal. Screaming with fury the three fair
ladies darted to a barrow piled high with sugar cane and, snatching
up lengths of cane, began raining blows on the hapless coachman’s
head and back. The poor man, unused to hitting out at women, tried
to ward off the blows first with one arm then with the other while a
crowd of spectators looked on interestedly. Off flew his turban as a
blow descended, with a thwack, on his head. His whip clattered on
the pavement and was crushed to splinters under the feet of the
agitated ladies.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, the man fled screaming,
‘Police! Police!’ while the crowd jeered and clapped their hands in
appreciation.
Newly arrived from an obscure village of Bengal, I had only heard
of female emancipation—never seen it. I was amazed, for the idea
that emancipation enabled women of decent families to attack a
strong hulk of a man and beat him black and blue in full public view,
had never entered my head. I was so shocked by what I had seen
that I stood and stared blankly at the thinning crowd. Then, collecting
myself with an effort, I went my way.
 6

I STAYED WITH ABHAYA AND ROHINI BABU FOR A COUPLE OF

DAYS IN THEIR new lodgings before starting out to look for my own.
I helped them to settle down as I had promised but the situation
repelled me and I was eager to escape. I told myself, over and over
again, that all may not be as it appears on the surface, and that
intricate relationships of this type are often misunderstood. Did not
my own past experience bear this out? Nevertheless, as I stepped
out on to the streets of Rangoon one fine morning, I felt curiously
free and light-hearted.
At the time that I’m writing about, Bengalis, newly arrived in
Rangoon, were not hunted down as they are today to be cross-
examined and humiliated by policemen in plain clothes and uniform.
I remember that I wandered around all morning, then, bumping into a
man who looked like a Bengali, I asked him the way to Nanda
Mistri’s house. The man stopped and scrutinized my face long and
earnestly.
‘Which Nanda?’ he said at last. ‘Are you looking for Nanda Pagodi
of Ribit?’
‘I’m not sure. He told me he was the famous Nanda Mistri of
Rangoon.’
‘Mistri!’ the man made a face. ‘Everyone calls himself a mistri
these days. Do you know how many anonymous letters Bara Saheb
got when Marcott Saheb said to me, “Haripada, you are the only
worker who deserves to be called mistri”? A hundred. A hundred
anonymous letters! But could they damage my reputation in the
least? Arre, if you know how to hold a saw, if you can cut first and pin
afterwards—who can come in your way? But the trouble is—’
I realized that I had touched the man in a vulnerable spot and that
he would continue to expatiate on the glories of being a true mistri
for several hours if I didn’t stop him.
 ‘Then you don’t know him—’ I interrupted.
‘Of course I know him. I’ve been in Rangoon these forty years. I
know everybody. But there are three Nandas in Rangoon. Which one
do you want?’ Then peering into my face, he said, ‘You are a
newcomer aren’t you? From Bengal? Oh! I know which Nanda. You
want Tagar’s man—don’t you?’
‘That’s the one,’ I said, relieved.
‘Well! Come along with me, then. How can I help you if you don’t
give me the details?’ he grumbled, then went on, ‘He’s lucky to be
making a living—that Nanda. But to call himself a mistri—’
He then asked me my caste and, on learning that I was a Brahmin,
stopped and touched my feet. ‘Has Nanda promised you a job?’ he
asked curiously. ‘Well! he may be able to find you one. But he’ll
expect two months’ salary as commission. Can you manage that?’
I assured him that I was not seeking out Nanda in order to ask him
for a job. ‘He promised to find me a lodging,’ I said. ‘We came on the
ship together.’
Haripada Mistri looked startled. ‘Nanda promised to find you a
place to stay? Where? You are a gentleman. Why don’t you stay in
the mess?’
‘I don’t know where it is.’
The man looked crestfallen. He didn’t know either, he admitted,
but he would make inquiries and let me have the information by
evening. ‘You won’t find Nanda in his room at this hour. He’ll be at
the workshop. And Tagar will be sleeping with her door bolted. And,’
he stopped and threw me a searching look, ‘if you knock on her door
and wake her up, all hell will break loose.’
I knew that quite well and was not prepared to risk it.
‘Why don’t you go to Da Thakur’s place for the day?’ the man
urged. ‘Have a bath, a meal and a good rest. You can meet Nanda in
the evening.’
We reached the hotel around ten-thirty. About fifteen men of the
working class were assembled in the dining room to eat the first
meal of their day. The hotel was located at one end of the city. On
three sides of an enormous stretch of land, workshops and sheds
stood in neat orderly lines. On the fourth, one in a row of wooden
hutments, was Da Thakur’s hotel. This area, known as the mistri palli
(locality) of Rangoon, as I came to know later, was a curious place. A
vast number of people—Chinese, Burmese, Madrasis, Oriyas,
Mussalmans from Chittagong and Bengalis from Calcutta and its
environs—lived squashed together in it and followed a variety of
occupations. They appeared to be a homogeneous lot despite their
squabbles and rivalries. It was by living among them that I first
learned that what we call samskar is not founded upon rock and can
easily be shed.
Two English words ‘instinct’ and ‘prejudice’ together make up the
full meaning of the word samskar. One is not the other—that of
course is obvious. That the strongest of our samskars—the caste
bias—is not instinctive and can easily be overcome, was revealed to
me that very first day at Da Thakur’s hotel. I was amazed at the
discovery. I realized that many of us, who wear the shackles of caste
imposed upon us through centuries of mandatory
compartmentalization, happily, even proudly, in the conviction that
we are upholding and handing down to posterity worthwhile systems
of thought and action, discard them with the greatest ease the
moment we enter an area where they have no relevance. The belief
that to go to England is to lose caste, because stepping on English
soil and partaking of beef are inseparable, has been bred into us so
thoroughly that we accept it without question. Not even the strictest
vegetarian is exempted, for, as the guardians of Hinduism rigidly
maintain, to eat or not to eat is one and the same. Yet ninety per
cent of the passengers to Rangoon, Brahmins for the most part,
(Brahmins being notoriously greedy in this age and time) have no
qualms about eating hearty meals from the ship’s kitchen before they
set foot on Burmese soil. Do they ever question what is being served
by the Mussalman and Goan cooks? Or if what they eat is kept at a
careful distance from what is forbidden? If any of them had the
courage to peep into the cold room of the ship, as I have done, they
would have seen that everything from milk and bananas to pork and
beef are piled indiscriminately, one on top of another. But let us not
quarrel with our blessings. Let us be thankful rather, that the
necessity for a codicil to include the passage to Burma among the
areas of ostracism has not occurred to our caste killers as yet.
Da Thakur received me with great deference and, leading me to a
little tumbledown shed, said, ‘You may stay here as long as you like
and have your meals in the hotel. You need not pay till you get
yourself a job.’
‘How do you know I won’t disappear without paying? You are
seeing me for the first time.’
Da Thakur touched his forehead and wagged his head solemnly.
‘What will be will be. You cannot take my fate away with you. Can
you?’
‘No. I have no need of it,’ I said.
That his implicit faith in his destiny was justified was amply proved
when, four or five months later, he disappeared from Rangoon,
taking away with him several hundred rupees, rings, watches and
other valuables that his clients had entrusted to his safe keeping,
leaving the latter to knock their heads on the empty floor of the hotel.
But that was much later. For the present, his words fell soothingly on
my ears and his proposition, in view of my straitened circumstances,
was like a boon from heaven.
At dusk, a young Bengali serving maid came into my room and,
setting a square of matting and a glass of water on the floor, got
ready to serve me my evening meal.
‘Why do you serve me here?’ I asked. ‘Why not with the others in
the dining room?’
‘They are mechanics, Babu,’ she answered. ‘How can you eat in
their company?’
 ‘Who knows what work I’ll get? I may have to work as a mechanic
myself. From tomorrow I’ll eat in the dining room.’
‘You are a Brahmin. It is not proper for you to eat with them.’
‘Why not?’
‘They are Bengalis and Hindus—it is true. But there is a Dom
among them.’
A Dom! In Bengal, Doms are treated as untouchables. If you
happen to touch one of them you are forced to bathe before entering
the house. Even in the most flexible households, a change of clothes
and a dash of gangajal on the head is insisted upon.
‘What about the others?’ I asked.
‘They are from better castes. There are Kayasthas, Sadgopes,
Karnars, Goalas, and Kaibartas among them.’
‘Don’t they object to a Dom eating with them?’
The girl smiled. ‘We are in Burma, Babu—seven seas away from
our native land. Who cares to guard his caste here as carefully as in
Bengal? Once they go back they’ll take a dip in the Ganga and eat
cow-dung as penance. Then all will be as it was.’
I did not doubt her words at the time. But, subsequently, I realized
how wrong she was. Many years later, back in Bengal, I had the
good fortune of seeing many Indians returning from Burma. Some of
them did take a casual dip in the Ganga but not one—and I maintain,
not one—took the trouble of eating cow-dung or performing any
other kind of expiatory rite. It was obvious that their brief exposure to
a foreign country and culture was sufficient to successfully wipe
away the generations of conditioning with which they had gone. I
noticed that there were two hookahs in the hotel—one for Brahmins,
the other for non-Brahmins. The second one passed from the hand
of a Karmakar to that of a Goala, from a Dom to a Sadgope with the
utmost ease.
A couple of days after I arrived at the hotel I asked a Karmakar,
‘Don’t you lose caste by smoking the same hookah with a Dom?’
‘Of course we do.’
 ‘Then—’
‘He didn’t tell us he was a Dom when he first came. He said he
was a Kaibarta—’
‘But when you realized that he was a Dom—didn’t you say
anything?’
‘What could we say? It was very wrong of him to have deceived
us, but if we told him we knew the truth he would have died of
shame. So we went on pretending we knew nothing.’
‘Is such a situation possible in your native village?’
‘Oh, no!’ The man trembled at the thought. ‘But you know what?
Leaving Brahmins aside—they are varna srestha and there is no
comparison—the other castes are not so different from one another.
Who can tell the difference between a Nabasakh and a Dom or a
Goala and a Sadgope? And, after all, we are all God’s creatures.
We’ve all left our homes and families and come out to this heathen
land to earn our living. And if one goes by behaviour—Hari Mandai
may be a Dom but he is honest and sober. He doesn’t touch ganja or
liquor. And look at the Kayastha Lakshman! If we hadn’t saved him
he would have been serving a sentence. What good would his high
caste have done him then? He would have had to eat at the hands of
sweepers.’
The man went his way leaving me wondering at the psyche of the
expatriate Hindu. How could a land like ours, in which even the
educated upper class devoted itself almost exclusively to seeking out
and exposing the weaknesses of others, produce men like the
Karmakar and his fellows—men who were liberal enough to forgive
an errant colleague for robbing them of their caste, and sensitive
enough to empathize with his shame and sorrow? The secret lay, no
doubt, in their movement away from the stagnant cesspools of their
native villages and their efforts to build a future in a land where caste
is unknown. ‘Mental mobility is the natural sequel of physical
mobility,’ I thought, ‘and together they could be the making of our
people.’
 I did, however, find a distinct absence of the former in one area.
The distrust of the lower classes for the educated upper class is as
firmly embedded in the consciousness of the Rangoon mechanic as
it is in that of his social equal in India. I have lived among these
people for many years and have marvelled at this inconsistency. As
long as they thought me an uneducated worker like themselves, they
treated me like a friend and involved themselves in my welfare. But
the moment they realized that I was educated and knew English,
they withdrew silently but surely. They still came to me for advice but
they didn’t love me or trust me because the conviction that I, as a
member of the educated upper class, despised them, had remained
unshaken. It was this obsessive fear in them that frustrated me in
many of my endeavours for their upliftment and welfare.
Yet, many women whose antecedents were cloaked in mystery
were allowed to live with their families in the mistri palli and become
part of the mainstream. Their children, when questioned about their
caste, declared they were Bengalis. By this they meant that they
were Hindu—not Muslims or Christians. When these children
married, usually others like themselves, Brahmin pandits from
Chittagong performed the ceremony. There were widows too among
the women, who did not live the life of harsh abstinence that is the
norm in Bengal. They did not marry (perhaps the pandits shrank
from sponsoring such unholy unions, even in Burma) but they lived
openly with their protectors and bore their children. The latter grew
up with no stigma attached to them and when they married, pandits
performed the ceremony without a demur. Only under the most
severe stress did a woman change her protector, for such a change
was looked down upon as unworthy and shameful in the mistri palli.
Treating her relationship as irrevocable, she performed all the
customary rites for the welfare of her family with no less devotion
than the purest of wedded wives in Bengal.
 7

AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, ABHAYA AND ROHINI BABU, WITH

WHOM I HAD shared all the ups and downs of the sea trip and the
quarantine, were left behind at one end of the city while I took up my
quarters in the other. Thus, it was a good fortnight before I saw them
again. During that period I had occupied myself in a zealous, though
fruitless, search for employment. All day I ran around in circles
coming back late at night, bones aching with exhaustion. When I had
almost reached the conclusion that jobs are no less elusive in Burma
than they are in Bengal, I suddenly thought of Rohini. He was worse
off than I was for, knowing rural Bengal as I did, I realized that he did
not have the option I had—of going back. They had little money
between them, most of which had already been spent. The only
course left to him was taking up a job and, as I had seen from my
own experience, that was easier said than done. Simple and childlike
as well as burdened with the care of a woman, he had even less of a
chance than I had of securing one. I felt worried and decided to go
and see them the very next day. It was evening by the time I stepped
into the compound of the tiny house that they had rented. Rohini
Dada was seated on a stool in the front veranda, his face dark and
ominous.
‘Srikanta Babul’ he said without much enthusiasm. ‘How are you?’
‘I am well,’ I replied. ‘And you?’
‘Well enough. Why don’t you go in? She’s in her room.’
‘I’ll do that but why don’t you come too?’
‘I would prefer to sit here for a while. I work hard enough all day to
kill myself. I need a rest.’
Though there were no signs of an imminent death on his
countenance I felt perplexed and faintly disturbed. I had never seen
him like this before. On the boat and in the quarantine camp he had
seemed passive and gentle. I wondered where he had hidden this
gravity and self-importance all those days. As for working hard
enough to kill himself—what did that mean? Was he, like me,
dragging his feet all over the streets of Rangoon looking for work?
As I stood hesitating on the steps, Abhaya’s face appeared from
behind the door. She smiled and beckoned me to follow her.
‘Come, Rohini Dada,’ I said, a little uncomfortably. ‘Let’s sit inside
and have a chat.’
‘A chat!’ Rohini exclaimed bitterly. ‘Do you know what I wish for
most urgently at this moment? Death!’
I had to confess I hadn’t known when Abhaya’s face appeared
again. This time I followed her inside. It was a tiny house with two
rooms and a kitchen. The front room, the larger of the two, was
Rohini Dada’s. As I stepped inside, the first thing I saw was a thala*
piled with luchi**, fried vegetables and halwa, set before an asan and
a brass tumbler of water. Even the most determined optimism could
not prompt me into imagining that Abhaya had made these
arrangements in anticipation of my arrival.
I realized that some sort of quarrel was in progress.
‘How long you have been in coming, Srikanta Babul’ Abhaya said
plaintively. ‘Had you forgotten our existence?’
I sat on the bed and pointed to the thala. ‘What does that mean?’ I
asked.
Abhaya smiled and shook her head. ‘It is nothing,’ she said. ‘Tell
me, how have you been?’
I was silent for a few moments. ‘I really can’t say,’ I said, at last,
‘Rohini Dada just said—’
Before I could complete my sentence, Rohini Babu walked in, his
torn slippers clattering on the wooden floor. Without glancing at
anyone he walked straight to the tumbler of water and put it to his
lips. Then, setting it down with a bang, he went out muttering, ‘Does
anyone care if I’m hungry or thirsty? I am all alone in this alien land,
Srikanta Babu. I have no one of my own to feed me and look after
me.’
 I glanced at Abhaya. Her cheeks were flushed with
embarrassment and her eyes glittered. But her voice, when she
spoke was calm and detached. ‘If you were truly hungry you would
have picked up the thala and not the tumbler.’
Rohini Babu pretended not to hear. He went out but came back in
half a minute. Then, addressing himself to me, he said, ‘I work so
hard at the office all day, that by evening my head starts swimming
with fatigue and hunger. This is why I couldn’t converse with you
when you canne in. You must forgive me, Srikanta Babu.’
‘Certainly,’ I answered.
‘Can you arrange for me to stay at your lodgings, Srikanta Babu?’
I couldn’t help laughing at his expression. ‘I can,’ I said, ‘but they
don’t serve luchi and halwa.’
‘I can do without all that,’ Rohini answered. ‘When one is hungry a
glass of water and gur* is food for the gods. There is no one here to
give me even that.’
I looked questioningly at Abhaya. She shook her head and said
softly, ‘I had a headache and fell asleep in the afternoon. So my
cooking got delayed and I was a few minutes late in serving his
meal.’
I was so shocked that I exclaimed aloud, ‘Is that an offence?’
‘That is a serious offence, Srikanta Babu,’ Abhaya said,
deliberately. ‘Not to you, perhaps, but certainly to him who feeds and
clothes a woman. Why should he not extract his comfort to the last
degree if he is paying for them?’
Rohini reared up like a wounded snake. ‘Have I ever said that I
feed and clothe you?’
‘You don’t need to say it. You make it obvious in so many ways.’
‘I! I make it obvious! Oh my God! Did you tell me you had a
headache?’
‘Suppose I had? Would you have believed me?’
Rohini Babu turned to me and said, ‘This is the way she talks to
me all the time. And it was for her that I left my village and family.
What am I today? A tramp, a wanderer with no home and no country.
I—’
‘You need not concern yourself about me anymore,’ Abhaya said
angrily. ‘Go back home whenever you wish. Why should you suffer
these agonies for my sake? Who am I to you? I would much rather
fend for myself than hear your taunts day in and day out.’
Rohini Dada could bear it no longer. His voice broke and tears
rushed to his eyes as he screamed incoherently, ‘Listen to her,
Srikanta Babu. Just listen to her. All this insulting talk—for a bit of
cooking! I forbid you … if you dare enter the kitchen—I’ll eat in a
hotel. I swear I will,’ and, pressing the edge of his dhoti to his
trembling mouth, he rushed out of the room.
Abhaya’s face grew pale. She bowed her head in an effort, I’m
convinced, to hide her tears.
Suddenly, the truth was crystal clear. Whatever they were
quarrelling about had nothing to do with Abhaya’s headache or the
meal getting delayed. The cause of Rohini Babu’s grievance and
Abhaya’s indignation lay deeper, far deeper, than that. I guessed that
it was connected with Abhaya’s determination to seek out her
husband.
I stood up. Breaking the silence I began, ‘I have a long way to go
—’
‘When will you come again?’ Abhaya lifted a tense, white face.
‘I live very far away and—’
‘Then wait a minute.’ Abhaya rose and went into the inner room.
Returning in a few minutes she pressed a piece of paper into my
hand and said, ‘I came to Burma with a definite purpose as you
know, and you promised to help me. Go through the note and do the
best you can.’ Saying this she knelt on the floor and touched my feet
with her forehead. Before I could recover from my surprise she rose
and said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘Can you give me your address?’ I
gave it to her, then gripping the note in my palm, I walked out of the
room.
 The veranda was deserted. Rohini Dada was nowhere to be seen.
My curiosity was so great that I couldn’t wait till I reached the hotel.
Entering a dilapidated tea shop, I ordered a cup of tea and opened
the note before a flickering oil lamp. It was written in pencil in a bold
masculine hand. Giving her husband’s name and address Abhaya
had written: I know that you have guessed the truth about us. I also
know that I trust you and depend on you. That is why I asked for
your address.
I read these lines again and again but could make nothing of them.
That she was intelligent enough to appreciate my intelligence had
been obvious from the start. That she depended on me had been
obvious, too. She had given me her husband’s name and address on
the boat. Why did she put it down again? And what was the cryptic
message all about? Did she want me to look for her husband or
didn’t she? And why had she asked for my address? From Rohini’s
conversation I gathered that he had found himself a job—a job
lucrative enough to enable them to eat luchi and halwa. Their
financial problems were obviously at an end. Did she, then, foresee
some new trouble and had sought my help in anticipation? All this
and much more went round and round my head all the way home.
One thing, alone, was clear. I was not to seek out Abhaya’s
husband, however great my curiosity, till I was expressly
commanded to do so.
The days went by but my luck did not change. The beaming
countenance of the deterministic Da Thakur did, however, gradually
assume the hues of deep gloom. My meals first degenerated in
quality, then got depleted in quantity. But Fortune eluded me,
determinedly, deliberately. I grew frustrated—even frightened. Then,
one day, I realized why Fate had favoured Rohini Babu and not me.
One morning, as I was passing through the marketplace, I saw
Rohini Babu buying grocery and vegetables. His shoes were broken
and dusty and his clothes, grubby and worn with many years of
service, hung from his emaciated frame. But one glance was enough
to tell me that he was buying the best produce of the market and that
too in generous quantities. I watched him from a distance as he went
from stall to stall examining each item carefully, deliberating, then
making his choice. The tenderness and devotion, the impulse to
cherish and nurture that lay behind his effort to take home only the
best, was as clear as the white-hot light that streamed from the
Burmese sky. As he walked out of the market, staggering under the
load of provisions, his thin, perspiring face glowed with an inner light.
I knew, then, as I had never known before, why he had managed to
make a living in this alien land while I hadn’t. He had succeeded
because he had had to succeed. I had only myself to look after and
my efforts were attuned to that alone. He had another—far more
valued and beloved than himself.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched Rohini Babu’s frail form
melt away. Wiping them on my sleeve I directed my steps
homeward, marvelling all the while at the strength and endurance
that flows from a true devotion. But the conditioning of centuries was
not to be subdued. It rose like a cloud of moths fluttering urgently
within me. ‘No! No!’ a voice breathed in harsh whispers. ‘This love is
illicit, impure. No good can come of it.’
As soon as I reached the hotel, a large envelope was handed to
me. Opening it, I found that I had been offered a post in a reputed
timber firm of Rangoon. Relief swept over me but it was mixed with a
little apprehension. I had never worked before so I had no idea of
what it meant, in practical terms. I was doubtful, too, of being able to
retain the job for any length of time.
But my fears proved to be totally unfounded. My boss, though an
Englishman, spoke fluent Bengali and was very affable. Within a
fortnight he said to me, ‘Srikanta Babu, from tomorrow you will work
at another table and your salary will be raised by a hundred and fifty
per cent.’
I thanked him profusely, in relief and happiness at the turn of
events. As I shifted my files from my rickety table to a solid one of
Burma teak covered with green baize, I thought of Da Thakur and his
faith in Providence. I had laughed at him, not dreaming that I, myself,
would prove a glowing example of his philosophy and that too in a
few days.
In my new found state of prosperity, I hired a carriage one evening
and went to Abhaya to give her the good news. It was the same hour
of evening and Rohini Babu, just back from work, was sitting down to
a lavish meal. I was invited to join him, and I accepted with alacrity
for the food looked and smelt delicious.
As soon as he had eaten, Rohini Babu got ready to go out again.
Abhaya watched him in sullen silence as he put on his shirt, then
burst out angrily, ‘Why do you insist on doing these tuitions? We
don’t need any more money. We have enough to live on.’
Rohini turned to her with a smile, ‘I can’t afford to keep a cook for
you and you say that we have enough to live on.’ And, stuffing a
paan into his mouth, he went out.
Abhaya suppressed a sigh and, turning to me, said in a sombre
voice, ‘I’m afraid for him, Srikanta Babu. He isn’t strong and all this
hard work is telling on his health. But he doesn’t listen to a word I
say. He really believes that cooking for two is killing me.’
I smiled but did not comment.
After a while Abhaya went to her room and came back with a letter
which she handed to me. Opening it, I found that it was from the
Burma Rail Company. The manager regretted to inform Abhaya that
her husband’s services had been terminated two years ago upon his
committing a grave offence and that the company had no knowledge
of his present occupation or address. We sat in silence for a long
while.
Then Abhaya asked, ‘What do you advise me to do?’
‘Who am I to advise you?’
‘Don’t say that,’ Abhaya burst out passionately. ‘You cannot shrug
off your responsibilities so easily. You are the only one here to whom
I can turn. Ever since I received the letter I’ve waited for you to
come.’
‘You have some cheek,’ I thought to myself, ‘to land yourself in this
mess and then involve me in it!’ Aloud I said, ‘Have you considered
going back?’
‘No. I can, if you want me to. But where do I go and to whom? I
have no one of my own.’
‘What about Rohini Babu? What are his plans?’
‘He refuses to leave Burma—for another ten years at least.’
Another stretch of silence. I broke it with a question. ‘Will he
undertake to look after you for all time to come?’
‘How do I know?’ She reflected for a few moments and added,
‘Even he—how can he be sure? But I would like you to get one thing
clear. He is not responsible for what I did. Coming to Burma was my
decision—only mine.’
At this point the carriage driver called out, ‘How much longer must
I wait, Babu?’
I stood up, relieved to be able to escape. ‘I’ll come again, very
soon,’ I said as I stepped into the carriage. I had hardly gone ten
yards when I realized that I had left my walking stick behind in Rohini
Babu’s room. I stopped the carriage and retraced my steps.
As I crossed the veranda, I found Abhaya lying in a heap on the
floor—her body shaking with sobs. I stood quietly for a few moments
—a mute witness to the agony that tore her apart—then walked out
of the house.
 8

THOUGH I HAD HAD EVERY INTENTION OF REDEEMING MY

PROMISE TO Rajlakshmi, to write to her as soon as I reached
Burma, I had not done it so far. Letter writing was a task I dreaded as
a rule. Besides, I had nothing interesting to tell her. But Abhaya’s
pain lay so heavy on my heart tonight, that I longed to ease the
burden by sharing it with someone. And who else was there for me
but Pyari? Consequently, the moment I reached home, I took out pen
and paper and wrote a long letter to her. I was sensible of being
disloyal to Abhaya as I conveyed the intimate details of her life to
another woman. But my curiosity to hear Rajlakshmi’s opinion of her
was so great that it swamped all my finer feelings. I reasoned that
since Rajlakshmi had passed through a similar ordeal herself when
she had to choose between Banku and me, she, and not I, was the
right person to advise Abhaya.
A few days later a file was placed on my table with instructions
from the manager to handle the case. On poing through the papers, I
found that it was a case of theft. A Bengali clerk from the Prome
branch of our company had been caught stealing timber and had
been suspended. When I read the name I was astounded, for it was
Abhaya’s husband’s. While I sat wondering what to do, a Burmese
clerk informed me that a gentleman was waiting outside with a
request for an interview. I had expected this, knowing well enough
that Abhaya’s husband would not be content with merely
representing his case but would come from Prome to Rangoon to
follow it up.
I watched him closely as he shuffled in and sat in a chair opposite
me. He was a big hulk of a fellow dressed in a suit and hat so grimy
and worn that they threatened to fall to pieces any moment. Dark,
heavy jowls were rendered darker by the masses of greasy black
hair that grew over them. Thick lips—the lower one an inch and a
half deep—were black with years of tobacco chewing. Even as he
sat facing me, paan juice trickled from the corners of his mouth and
ran down his chin in slimy streams.
I had been reared in a tradition that exhorted a woman to revere
her husband as her God. But, try as I would, I couldn’t bear to think
of Abhaya in connection with this animal. Abhaya, whatever she may
have done, was sensitive and refined and this creature looked and
behaved like a buffalo that had strayed in from some tropical swamp
of innermost Burma.
I asked him if he admitted his guilt. In answer he spluttered and
gesticulated so wildly that the spray from his mouth threatened to
drench my shirt. I pushed my chair back and repeated my question.
His defence, as far as I was able to make out, was that he was as
innocent as the babe unborn; that the real thief was his British
officer; that this officer wanted his own man on the job and had, for
that reason, devised an elaborate plot to remove him from office.
Needless to say, I didn’t believe a word.
‘You are, to take you on your own valuation,’ I said at last, ‘a very
competent and honest official. Since that is so, why does the loss of
this clerkship mean so much to you? A man like you can have the
best of jobs. There are not many like you in Burma.’
The man looked visibly taken aback. He hesitated for a few
minutes, then said incoherently, ‘You are right, but you know how it
is! I’m a family man—many kids—you understand?’
‘Are you married to a Burmese woman?’
‘Why? How do you know? Has that British bastard written that in
his report? Do you believe him?’ He stood up, agitated.
I signalled to him to sit down and observed calmly, ‘There’s no
need to get excited. What’s wrong with marrying a Burmese
woman?’
‘Exactly! What’s wrong with marrying a Burmese woman? I’m not
afraid. What I do, I do boldly. I’m a man and I need a woman. And it
isn’t as if I have anyone back home in the village. And, after all, this
is where I live and work. And this is where I shall go on living. You
get me, don’t you?’
I nodded my head as if to say I did but went on to ask, ‘You have
no one of your own in India?’
‘Not a soul. If I had, would I have spent the best years of my life in
this heathen land? No one at all—you understand? I was born into a
wealthy and reputed family—a line of zamindars. My ancestral home
still stands. It would dazzle your eyes to look at it—even today. But
Fate was against me. My family got wiped out. I was young and
sentimental—I couldn’t bear to live alone. So I gave up my property
rights and came away to Burma.’
‘Do you know Abhaya?’ I asked suddenly.
The man was shocked into silence. His face paled beneath the
filth encrusted on it. He asked, haltingly, ‘How do you know her?’
‘It could be that she has come to Burma to look for you and has
appealed to the company for maintenance—’
‘Oh! So that’s how it is,’ he sounded relieved. ‘I admit that she was
my wife—once.’
‘Now—’
‘Now she has forfeited her rights. I have left her.’
‘What was her offence?’
The man pulled a long face and whined mournfully, ‘There are
some matters—you understand? It is best to keep them within the
family. But you are more to me than the closest of relations so I don’t
mind telling you. She’s an immoral woman. Immoral and depraved.
In fact that’s the reason for my leaving my country and living the life
of an exile all these years.’
I felt so revolted I couldn’t look him in the face. I realized that
Abhaya’s husband was not only a liar and a thief—he was the scum
of the earth; a thoroughbred scoundrel with no conscience and no
heart.
‘You did not announce this when you came away. You even wrote
to her and sent her money for several months—’
 The villain opened a vast cavern of a mouth and grinned. ‘Well!
You know how it is. Upper-class people like us are fated to suffer in
silence. I couldn’t proclaim my wife’s infidelity to the world like a low-
caste peasant. Anyway, let’s not relive unpleasant memories. It
makes me sick to even utter her name. About this case, I cannot tell
you how relieved I am you are in charge, Srikanta Babu. But there is
one thing that I shall insist upon. That white rascal of an Englishman
must not be let off lightly. He must be taught such a lesson that he
won’t dare trifle with me again. Can’t you get the swine transferred to
the head office?’
‘No,’ I answered shortly.
The accused laughed and pushed the file towards me. ‘That’s a
joke,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows that you have the manager under
your thumb. I made all the necessary inquiries before I came.
Anyway, how you deal with him is your business. I’d like to catch the
nine o’clock train back to Prome. Can you arrange to let me have the
manager’s order reinstating me before that?’
I was silent for a while. It is difficult to counteract flattery even
when one is convinced that it springs from base and selfish motives.
But I steeled myself and said coldly, ‘The manager’s order is not
going to help you. You had better start looking for another job.’
The man’s jaw sagged. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I’m going to recommend your dismissal from the
company.’
He stood up, then sat down again folding his hands with
exaggerated humility. ‘Save me, Babu,’ he said in a nasal whine. ‘I
have many children. They’ll die of starvation.’
‘I’m not responsible for them. Besides, I don’t know you. I cannot
accept your word against your superior officer’s.’
His rheumy eyes stared into mine as it dawned on him at last that I
meant exactly what I said. Then he burst into a fit of sobbing so loud
and piteous that the office clerks, the durwan and the peon started
up from their seats and crowded at the door.
 I was startled and acutely embarrassed but I managed to say
coldly, ‘Please pull yourself together. Abhaya has come to Burma for
your sake. Go to her. I don’t ask you to take back an immoral wife,
but if she forgives you after hearing the truth—the whole truth—get a
letter from her. I’ll try to help you retain your job. If not, do not
embarrass me by coming to me again.’
I knew the psychology of men of his type. The male chauvinist and
bully is invariably lily-livered and feeble at heart. A tremor passed
over his vast bulk as he wiped his eyes and asked, ‘Where does she
live?’
‘Come back tomorrow at the same time and I will give you her
address.’
He rose and with an obsequious salaam left the room.
Abhaya sat pale and silent as I narrated the events of the day. I
waited for some response, but when nothing was forthcoming I
asked, ‘Can you forgive him?’
She nodded.
‘If he offers to take you back—are you ready to go?’
Another nod.
‘You have seen what Burmese women are like. Do you have the
courage to make your home with one of them?’
Abhaya raised a streaming face. Her lower lip trembled so
violently that she couldn’t speak for a while. Then she wiped her
eyes and, clearing her throat with an effort, said, ‘What else can I
do?’
I suddenly found myself at a loss. I did not know if I should rejoice
at her decision or shed tears over it. All the way back home I
wrestled with myself trying to examine my feelings. But no matter
how hard I tried I could come to no conclusion. My heart grew heavy
and cold and a bitter hatred—of whom or what I could not say—
pulsed and pounded in my brain. When the man came again, the
next day, I did not even glance at him. He may have guessed how I
felt, for he picked up the slip of paper that bore Abhaya’s address
without a word and, salaaming humbly, left the room.
But when he reappeared the next day all his familiar garrulity was
back. Laying Abhaya’s letter on the table he said, ‘I can’t thank you
enough, Srikanta Babu. I’ll never forget your kindness. As long as I
live I shall remain your devoted slave.’
‘Go back to your job,’ I said with an indifference I was far from
feeling. ‘The manager has forgiven you.’
He smiled, displaying rows of large red teeth. ‘I don’t worry about
the manager. All I ask for is your forgiveness. I have erred grievously
—I admit it,’ and he burst into a passionate speech so long and
involved that I prefer not to strain my reader’s patience by repeating
it word for word. The long and short of it was that his account of his
wife’s infidelity was totally false; that a wife as chaste and pure as his
was not to be found anywhere in the world; that he had always loved
Abhaya above everyone else—even himself—and would do his duty
by her. Only, this fresh complication in his life—he had never desired
marriage with a local woman but had been forced into it by
circumstances—had to be sorted out first. But that would not take
long. He was taking Abhaya to Prome tonight and would have the
Burmese slut out of the house, bag and baggage, by the day after
tomorrow. As for the children—ugly, vicious brats—what use would
they ever be to him? Would they feed him and clothe him in his old
age or perform the proper rites over his body? No, he didn’t give a
damn for any of them and would drive them out of the house without
a qualm.
‘Are you taking Abhaya away tonight?’ I asked.
‘Certainly. Certainly. It was different when she was out of sight.
Now that I have found her I refuse to stay away from her even for a
moment. What a jewel of a wife she is! She came all the way to
Burma for my sake. Have you ever seen a devotion to match that,
Srikanta Babu?’
‘Do you intend to keep the two women together?’
 ‘Oh, no! I shall take Abhaya to the postmaster’s house. She’ll be
quite comfortable there. The postmaster’s wife is a kind woman and
will look after her. But only for two days. Then I’ll install the goddess
of my home and hearth where she belongs—here,’ and he touched
his chest with an extravagant gesture.
After his departure I picked up Abhaya’s letter and read the two
lines she had penned, over and over again. I don’t know how many
hours I passed in this occupation but it seemed only a minute before
the clock struck the half hour after four o’clock, and the peon stood
respectfully at the door waiting to lock up.
 9

I RECEIVED A LETTER FROM ABHAYA’S HUSBAND BEFORE

THE MONTH WAS out. The first half of the letter was packed with
fulsome praise of me and innumerable expressions of gratitude. The
second contained a flood of invective against Abhaya.
The gist of the matter was this. Abhaya’s husband had rented a
big house, far beyond his means, with the intention of keeping his
Burmese wife and children in one part of it and Abhaya in the other.
But Abhaya, far from being overwhelmed with gratitude, had refused
to leave the postmaster’s protection. He had begged and pleaded
but to no avail. Her disobedience and disregard of her husband’s
wishes had cut him to the heart. He was convinced that irreverence
of this kind was being bred by the values of the world in which we
lived. Oh! To have been born in the age of truth—the great satya
yuga in which Sita and Savitri had lived—in which women walked
smiling into the funeral pyres of their husbands and were engulfed by
the flames even in the act of clasping their dead lords’ feet to their
bosoms! An age in which women carried husbands rotting with
syphilis to the houses of favoured prostitutes—their faces radiant
with happiness. Ah! Where had that world vanished? Where were
the Aryan women of old? Where was that blind unquestioning
obedience to a husband’s wishes; the stubborn identification that
made a woman glory in her position as shadow to her lord and
master’s substance? Ah! India. To what depths art thou fallen! All this
and much more he wrote, filling four-and-a-half pages. He ended
with the regret that Abhaya had trampled on his heart in more ways
than one. Not only had she refused to move into her husband’s
house—she had been receiving letters and even money from one
Rohini Sinha.
Although the epistle afforded me more amusement than I had had
in years, I couldn’t help feeling a measure of annoyance at Rohini
Babu’s interference. After all, Abhaya had come all the way to join
her husband. Their relationship had yet to establish itself. In her
state of doubt and bewilderment, when she needed all the help and
support her friends could give her, why was he confusing and
discouraging her?
And Abhaya too—what was she thinking of? Why did she go away
with her husband if she had had no intention of living with him? If she
expected him to abandon his existing family she was not being very
fair. He had married the woman after all and fathered her children.
Did she imagine that Burmese women had no feelings? Were they
not justified in claiming maintenance? And, anyway, if that was her
condition she should have clarified it right from the start.
That afternoon, just as I was about to leave, the peon brought me
another letter—this time from Abhaya. It was a strange
communication for it contained no reference to herself or her new
life. But every line of it breathed her concern and fear for Rohini
Babu’s welfare. Reminding me of his ill health she requested me,
over and over again, to look after him for there was not a soul in the
world more desolate and unhappy. That this passionate plea was
wrung from a heart sick with yearning was not difficult to guess. In
the last line of her letter she briefly informed me that she was still
living in the postmaster’s house.
As I sat with the letter in my hand I was aware of a strange
sensation. I felt as though I were, once again, in the presence of a
chastity as dazzling and awesome as that of Annada Didi’s. The
wonder that had always accompanied the thought of Annada Didi’s
magnificent conquest of sorrow, degradation, injustice and isolation
was upon me in an instant. ‘There is something phenomenal about a
woman’s chastity,’ I thought. ‘It elevates her far above the reach of a
man on the one hand and renders her weak and vulnerable on the
other.’ I was aware, of course, that I was confusing issues. Men
learned in the Shastras would tell me that a woman’s fidelity is the
sole prerogative of a wedded husband. I had neither the capacity nor
the heart to argue.
I had not visited Rohini Babu after Abhaya’s departure, chiefly out
of a desire to avoid seeing his misery. B at after reading the two
letters I decided to go to him that very evening and scold him heartily
for cherishing a secret, adulterous passion for another man’s wife.
As I knocked on the door, it fell open revealing a room shadowy with
twilight. The lamp had not been lit but a faint smoke haze hung in the
air. The doors and windows were wide open and the shutters rattled
in the breeze.
I walked a few steps and peeped into the kitchen. A column of
smoke curled upwards from the hearth at one end, and at the other,
a basket of vegetables by his side, sat Rohini Babu—his hand
arrested in the act of slicing a brinjal. I could see at a glance that it
was not the sound of my footsteps that had made him freeze like that
for he did not even turn his head. I waited a few moments—then
tiptoed back into the room. As I stood uncertainly in the smoky dusk I
felt the presence of an overwhelming sorrow within those walls—a
sorrow that brimmed over the bounds of conventions, ethics and
morals. It rose from the room like a cloud of fog and, growing thicker
and more impenetrable every minute, enveloped me where I stood. I
had to escape. Groping my way out of the room, I sank down on the
stool in the veranda.
After a while I heard someone moving about inside the room. A
voice called from within, ‘Who is there?’
‘It’s me, Srikanta!’
‘Srikanta Babu?’ Rohini Dada came forward eagerly, a lighted
taper in his hand. Clutching my arm he led me back into the room.
We sat in silence for a while, then I said, ‘Don’t go on staying here,
Rohini Dada. Let me take you to my hotel.’
‘Why?’ Large, innocent eyes shone out of a lined face.
‘You are not happy here.’
‘I’m happy enough,’ he answered with a faint smile.
 I had no answer. I had come with the intention of jerking him out of
his abject self-surrender, of exhorting him to fight his weakness and
conquer it like a man. But, in the presence of his all-consuming love,
my anger and scorn melted away.
‘I’ve given up the tuition,’ he continued. ‘It was too much for me.
But the work in my office is terribly strenuous. I get quite tired by the
evening. Otherwise—I’m all right.’
I listened quietly, remembering the day he had said just the
opposite, when he had turned a deaf ear to Abhaya’s pleas and
dashed off to his tuition. He had been warmed, then, by the thought
of keeping Abhaya in greater comfort. A machine needs fuel, I
thought sadly. It cannot run on water. I repeated my offer of taking
him to Da Thakur’s hotel but he refused. I realized that he couldn’t
bear the thought of breaking up the household he and Abhaya had
built together. Not that he cherished any hope of things ever being as
they had been. He stayed on only for the sake of the memories that
breathed all around him for they, alone, could sustain him and keep
him whole—painful though they were. To leave these protecting
walls would be, for him, equal to embracing annihilation.
As I stepped into my room late that night I noticed a man sleeping
on the floor against one wall. I asked the maid who he was and she
answered that he was a gentleman, meaning that he was not a
mechanic or a coolie. I understood, now, why Da Thakur had
installed him in my room.
We got acquainted after dinner. He had come, he said, from
Chittagong in search of his younger brother who had left home four
years ago. Only a few weeks back the family had heard that he was
in Rangoon and was living with a Burmese woman. ‘You’ve heard
about the women of Kamrup,’ he asked, ‘the ones who change men
into sheep? Burmese women are no less dangerous from what I
hear. You must help me rescue my brother from the woman’s
clutches.’
 I promised to do what I could and, with that noble intention, I made
my way the next morning to the younger brother’s house. On
reaching it, I discovered that it was his Burmese wife’s ancestral
home and that she was an orphan with a young sister. The young
man was out on his morning promenade and the two girls and their
maids were making cheroots—these being the source of their
livelihood. The older sister received me with great deference. She
thought, no doubt, that being a Bengali, I was a relative of her
husband.
Burmese women are exceedingly industrious while the men are
invariably lazy and shiftless. Since women are the principal
breadwinners (and domestic servants of course) it is important for
them to obtain a measure of education. Men, on the other hand, can
be as illiterate as they please as there is no pressure on them to
provide for their families. The sight of a man living on his wife’s
income and frittering away his time in idle pursuits is a general one.
Society does not condemn him. Neither does his wife. On the
contrary, that is by and large the norm for men in Burma.
The young master of the house arrived within a few minutes. He
was dressed in impeccable English attire. Rings gleamed on his
fingers and a heavy watch and chain hung from his waistcoat. His
Burmese wife left her work and, rising from her seat, relieved him of
his hat and stick. Her sister fetched cigars and matches while the
maids hurried inside to prepare tea and paan.
‘Lucky fellow!’ I thought. ‘They treat him like a king.’ I knew the
man’s name, but have forgotten it since. It may have been Charu or
something like that.
He asked me who I was and when I told him I was a friend of his
brother he shook his head in disbelief. ‘You look as though you are
from Calcutta, and my brother has never left Chittagong in his life.
How do you know him?’
I told him that his brother had come to Rangoon with the intention
of taking him back and mat he was, even now, eagerly waiting to
cast his anguished eyes on his long lost brother.
The next morning a tearful reconciliation took place in Da Thakur’s
hotel followed by a lengthy confabulation conducted chiefly in
whispers. Thereafter, the younger brother appeared at the hotel
morning, noon and night. Some conspiracy was obviously afoot.
Three or four days later I got the first inkling of what it was. We had
been invited, the day before, to drink a cup of tea in the Burmese
woman’s drawing room and it was then that I first got a chance to
talk to her. I found her a gentle, exceedingly humble creature,
wholeheartedly devoted to the Bengali youth she loved and lived
with. So when I was informed by my room-mate that they proposed
to leave for Chittagong on the first boat available, my heart missed a
beat.
‘Your brother will return to Burma, will he not?’ I asked, rather
frightened.
‘Heavens! No. The idea!’
‘Have you told the girl?’
‘If we do the whole clan will descend on us like a swarm of
locusts.’ Then, winking broadly, he added, ‘French leave, moshai,
French leave.’
‘It will make the girl very unhappy,’ I said, acutely depressed.
The man laughed till tears came to his eyes. Then, controlling
himself with an effort, he said, ‘Unhappy! Burmese women are filthy,
casteless whores. She’ll catch another man before the boat leaves
the harbour. The sluts eat neppi* and stink to high heaven. They are
not like our women, moshai. Unhappy indeed!’
‘Stop it!’ I cried suddenly. ‘You forget that she has fed and clothed
your brother and kept him like a king for the last four years. Isn’t
there such a thing as common gratitude?’
The man’s face flushed. He said in strident tones, ‘You surprise
me, moshai! Young men must sow their wild oats. Which son of a
bastard doesn’t? My brother’s case is a little more complicated than
normal, I admit it. But must he be made to sacrifice his future for a
trifling error committed in the heat of youth? Does he not have a
country and a family? Is it not important that he returns to them,
marries, begets children and becomes a respectable member of
society? People get away with far more serious offences. Some men
I know have even eaten fowl when they were young and headstrong.
With age and wisdom they have admitted their folly. We, as older
men, should forgive and forget. Therein lies our greatness. Think
over what I have said without passion or bias and then tell me if I’m
right or wrong.’
I was so taken aback at his assumption that eating fowl was a
more serious offence than exploiting an innocent girl’s love and then
abandoning her, that I was rendered speechless. It being time for me
to leave for work, I went away without another word.
When I returned that evening the gentleman beamed at me. ‘I’ve
been thinking over what you said. You were right. We ought to
prepare the girl or she might create a scene and stop him from
going. I don’t trust these flat-nosed bitches. They are shameless and
depraved with no sense of right or wrong. More like animals than
human beings!’
I approved of his decision but something told me that this was part
of a bigger conspiracy. I came to know only on the afternoon of their
departure—as we were waiting for the ship to leave—how
senselessly cruel and shamelessly selfish it was. It being a Sunday
and having nothing better to do, I walked across to the harbour to
see the brothers off.
Among the people who were assembled at the jetty with a similar
end in view, stood the Burmese girl holding her little sister by the
hand. Her eyes were red with weeping and every line of her white
face bore the marks of an inconsolable grief. Her young man was
busy transporting his trunks, bedding, bicycle and innumerable other
possessions on board with the help of coolies. When everything had
been safely stowed away he came up to the weeping girl and, under
the pretence of bidding farewell, acted out a scene that made my
cheeks burn with indignation.
I’ve often wondered why he had to do that, why he had to damage
his immortal soul the way he did. True, she was not his wedded wife.
But she was a woman, a member of that fraternity of mothers, sisters
and daughters on which a man is so dependent. In the four years
that they had lived together she had given him an unswerving loyalty
and devotion. Why did he have to ridicule her and make her the
laughing stock of the common people who stood around, even as he
left her?
Clasping her neck with one arm and holding a handkerchief to his
eyes, the man muttered something in mournful tones while the girl,
her face buried in her veil, sobbed uncontrollably. I was standing a
little distance away so I couldn’t hear what he was saying at first.
But, noticing some of the crowd grinning widely and others trying
hard to suppress their laughter, I pushed my way towards them and
heard him say in crude Bengali, ‘You think I’m coming back with
tobacco from Rangpur? You’ll be waiting for me? Oh! My jewel! You
can go on waiting for me till doomsday for I’m finished with you for
ever. My only regret is that I got only five hundred out of you. Not a
thousand as I had hoped. If I only had the time, I could have made
you sell your house and give me the money! That would have been
something worth bragging about back home. Five hundred is a paltry
sum. Oh! What a cruel world it is!’
The man was obviously enjoying his own humour, and the
entertainment it afforded to the Bengalis around him spurred him on
to greater heights. But the girl understood nothing. She only heard
her beloved’s sobbing voice and, weeping louder, put up her hand to
wipe his tears away. The sailors now called out to him to board for
they were in the process of removing the gangplanks.
The man moved towards the ship, then, coming back, took the
girl’s hand in his. Pointing to the large unflawed ruby she wore on
her finger he sobbed, ‘Ah! Let me have this—the last token of our
love. I can sell it for three hundred rupees at the very least. Why do
you deprive me of it, my jewel?’
The girl quickly took off the ring and slipped it on his finger. Then,
crumbling suddenly, she sank to her knees on the ground. The man
carried on his act as he crossed over the planks leaving his audience
rocking with merriment. But the poor girl saw nothing, heard nothing
—so thoroughly immersed was she in her own grief.
As the ship moved away, comments like ‘What a boy!’, ‘Really a
fine young man!’ and ‘God! How he made me laugh!’ were heard
from the crowd. No one deigned to cast a glance at the abandoned
woman.
As I went up to them, the little girl, who had been pulling her sister
by the hand, threw me a grateful glance and said, ‘Get up, sister.
Look who is here!’
The girl lifted her head and, seeing the expression on my face,
burst into another fit of weeping. I had no words with which to
console her, but I couldn’t leave her and go away either. I escorted
her to her carriage and, at her request, drove home with her.
‘Oh, why did I send him to Rangpur?’ she said over and over again
all the way home. ‘A month! A whole month! How shall I live without
him? How shall I bear the loneliness? And he—he’ll be sick and
miserable without me in a foreign land. I shouldn’t have let him go.
We have managed so far with tobacco from the Rangoon bazaars.
Oh! Why couldn’t I remain content? Why was I tempted to look for
greater profit? My heart is bursting with unhappiness, Babuji. I’ll go
to him on the next boat.’
I sat silent, staring out of the window in an attempt to hide my
tears.
‘Babuji,’ the girl went on, ‘our men don’t love us the way you do.
They are not as kind or considerate.’ Then, pausing to recover her
breath, she went on, ‘When we first started living together my
kinsfolk warned me not to put my faith in an alien. But I didn’t heed
them and I’ve never regretted my decision. Now all the Burmese girls
envy my happiness.’
The carriage was now approaching the crossroads from where the
hotel could be reached after a short walk. I wanted to get off and
make my way there but the girl wouldn’t let me. Barring the door with
both arms she said, ‘No, Babuji. First come home with me and have
a cup of tea.’ I couldn’t refuse. The carriage rolled on and the
unhappy girl, weary with weeping, fell silent. Suddenly she sat up
and asked anxiously, ‘How far is Rangpur, Babuji? Have you ever
been there? What sort of a place is it? Is it possible to get a doctor if
someone is ill?’
‘Yes,’ I said shortly.
She heaved a sigh, ‘Fei* will guard him and keep him well! I have
nothing to fear. His brother is with him. He is a good, kind man and
will protect his younger brother with his life. Indians are so noble! So
full of duty! Why do I worry?’
I stared out of the window trying to assess the extent of my own
involvement in the monstrous crime that had just been committed. I
had to plead guilty on two counts. I had been aware of the plot but
had not warned the girl. Worse, I had not made a whisper of a
protest when the grisly scene of betrayal was being enacted. The
thought made my face burn with shame. I couldn’t bear to look into
those innocent, trusting eyes.
Dusk was falling when I left her house. I was exhausted, physically
and emotionally, but the prospect of going back to the clamour and
bustle of Da Thakur’s hotel daunted me. I wandered about in the
streets of Rangoon, innumerable thoughts going round and round in
my head like rats caught in a trap. But, however hard I tried, I could
not subdue the gut feeling that a relationship of this kind was
doomed from the start.
The Burmese have rather flexible rules regarding matrimony.
There is such a thing as a social and religious ceremony. But the
other kind—marriage by virtue of eating out of a common bowl and
sleeping under the same roof for three nights in succession—is
equally acceptable to that society. Thus the Burmese girl’s conviction
that hers was a true marriage was neither foolish nor unfounded.
From the young man’s point of view, however, it was as ephemeral
as a summer breeze for there was no sanction for it in Hinduism.
There was no way he could reconcile the presence of a Burmese
wife with his rightful place in Hindu society. Only two options were
open to him. One was a lifelong exile. The other—a total and
complete break with his partner.
As I walked on aimlessly, speculating on the worth of a religion
that inflicts such cruel suffering, my eyes fell on a wayside tea shop.
I recognized it as the one that stood opposite Rohini Babu’s house—
the one in which I had opened Abhaya’s note. I had a cup of tea,
then walking across, knocked on Rohini Babu’s door. It opened and
within its frame stood Abhaya.
‘You!’ I cried, amazed.
Abhaya blushed to the roots of her hair and, turning suddenly, ran
to her own room and banged the door shut. Even in the faint starlight
there was no mistaking the shame and guilt that were stamped on
her face.
As I stood, irresolute, my ears were suddenly assailed by the
sounds of two kinds of weeping. I had heard them that very
afternoon—the bitter, heartbroken sobs of the Burmese girl and the
cruel, mocking one of her companion.
I had started walking away but I stopped myself. ‘No,’ I said to
myself, ‘I cannot leave Abhaya—not this way. I have no right to
humiliate her. So many dos and don’ts are ingrained in us from
childhood. What are they truly worth? Who has the right to sit on
judgement over another human being? Not I, certainly. Not you. Not
even God.’
 10

THERE WAS A CLICK AND ABHAYA OPENED HER DOOR AND

STOOD BEFORE ME.
She said, ‘Forgive me for running away, Srikanta Babu. It was out
of a false sense of disgrace, a momentary surrender to the
conditioning of centuries. Do not make the mistake of thinking that it
reflected my true feelings.’
I was amazed at her for having the courage of her convictions.
‘Rohini Babu will be back in a few minutes,’ she went on. ‘Then
you can put us both in the dock and deliver your verdict.’ This was
the first time that I heard her refer to Rohini as ‘Babu’.
‘When did you come?’ I asked inconsequentially.
‘The day before yesterday. You must be curious to know why.’
And, lifting her arm, she pointed to where the lash of a whip had cut
deep into the flesh. ‘There are many like this,’ she said
dispassionately.
The blood boiled in my veins. If the scoundrel had stood before me
I would have torn him limb from limb.
‘Please don’t imagine that this is the cause of my return. This is
only a token of our relationship as master and slave—a small
reward, you may say, for my years of wifely devotion.’ After a brief
silence she continued, ‘A woman who pursues her husband without
his leave, makes claims on him and disturbs his peace is a traitor
and a rebel. No man will tolerate such audacity. Hence my husband
dealt with me as a man deals with a wife in such cases. He used
every kind of ploy to get me to his house and, once there, demanded
from me my reasons for coming to Burma with Rohini Babu. I told
him that I had been orphaned some time ago and that I had no one
else to turn to and that I had written several letters which he had left
unanswered. He unhooked a whip from the wall and said, “This is my
answer,”’ and Abhaya touched the mark on her arm.
 The bloated, evil face of the disgusting beast came before my
eyes and my stomach churned with nausea. But the conditioning of
centuries—drat which had prompted Abhaya to run and hide herself
—was upon me. I could not bring myself to utter the words: ‘You
were right in leaving him.’ I sat in silence for a while, then said with
an effort, ‘I don’t blame you for coming away but—’
‘That is just what I want you to explain—that “but” which stands in
the way of all rational thinking. May my husband live happily with his
Burmese wife. I grudge him nothing. Only one question, Srikanta
Babu! Do Vedic mantras have the power to command a wife’s
loyalty, even after her husband has stripped her of all her rights and
driven her away by brute force into the streets? Do you have an
answer?’
I was silent. Abhaya looked steadily at me for a few minutes and
said, ‘Rights and duties are inextricably linked, Srikanta Babu. There
can be no question of one without the other. My husband took the
marriage vows, as I did, but they have played no part in shaping his
needs and desires. They are no more to him than a piece of rhetoric,
uttered in an idle moment, to be blown away at will. Yet these same
vows bind me to him with iron fetters simply because I’m a woman.
You said you did not blame me for coming away and added a “but”.
What did that mean, Srikanta Babu? Were you trying to tell me that it
is my duty to atone for my husband’s sins by voluntarily embracing a
death-in-life? Why? Because once, long ago when I was still a child,
I had involuntarily pronounced some words of which I knew not the
meaning? Are those words, uttered in ignorance, all that is true and
meaningful in my life? And the terrible injustice and affliction that has
been heaped on my head—are they of no consequence? I am
deprived of my rights as a wife and a mother. I am denied my
legitimate place in society. Love, laughter and joy are not for me.
Why, Srikanta Babu? Why? Simply because I had the misfortune of
being chained in wedlock to a selfish, brutal, loathesome creature?
And am I to be denied my womanhood because such an animal
would have none of me? In no society other than the Hindu is the
woman so crushed and crippled. Do you understand what I am
saying, Srikanta Babu?’
I was speechless.
‘Why don’t you answer me?’ Abhaya went on inexorably.
‘Is there really any need? You did not seek my advice before you
took your decision.’
‘There was no time for that.’
I stared moodily at the darkening world outside. I felt sunk in
gloom. After a long silence I said, ‘My heart is very heavy, Abhaya.
Do you know why I came here tonight? Because only this afternoon I
was a mute witness to a terrible crime against a defenceless
woman.’ And I described the scene in the harbour. ‘What future do
you visualize for this young woman?’ I asked.
Abhaya shuddered and shook her head.
‘And now I’ll tell you about two other women whose sufferings
have been no less than yours.’ I recounted Annada Didi’s history
from beginning to end. As I did so, I noticed Abhaya’s body stiffen
and her eyes grow large and sombre. When I came to the end she
touched the ground with her forehead and, sitting up, wiped her eyes
with the end of her sari.
‘What happened after that?’ she asked.
‘After that I lost track of her. Now let me tell you about Pyari Baiji.
When she was a young girl called Rajlakshmi she loved—someone.
Do you know how? The way Rohini Babu loves you. Then, many
years later, they met. She wasn’t Rajlakshmi any more. She had
become Pyari Baiji. But her lover discovered, on that very first day,
that Rajlakshmi had not died. She lived and was immortalized in
Pyari Baiji.’
‘And then?’ Abhaya asked curiously.
I told her the rest of the story ending with the sentence, ‘And the
day came when Pyari sent away the man she loved above all else in
the world—above her own life.’
 ‘What happened then? Do you know?’
‘I do. Nothing happened.’
Abhaya sighed and said, ‘Are you trying to tell me that I’m not the
only one? That women have suffered these misfortunes through the
ages and that their submission to suffering is their greatest
achievement?’
‘I’m not trying to tell you anything. I only ask you to accept the fact
that women are not men. Their actions cannot be weighed on the
same scales. And even if one were to do so it would not be
worthwhile.’
‘Can you tell me why not?’
‘No, I cannot. Besides, my mind is in such a turmoil tonight that it
is unfit to unravel issues of such complexity. I can only tell you of my
own feelings. Many women have come into my life but only a few
hold exalted positions in my heart. Do you know how? Through their
capacity for suffering. My Annada Didi carried the burden of her
sorrow in mute silence. Even when her burden became too grievous
to be borne she did not abandon it. My heart would burst with pain if
I even imagined her doing what you have done.’
After a brief silence I continued, ‘And Rajlakshmi! What a grievous
affliction was upon her when she sacrificed her dearest love! I have
seen it with my own eyes. I don’t mind telling you that it is her
capacity for suffering that has won her the highest place in my heart.’
‘Are you the man she—?’ Abhaya began in a startled voice.
‘If she didn’t know what she meant to me,’ I continued calmly,
ignoring Abhaya’s interruption, ‘she would never have sent me away.
She would have clung to me for fear of losing me.’
‘Maybe she knows you are hers. Hence she has no fears.’
‘It isn’t only that. There is something beyond having and losing and
I believe that Rajlakshmi has found the key to it. Which is why she
doesn’t need me anymore. I have suffered too—in many ways. And
it is through my suffering that I’ve stumbled upon an important truth.
Sorrow is not the negative emotion we think it is. Sorrow signifies
neither absence nor loss. If unaccompanied by fear, it can be sensed
and even enjoyed as fully as happiness.’
‘I think I understand. You mean that sorrow can become a prop—a
purpose for living. It did for Rajlakshmi and Annada Didi. But my
case is different. I don’t even have that to fall back upon. All I’ve
received from my husband is rejection and humiliation. Do you ask
me to live out my life with these as my only support?’
It was a difficult question. I did not even try to answer it.
Abhaya went on, ‘My life has nothing in common with theirs.
Millions of men and women inhabit this Earth. All are not cast in the
same mould. People live by different laws and find their fulfilment in
different ways. We vary in our instincts, our ideas and our mental
abilities. Society must find a way for the successful development of
each of its members and not force all to tread a common path. Is not
my experience a glaring example? I was compelled to come to my
husband for all other means of living were denied me. But was my
coming here of any use? Nothing of him belongs to me anymore. Yet
living under his protection as his whore was the only option society
left open for me. That was to be my final fulfilment, and bearing the
burden of that sterility the ultimate goal of my life as a woman. Rohini
Babu loves me. You are aware of it and you have seen his suffering.
Do you ask me to maim his life and destroy his soul only to buy for
myself the label of a virtuous woman?’
Abhaya wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and continued,
‘Must I deny his love and ruin his happiness only to establish the
validity of a ceremony performed so long ago that it has become a lie
to both man and wife? Does God, who created love and put it in our
hearts, demand such a denial? You may think what you like of me.
You may call my children by any name you please. But I would like
you to get one thing clear. If we live and if children are born to us
they will not need to hang their heads in shame for having come out
of my womb. They may inherit nothing from us but their mother will
take care to give them a secure foundation on which to plant their
feet and hold their heads high. Do you know what that is, Srikanta
Babu? It is the conviction that they are the fruits of a meaningful
relationship.’
There was a long silence. Her words hung in the air and breathed
around us where we sat. I looked out at the sky and felt it shudder. I
was overwhelmed by the strangest of sensations. I felt as if this great
inanimate universe had a life and soul of its own that went on
unseen, impervious to the thoughts and feelings of men.
Abhaya broke the silence with a question, ‘What about you,
Srikanta Babu? Will you withdraw your friendship and stop visiting
us?’
I hesitated, trying to find the right words. ‘God may forgive you for
He can see into your hearts,’ I said, at last. ‘Man cannot—
unfortunately. Another thing! You forget that the collective identity
can only be preserved by adhering to certain norms and principles. It
is difficult, even impossible, for society to frame different rules for
different people.’
‘There is a faith that is large enough and generous enough to
accommodate sinners like us. Do you ask us to embrace it?’
I had no answer.
‘You talk of a collective identity,’ she resumed. ‘Yet you cannot
protect your own people when they are in trouble. Is that something
to be proud of, Srikanta Babu?’
I sighed. Once again I had no answer.
‘Never mind,’ Abhaya went on. ‘If you don’t make room for us we
won’t complain. After all, Hinduism is only one of many faiths. I take
comfort in the thought that there is a place for us in another great
religion of the world.’
‘Protection is not everything—at least not in every case,’ I said, a
little hurt at her jibes at Hinduism.
‘Isn’t it? There is proof of it everywhere if we only had eyes to see.
You do agree, don’t you, that an institution based on false values
cannot flourish for long. How then do you account for the spread of
Islam in the twelve centuries of its history? Do you mean to tell me
that the Mussalman community owes its growth and importance to
the fact that it lends its support to the vicious and the depraved? And
that you Hindus are falling into a decline because of your faithfulness
to a lofty rule of moral law? In the few months that I’ve been here I’ve
noticed that the Burmese, like the Indians, are turning more and
more to Islam. Every village in Burma has a Mussalman community
and a mosque … You were just telling me of the incident at the
harbour … didn’t the young man betray the woman’s love only
because Hindu society is not large enough to accept the Burmese
wife of one of its sons? Would it have been necessary for the older
brother to devise such a shameless scheme of desertion if he had
been a Mussalman? Instead of breaking up the happy pair he would
have drawn them under the shadow of the one true God and,
blessing them, would have departed in peace. Which course of
action do you recommend as the more ethical, Srikanta Babu?’
I looked at her with reverence in my eyes. ‘Tell me, Abhaya,’ I said,
‘from where did a simple village girl like you learn to speak as you
do. I can say, quite truthfully, that knowledge and breadth of vision
like yours is rare even among men. No child of yours need ever be
ashamed to call you “mother”.’
Her wan face lit up. ‘Tell me, Srikanta Babu,’ she urged. ‘Will
Hindu society be the purer for rejecting me? Will it not suffer a loss?’
Suddenly she smiled a radiant smile and continued. ‘But I shall not
run away, Srikanta Babu. I shall live among you and be part of you
however much you dishonour and defame me. If I can rear even one
of my children to become a man among men I shall have had my
revenge. For I will have proved that man is exalted by his actions
alone—not by the accident of his birth.’
 11

AMONG THE PEOPLE WHO ASSEMBLED PERIODICALLY IN DA

THAKUR’S HOTEL for religious singing and discourse was a man
called Manohar Chakraborty. He was a wealthy man and was
reported to have combined within himself the qualities of devoutness
and worldly wisdom to a fine degree. He took quite kindly to me for
some reason.
One morning he drew me aside and treated me to a little lecture.
‘You are a young man, Srikanta Babu. Your life is before you. If you
wish to make something of it I can give you a few tips. Fortune has
favoured you. Not everyone who comes to Burma fares as well as
you have done. You earn well but from what I hear—and I always
take care to ascertain my facts—you squander away every paisa you
earn. It breaks my heart to think of it. I too was careless and
improvident at your age. Then someone took me in hand and gave
me the advice I’m about to give you. He was an ordinary man. He
earned only fifty rupees a month. But when he died he left behind
him a house with an orchard and a pond, acres of paddy fields and
two thousand rupees in cash. I myself …’ He stopped suddenly and
changed the flow of his monologue. ‘You too can be a rich man in a
couple of years if you take my advice. You may even be able to save
enough money to go back to Calcutta and get yourself a wife.’
From where he had got the impression that I was sighing my soul
away for a wife, I could not say. But, since he had assured me that
he never uttered a word without full and absolute knowledge, I had to
accept the statement and even nod encouragingly.
‘Look, Srikanta Babu,’ he continued. ‘Making money is not as easy
as it seems. It can only be accomplished by careful planning and
ceaseless toil. I won’t advise you not to throw your money away in
charities and such like. I know you are not such a fool as to do that.
What I’m asking you to do is to follow a few simple rules that will
enable you to keep the money that you have earned with your hard
work. If anyone is in distress of any kind, shun him like a leper for,
before you know where you are, he’ll touch you for a couple of
rupees. If you give him the money, you lose it and your peace of
mind as well, for two rupees is a tidy sum, after all, and you can’t let
it go without a struggle. You’ll try to get it back and bitterness and
frustration will inevitably follow. Is it not much better to steer clear of
such complications?’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ I agreed.
‘You are an intelligent man,’ he continued, warming to his theme.
‘An educated man. That is why you appreciate my advice. The
mechanics and coolies here are such fools—they’ll even borrow
money to lend it. No wonder they never have a paisa in their
pockets. What can you expect from low-caste fellows like that lot.
Dolts! Idiots!’
Recovering from his indignation with an effort he went on. ‘Never
lend money without a collateral. If someone comes crying to you that
he is in trouble, just turn around and tell him it’s not your fault. And
he if touches you for a loan ask him for a mortgage on his house, his
lands or his wife’s jewellery—as the case may be. That is always
good policy. Never go near any kind of quarrel. Even if you see a
man being beaten to death—don’t interfere. Why invite trouble? You
may get a few blows for your pains. You may even have to testify
before a court of law if there is a police inquiry. It is much better to
slip away and lie low for a while. You can offer your condolences and
a few words of advice to the bereaved party once the trouble is over.
What do you say? Is my reasoning incorrect?’
‘Oh, no! This is excellent advice.’
‘Of course it is excellent advice. Now for the last bit. Keep at a
safe distance from the sick and afflicted for they are always in need
of help—financial and otherwise. To be frank, I never go near such
people. It is imprudent to lend a sick man money for who can
prophesy the future? He may not live to repay the loan. As for
nursing the sick—dear God! if I were to catch the infection and fall ill
in this alien land! No, I must not even think such dreadful thoughts.
Sheetala Ma* have mercy on me! What am I but the dust of your
feet?’ and he bit his tongue and tweaked his ears in excessive
humility. Observing my silence he hesitated a little before adding,
‘Europeans never visit the sick. If they are very concerned, they send
a card. Isn’t that far more sensible? White men never get involved in
one another’s problems. That is the secret of their success.’
The office hour being at hand I was compelled to take a break
from the moral instruction my mentor doled out so unstintingly. In any
case, I didn’t feel young and unformed enough to be moulded by the
wise man’s guidance to any great extent. A man like him is not a
rarity in rural Bengal. Neither is his advice. Thus I was not unfamiliar
with the type. What I was unprepared for was the speed and
thoroughness with which Providence dispelled his delusions of
practical wisdom and exposed him for what he really was—a
spineless, contemptible, self-centred old fool. But that was a fortnight
later.
I had not been to see Abhaya since the day I had surprised her in
Rohini Babu’s house. I had thought of her a good deal and had tried
to reconcile her point of view with my own pre-conditioned one with
all the arguments I could muster. I respected the independence of
her thinking, her veracity and candour and her deep, passionate love
for Rohini. All these attracted me immensely and I longed to renew
our friendship, but the bigotry of generations of Hindu chauvinists
was in my blood and it would not let me rest. I couldn’t, despite my
best efforts, conquer the nagging feeling that Annada Didi would not
have acted as Abhaya had done. Even if the choice were between a
lifetime of humiliation as a servant in some strange household and
one of queenly dignity in that of a man who was not her husband,
she would have chosen the former without the slightest hesitation. I
asked myself, over and over again, if Annada Didi’s perception of
physical purity and her concept of duty—derived, I had no doubt,
from her unconditional surrender to God’s will—could be truly
reduced to nothing by Abhaya’s intelligent reasoning. I remembered
something the latter had said—the finer nuances of which had
eluded me at the time.
‘Srikanta Babu,’ she had said, ‘the human race has been attracted
to suffering from time immemorial for there is, inbuilt in the nature of
man, an irresistible urge for self-chastisement. Man obsessively
views himself as good or bad in proportion to the sorrow that has
been his portion. This is perhaps owing to the knowledge that
through the centuries of his history, man has acquired nothing
without tremendous sacrifice. That knowledge has been subverted
today into the erroneous conviction that the opposite is equally true.
That sacrifice and sorrow bring acquisition and ascent in their wake.
When a man voluntarily suppresses his natural instincts and
embraces a life of deprivation, he does it in the belief that a great
deal more than what he is giving up is being stored for him in some
other place. His fellowmen share his conviction. When a sanyasi
immerses himself in ice-cold water on a bitter winter night or stands
on his head in the scorching summer sun he invariably attracts a
crowd. Why? Because people are overwhelmed not only by the sight
of the privations the man is undergoing but by their own visions of
the luxury and comfort that awaits him in the next world. Woven into
the fabric of their awe and admiration is a strand of envy and another
of self-pity. Convinced that this man, alone, is doing with his body
what God meant him to do whereas they are wasting theirs on
earthly functions—they go back home saddened and frustrated.
Srikanta Babu, the belief that self-deprivation brings happiness in its
wake is the biggest lie that man has concocted for himself. It is
neither true of this life nor of the next.’
‘But a widow’s brahmacharya—’ I began.
Abhaya stopped me with a gesture. ‘Speak of it as the conduct
regulated for widows. It has nothing whatsoever to do with Brahma.
This is another of the lies perpetrated through the ages—that
abstinence and sacrifice lead widows straight to Brahma. What is
good for widows should be good for everyone. Why isn’t it so?’
‘Oh! All right,’ I laughed. ‘Let’s not call it brahmacharya. What’s in
a name?’
‘You are quite wrong, Srikanta Babu,’ she answered, fixing her
dark, compelling gaze on mine. ‘Everything is in a name. What in the
world is more powerful than the word? Give the biggest lie the label
of truth and it will become sacrosanct. Men, women and children will
adapt their thoughts, feelings and perceptions to it and tread the
groove of falsehood for centuries to come. A widow’s renunciation of
the pleasures of the world gets her nowhere, Srikanta Babu. All it
gives her is a halo she can well do without. There is no trick so low
down in the world as the one that has been played on poor, foolish,
trusting, unresisting women by their male protectors. To push them
on to a path of self-obliteration—what can be more cruel? What a
waste of human quality, Srikanta Babu! What utter, colossal waste!’
I had no arguments with which to counter her analysis. I recalled
that Doctor Babu had called her a ‘forward’ woman on the strength of
his slight acquaintance. Neither of us had dreamed of the
dimensions the word ‘forward’ could attain in connection with
Abhaya. The girl had a way of baring her innermost thoughts and
emotions before the glaring light of public opinion without the
slightest hesitation. Another thing I noticed about Abhaya was that
there was no gap between her words and her actions. She waged a
ceaseless battle against her enemies, within and without, and strove
to live by the light of her own convictions. It was this quality that often
made me tongue-tied in her presence. Later, back in my own room, I
found all the forceful arguments I could have used against hers. The
thought of Abhaya invariably created a duality within me. The more I
told myself that Abhaya was right in leaving her husband, that there
was nothing else that she could have done—the more my heart and
soul turned against her. I would reason with myself. I would exhort
myself to respect her thoughts and actions. But, somehow, I never
managed to—quite. A nagging feeling of doubt and frustration
invariably dogged me, preventing me as forcefully from renewing our
friendship as from forgetting her existence.
While things were in this state, plague burst over the city of
Rangoon. All the efforts of the authorities to prevent its insidious
progress across the Bay had come to naught. Normal life was
paralysed under the pressure of a two-way exodus. Some people
abandoned the centre of the town for the suburbs while others, from
the latter, rushed to the former. To see a rat, alive or dead, was to
run—such a state of panic had ensued.
It was a Saturday morning. I remember that well. I was walking
through a congested area of central Rangoon at a quick pace when I
caught sight of Manohar Chakraborty waving frantically from the
upper window of a decrepit house. I waved back but did not slow my
steps for I was in a hurry to get to the main road.
‘Do come up, Srikanta Babu,’ he called in a piteous voice. ‘I’m in
great trouble.’
I retraced my steps unwillingly, grumbling to myself that it was just
my luck to be caught by the old bore. Outwardly, however, I smiled a
false smile and said, ‘You haven’t been to the hotel for some days
now, Chakraborty moshai. Do you live here?’
‘No, I moved in a fortnight ago. I was suffering from dysentery—
which is why I haven’t been to see you—and then the plague broke
out in the neighbourhood. Naturally, I left as quickly as I could.’
‘Naturally,’ I echoed.
‘It’s all very well, moshai,’ he went on fretfully. ‘You understand and
I understand. But my combined hand is threatening to leave. Why
don’t you call the rascal and give him a good scolding?’
Here I think I owe it to my readers to explain the term combined
hand, for, living in India as they do, they have no idea of what that is.
Combined hands are men who combine cooking and serving food
with every other kind of menial chore. They are generally found
among Brahmins from northern India who, though rabidly caste-
conscious in their native village, display a remarkable flexibility in
Burma. For an extra rupee or two the purest of pure Dwivedi and
Chaturvedi cooks will undertake to clean dirty utensils, wipe floors,
prepare hookahs and polish the shoes of their low-caste masters, for
if there is one thing they cannot resist, it is the lure of filthy lucre. For
them money is the most potent of purifying agents. Unlike our foolish
fellows from Bengal and Orissa whose Brahminhood resists practical
assaults, with the fiercest determination the Brahmin from the north
simply puts a price tag on every dent in his. Anyhow, who was I to
reprimand Manohar Chakraborty’s servant? And why should he take
it from me? This combined hand was evidently new—a concession,
no doubt, to the difficulties wrought by the prolonged dysentery—for,
as far as my own knowledge went, Manohar Chakraborty had been
his own hand, combined or otherwise, for as many years as he had
been in Burma.
‘You are an eminent man, Srikanta Babu,’ he continued, ‘and a
respected one. We have all heard of the power and prestige you
enjoy in the highest circles. One line from you to the governor will
ensure that the swine is punished with imprisonment upto fourteen
years.’
I stared at him in astonishment. The idea that I, who didn’t even
know the governor’s name, was capable of getting a man imprisoned
for life on the strength of a single line written to His Excellency, was
so novel that I staggered under its impact. In my dazed condition,
with my erstwhile mentor’s repeated humble requests ringing in my
ears, I proceeded to the kitchen where the hapless combined hand
was stationed. Crouching in the shadow of the black vault which
made up the kitchen quarters, the combined hand had heard every
word his master had uttered. He now came forward, pale and
trembling, and folding his hands before me, begged me in a nasal
whine to allow him to leave. He had no objection, he said, to working
for the master if he moved to another house but this one, he was
convinced, had a deo (a spirit) in it. Strange shadows flitted about
day and night. The house was so dark and ill-ventilated that the
presence of shadows did not surprise me. What did was the nasty
stink that proceeded from the interior of the kitchen.
‘What is that smell?’ I asked
‘Something rotting. Must be a rat,’ said the combined hand.
‘Rat?’ I asked startled. ‘Is there a dead rat in there?’
The combined hand shrugged his shoulders and informed me that
he threw six or seven dead rats out into the alley every morning. I lit
a kerosene lamp and the two of us made a thorough though futile
search. I shivered involuntarily. Try as I would, I could not bring
myself to advise the man not to desert his sick master. Back in the
bedroom, Manohar Chakraborty treated me to an account of the
virtues of the new house. Such a big house, located right in the
centre of the city, was never to be had at the rent he was paying.
Then again, the landlord was such a thorough gentleman, and the
neighbours so decent and non-interfering. The room adjoining his
had been rented out to a group of Christian boys from Madras who
were as quiet as they were amiable and respectful. He even
informed me that he would throw out the rascally Brahmin as soon
as he felt a little better. Then, suddenly, he asked a strange question.
‘Do you believe in dreams, Srikanta Babu?’
‘No,’ I replied without the slightest hesitation.
‘I don’t either. Yet—and this is very strange, moshai—I dreamt last
night that I fell down the stairs and was hurt in the groin. When I
woke up I found a swelling on it. I even feel feverish this morning.
Touch me and see.’
I could feel my face grow pale with horror. I sat speechless for the
next few minutes. Then, recovering myself, I checked his fever and
inspected the lump in his groin. ‘Have you sent for a doctor?’ I
asked. ‘I advise you to do so immediately.’
‘Everything is so expensive in this country, Srikanta Babu. A
doctor will charge four or five rupees as his fee. Another two will be
wasted on medicines—’
 ‘Never mind that,’ I cut him short. ‘Send for one immediately.’
‘Whom shall I send? Tiwari is a fool. Besides, if he goes, who’ll do
the cooking?’
‘I’ll go,’ I said and went out.
After examining the patient, the doctor drew me aside with the
question, ‘Are you related to him?’ On my answering in the negative
he asked, ‘Does he have any relatives in Burma?’
‘Not that I know of,’ I said.
The doctor’s face grew sombre. ‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll write out
a prescription. And you had better send for some ice to put on his
head. But the best thing would be to remove him to the plague
hospital. It is not right for you to expose yourself to the risk of
infection. And another thing—don’t bother about the fee.’
After the doctor had left, I went back to Manohar Babu and, very
hesitatingly, broached the subject of shifting him to a hospital ward.
But at the word ‘hospital’ he burst into tears. ‘Don’t send me to a
hospital please, Srikanta Babu. I’ve heard that the doctors there kill
off the patients. I’ll never come back.’
Disengaging his clinging hands, I went to look for Tiwari with the
intention of sending him out to buy ice and medicines. But the
combined hand had vanished. There was not a trace, in the house,
of him or his possessions. I calculated that he had overheard the
doctor’s remarks and though he had understood little else, the word
plague had been sufficient inspiration for him to bolt. I had no choice
but to lock the door and go out myself. I returned within an hour with
medicines, an ice bag and ice, and the long vigil began. The morning
dragged on hot and weary. The patient was in high delirium.
Continually threshing his arms and legs, he tried to throw off the ice
bag from his head. Then around two o’clock in the afternoon, he
slipped into a coma.
There were some lucid intervals, however. Towards evening he
opened his eyes and, gazing into mine with full consciousness, he
said, ‘I’m dying, Srikanta Babu.’
 I made no answer. He fumbled painfully for the key that was
secured by a string to his waist and handing it to me with a trembling
hand said, ‘I have three hundred guineas saved up. Send them to
my wife. You’ll find the address and the money in my trunk.’
I sat through the long dreary afternoon and evening watching the
sick man die. From time to time I heard snatches of conversation
and light footfalls from the adjoining room. Around dusk there was a
sudden burst of activity. Sounds of furniture being shifted were
interspersed with low whispers. Then all was still. I got up to
investigate and found a lock on the door. Thinking that the inmates
had gone out for a stroll and would soon be back, I took up my place,
once more, at Manohar Babu’s side. An acute depression took hold
of me. The hours passed and no one returned. Around midnight I got
so restless that I went up to the door once again. The lock was still
there and all was silent, but through a chink in the wooden wall a
beam of light shone into the passage. Fitting my eye to it, I peeped
into the room.
The blood froze in my veins as the full impact of what I saw hit my
consciousness. Two young men lay sleeping side by side, their
heads resting on a single pillow. A row of candles, burning low in
their sockets, stood on the headboard. I had heard of the Roman
Catholic ritual of keeping a light burning at the head of a corpse and I
knew, to a certainty, that these sleepers would never awake. Another
two hours and Manohar Babu sank into the same restful sleep. As I
sat guarding the body, I marvelled at the fate that had singled me out
to take charge of the worldly possessions and mortal remains of one
who had advised me, most emphatically, to keep away from the sick
and the afflicted.
The next morning and afternoon were taken up in collecting the
death certificate, handing the body to the authorities and arranging
for the guineas to be sent to the family of the deceased. Bidding
goodbye to Manohar Babu’s corpse as it lay in the police wagon on
its way, it is hoped, to heaven, I returned to my den in Da Thakur’s
hotel. I was weary to the bone. Not a drop of water had passed
through my lips in thirty-three hours, and my eyes burned with the
night’s long vigil.
As I sank down on the bed I became aware, for the first time, of a
dull throbbing at the back of my ear. Probing gently with a finger I
felt, or thought I felt, a lump. I wondered if this were preordained; if
Manohar Chakraborty, in his infinite worldly wisdom, had ensured
that I follow him to heaven to render a true account of what I had
done with the guineas. All night I tossed and turned in my bed and,
by constantly prodding the inflamed area, rendered it even more
painful. I woke up the next morning with one thought in my head. I
had to find some place to dump myself before I passed out
altogether. I had many friends and acquaintances in Rangoon but
they were all, without exception, righteous and devout. They didn’t
deserve the terrible fate of having a plague patient thrust on them. If
I did so I would incur the wrath of God as surely as I still lived and
breathed. Far better to seek out a sinner. I knew of one—an immoral,
depraved woman who lived in sin at the other end of Rangoon. I had
despised her and scorned her for a long while now. Who, better than
she, deserved the punishment of nursing me through the dreaded
illness? She might even catch the contagion and die and, in doing
so, justly atone for her sins. Reasoning thus, I sent for a carriage to
take me to Abhaya’s house.
 12

THAT MORNING WHEN I STOOD FACE-TO-FACE WITH ABHAYA,

DEATH WARRANT in hand, my fear of dying was swamped by a
terrifying humility. Abhaya’s face turned deathly pale but the words
that issued from her lips were these: ‘You were right to come to me
for who, in this alien land, cares more for you than I do?’
Tears rushed to my eyes. ‘I am going, Abhaya,’ I said. ‘I have to
suffer the agony of the passage. No one can take that away from
me. I came to you in my helplessness but, seeing you, I am
ashamed of bringing my troubles to your door. The carriage is
waiting. I will not lose consciousness for another hour at least. I can
reach the plague hospital before that. Only you—you must be firm
and tell me to go.’
In answer, Abhaya took my hand and led me to the bed. Then,
wiping her eyes, she laid a hand on my fevered brow and said, ‘I am
grateful I have a door to which you could bring your troubles. My
home is truly a home now that you are in it.’
What I suffered from was obviously not the plague for I was up
and about in a fortnight. But Abhaya would not let me go back to the
hotel. While still in her house, I received a letter from Pyari—her first
after I came to Burma. I had written to her several times but never
received a reply.
Touching lightly on the subject she wrote:
If I die, someone or the other will inform you of the fact but while I live my
news can be of no interest to you. That is why I do not write. The reverse
is not true. I pine for news of you. Write me a line whenever you can so
that I have the satisfaction of knowing how you fare in that godforsaken
land.

Then she came to the real purpose of the letter.

I’m writing to you in the hope of securing your permission for Banku’s
marriage. I wish to arrange it within this month. You have always
maintained that a man should not marry before he is capable of
 supporting a family and I have agreed with you. Nevertheless, I am
being forced to take this decision. Do come home as soon as you are
able and judge the situation for yourself.

Towards the end of her letter there was a reference to Abhaya. I

had been so shaken and bewildered after my argument with Abhaya
on the day she had arrogantly asserted her right to spurn her brute
of a husband and live openly with the man she loved, that I had
poured out my feelings in a four-page letter to Rajlakshmi.
Referring to that communication, Rajlakshmi wrote:
I don’t know if you’ve spoken of me to Abhaya. If you have I beg you to
give her my humblest and sincerest regards. I don’t know if she is
younger or older than me in years. I don’t need to know either. Her
indomitable spirit and vigour of thought and action have ensured her a
far higher place than ordinary mortals like us can ever dream of
reaching. Srikantada, whenever I think of Abhaya I am reminded of
something my gurudev said to me on the day of my indoctrination. I had
everything arranged and ready in my house in Kashi. Gurudev entered
the puja room and seated himself on the carpet. I watched him as he sat,
still and silent as a figure of stone, then, suddenly afraid, I threw myself
at his feet and wept, ‘Gurudev, don’t give me the mantra. I don’t deserve
it.’
He put a hand on my head and asked, ‘Why, child, what ails you?’
‘I am a sinner.’
‘If so, you are all the more in need of the word of God.’
‘I lied to you,’ I sobbed. ‘I dared not reveal my true identity. If you knew
what I am you would never have crossed my threshold.’
‘I crossed your threshold with full knowledge and I shall give you the
mantra all the same. I may not approve of Pyari but what prevents me
from loving my daughter Rajlakshmi?’
I sat speechless for a few minutes. Then I said fearfully, ‘My mother’s
guru refused to give me the mantra. He said he would be doomed to
eternal punishment if he did. Was he not right?’
Gurudev smiled. ‘He must have been. But I have no fear of eternal
punishment so I can give it to you.’
‘Why do you have no fear?’
‘Why is one member of a household stricken with a disease while
another is untouched?’
 ‘No one is untouched. The strong can resist the disease. The weak
succumb.’
Gurudev stroked my head and said, ‘Always remember that, child.
What kills the weak and petty makes the strong stronger and finer.’
‘But good and bad are equally so for everyone, surely, irrespective of
strength or weakness? Is it not unjust to have different laws for different
people?’
‘No. That is how God created the world. What is good for one is not
necessarily good for another. A drug that kills a child of five may have no
effect whatsoever on a man of thirty. You may not agree with me—at
least not today—but bear this in mind. There are some among us in
whose breast the fire of God burns bright and clear. There are others
who have not the faintest spark—only a heap of cold, dead ashes. Can
they both be subject to a common law? No, child, no.’
Srikantada, I have not seen Abhaya but from what you write about her,
I can sense the fire Gurudev spoke of, flaming fiercely in her soul. Don’t
be hasty in your judgement of her. Don’t weigh her actions on the same
pair of scales as you do those of ordinary women like me.

I handed the letter to Abhaya. She read it once, twice and yet a
third time. Then, suddenly overcome, she crumpled the piece of
paper in her hand and, throwing it on the bed, ran out of the room. I
realized that the respect and admiration that breathed from every
line of Rajlakshmi’s letter was too great for Abhaya’s hurt, humiliated
womanhood to bear. She had to hide her face, torn with pain and
happiness, from my insensitive male eyes. She reappeared half an
hour later. I could see that she had washed her face clean of the
telltale tears.
‘Srikanta Dada,’ she began.
‘Good heavens! Since when have I become your dada?’
‚From this minute.’
‘Oh, no!’ I groaned. ‘What will become of me if all my girlfriends
make me their brother?’
Abhaya laughed. ‘So that was your little plan, was it? You are a
terrible man. Is this the return you make to poor Rohini Babu for
sheltering you and looking after you in your illness?’ Then, sobering
down, she added, ‘What a pity I didn’t think of sending a telegram to
Rajlakshmi when you were sick! If I had she would have been here
by now and I would have had the good fortune of seeing her.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
Abhaya looked thoughtful. ‘From the tone of her letter I get the
feeling that she needs you desperately. Why don’t you take a
month’s leave and go home, Srikanta Dada?’
I didn’t admit it to Abhaya but I too had got the feeling that
Rajlakshmi needed me. Next morning, I applied for a month’s leave
and made all the arrangements for the journey back to India. Just
before I stepped into the carriage that was to take me to the harbour,
Abhaya touched my feet and said, ‘I want you to make me a
promise.’
‘Yes. What is it?’
‘Certain situations arise, at times, which men are powerless to
deal with. If, and when, that happens you must write to me and ask
me for my advice.’
I nodded my assent and got into the carriage.
‘Another thing,’ Abhaya called after me. ‘Look after yourself. Be
very careful, particularly on the ship.’
I looked back smiling, to see Abhaya’s eyes swimming in tears.
 13

THE FIRST PERSON I SAW WHEN THE SHIP TOUCHED THE

SHORE WAS BANKU. He ran up the steps and, touching my feet
with great reverence, said, ‘Ma is waiting in the carriage. Why don’t
you join her? I’ll collect your stuff and bring it in.’
I stepped on the jetty to encounter a grinning Ratan. He fell at my
feet in an excess of devotion then, leading me to the carriage,
opened the door and bid me step in.
‘Come,’ Rajlakshmi said and, turning to Ratan with a distracted
frown, added, ‘We are leaving, Ratan. It is two o’clock and Babu is
tired and hungry. You hire another carriage and come home with
Banku and the luggage. Tell the coachman to start moving.’ As we
moved on, Rajlakshmi bent down to touch my feet. Then, raising her
head, she asked, ‘Was the journey uncomfortable?’
‘No.’
‘You were very ill—’
‘I was ill but not very. What about you? You look far from well
yourself. When did you arrive?’
‘The day before yesterday. I left Patna as soon as I got Abhaya’s
wire intimating your arrival. I would have come a few days later in
any case. We have a lot of work waiting for us in Calcutta.’
‘It can go on waiting. Tell me, is anything wrong?’
A little smile flickered on Rajlakshmi’s face at the sight of which
the full realization of what I had been deprived of all these months
overwhelmed me. A sweeping, blinding desire swamped all my other
feelings but I had to crush it, perforce, with all the willpower I was
capable of. There was only one witness to my agony of the moment,
and that was God. A sigh, wrenched from the depths of my being,
made Rajlakshmi look up in surprise and ask, ‘Do I look different?
Am I thinner than I used to be?’
 She was a little thinner and paler, it was true, but that was not all.
There was a look on her face of excessive fatigue and strain, as if
she had just returned from a nightmarish journey across the world,
so weary and exhausting that she could barely support herself. On
my remaining silent, she repeated her question adding, ‘Tell me.
How am I different?’
‘I won’t tell you.’
Rajlakshmi gave her head a little shake and begged like a child,
‘You must tell me. People say I’ve become old and ugly. Is that true?’
‘It is,’ I answered solemnly.
Rajlakshmi laughed. ‘You are the rudest man I’ve ever met.
Anyway, what does it matter if I’ve lost my looks? Is our relationship
dependent on my youth and beauty that I should die of worry?’
‘You needn’t die of worry. For one thing, no one has told you that
you have lost your looks. For another—even if someone has, you
don’t believe it. You know very well that—’
‘You of course know everything about everybody,’ Rajlakshmi said
angrily. ‘But tell me truthfully—am I exactly as I was when you first
saw me at the hunting party?’
‘No. You are far more beautiful.’
Rajlakshmi turned her face to the window to hide her delight from
my admiring gaze. She sat silent, for a while, apparently absorbed in
the sights and sounds of the Calcutta streets. Then, turning to me
with a worried gaze, she asked, ‘What was it that made you ill? Did
you find the climate unsuitable?’
‘It is different,’ I answered, ‘but since I’ll have to live in Burma I
may as well get used to its air and water.’
Even while making this statement I anticipated a violent protest
from Rajlakshmi—an unconditional turning down of my proposal of
going back to an environment that, I had admitted, did not suit my
constitution. But nothing like that happened. She answered softly,
‘That is true. Besides, there are many Bengalis in Rangoon. If they
have got used to the climate, you will too—in time.’
 The cool indifference with which she made this statement cut me
to the quick. All through my convalescence in Abhaya’s house, I had
fantasized about the moment of reunion with Rajlakshmi. I had
wrought the scene with care, adding colour and depth as I went
along. I had imagined the storm in her breast as I told her how I had
nursed a plague patient and then succumbed to the dreaded
disease. I had seen the tears pouring down her cheeks. But now a
terrible shame and humiliation engulfed me. What a blessing it was, I
thought, that one cannot look into another’s heart! I decided that
nothing would induce me to tell Rajlakshmi of my near encounter
with death.
As we entered the house she had rented in Bowbazaar,
Rajlakshmi pointed to the staircase saying, ‘Go straight up to your
room on the second floor and rest for a while. I’m coming in a
moment.’ And with that she moved briskly towards the kitchen. It was
not difficult to identify my room for it was a replica of the one I had
had in Patna. All my books were there. My hookah, with its long pipe,
stood in its usual place by the bed and my velvet slippers sat
decorously, side by side, on the footstool. My clothes, my writing
materials and all my personal possessions, down to the last detail,
had been remembered and brought over with meticulous care. As I
looked around I noticed something new. A magnificent sunset in oils
that I had always admired in Pyari’s bedroom now hung on one wall
of mine. I walked over to the armchair at the window and, leaning
back, shut my eyes. Tears pricked my eyelids as I felt the waters that
had been ebbing away gather themselves, and flow once again from
an old strong source.
Exhausted by the journey, I dozed off after lunch. When I awoke I
found the afternoon sun streaming on my feet through an open
window and Pyari leaning over me wiping the sweat from my face,
neck and chest. She said, ‘This room faces the west and is very hot.
I must move you from here. The one next to mine on the first floor
would be cooler I drink. See how you’re perspiring! The sheet and
pillowcase are drenched.’ Then, seating herself very close to me on
the bed, she started fanning me vigorously with a palm leaf fan.
Ratan entered the room. ‘Shall I bring Babu’s tea up here?’ he
asked.
‘Yes,’ answered his mistress, ‘and tell Banku I want to see him.’
I shut my eyes. After a few minutes the sound of slippers could be
heard flapping on the marble steps and Pyari’s voice called out, ‘Is
that Banku? Come up here.’
I heard Banku step cautiously into the room. Pyari continued
fanning me as she said, ‘Take up a piece of paper and a pencil and
make a list of the things we need. Then take the durwan with you
and buy them.’
This was something new. Except in my illnesses, Pyari had never
sat on my bed and ministered to me the way she did now. Even
more surprising was the unashamed candour with which she
admitted our intimacy before Banku and the servants. The wondrous
beauty and boldness of her action filled my heart with emotions I
could not describe. I remembered the day she had asked me to
leave her house because of what Banku might think or feel.
After Ratan had brought up the tea and Banku departed with the
list, Pyari put a question I hadn’t expected, ‘You say Rohini Babu and
Abhaya love each other but whose love is the stronger? Can you
tell?’
‘Abhaya’s—obviously!’ I laughed. ‘After all, she’s the one who has
been haunting you for the past six months.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I know it. Contradict me if you can.’
‘You may be right but I believe Rohini Babu’s love to be stronger.
He has had to pass a more difficult test than Abhaya.’
I was surprised at her reasoning. ‘I don’t agree,’ I said. ‘I think
Abhaya’s struggle has been more painful and bitter than Rohini
Babu’s. He is a man, after all, and our society is far more supportive
of the male than of the female. Don’t forget that.’
 ‘I forget nothing,’ she said. ‘But let me get this clear. You are
saying, are you not, that our society is more lenient with men than
with women where extra-marital involvements are in question? That,
once the affair is over and the woman abandoned, the man is
welcomed back to the fold and the passage is made smooth and
easy for him? I agree, but then—only the lowest and the most
contemptible of men take advantage of that kind of support. Rohini
Babu does not belong to that class. Neither do you. Just think of
what life is for a man like Rohini Babu. Since he cannot abandon the
woman who has trusted him, he is a ready target for the taunts and
jeers of his fellowmen. There is no protection for him, for he cannot
confine himself within the four walls of his home the way a woman
can. He has to go out into the world to earn a living and support the
woman he loves. The burden of protecting his beloved and the
mother of his children from the assaults of the outside world also
falls on him. And as if all this is not torture enough there is, to add to
it, the temptation that he has only to lay down his weary load, leave
the woman to her fate and his old comfortable world will take him
back with open arms. This temptation gnaws at his vitals like a
canker, destroying the love for which he had once defied the world.
Can you imagine the strength of the love that can withstand all these
pressures?’
I saw the force of her reasoning. I remembered Rohini’s gentle,
self-effacing ways and the stark pain and bewilderment in his eyes
after Abhaya left him for her husband.
‘But you sent your humblest and sincerest regards to Abhaya and
not to Rohini,’ I said laughing.
‘I did. And I still give her what is her due. I firmly believe that
whatever base metal there may have been in her nature has long
since been burned to ashes by her inner fire. If it hadn’t, she would
have been just as low and degraded as any other fallen woman.’
‘Why low and degraded?’
‘The sin of rejecting a husband is a grievous one—’
 ‘If you had seen Abhaya’s husband you wouldn’t have said that.’
‘Men have been wayward and dissolute through the ages, and
oppressive to their women. That cannot condone a woman’s running
away from her husband. Women must submit to their sufferings. The
world cannot go on otherwise.’
Her words confused and irritated me for, in them, I saw the
reasoning of a passive female who glories in her subordinate status.
‘Then what is this fire you were talking about?’ I asked, a trifle
impatiently.
Rajlakshmi smiled. ‘I have just received a letter from Abhaya,
giving me an account of your illness. She had been through hell and
had just begun to live, when you stormed into her life bringing the
plague with you. Your presence threatened to destroy the delicate
web of happiness that she had woven for herself. But did she shrink
from you? On the contrary, she gathered you to her bosom as
spontaneously and fearlessly as a mother would her child. Her
strength and discipline, her belief in duty before self, emerge from
what I call the fire in her soul. Why is fire referred to as all
consuming? Because it makes no distinction between sorrow and
happiness and draws both to itself with equal triumph. Something
else that she wrote in her letter impressed me. She is determined,
she wrote, to make Rohini Babu a success in all his capacities—as a
man, a husband and a father—for it is only through one’s own
fulfilment that one can ensure that of others. Frustration breeds its
own likeness and multiplies rapidly. It’s very true, isn’t it?’
She sighed. We had nothing to say to one another for a long while.
Then, running her fingers through my hair, she asked timidly, ‘Is
Abhaya a very learned woman?’
‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘She seems well educated.’
‘That is the secret of her strength. But she has concealed
something from me—her yearning to be a mother.’
‘Does she have such yearnings? I know nothing of them.’
‘What woman doesn’t? No one proclaims it before the world.’
 ‘Do you?’
She blushed and hung her head to hide her flaming cheeks. The
red-gold beams of the setting sun were streaming in through the
window. They shimmered over her lustrous black hair and flashed
from the facets of the diamonds in her ears. ‘Why should I?’ she
said, at last, sitting up proudly. ‘Do I not have children already? My
daughters are married. My son is about to be married. I shall soon
have grandchildren. What more do I want?’
I didn’t have the heart to contradict her.
After dinner that night, Rajlakshmi said, ‘Banku’s wedding is a
fortnight away. We can go to Kashi and get back well in time. Let’s
go. I want my gurudev to meet you.’
‘Am I worth the trouble?’
‘That’s the beholder’s problem. You don’t have to worry.’
‘But what is the point of it? What good will our meeting do him, or
me for that matter?’
‘It is of no consequence to either of you. But it means a great deal
to me. Come for my sake.’
I had to agree. Owing to a dearth of auspicious days in the coming
months there was a glut of weddings in the city. As we drove to the
station on the day of our departure we got caught in a wedding
procession. We managed to extricate ourselves with difficulty and as
soon as we did so, Rajlakshmi said, ‘If you had your way, only the
rich would be allowed to marry. How would the world go on?’
‘You needn’t worry about the world,’ I answered, the notes of the
shehnai still shrieking in my ears, ‘for there are few in it to take my
advice.’
‘I’m glad of that. Why should every happiness and comfort be
reserved for the affluent? Are the poor not human? Don’t they have
desires and aspirations—the same as the rich?’
‘They may have desires and aspirations, as you put it, but there’s
no need to give in to them.’
‘Why not?’
 I was silent for a while. Then I said, ‘I hold this view only with
regard to the genteel poor. And I think you know my reasons.’
‘Your view is lopsided,’ Rajlakshmi said stubbornly.
But I, too, could be stubborn. ‘You, of all people, know very well it
is not. The day Banku’s father married you and your sister for the
paltry sum of seventy-two rupees is not so far-off that you have
forgotten it. The only redeeming feature of the case was that he was
interested in the money alone. If it hadn’t been for that, you would
have had the added bonus of a string of children. What would you
have done then?’
Rajlakshmi’s eyes flashed rebelliously. ‘God would have looked
after them as he does all his creatures. You are an atheist. That is
why you ask such a question.’
‘This is a practical approach indeed! To believe that God exists
only to bail one out of one’s troubles—’
‘Even if God turned away from me I wouldn’t have despaired. I
would have begged from door to door to feed my children. It would
have been a far better fate than living the life of a singing girl.’
I gave up the argument. I realized that we were treading
dangerous ground: a frequently assaulted, exceedingly vulnerable
area of Rajlakshmi’s heart!
The day being a Saturday and the time early afternoon, crowds of
office employees were seen heading towards the station to catch the
two o’clock or two-thirty trains to their respective villages. As our
carriage moved jauntily through the jostling masses I noticed that all
the men were carrying something or the other in their hands. One
had a couple of large lobsters dangling from a string; another, a bit of
mutton tied in a kerchief. Grapes and pomegranates peeped out of
bursting bags—delectable luxuries to be enjoyed once in a while.
Writ large on the faces of the men was the fact that they were going
back to their loved ones for a brief but ecstatic reunion.
Rajlakshmi tugged at my sleeve and whispered urgently, ‘Why are
all these gentlemen rushing to the station? Where are they going?
What’s today?’
‘Today’s Saturday. They are going home for the weekend.’
‘Yes. That must be it. Look, they all have sweets or fruits in their
hands—for the children.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured.
‘How excited the children will be!’ Rajlakshmi’s imagination had
taken wing. ‘How they’ll jump and dance around their fathers and call
out to their mothers,’ and Rajlakshmi’s cheeks glowed at the thought.
‘That they will,’ I agreed.
My companion’s bright eyes devoured the pedestrians from the
window of the carriage for a while longer, then, with a sigh, she
turned to me and asked, ‘How much do they earn?’
‘Twenty or twenty-five rupees,’ I said, carelessly. ‘Most of them are
clerks.’
‘But they have wives, mothers and children to support.’
‘One or two widowed sisters,’ I added to her list. ‘Guests.
Expenses on weddings or funerals. The mess bill in Calcutta.
Doctors and medicines. In short, everything is paid for out of those
twenty rupees.’
Rajlakshmi’s eyes grew enormous and the colour drained from her
cheeks. ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ she said. ‘They may own property
in the village. I’m certain they do.’
I hesitated a little before disenchanting her. I knew what I was
about to tell her would hurt her terribly. ‘I’ve lived among them and I
know that nine out of ten have nothing beyond their income. And if
they lose their jobs they starve with their children or beg.’
Rajlakshmi covered her ears with her hands and wailed, ‘Don’t tell
me anymore. I won’t listen to another word.’ Her face was flushed
and tears trembled in her eyes.
I turned away and resumed my contemplation of the moving
scene. There was a long silence. I knew that Rajlakshmi was fighting
a mute battle with herself and I let her fight it alone. Then there was
a tug at my sleeve. Curiosity had won.
 ‘Tell me about the children,’ she whispered. ‘But don’t exaggerate
their misery—I beg of you.’
The nature of her request and the humility with which she made it,
amused me but I kept a solemn face and said gravely, ‘The question
of exaggerating does not arise for the simple reason that even the
bare truth would pain you beyond endurance. I wouldn’t have
revealed it, had you not stated a while ago that you wouldn’t mind
begging from door to door to feed your children. The concept that
God looks after those he sends into the world is a fine one indeed
and not to be convinced by it is to be an atheist! Anyhow, I’ll tell you
what I know, and leave it to your own logic and reason to work out
the extent of God’s commitment to those he sends into the world,
and that of the unfortunate parents who give them birth.’
I glanced at her anxious face and continued, ‘A new-born child is
the mother’s responsibility. She keeps it alive by suckling it at her
breast. My faith in God’s abilities is boundless and my conviction of
his mercy—supreme. Yet, I confess I have not, to this day, seen Him
offering to take on this responsibility.’
‘What nonsense you talk,’ Rajlakshmi said, half-laughing, half-
angry.
‘Wait,’ I held up a hand. ‘Do you know how quickly a woman’s milk
dries up in families like theirs?’ I pointed a careless finger at the
crowd. ‘Do you know why? If you wish to know, go have a look at
what a young mother gets to eat in a middle-class home.’
Rajlakshmi’s eyes raked mine as a I went on, ‘You know how
expensive milk is? And how difficult to procure—particularly in a
village.’
‘I do. Unless you have a cow of your own there’s no way you can
get hold of milk. I’ve seen it myself,’
‘Then what does a baby eat once the mother’s milk is gone?
Water from a slimy, green pond and some barley powder from a tin.
And even if a few drops are left for him he cannot enjoy them for
long. Within three or four months, his successor sibling takes
possession of the maternal womb and works actively towards his
deprivation. You understand me?’
Rajlakshmi blushed crimson and said sharply, ‘Yes, yes. Go on.’
‘What happens next is that the malnutritioned child falls prey to
two dreaded diseases—dysentery and malaria which attack him by
turns. When this happens it becomes the father’s duty to provide
quantities of raw quinine and barley powder, which the mother mixes
in pure, unadulterated pond water and pours down the hapless
infant’s throat up to the time—needless to say—that her own labour
pains overtake her. Then, upon her falls the task of crying bitterly for
the old one with the new one in her lap.’
‘Crying! Why crying?’ Rajlakshmi asked, white to the lips.
‘That’s a mother’s foolishness. Far from being grateful at God’s
taking charge of those he sends out into the world, a mother will
weep and beat her breast over a dead child—even in a middle-class
home.’
‘God! My God!’
I had been talking all this while with my face to the window. I
turned sharply at this low cry and fixed my eyes on my companion’s.
The expression in them hit me like a physical blow. I felt ashamed
and angry with myself. Why had I told her all this? What had I gained
by destroying her illusions? She could have gone through life without
this knowledge like others of her kind.
Rajlakshmi wiped her eyes and cried passionately, ‘What are you
made of? You talk of people’s misfortunes in that mocking way
because you have never known any!’
I did not contradict her, knowing it to be useless. I said softly and
humbly, ‘I have not known their happiness either. Look at the faces
of those men.’
In an instant Rajlakshmi’s face became a study in light and
shadow. ‘That’s exactly what I say!’ she cried joyously. ‘They are
hurrying home to their children. How happy they must feel! So what if
they are poor? If they have little money, they don’t have expensive
tastes either. Anyway, I don’t believe they earn as little as twenty
rupees. They must be paid a hundred or a hundred and fifty at the
least.’
‘You may be right. I may have got my figures wrong.’
Rajlakshmi sat up in her excitement. My admittance made her
greedy. A hundred and fifty rupees was not enough for her petty
clerk. ‘Do you think they are solely dependent on their incomes? I’m
sure most of them earn a good deal more.’
‘How?’ I sneered. ‘Do they consort with princes who shower
money and jewels on them?’
A cloud passed over Rajlakshmi’s face. She averted her eyes and
said, ‘The more I see of you the more disillusioned I get. You know
I’m bound to you from childhood. And you test your power over me
by wounding me whenever you can.’
I took both her hands in mine and tried to tell her what lay in my
heart. But the moment passed. The carriage reached its destination
and in the bustle of the arrival my words were left unsaid.
The two-thirty local was about to depart as we stepped onto the
platform. As we walked along it, an elderly man, carrying a bag full of
vegetables in one hand and a clay bird on a stand on the other,
came rushing up from the other end and collided violently with
Rajlakshmi. The bird flew from his hand and was shattered to
splinters on the platform. With a piercing wail the man sank to his
knees and began picking up the pieces even as Banku and Pandeji
descended on him, angrily cursing him for being a blind, old fool. I
managed to ward them off and turning to the old gentleman, said
urgently, ‘Your train is leaving. You’d better board it at once.’ Torn
between the moving train and the broken bird, he scrambled to his
feet and, apologizing humbly to Rajlakshmi, ran in the direction of a
third-class compartment. But too late! The train picked up speed and
snaked away. The man returned and resumed his task of picking up
the pieces.
‘What will you do with those bits of clay?’ I asked, smiling.
 ‘My little daughter, she’s been sick these many months, has been
begging me for a clay bird. I paid two whole annas for it—the
shopman wouldn’t take a paisa less—but look at my luck! The poor
girl will cry her eyes out. I’ll show her the pieces and tell her that the
first thing I’ll buy, on getting my salary, will be her clay bird.’
Saying this the man walked away, clutching the pieces to his
breast. Banku and Pandeji had already strolled away to the other
end of the platform. I turned to Rajlakshmi, who had stood silent all
this while. Tears streamed down her cheeks like monsoon showers.
‘What is the matter? Are you badly hurt?’ I asked, alarmed.
Rajlakshmi wiped her eyes and said hoarsely, ‘Yes. I am badly hurt
—in a place that you have not the eyes to see or the heart to feel.’
 14

BANKU, IN HIS ENTHUSIASM, HAD RESERVED A FULL

COMPARTMENT FOR OUR journey to Kashi. In the middle of
scolding him for this unnecessary extravagance (the situation was
awkward for her, as I well understood) Rajlakshmi’s eyes fell on the
elderly gentleman sitting on a bench, patiently waiting for the next
train. She nudged me and whispered, ‘Where is he going? Why don’t
we take him with us? He can save the ticket money.’
‘He must have bought his ticket already.’
‘But he can travel in greater comfort!’
I was in a perverse mood. ‘People like him are used to discomfort,’
I said.
‘I don’t care. I want to take him with us,’ she said stubbornly.
‘Why do you want an outsider? Am I not enough for you?’
Nevertheless, I went up to the man with Rajlakshmi’s offer, and
needless to say, he accepted.
In the train, Rajlakshmi struck up a lively conversation with her
travelling companion. Within a few minutes, he had poured out the
whole story of his life into her willing ears. By the time the train
reached Bardhaman station where he was to alight, Rajlakshmi had
gleaned a mass of information on life in the villages of north-west
Bengal. Just before the station came into view, she opened her trunk
and, taking out a sari of brilliant green silk, held it out to him with the
words, ‘Give this to Sarala as a compensation for her broken bird.’
The old man shrank from her gift. ‘No, no. This is too expensive,’
he cried out in alarm. ‘Please don’t put yourself out. I’ll buy her
another bird.’
‘It isn’t too expensive and even if it is I’m her mashi* and I want to
give it to her. Tell her from me that she must get well soon and then
wear it—to please me.’
 Tears stood in the old man’s eyes. ‘You are very kind,’ he said.
‘But I’m a poor labouring man. My daughter will never find an
occasion to wear a sari like that.’
He looked at me for support, but I urged him to take it, ‘If Sarala’s
mashi wants to give her a present, it is your duty to accept it on her
behalf. I only wish I had a mashi like hers.’
The man’s eyes shone with gratitude as he took the sari from
Rajlakshmi. But I was not interested in his feelings. A question, one
that I had asked myself many times in the last one year, came to me
again. What was Rajlakshmi heading for? Where would it all end?
Giving away a sari worth ten or twelve rupees, in charity, was
nothing much to her. But the direction in which all her sympathies
were flowing was too clear to be mistaken. A torrent of mother love,
gushing from her breast, raced joyously over rocks and boulders,
green meadows and dark forests towards a destination unknown. I
was afraid for her. I understood Rajlakshmi. I knew that the passion
and yearning of her youth, enshrined in the person of Pyari, was
dying a slow death—so that the very name brought her pain and
humiliation. Gone were the enchanted days, the intoxicated nights of
the singing girl, Pyari Bai. She was dying and in her death pangs
was being born a woman consumed with mother love—a thirst so
deep that not all the waters of the world could quench it. Banku was
not enough for Rajlakshmi anymore. Her love encompassed and
suffused all the children of the world.
For a long time after the train had left Bardhaman station,
Rajlakshmi sat silent with her face turned towards the window. ‘For
whom are these showers of salt water? Sarala or her father?’ I
asked, at last.
‘Eavesdroppers—’ she began furiously.
‘Eavesdroppers have no option but to hear. What else could I do
when I was not allowed to speak? Who are you weeping for?’
‘That is none of your business.’
 ‘It is my business. If your tears are for Sarala’s father I will feel
extremely threatened.’
I thought the joke would make her laugh and restore her good
humour. Instead she turned away completely and fixed her eyes on
the passing scene. I made another attempt. ‘We should have bought
something to eat from Bardhaman station.’ On her remaining silent I
persisted, ‘You weep buckets for the misery of others but have no
thought for the members of your own household. From where did
you pick up these foreign ways?’
This time she turned around and, fixing her eyes on my face, said,
‘I am well aware of the needs of my own household. When the time
comes to serve you I shall not be found wanting.’
At the next station, Rajlakshmi sent for Ratan to prepare my
hookah and, opening a hamper she had brought from home, filled a
huge thala with a variety of sweets and savouries. One glance
confirmed that all my favourite foods were there. I ate with relish,
then lay back comfortably sucking at my pipe. I heard Rajlakshmi
say, ‘Take the rest of the food to your compartment, Ratan, and if
you can’t eat it all, give it away.’
‘Aren’t you going to eat?’ I asked, surprised.
‘I’m not hungry. Go, Ratan—what are you waiting for?’
I noticed that Ratan’s face was red and embarrassed. He turned to
me and said, ‘I’m very sorry, Babu. I handed the hamper by mistake
to a Mussalman coolie. I—’
‘Will you go?’ Rajlakshmi thundered.
After Ratan had left and the train had started moving, Rajlakshmi
came up to where I lay, and running her fingers through my hair,
said, ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I have nothing against Mussalmans. I
don’t really believe their touch to be polluting. I wouldn’t have served
you the same food, if I did.’
‘Why did you refuse to eat it, then?’
‘It is different for women.’
‘What do you mean?’
 ‘Men are free to do what they like, eat as they will and go
wherever they wish. For them it is enough to be happy. Can men
suffer the tribulations that women do as a matter of course? Look at
yourself. You were getting peevish because you were hungry.’
‘There is nothing great in enduring affliction for its own sake.
Neither for you nor for us.’
‘For women, suffering is a part of living. We are a race of slaves.’
‘Who told you that? Your gurudev?’
Rajlakshmi brought her face close to mine and whispered,
‘Everything I’ve learned in my life, I’ve learned from you. You are my
first and greatest guru.’
‘Then you’ve learned the opposite of what I’ve tried to teach you. I
have always believed that women are equal to men.’
Rajlakshmi’s eyes shone, ‘I know that. If only all men were like
you, the world would be such a wonderful place. No woman would
mind being a slave.’
‘Do you feel no sense of humiliation when you think of yourself as
a slave?’
‘No,’ Rajlakshmi answered gravely.
‘Really!’ I said, exasperated. ‘The women of our country have
been so conditioned by their subordinate status that they have
become insensitive to humiliation. As a result they sink lower and
lower every day.’
Rajlakshmi sat up. Her eyes flashed. ‘That is not true. Women
don’t sink of their own volition. It is men who have kept them low
and, in the process, have sunk even lower themselves!’
The passion in her voice startled me. I was confused at first. Her
words were enigmatic but slowly took on meaning.
‘You were laughing at the old gentleman,’ she continued. ‘Do you
know how much I have learned from my conversation with him?’
On my confessing that I did not, Rajlakshmi said, ‘You must want
to know first! A man as self-centred as you—one who runs away
from the real world for fear of endangering his own privacy and
comfort—can know nothing of others: yet it is people like you who
think they know everything. You hold forth endlessly about how
women are being oppressed. Why don’t you forget about women for
a change and worry about yourselves? Why don’t you raise
yourselves to a higher level first?’
‘I don’t know where this argument is leading us, Rajlakshmi. Let’s
stop for a while. I’m extremely sleepy.’
Rajlakshmi was silent for a few minutes. Suddenly she murmured
—quite out of context, ‘Greed! Insatiable greed has become the
curse of our society. High or low—no one is exempt from it. And that
is at the root of all our social evils today. I understand that clearly.’
‘That is quite true. But what made you come to this conclusion?’
‘Experience. Who has been a greater victim of greed than I? Who
ever heard of a mother selling her daughter in the olden days?
People were natural then. They followed their fundamental instincts
and did not run after money. Today I have all the wealth in the world!
But what has it brought me? Even the beggar in the street is happier
than I.’
I took her hands in mine and asked gently, ‘Are you truly that
unhappy?’
She sighed and said, ‘Only my Maker can answer your question.’
‘Tell me, Rajlakshmi. What do you want from life? What will enable
you to pass the rest of your days in contentment?’
‘I’ve thought about that a great deal,’ she said promptly. ‘I want to
be stripped of all my wealth. If I am left destitute—only then …’
I read between the lines easily enough.
‘Since when have you been thinking of such a thing?’ I asked
softly.
‘Ever since I heard of Abhaya.’
‘Abhaya has barely started her life with Rohini Babu. She may
face a lot of unhappiness in the future.’
‘But she’ll never be as unhappy as I am. I’m convinced of it.’
 I thought for a while, then I said, ‘I can sacrifice everything I have
for your sake, Lakshmi. But I can’t compromise my honour.’
‘Have I asked you to do so? And if you can’t compromise your
honour—which is the only thing worth compromising—why talk of
sacrifice?’
‘A man who loses his honour is as good as dead. Barring that—I
can give up everything for your sake.’
Rajlakshmi drew her hand away from mine. ‘Please do not take
the trouble. I’d like to ask you one question though. Is honour the
sole prerogative of the male? Haven’t you heard of women who have
thrown away their honour as easily as they would a filthy rag for the
sake of the men they love?’ I was about to say something when she
stopped me with a gesture. ‘Enough has been said on the subject.
No more! You are not what I believed you to be. Let us put an end to
this conversation.’ And she rose and moved away to her own seat.
We stepped off the train the next morning and took up our
residence in Pyari’s enormous mansion in Kashi. I noticed that,
barring a couple of rooms on the top floor, the entire building was
crammed with widows of varying ages.
‘They are my tenants,’ Rajlakshmi informed me, laughing.
‘What is so amusing? Don’t they pay their rents?’
‘On the contrary, I pay to keep them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I pay so that they may live to pay me in the future. Don’t you
understand simple logic? Besides, many among them are my
kinswomen.’
‘Really?’ I asked puzzled.
Rajlakshmi gave me a wry smile. ‘The fact that I met my death
here in Kashi is common knowledge. It is only fair that those who
helped my mother arrange my funeral should be rewarded. Besides,
they are so free with their services that they need to be restrained. I
have undertaken to do so.’
 I stood as if turned into stone. It wasn’t as if I was hearing anything
new. Yet the laughing remark shook me as never before.
‘We’ve come to Kashi quite uselessly as it turns out,’ Rajlakshmi
informed me that night. ‘Gurudev is away on a pilgrimage.’
‘That doesn’t disturb me in the least. You’ll go back to Calcutta, I
suppose.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it necessary for me to accompany you? If not I’d like to move on
to Prayag.’
‘I’ll come too. I haven’t bathed in the Ganga at Prayag for many
years.’
I was in a quandary. I had planned to stay with an uncle. Besides I
had many friends and relatives in Prayag. Pyari read my thoughts
like a book. ‘You are afraid of someone seeing us together, are you
not?’
‘The trouble is,’ I said, acutely embarrassed, ‘that even if a
relationship is innocent people are liable to misunderstand. One has
no option but to be wary of public disapproval.’
Pyari gave a forced little laugh. ‘Quite true,’ she said. ‘Last year
around this time, I spent twenty days and nights with you in my arms.
How fortunate that no one saw us then! Don’t you have any friends
in Ara?’
‘Why do you taunt me with what is over and done with?’ I
exclaimed, stung. ‘I have never denied that I’m an inferior being—far
lower than you in courage and character.’
‘Taunt you?’ Rajlakshmi flew into a passion. ‘Are you suggesting
that I rushed to your side to provide myself with the means to taunt
you? There’s a limit to human endurance. Don’t cross it.’
‘You saved me from sure death. But I was not worth the trouble. I
am petty, worthless. There can be no comparison between you and
me.’
‘If I saved your life,’ Rajlakshmi said arrogantly, ‘I did it in my own
interest. Not in yours. But I have never thought of you as petty and
worthless. It would be easier for me if I could.’ And Rajlakshmi
walked away without waiting for an answer.
Next morning, as Rajlakshmi handed me my tea, I asked, smiling,
‘Are we on talking terms?’
‘Why not? Do you wish to say something?’
‘Let’s leave for Prayag tomorrow morning.’
‘Go—by all means.’
‘You come too.’
‘You are very gracious!’
‘Don’t you wish to come?’
‘Not at present. If I do, someday, I’ll let you know.’ And she went
about her own business.
At noon, as I sat down to my midday meal, I said to Rajlakshmi,
‘Do you really believe you can turn away from me? Why this effort in
futility?’
‘When you are before me I can’t. No one can,’ Rajlakshmi
answered. Then after a pause, she continued, ‘I’ve been thinking.
We must put an end to this struggle. It is a struggle for both of us. I
admit that the mistake was mine. I’ve been stupid and shameless.
Heaven knows what my son thinks of me! And the servants! I’ve
made a spectacle of myself in my old age. Really and truly! You go
on to Allahabad as you planned. But look me up before you leave for
Burma—if you can.’
And saying this she went out of the room. My appetite vanished in
an instant. I knew, from her face, that this was no lovers’ quarrel.
She was a woman with her mind made up.
When the maid brought my afternoon tea I was surprised, for
Rajlakshmi had always made it a point to serve me my meals
herself. On asking for her I was told that she had left the house
earlier in the afternoon and had not returned yet. I had no idea where
she had gone or for what purpose. Yet an acute depression assailed
me. Her laughing words about meeting her death in Kashi echoed
and re-echoed in my ears. I decided to go for a walk. I wandered
aimlessly about the streets for hours. When I reached home at ten
o’clock I was informed that Pyari had still not returned. Panic seized
me. I was about to call Ratan and question him when I heard the
sound of approaching hooves. An enormous phaeton drawn by a
pair of superb white horses rolled in and stopped by the porch. There
was a murmur of male voices within as Pyari alighted. Suddenly, the
moon sprang out of the clouds and rained its beams on her. Her
bosom, swathed in glowing tissues, heaved like a sea of beaten
gold. Jewels flashed regally from her ears, throat and arms and
twinkled in the masses of her hair. Her eyes held mine as she stood
moon-washed and still—an enigmatic smile on her lips.
 15

WHEN RAJLAKSHMI ENTERED MY ROOM A LITTLE LATER I

JUMPED UP FROM my chair and declaimed theatrically, ‘Cruel,
cruel, Rohinl! Have you forgotten Gobinda Lal? Oh! for a pistol or
even a sword …’
‘What will you do with a pistol? Kill me?’ Rajlakshmi asked in a
frightened voice.
‘No, Pyari dear. Why would I deprive my fellowmen of such a very
excellent thing as you? Who would block a gold mine with a piece of
rock? On the contrary, my blessings are eternally with you, oh queen
of dancing girls! May you live long and take the three worlds in your
stride. May the strains of the divine lyre well out of your voice and
your feet twinkle like the stars of the firmament, so that even Urvashi
and Tilottama are put to shame.’
‘What is the meaning of all this?’
‘Don’t look too deep for meanings. Be satisfied with facts. I’m
leaving tonight by the one o’clock train, first to Prayag then to that
ultimate pilgrimage of the Bengali clerk—Burma. I’ll see you before I
leave if I can.’
‘Won’t you ask me where I went?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You mean you’ll make an issue of this and leave me forever?’
‘I am a weak and miserable sinner. I dare not make a permanent
commitment. For the present I’ll be grateful to get out of the maze in
which I am caught.’
‘You are really leaving tonight? Do you have the right to punish me
for something I have not done?’
‘By no means. But I claim the right to go away if I like.’
‘You won’t let me tell you where I went?’ Rajlakshmi asked after a
pause.
 ‘I see no reason to do so. You did not take my permission before
you went. Besides, I don’t have the time or the inclination to listen to
your story.’
‘Neither do I have the time or the inclination to tell it,’ Rajlakshmi
lashed out like an angry snake. ‘I’m nobody’s bondwoman that I
must take permission before I leave my own house. You may go
wherever you like.’ And she walked away imperiously, leaving a trail
of scent and colour in her wake.
An hour later, when the carriage I had ordered stopped at the door,
Pyari re-entered my room and said, ‘Do you really think you can walk
out on me like this? Why do you humiliate me before the servants?’
‘Your servants are your concern. Not mine.’
‘What about Banku? How can I explain your absence at the
wedding?’
‘Tell him the truth. Tell him I’ve moved on to Prayag.’
‘Is my crime so great that I can’t be forgiven? If you show me no
mercy, who will?’
‘Pyari,’ I said smiling, ‘You are using a bondwoman’s language. It
isn’t fitting.’
A burning flush spread over Pyari’s countenance. She stood
irresolute, biting her lip. As I put out a hand to pick up my bag she
made a quick movement. ‘Don’t leave me. Not in this way,’ she
pleaded. ‘Punish me if I have erred but don’t humiliate me before my
entire household.’
I dropped my bag and sank into a chair. ‘The time has come,’ I
said solemnly, ‘for a final reckoning. I forgive you for what you did
tonight. But one thing is certain. Our relationship must end. I have
thought it over carefully and I have arrived at this decision.’
‘Why?’ Pyari asked in a small voice.
‘Can you stand the truth?’
‘I can.’
Hurting a loved one is hard—even harder than being hurt. But, my
mind was made up. I said, ‘Lakshmi, you are beautiful, wealthy and
sought after. You have power over many men. This power is like a
heady wine that you will never be able to resist fully. You love me
and respect me—I know that. You can sacrifice a great deal for me.
But the glamour of your old life will always colour your vision. You
can never be totally free from it.’
‘You mean I’m liable to stray even when I’m with you?’
I was silent. So was she.
‘What then?’ she asked at last.
‘Then everything we’ve built together will fall apart. Save me from
that fate. It is too miserable, too low. Set me free, I beg of you.’
Pyari sat, her face downcast, for a long long while. When she lifted
it at last it was bathed in tears. She asked softly, ‘Are you afraid I’ll
involve you in my degradation? Is that what you mean when you talk
of a miserable fate?’
‘No. You are incapable of degrading yourself. Still less me. But
people don’t know that. For them you are not the little Rajlakshmi of
Manasa pandit’s pathshala, but the notorious Pyari Baiji of Patna.
Don’t you see that?’
‘God can see me for what I really am.’
‘True. But since God is invisible, we must accept the vision of His
created beings as reflecting His own. We cannot defy the society in
which we live.’
Pyari lifted her head and said with a strange smile, ‘You are afraid
of social disapproval. I can see that. Well, go if you must. I won’t stop
you. But to put public opinion above me—the greatest friend you
have ever had or will have—can never be right. I don’t accept it and
never will.’
Pyari left the room. I glanced up at the clock. There was just
enough time to catch the one o’clock train if I hurried. I crept
stealthily out of the house and took my place in the carriage. The
driver whipped his horses in a mad rush to the station. But it was
useless. The train to Allahabad was already on its way out by the
time I arrived, puffing and panting, on the platform. As I stood
wondering what to do next, a wave of nostalgia for my native village
came upon me. I boarded a Calcutta-bound train and, instead of
travelling west, set my face towards the east.
I reached my destination at dusk of the following day to find my
ancestral home swarming with relatives—some so distant that I had
never seen them in my life. I noticed that a number of faces turned
pale in alarm even as they exclaimed at the merciful Providence that
had brought me once again in their midst. The elderly among them
exhorted me to give up my wandering ways, to marry and settle
down in my native village.
‘That is exactly what I plan to do,’ I assured them. ‘But I need a
rest first. Could I be accommodated in my mother’s room?’
But the lady who occupied it with her large family (I discovered
later that she was my father’s second cousin) looked so woebegone
at the prospect that I was forced to amend my proposal. ‘I’ll sleep in
the outer room then,’ I said and regretted my generosity immediately
afterwards. For, on opening the door, I found it was being used as a
go down for building materials. There was nothing for me but to
wedge my cot between a pile of stone-dust nearly touching the
ceiling and some twenty or twenty-five sacks of lime.
I lay down but could not sleep. My head ached and my limbs felt
as if they had turned into stone. Ever since the illness out of which
Abhaya had nursed me back to health, I had suffered from periodic
bouts of fever. So I wasn’t particularly worried or surprised.
‘It is heat fever,’ Ranga Didi diagnosed. ‘It will pass.’
After a week, when the fever did not pass but went on rising
steadily, I had my first moments of panic. Doctor Govinda was sent
for. He lifted my eyelids, felt my chest, tapped my abdomen with zest
and made me swallow quantities of bitter medicines, but to no avail.
The fever defied all medical logic and rose higher and higher.
Thakurdada* was frightened. One day, he came to my bedside
and said, ‘I’d better write a letter to your Pishima. What do you say?’
I shook my head violently and begged him not to do so.
 Five days passed. On the sixth day I discovered that my wallet
was missing. I turned my bag upside down and rummaged frenziedly
among its contents, but the small black object was conspicuous by
its absence. The doctor who stood by, waiting to be paid, said with a
note of alarm in his voice, ‘What is the matter? Have you lost
anything?’
‘No—nothing.’
But when I could not pay him, he understood. ‘You should have
been more careful, son,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. I won’t stop your
treatment because you’ve lost your money. You can pay me later—
after you’ve recovered.’
‘Please keep this to yourself,’ I begged.
There was no question of borrowing money for I had nothing to
pledge. I was aware of the fact that not even a four-anna coin was
lent without a collateral in the villages of Bengal. I decided to write to
Abhaya but before I could do so the news of my loss spread within
the household. The loving faces around me turned sullen and
gloomy and the tender concern of yesterday gave way to
indifference, even hostility. Burma was a long way off. I couldn’t
afford the luxury of not stooping to Rajlakshmi any longer. I wrote
two letters describing my plight and entreating her to send me some
money. Addressing one to Patna and the other to Calcutta I lay
waiting for the post feeling sick and miserable and utterly degraded.
I had no doubt at all that Rajlakshmi would send me the money,
but when two days went by and nothing arrived I felt as though the
ground had been cut from under my feet. I lay with my face to the
wall trying hard to subdue the painful throbs of my heart.
Suddenly, I heard the sound of carriage wheels. They grew louder
and then stopped by my door. I raised my head and saw Ratan on
the box. I sat up in excitement. And then my eyes beheld something
that was bevond my wildest imaginings. Rajlakshmi was stepping out
of the carriage. She had come, in broad daylight, to the very village
in which her mother had announced her death only a few years ago.
 Rajlakshmi entered my room and, touching my forehead and
chest, said with a composure I was far from feeling, ‘The fever has
broken. Do you feel well enough to travel? We could leave by the
seven o’clock train.’
‘Are you taking me away?’ I asked, my eyes fixed on her face.
Then, before she could answer, I said, ‘Were you not afraid of
coming here? Do you really think no one will recognize you?’
‘Why would I think that? I’m sure everyone will recognize me.’
‘Then …?’
‘One must follow one’s destiny. Why did you choose to fall ill here
of all places?’
‘I didn’t ask you to come. You could have just sent the money.’
‘You know I couldn’t do that—not after hearing you were ill. I was
distracted with worry.’
‘Well! Your worry is over. And mine has begun. How can I explain
your presence here—to all these people?’
Rajlakshmi touched her forehead. ‘We only carry out God’s will,’
she said.
‘God’s will!’ I exclaimed, sitting up angrily. ‘What about shame?
Don’t you have any? How did you dare to show your face here?’
‘From today I depend on you to cover my shame.’
What could I say after that? What could I do? I lay back
exhausted. After a while I asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘First to Calcutta, then to Patna.’
‘Why to Patna?’
‘Because the deeds of gift have been drawn up there.’
‘What deeds? What are you gifting and to whom?’
‘I’m giving the two houses in Patna to Banku and the one in Kashi
to Gurudev. As for my jewels and company holdings—I have divided
them up as fairly as I could. But the deeds will be registered only
after you approve of them.’
‘What have you kept for yourself?’ I sat up, alarmed. ‘Suppose
Banku doesn’t look after you?’
 ‘I don’t want him to look after me, I’m not giving up my
possessions to become his ward.’
‘But why are you doing such a thing? Whom will you turn to in your
old age?’
‘The one I’ll turn to, will not forsake me. Do not excite yourself. Go
to sleep.’
I turned my face to the window. The sun had almost set. Earth and
sky swam in a haze of misty gold and out of the blue and violet
shadows of dusk the star of the evening rose—pure as a rain
washed pearl. Never had the world seemed more beautiful. Tears
rolled down my cheeks and peace flooded my being. How long I lay
in this state I cannot tell. The sound of approaching footsteps made
me look up. Thakurdada and Doctor Babu walked in.
Thakurdada has always been a man of great sagacity. Glancing
briefly in Rajlakshmi’s direction he asked, ‘Who is the girl, Srikanta? I
think I’ve seen her before.’
‘So have I,’ his companion chimed in. ‘Her face is familiar.’ I let my
eyes rest on Rajlakshmi’s face. It was suffused with a deathly pallor.
Suddenly, a voice murmured within me, ‘Be kind to her, Srikanta.
She has forsaken everything for your sake.’ To hell with the truth, I
thought. I put out my hand and taking hers, said gently, ‘You have
come to your husband, Rajlakshmi. You have nothing to be ashamed
of. Go make your pronams* to Thakurdada and Doctor Babu.’
I saw the elderly gentlemen exchange glances as Rajlakshmi rose
and pulled her veil over her face. Then, kneeling before them, she
touched her brow to the ground at their feet.
 Forbidden Fruit

1
ONCE AGAIN I DRAW BACK THE CURTAIN ON THE SCENE AS I LEFT IT SO
MANY years ago. I had thought of ending this narrative. I had thought
that I would keep the look on Rajlakshmi’s face when my great-uncle
hastily drew his feet away mumbling vaguely, ‘Good, good. Live long
and be happy,’ to myself alone—not share it with others. But now I’m
glad to unburden myself, glad to open up that chamber of my heart
within which lie secret mysteries that cry out to be unravelled. For
years I kept the door locked, allowing doubts and suspicions to
batter at it. Today, the lock has rusted away and all stands open to
view.
Rajlakshmi looked at Thakurdada’s retreating back and said with a
pained smile, ‘He was afraid I would touch him.’ Then, turning to me,
she said sadly, ‘Why did you have to tell him that? It didn’t do us any
good. It only—’
I agreed with her. The lie didn’t do either of us any good. I should
have known that to any law-abiding Hindu, marrying a widow was no
better than marrying a prostitute. I had pushed Rajlakshmi into a
deeper humiliation and in doing so, had humiliated myself.
Rajlakshmi sat immobile as a statue. Then she rose suddenly with
a jerk and said urgently, ‘We’d better leave at once or we’ll miss the
train.’ And calling out to Ratan, she ordered him to prepare for our
departure. Within ten minutes my bag was packed and stowed away,
my bedding rolled up, and I found myself sitting in a corner of the
carriage. Not a word passed between us.
I had entered my ancestral village only a few days ago. No one
had welcomed me then and no one bade me a tearful farewell now.
But it was the same twilight hour. Conch shells blew from little
homesteads. Snatches of kirtan and a clashing of cymbals came
from the mandir adjoining the mansion of the Basu Mullicks.
Everything was the same—yet how different!
I had never attached any particular significance to the crumbling
walls that my ancestors had raised in this remotest of remote Bengal
villages. I had never thought of losing my place within them as a
loss. Yet, that day, when the prospect of going back to it had become
as distant as the northern star, this sodden, malaria-ridden,
unhealthy village of Bengal drew me with a thousand arms.
As we clattered along the winding path I thought of my
grandmother being borne along it—a child-bride in a yellow palki. I
thought of the bridal bullock-cart that had carried my mother from her
father’s village through the shadows of the very trees that spread its
branches over our heads. And it was along this path that they had
journeyed on the shoulders of their sons to be immersed in the
Ganga to the chant of Vedic mantras. This path had not been so
perilous then, so dark and depressingly choked with weeds and
bainchi bushes. The air had been clean, the sun bright. Food there
had been in plenty—food, life, warmth and kindness. Tears flooded
my eyes.
I gathered the dust from the carriage wheel and touched it to my
head. ‘I am your unworthy son. I have never loved you, never valued
you. But, today, when I leave you, perhaps never to return, the
image of your suffering motherhood trembles in my eyes. These are
the first tears I shed for you but they are wrung out of my heart. I will
never forget you.’ I looked up and saw Rajlakshmi sitting in her
corner, eyes shut, head resting on the window. She seemed deep in
thought. ‘Think hard, Rajlakshmi,’ I said to myself. ‘It is up to you to
see us safely across the river over which we are floating. Avoid the
whirlpools and find the shore as best as you can.’
I had studied my own mind often enough. I knew its qualities and
its limitations. It couldn’t take too much of anything—not even health,
happiness and well-being. Too much love disturbed me, it made me
feel hemmed in. I felt suffocated and yearned for escape. Yet, I had
voluntarily enslaved myself to Pyari. What pain there was in my
surrender only my Maker knew.
I glanced out of the window at the sky, now black with night, and
then at the dim form of Pyari. I folded my hands humbly—before
whom I did not know. ‘I’ve tried to resist the tide of her love,’ I
thought. ‘I’ve tried to escape it but all my separate paths, like an
intricate maze, only led me back to her. Of what use is this struggle?
Far better to surrender to one whose success in lifting herself out
from a cesspool of vice and degradation will ensure my survival.’
Immersed in these thoughts, it took me some time to notice that
Rajlakshmi hadn’t said a word since her command to Ratan to get
ready for departure. Even after we reached the station she stood by
a pillar, mute and expressionless, while Ratan, instead of rushing to
the ticket office, proceeded to spread my bedding in a corner of the
waiting room. I understood, from his action, that we were not to catch
the train to Calcutta for which we had hurried but the morning train.
But what our destination was—Kashi or Patna—I did not know. Nor
did anyone care to enlighten me.
Ratan came up to Rajlakshmi and said, ‘Ma, the coolies tell me
that there is a shop a little further on where the food is clean and
well-cooked.’ Rajlakshmi undid a little knot at the end of her sari and
taking out a few coins handed them to Ratan with the words:
‘Go and buy some. But be very careful about the milk. Make sure it
isn’t stale.’
Ratan hesitated a little, then said jerkily, ‘Some fruit for you—
anyfhing?’
‘Nothing.’
We were all familiar with Rajlakshmi’s stubborn ways—Ratan most
of all. Still he stood his ground, shifted his feet and mumbled, ‘But
you haven’t eaten anything for the past two days—’
‘Are you deaf, Ratan? Didn’t you hear what I said?’
 Ratan was forced to withdraw. He knew, as well as I did, that
Rajlakshmi, despite her denial, had a streak of orthodoxy in her that
would never permit her to eat anything on a train journey. Going
without food was nothing to Rajlakshmi. She kept many fasts—most
of them utterly without meaning. Another thing I had noticed about
her was that she rarely ate except the barest minimum of the
coarsest of food. Every kind of delicacy was to be found in her
kitchen, but none of it ever passed through her lips. If I teased her
about this rigorous disciplining of her body she would laugh and
exclaim, ‘I discipline my body! That’s a joke. Why, I eat everything!’
‘Do you? Then let me put you to the test.’
‘Now? Goodness, no! I’d die if I had to eat anything now.’ And she
would go about her business, serene in her resolution to save herself
from death.
The habit of self-deprivation had become so much a part of her
that it often went unnoticed. But I couldn’t help wondering, from time
to time, when it had first started and why. It was obviously before I
came into her life for the second time. I’ve often thought how difficult
it must have been for her, in the beginning, to deny herself the
luxuries she had grown accustomed to—luxuries bought with her
money and enjoyed freely by the people around her. Was not this
ability to stand firm in the face of temptation to be lauded? And had
she not passed the final test only a few hours ago in her solemn
resolve to surrender all her possessions for the sake of her love?
The waiting room was empty except for the two of us. Ratan had
disappeared. I went up to Rajlakshmi where she sat motionless
beneath a flickering lamp. I placed a hand on her head and said
gently, ‘Why are you sitting here in this dust and litter? Come and sit
with me on my bed.’ I pulled her up by the hand giving her no
opportunity to refuse, but once together we had nothing to say to one
another. I took her hand in mine and stroked it tenderly. I saw her
tears fall, one by one. Then, as I put up my hand to wipe them away,
she threw herself at my feet, sobbing uncontrollably.
 I allowed her to weep for a while, then I said, ‘I have something to
say to you, Lakshmi.’
‘What is it?’ she whispered hoarsely.
I hesitated. It was hard to say what I wanted to. But I did not allow
myself to weaken. ‘I’m yours from this moment onwards—to do what
you like with. Whatever happens to me—good or bad—is your
responsibility.’
Rajlakshmi smiled through her tears. ‘What use are you to me?
You can’t play the tabla or the sarangi. And—’
‘And? Can I serve paan and tobacco? Most emphatically not.’
‘But the other two?’
‘I can try my hand at them.’
‘Can you really?’ She sat up in her enthusiasm.
‘Well! I hope I can.’
Rajlakshmi looked at me with a strange expression in her eyes.
Then she said, very softly, ‘Somehow I always believed that—even
when you went around with a gun in your hand. Then I would remind
myself that one who delighted in shooting innocent animals couldn’t
possibly have a feeling for music, could never know its divine agony!
My conviction of your insensibility helped me to overcome the pain
you’ve inflicted on me so often.’
It was my turn to fall silent. I could have countered her accusations
with well-chosen arguments but a strange lassitude overtook me.
Something, deep down, told me that she was right—that she had
instinctively sensed what I had only rationalized. She had put it
clumsily but her words brought home a supreme truth. I understood
for the first time, that the pain of awakening that had come to her
slumbering consciousness was linked with her growing love for
music. Hence her self-denial, her sacrifice. Hence the pristine purity
of her soul!
I could have told her that man’s nature was made up of
contradictions. If it wasn’t so, how could I, who couldn’t bear the
death of an ant in childhood, who often starved so that stray dogs
may eat, shoot down wild animals and birds with an unflinching eye?
And Rajlakshmi herself? How could I reconcile her—whose heart
and mind stood as clearly revealed before me, tonight, as that moon
in the sky—with the opulent, infamous Pyari Baiji of Patna? But I
couldn’t bring myself to utter the words. Not only because I wished to
spare her pain but because the truth of today could easily be the
falsehood of tomorrow. Where a man is being driven, by what gods
and demons—he does not know. How else can one explain the
transformation of a man of many appetites into a yogi? What
changes the cruel, grasping landlord into a selfless philanthropist?
Where, in what dark closet of the human soul, lie those unconscious
yearnings that, suddenly awakening into life, assume mastery? No
one can tell. I scrutinized my companion’s face in the feeble light and
thought, ‘She sees my capacity for inflicting pain to the exclusion of
everything else. That I endure it—day in and day out—is unknown to
her. In fact, she forgives me my inability to suffer out of the greatness
of her love!’
‘Yet you willingly sacrificed everything for one you consider so
cruel?’ I smiled up at her.
‘Not everything,’ she answered. ‘I haven’t sacrificed you.’
 2
I WAS SUFFERING FROM MALARIAL FEVER—COMMON IN THE VILLAGES
OF Bengal. That it held me well in its grip was evident even before
the train entered Patna. I was carried, half-fainting, out of the station
and for a month after that I lay confined to bed with the doctor and
Rajlakshmi in attendance. When the fever subsided the doctor
advised a change of scene. Preparations to leave Patna
commenced. These, I noticed, were somewhat more elaborate than
usual.
One day, I called Ratan to my side and asked, ‘Where are we
going, Ratan?’
He threw a surreptitious glance at the door before answering in a
lowered voice that it was to an obscure village in Birbhum called
Gangamati which Rajlakshmi had never set eyes on. He himself had
visited it briefly in the company of the mukhtiar,* Kishen Lal, when
the land had first been bought. I could see from his face that he
disapproved heartily of the plan but did not dare say so for fear of
incurring his mistress’ wrath.
‘Where in Birbhum is this village?’ I asked with a sinking heart.
‘About twenty miles in the interior from Sainthia station. One has to
get there in a bullock-cart. The land is bare and pebbly—red in
places and burned black in others. Nothing grows there. There’s
hardly any water. And the people are so rough and coarse. Why we
must leave our beautiful city to live among the lower castes in a
strange village—I really don’t understand.’
But I understood. I sighed and said, ‘The doctor has advised a
complete change for me, Ratan. I’ll never recover if we go on living
here.’
‘But Gangamati is not the only other place in the world. People are
falling ill all the time. They don’t all go there.’
 ‘There are diseases and diseases, Ratan,’ I said. ‘Perhaps
Gangamati is the only cure for mine.’
‘There’s nothing there,’ Ratan persisted, ‘but this piece of land,
and a caretaker to look after it. Ma has sent him two thousand
rupees with instructions to get an earthen house built. Can we live in
such a house, Babu?’
‘Don’t go there if you don’t want to, Ratan,’ I said softly. ‘No one
can force you to.’
But my words failed to pacify Ratan. He pushed out his lower lip
and said, ‘Ma can. I don’t know what power she has over us but
even if she were to order her servants to go to hell we wouldn’t dare
disobey.’ And Ratan left the room, his face like a thundercloud.
It suddenly dawned on me that his words—though uttered in anger
—were absolutely true. I was not the only one who was in
Rajlakshmi’s power. She held her entire household in the hollow of
her hand. ‘By virtue of what?’ I asked myself. Had I been a
superstitious man I would have put it down to some tantra or mantra.
I thought of the many ways I had tried to escape her. I had left her
after a violent quarrel believing, quite honestly, that I’d seen the last
of her. I had become a sanyasi. I had even left my country,
voluntarily embracing exile so as never to see her again. And all I
had done was go round and round in a circle that led me back,
unfailingly, to her. I hated myself for my weakness. Yet I succumbed
to it over and over again.
Even as these thoughts passed through my head, I saw
Rajlakshmi hurrying past my room with a bowlful of something in her
hands.
I called out to her, ‘Rajlakshmi! Do you practice witchcraft?’
The shapely brows came together. ‘Do I practice what?’
‘Witchcraft. Everyone says so.’
‘Yes, I do.’ She flashed her eyes at me and was about to leave the
room when she suddenly stopped and said, ‘Isn’t this the same shirt
you were wearing yesterday?’
 I squinted down at it. ‘Yes. I believe it is. It looks quite white,
though.’
‘That doesn’t make it clean. When will you learn that everything is
not as it appears on the surface?’
Rajlakshmi put down her bowl and, fetching a fresh shirt, handed it
to me. As I stripped off the old one I noticed that the inside was
sweat-stained and grimy. I don’t know why the fart depressed me but
it did.
Rajlakshmi’s insistence on cleanliness and purity in all things had
always seemed an obsession—meaningless and oppressive to
others. Today, suddenly, I felt differently. It was not that the old
irritation vanished without a trace. It did not. But her insinuation that I
judged only by the surface of things set me on another track of
thought. I thought of the two lives that had run, in apparent
contradiction, for so many years. I thought of the child, Rajlakshmi,
and of how she had nurtured her love in silence and in secret and
how, when the time came to reveal it, the tempestuous beauty, Pyari,
had dived deep down below the slime and rank weeds of her day-
today living to come up in triumph—the radiant, myriad-petalled lotus
in her hand. But was that Pyari? No! No! No! My whole being
protested. That was Rajlakshmi—Rajlakshmi alone.
I didn’t know the whole of Pyari’s history—or Rajlakshmi’s for that
matter. All I knew was that they had nothing in common, that they
flowed out in opposite directions from a secret old source. Thus,
when the blossom of love was unfolding its tender petals in the calm
waters of one, the raging torrent of the other could not touch it. Not a
petal was bruised. Not a spot marred its dazzling whiteness.
The shadows of evening grew longer and dusk was upon me.
‘Pyari is dead,’ I thought. ‘But was Pyari only a beautiful body sullied
by time and tide? Shall I judge her by that alone? And Rajlakshmi?
She who had burned herself to ashes in the fire of sorrow and
degradation and emerged pure gold—shall I turn my face away from
her? Shall I judge man by the animal in him that snarls and bites and
knows not its Maker or shall I seek out the hidden angel that suffers
and surrenders in silence?’
It was not so long ago that I had given myself up—weak,
exhausted and vanquished—to Rajlakshmi. The humiliation of defeat
was still upon me. But, now, a strange peace descended on my soul.
A voice whispered in my ear, ‘Let Pyari, whom you do not know, lie
buried in oblivion. Rajlakshmi was yours and is yours. Put out your
arms and draw her to your heart. That is all that lies in your power.
Leave the rest to Him who sees and knows and cares.’
Preparations to leave Patna went on. One afternoon, I saw Pyari
engaged in the task of packing enormous quantities of brass and
silver utensils in a big trunk.
‘Why are you packing so much?’ I called out to her. ‘Are you
leaving the house for good?’ Even as I said the words I remembered
that she had given the house away to Banku. ‘What if you don’t like
the place after a while?’ I asked.
‘You needn’t worry about that,’ she answered with a faint smile.
‘You may come away the moment you like. I won’t stop you.’
I was hurt by her tone and did not care to carry on the
conversation. It was not for the first time that Rajlakshmi had
deliberately twisted my meaning and insinuated that my commitment
to her was of an ephemeral kind. This conviction had become so
firmly embedded in her consciousness that nothing I could say or do
could shake it. The most innocuous of remarks from me could
release a torrent of suspicion and mistrust. I wondered when this
would end and how.
Another week went by before we set off for our destination. I was
irritable and depressed on the journey though not as much as Ratan
who sat glum and rebellious, in his corner of the compartment. My
heart sank every time I thought of what lay at the end of the journey.
It was not that I was apprehensive of the possible absence of
comforts and conveniences in Gangamati. Its unfamiliarity daunted
me. The thought of the strange new life ahead lay like a heavy
burden on my heart. I glanced at Rajlakshmi, gazing quietly out of
the window, and suddenly thought that I had never loved her in my
life, yet, like a fool, I’d put myself in her power and left no loophole
for escape. I had believed, only a day ago, that my only chance of
breaking out of the labyrinth of Rajlakshmi’s love lay in my surrender.
‘I am yours, Rajlakshmi, to do what you like with,’ I had said. How
easy it had been to say the words. But now my heart burned with
painful feelings. Who had known that reality would be like this?
 3

WE REACHED SAINTHIA STATION LATE IN THE AFTERNOON

TO BE MET BY TWO men with a letter from Kashi Ram, the
caretaker. Apologizing for not being there to welcome us (he was
busy preparing for our arrival in Gangamati) he informed Rajlakshmi
that he had made all the arrangements for a safe and comfortable
journey to the village. Four bullock-carts, two open and two covered,
were waiting outside the station. The first two would carry the
luggage. Of the covered carts, the one that had a thick carpet of
straw and palm leaf matting over it was for the mistress. The other
was for the servants. He concluded the letter with the advice that we
should set off immediately after a meal, preferably before dusk.
Assuring Rajlakshmi that the journey was perfectly safe (there were
no thieves or bad characters about) he advised her to have a good
night’s rest in the cart.
Rajlakshmi’s lip curled a little as she read the epistle. Then,
turning to the man who had brought it, she asked, ‘Is there a pond
nearby where I can have a dip?’
‘Yes, mistress. There it is behind those trees.’ Rajlakshmi walked
away in the direction indicated, with Ratan accompanying her. I
wanted to warn her about bathing in a strange pond which might be
infested with malaria for all we knew. But I didn’t, knowing it to be
useless. Besides, she might, just possibly, eat something after a
bath. Without it not a drop of water would pass through her lips.
Returning in a few minutes, Rajlakshmi got busy serving my
evening meal. Spreading an asan under a tree she got a fresh green
banana leaf upon which she arranged, in orderly piles, the food she
had brought from home.
I had barely begun eating when I heard a deep voice behind me
call, ‘Narayan! Narayan!’
 I looked back, startled, to see a tall, handsome, young sanyasi
striding purposefully towards us. He was not more than twenty years
old. His complexion was like beaten gold. His eyes, nose, lips and
brow seemed carved out of marble but his saffron robes were torn in
places and tied in knots. I stared at this paragon of male beauty in
wonder. Rajlakshmi rose and, pulling her veil a little lower over the
damp knot of her hair, knelt and touched her forehead to the ground
at his feet.
‘The servants will give you water to wash,’ she said. ‘I’ll serve your
meal in a few minutes.’
‘You are welcome to do so,’ the sanyasi said calmly, ‘but I come to
you for something else.’
‘I know. You want the money to go back home.’ And Rajlakshmi
turned her face away to hide a smile.
‘You are quite wrong,’ the sanyasi said solemnly. ‘I heard you were
on your way to Gangamati. So am I. I want you to carry a box for me
on your luggage cart.’
‘That is quite easy. But you—?’
‘I can walk. It is only twenty miles away.’
Rajlakshmi said nothing. She got busy preparing another banana
leaf for her guest. We ate in silence for a few minutes and then
Rajlakshmi said, ‘What is your name, Sadhuji?’
‘Bajrananda Swami.’
‘Goodness! What a mouthful! And your real name?’
‘I have left that behind me. It is of no consequence to me now—or
to anyone else.’
‘Very true,’ Rajlakshmi said meekly though she looked as though
she would burst out laughing any minute. However, she controlled
herself and asked another question, ‘How long is it since you ran
away from home?’
I looked up. Such vulgar curiosity was not worthy of Rajlakshmi, I
thought. My eyes fell on her face. There was an expression on it that
I hadn’t seen in a long time. I had forgotten what Pyari had looked
like. Now suddenly she was there before me—the old Pyari with the
dimpled cheeks and gleaming eyes. Even her voice had changed: it
was low and husky.
A morsel of food must have gone down the wrong way, for the
sadhu burst into a fit of coughing. ‘The question is discourteous and
irrelevant,’ he said severely, between coughs.
Rajlakshmi was not put out in the least. She nodded and said
demurely, ‘Very true. I ask it only because I had a bad experience—
once.’ Then, turning to me she said, ‘Why don’t you tell Sadhuji
about your camels and mules? Durga! Durga! Someone is
remembering you, Sadhuji. Have some water.’
I had not spoken a word in all this while. Nor had the sanyasi
addressed himself to me. Now he asked me gravely, ‘Were you a
sanyasi too—once?
My mouth was full of luchi. I lifted four fingers of my right hand and
spluttered, ‘Not once. Not once. Four! Four!’
The sanyasi’s reserve broke down and he burst into a peal of
merry laughter. After a while he asked, still laughing, ‘What made
you change your mind?’
I pointed a finger at Rajlakshmi.
‘What lies you tell!’ Rajlakshmi exclaimed in mock anger. ‘Well,
once perhaps! No, not even that. It was your illness, not me, that
made you change your mind. Anyway, what about the other three?’
‘The mosquitoes are to blame. My skin wasn’t thick enough to
withstand their assaults, er—’
‘You may call me Bajrananda,’ the sanyasi said smiling. ‘And your
name—’
Rajlakshmi spoke before I could, ‘You may call him Dada and me
Boudidi* if you wish. We are both older than you.’
The sanyasi blushed. I too was taken aback. Rajlakshmi was
being too familiar, I thought. But, looking on her face, I changed my
mind. Pyari’s eyes looked out of it—those old, clear, trusting, loving,
happy eyes. This was the same Pyari who had fought and argued
and wept because I had taken up the old man’s challenge of visiting
the burning ghat at midnight; the same Pyari who had insisted I part
company with the prince. Her heart had gone out to the nameless
boy who had left his loved ones forever. All the pain of parting that
had been his mother’s was now hers.
‘I don’t mind calling you Dada,’ the sanyasi said to me. ‘But—’ He
glanced at Rajlakshmi and lowered his eyes.
Rajlakshmi was not embarrassed in the least. ‘But what?’ she
asked him archly. ‘What does a sanyasi call his brother’s wife? Not
Mashima, surely, or Pishima?’
The boy smiled shyly. ‘I’m with you for another five or six hours. I’ll
call you Boudidi—if the need arises.’
Rajlakshmi took a handful of barfis and pedas from the pot of
sweets at her side and placed them on his leaf. ‘And I’ll call you
Sadhu Thakurpo.*
Shall I?’
‘As you wish,’ he answered indifferendy.
But, despite his cryptic comments and stern expression, he
displayed a voracious appetite. The speed with which the luscious
milk sweets Rajlakshmi kept piling on his leaf disappeared, alarmed
me not a little. A deep sigh escaped me at which Rajlakshmi looked
up sharply and said, ‘You have had a long journey and you must be
tired. Go and rest in the cart.’
The sadhu looked up from his leaf and said, ‘The pot is nearly
empty. It is something to sigh about.’
‘There’s plenty left,’ Rajlakshmi said, glaring at me.
Precisely at this moment, Ratan came up to where we sat and
announced in all innocence, ‘Ma! I bought the chire as you said. But
what will you eat it with? Not a drop of milk or curd is to be found in
the bazaar.’
The sadhu turned a red, embarrassed face to Rajlakshmi and
said, ‘I have been very selfish. I—’
 He attempted to rise but Rajlakshmi put out a hand and pulled him
down crying wildly, ‘No. Don’t get up. If you do, I’ll throw the rest of
the food in the dust. I swear I will.’
The passion in her voice must have surprised him for he stared at
her and said helplessly, ‘But what about the rest of you?’
‘There’s plenty of food for the servants. As for me, I’ll be happy
with a handful of chire and a gulp of water. But if you go away hungry
I won’t have even that. Ask him if you don’t believe me.’ And she
waved a hand in my direction.
‘That is quite true,’ I said. ‘Don’t waste your time arguing with the
woman. Carry on the good work and complete it before sundown if
you can. After that—even the chire and water will lose their purity.’
The sanyasi stared at her and asked in a wondering voice, ‘But
why?’
Rajlakshmi blushed and, pulling her veil a little lower, resumed her
task of serving the one who had given up worldly pleasures in favour
of a life of abstinence.
The night of the thirteenth moon was barely upon us when the line
of bullock-carts started moving slowly towards Gangamati. I was in
front, comfortably ensconced in the cart meant for Rajlakshmi. She
herself was in the middle, with the servants and luggage behind her.
The sadhu, his tall form clearly visible in the moonlight, strode on
ahead.
‘Brother!’ I called. ‘It is a long way to walk. Sit with me in my cart
for a while.’
‘I will when I get tired. Just now I prefer to walk.’
‘Then walk by my side as my bodyguard,’ Rajlakshmi’s voice was
heard in the dark. ‘We can talk as we go along. I can judge by your
accent that you do not belong here. You are probably from our part
of the world. What are you doing here and where are you going?’
‘To Gopalpur,’ was the brief answer.
‘How far is it from Gangamati?’
 ‘They are neighbouring villages, or so I’ve heard. To tell you the
truth I know nothing of them. I’ve never been there in my life.’
‘How will you find the village, then, so late at night? Or the house
you’re expected in?
‘To find the village will not be difficult. I’ve been told that it lies two
miles south of a dried up tank that falls right on the track. As for
being expected anywhere—there is no such filing. Once there I’ll
look for a tree under which I can sit and wait for the dawn to break.’
‘You’ll spend this bitter, winter night under a tree? With only that
thin blanket to cover you?’ Rajlakshmi cried out in an anguished
voice. ‘No, Thakurpo, I can’t let you do that.’
There was a long silence. Then the sadhu’s voice was heard
saying, ‘But I have no home, Didi. The shade of a tree is my only
shelter.’
It was Rajlakshmi’s turn to fall silent. After a while her voice fell,
soft and gentle, on my ear. ‘Not when your sister is with you. Come
home with me tonight. Go wherever you wish after daybreak. I won’t
stop you.’ Calling Ratan, she told him that no luggage was to be
moved without her express command.
‘Then give up walking in the cold wind, bhai,’ I broke the silence
that followed. ‘Come into the shelter of the cart.’
‘I will, presently. Let me talk to Didi for a while.’
It was obvious, now, that he had given up the struggle and
surrendered heart and soul to Rajlakshmi.
The hours went by. Snatches of conversation came to my ears
between the noise of the night—the creaking of wheels, the baying
of jackals and the sleepy voices of the servants. I dozed off once in a
while waking up with a jerk. I heard Rajlakshmi ask after one such
rude awakening, ‘What do you have in your box, Ananda?’
‘A few books and medicines.’
‘Why medicines? Are you a doctor?’
‘I’m a sanyasi. Have you not heard of the cholera epidemic in
these parts?’
 ‘No. I know nothing of it. But you—can you cure cholera?’
‘No man can cure anything. He can only serve his fellowmen as
best as he can. The rest lies in the hands of God.’
‘Was that why you became a sanyasi? To serve your fellow men?’
‘One of the reasons. We have another mission—to free our
country from the foreign yoke.’
‘Is it necessary to renounce the world for that?’
‘I haven’t renounced the world. I’m too small a man to make such
a claim. I’ve only exchanged some responsibilities for others.’ Then,
pausing for a few moments, he added, ‘You are pained at the
thought of all I’ve lost just as if you were my true sister. But if you
had seen those for whom I’ve left my home and family, if you had
seen their agony, their helplessness, their sheer numbers—you
would never ask me to abandon them.’
I could guess from her silence that the sanyasi’s words had
touched a vulnerable spot in Rajlakshmi’s heart. I myself was not
unaware of my country’s condition. I had witnessed her suffering and
suffered for her. But this young boy had done more. He had pledged
himself to a lifetime of service. The sleep vanished from my eyes
and hot tears pricked my eyelids. I don’t know what Rajlakshmi’s
new brother made of her silence. But I knew what lay in her heart.
The impassioned young voice came echoing through the dark.
The sanyasi described the plight of rural India where ninety per cent
of our countrymen live. He spoke of the poverty and degradation, the
polluted air and germ-ridden water. He lashed out at the primitive
faith of our people: their superstitions, their obscurantism. He
condemned the white foreigners who had ravaged our land and were
steadily bleeding her white. My eyes burned with shame and sorrow
as I listened. Never had my country’s humiliation lain heavier on my
heart.
The cart’s wheels creaked and the bullocks’ feet were a steady
patter on the stony path. The land stretched away on all sides—arid
and waste. The smell of dust was in the air even as the night dews
were falling. It was cold, bitterly cold, and the moon, pale with frost,
hung high in the heavens.
Suddenly, the voice changed. It became gentle, every day. ‘I met
you only a short while ago, but I think I know you, Didi. I wish I could
show you the millions of our brothers and sisters I spoke of. You
would have understood them and suffered with them.’
Rajlakshmi was silent for a long, long while. Then, clearing her
throat, she said huskily, ‘How can that be? I’m a woman, Thakurpo.’
‘All the more because you are a woman, Didi.’
 4

I WOKE UP, CRAMPED AND COLD, TO THE SOUNDS OF

ARRIVAL AND THE twittering of birds in the pearly dawn. As I sat
up, I was alarmed to find myself surrounded by what seemed to be a
sea of faces. Crowds of naked children and half-naked adults
swarmed about the carts as they stood at the entrance of our new
dwelling house. I had heard Ratan complain that only the lowest of
the lower castes lived in Gangamati. Looking on the faces about me
I was forced to admit the truth of his statement.
As the children squirmed and pushed, in an attempt to catch a
glimpse of the mistress, Ratan descended on them angrily. ‘Get
away—shoo, scram! How dare you get so close, you vermin? What
are you staring at? Are we here for your entertainment? Look, Babu!
Look at their cheek. Pushing their way in as though they belong
here. Filthy untouchables!’
Sadhuji, meanwhile, was busy unloading his trunk from the
luggage cart. Opening it he took out a bell metal pitcher and,
approaching the nearest child, pressed it into his hand and said,
‘Run and fetch some water from the nearest pond, boy. I’m going to
make some tea.’ Then, turning to a ragged-looking man who stood
idly by, he asked, ‘Dada, does anyone nearby happen to own a cow?
I could do with a bit of fresh milk.’
All this while, Rajlakshmi had sat motionless in her cart watching
the scene with anxious eyes. But when Sadhuji turned to her, saying
heartily, ‘Fresh cow’s milk, Didi! What fine tea it will make,’ she could
contain herself no longer.
‘Ratan,’ she called, her voice sharp. ‘Take the pitcher to the
nearest pond and fill it. Be sure to scour it well first.’
As was to be expected, Ratan’s temper was not improved by this
command. To be rudely woken out of a sweet slumber by an unruly
mob was bad enough. To be expected to venture forth in the biting
cold to look for a pond from which to fill a pitcher that belonged to an
unknown sadhu, was not to be borne. His face gradually assumed
the character and dimensions of a hornet’s nest that had been
violently disturbed. He made a rush towards the hapless urchin who
stood gaping, pitcher in hand, and roared, ‘Why did you touch the
pitcher, you vicious imp? Come with me and scour it out or I’ll—’
The sadhu and I burst out laughing. Rajlakshmi said with a pained
smile, ‘You’ve managed to turn the village upside down, Ananda. Do
sanyasis have to have their tea at crack of dawn?’
At this moment, Rajlakshmi’s caretaker, Kashi Ram Kushari, came
hurrying in with three or four men behind him. One carried a basket
of fresh vegetables and greens, another had several pots of milk and
curd with him and yet another dangled an enormous fish by a string.
I watched him closely as Rajlakshmi stepped down and made her
obeisance. He was a lean, elderly man of about fifty years of age
with a fair, clean-shaven face. There was a simplicity about him that I
liked. We greeted each other with instant approval. Sadhuji,
disdaining these conventional niceties, had, in the meantime,
relieved the men of their burdens and was now examining the
contents with a lively interest.
Announcing that the vegetables were freshly picked and the milk
thick and creamy, he proceeded to deliver a short sermon on the
weight, size and anticipated flavour of the fish.
‘Don’t be alarmed, Kushari moshai,’ Rajlakshmi said with a glance
at the former’s anxious eyes. ‘The sanyasi is my brother. This is not
my first attempt to transform an ascetic into a householder.’
Ananda retaliated with a laugh, ‘Do your best, Didi. I assure you,
you won’t succeed. Not this time.’
Entering the house, we found it: to be large and well appointed.
The time given him being too little to build a new house, Kushari
moshai had, with discreet additions and alterations, converted the
old court-house into a comfortable dwelling place. There was a large
sitting room, two fair-sized bedrooms, a kitchen and a storeroom—all
with packed mud floors and freshly thatched straw roofs. In addition,
there was an enormous yard neatly fenced in with high mud walls. A
sweet-water well stood in a corner of the yard and rows of basil,
oleander and jasmine bushes adorned it.
We were delighted with the house—the sanyasi most of all. He
went from room to room, examined the flowering trees and shrubs,
tasted the well water, and declared that everything was perfect.
Rajlakshmi busied herself in the kitchen and refrained from
expressing an opinion. But, from the look in her eyes, it was easy to
see that she was not disappointed. Only Ratan’s face remained as
glum as ever. He sat motionless, his back against a bamboo post,
making no effort to help Rajlakshmi or explore his new surroundings.
The sanyasi gulped down two cups of hot tea with the remains of
the previous day’s sweetmeats and said, ‘Let’s go for a walk. We can
have a look at the village and bathe in the canal on our way back.
Why don’t you come too, Didi? There are no genteel folk around so
you needn’t feel embarrassed. I must say that I envy you your
property. It is a fair one.’
‘Sanyasis are greedy and envious: by nature,’ Rajlakshmi said,
dimpling at her guest. Then, calling out to the Brahmin cook she had
brought with her, she said, ‘Maharaj,* I’m going to the canal for a
bath. Don’t touch the fish till I get back. I wish to cook it myself.’
At this, Ratan, who hadn’t uttered a word all this while, declared in
a solemn voice, ‘The canal is crawling with leeches, each a-yard-
and-a-half long.’
Rajlakshmi’s face turned pale. She looked about her with an air of
helplessness. ‘That’s what I heard this morning,’ Ratan said in a
voice that seemed to clinch the matter.
But the sadhu turned on him with an oath, ‘You rascally son of a
barber! So this is your game—is it? Don’t let him frighten you with his
lies, Didi. I’ll get into the water first and if I’m not bled to death by the
leeches you can join me.’
 But the joke was lost on his Didi who stood where she was and
said, ‘It is better not to be too rash. We know nothing of this place.
Get up, Ratan, and draw some water out of the well. I’ll have my
bath here. And you too,’ she turned to me, ‘you are not well enough
yet, to go bathing in strange canals.’
‘What about me?’ Sadhuji asked laughing. ‘Am I of no
consequence that you send me to meet my death among the
leeches?’
At these words, uttered so lightly, Rajlakshmi’s eyes filled with
tears. She smiled at him tenderly and said, ‘You are beyond human
control, bhai. One who hasn’t obeyed his parents is not likely to obey
a stranger.’
The sanyasi stopped short in the act of moving towards the door
and said abruptly. ‘Don’t call yourself a stranger. I left home and
family to make the rest of the world my own.’ He walked rapidly away
with me following close behind.
We wandered about the village for several hours. It was small and
densely populated with men, women and children from the lowest
strata of the caste order. Except one family of Kumahars and another
of Baruis, the entire community was drawn from the Jal Achal order
of Doms and Bauris. The latter worked as wage labourers and the
former wove baskets and mats and sold them to the few upper-caste
families who lived in the village of Porhamati on the other side of the
canal. They were so poor that their houses were not more than
shacks and their living little better than that of street dogs who are
born only to be kicked and starved to a miserable death.
I wondered at their resilience. ‘This is how they have lived for
centuries,’ I thought, ‘expecting nothing from life, making no
demands and dreaming no dreams. We have taken away their
humanity. We treat them like polluted beings. And so encased are
we in the armour of our superior caste that their agony and
humiliation makes not the slightest dent.’
 Lost in my thoughts, I became aware of the sadhu’s intent gaze
only after a while. Fixing his eyes upon my face he said, ‘Dada, this
is a true picture of our people but don’t torture yourself with thoughts
of their misery. They aren’t miserable in the least.’
‘What do you mean? What kind of talk is this?’ I exclaimed,
angered by his careless dismissal of the anguish of his fellowmen.
‘If you had travelled as widely as I have, you would have
understood. What is it that tells a man he suffers? The mind—is it
not? But do these people have minds left to them? Have we not
squeezed the life, the mind, the spirit out of them and reduced them
to animals? They genuinely believe that to ask for more is to err
against God!’ He laughed heartily and continued, ‘What fine rogues
our ancestors were! What a dirty trick they played on millions of their
countrymen. And for so many years!’ And he laughed again—peal
after peal of gay laughter.
His words made me uncomfortable. I couldn’t join in his mirth.
Presently, he sobered down and said, ‘There’s been a terrible
thought this year and the winter paddy has failed. Famine will stalk
the village sooner or later. God has seen fit to send you among your
subjects in this dark hour of their lives. Don’t abandon them. Don’t go
back to the city till the worst is over. You can’t do much—I know that.
But you can see their suffering with your own eyes and suffer with
them. It will wipe out the sin of living off your fellowmen—to a certain
degree.’
I sighed. The sanyasi obviously saw me as a powerful zamindar
who made a luxurious living by exploiting his miserable subjects.
How far it was from the truth! But I didn’t react. It was past noon by
the time we had bathed in the canal and returned to the house. The
midday meal was ready and Rajlakshmi served it to us. She had
done the cooking herself and therefore, as was to be expected, the
sadhu got the best part including the head of the fish and the creamy
top of the curd. He ate with a relish that only an ascetic was capable
of. No householder of my acquaintance could have matched his
enormous appetite and tremendous zest for food. In between
mouthfuls, he carried on a conversation with Rajlakshmi.
‘I’m delighted with your zamindari, Didi, and feel sorry to leave it.’
‘Have I asked you to?’
‘You mustn’t be too kind to sadhus and fakirs. They start taking
advantage of you at the first opportunity. But the village is truly
charming. Not a house has a full thatch on it. They look just like the
ashrams of the rishis. Only the people who live in them are, without
exception, all untouchables.’
‘That’s what Ratan tells me. There’s not one family whose water is
acceptable. I don’t think we can stay here for long.’
The sadhu’s lips twitched a little. I noticed it but it didn’t have the
power to hurt. For I knew, better than all others present, the terrible
power of age-old prejudices and irrational beliefs. The very fact that
this kindest, most loving of women, could betray such a shameless
assumption of superiority was proof of that power. ‘Lakshmi,’ I said to
myself, ‘the work a man does may be low—even degrading. He
himself, by virtue of his birth, is the highest of created beings. If that
were not so, Pyari could never have transformed herself back to
Rajlakshmi.’
I ate in silence till, the meal over, Rajlakshmi handed us our paan
and left. An hour or so later she reappeared with the astonishing
news that the sadhu was about to depart. We hastened outside to
find Ananda dressed and ready and his heavy trunk already lodged
on the head of a man from the village. Although Rajlakshmi had
promised to let him go as soon as he wished, she cried out in alarm,
‘Are you really going, Ananda?’
‘Yes, Didi. If I don’t hurry I won’t reach before sunset.’
‘Where are you going? Who will look after you?’
‘Let me get there first.’
‘When will you come back?’
‘I can’t say. I may come back some day when my work is
concluded.’
 ‘No! No.’ Rajlakshmi shook her head violently. ‘I can’t let you go
like that. You must come back in a few days.’
‘I’ve told you why I’m going—’
Rajlakshmi burst into tears and ran inside. The sadhu turned a
red, embarrassed face to me and said, ‘I’m really sorry but I can’t
stay.’
I nodded. I understood his predicament. His mission was as
important to him as Rajlakshmi’s heartfelt appeal and he had to
suffer the pain of choosing. He glanced towards the door, sighed,
and, smiled ruefully, ‘Ours is a strange country, Dada,’ he remarked.
‘Here mothers and sisters are strewn in the streets. There’s no
escaping them.’
He walked away, leaving me wondering at Rajlakshmi’s
foolishness. How could she expect to hold a man who had left his
own mother and sisters in response to the call of a million others?
How did she ever hope to entice him with her puny bribes of fish
heads and creamy curd?
 5

RECLINING AGAINST A CUSHION, I WATCHED THE DAYLIGHT FADE

FROM THE high walls of the courtyard. Stray thoughts continued to flit
in and out of my head as they had done ever since the moment of
Ananda’s departure. I marvelled at the Providence that had rendered
one we hadn’t known above a few hours so much a part and parcel
of our lives. Rajlakshmi had not left her room ever since she had
rushed in weeping and slammed the door. As for me, an
overwhelming lassitude—the consequence, no doubt, of my
prolonged illness—took hold of my body and soul. I felt myself in the
presence of a power, mysterious and terrifying, even as the wintry
dusk crept in, chilling my blood and clutching at my heart with numb
fingers.
The door opened with a click and Rajlakshmi walked in. Her face
was composed but her eyes were red and swollen. She sat by me
and, smiling apologetically, murmured, ‘I fell asleep—’
‘That isn’t surprising,’ I answered. ‘You must be tired to death after
all the strain of packing and travel. If I were in your place I would
have slept for a hundred years.’
‘You didn’t sleep at all?’
‘No. But I will now.’
‘No, you won’t. Not at this hour. Tell me, did Ananda say anything
before he left?’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as where he is going or—’ she smiled painfully, abandoning
her sentence in mid-stream.
‘You know very well where he is going. As for the “or” part of it—he
has said nothing. I have no hopes of his return.’ I paused a little and
asked curiously, ‘Did you know Ananda before we met him in
Sainthia? Is he someone you recognized the way you recognized me
in the prince’s tent?’
 ‘No.’
‘Have you never seen him before?’
‘I often get confused about people,’ Rajlakshmi answered smiling.
‘I think I’ve seen them before when I really haven’t. It was like that
with Ananda.’ She thought for a few minutes and added, ‘I’ve
promised myself that if he ever comes back I’ll make him go back to
his parents.’
‘What do you hope to gain by that?’
‘A boy like him cannot be allowed to waste himself the way he’s
doing. You became a sanyasi once. Did you find anything of true
worth in the calling?’
‘I was a fraud. My impressions would not be worth repeating.
Ananda is different.’
‘Is it necessary to leave the world in order to realize God? Is
spiritual enrichment out of bounds in the lives of ordinary men and
women?’
‘Since I’ve never been interested in either, I cannot answer your
question.’
‘It seems strange to me that a boy of Ananda’s years, one who
had everything to live for, could detach himself so easily from the
world. You couldn’t.’
‘No. For one thing I didn’t have a world to renounce or not
renounce. For another, I was not attracted in the least to that
Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Omniscient Being who rules the
Universe. I’ve lived all my life without Him and will continue to do so.
As for Ananda, I don’t really believe that he is on a spiritual quest.
None of the sadhus I’ve known—and there have been quite a few—
believe that God is to be found among the starving millions. And not
one of them has ever dreamed of substituting prayer and ritual with a
box of medicines. And you’ve seen with your own eyes how much
Ananda loves good food—’
‘Are you implying that he left the world on a whim? Is everyone like
you?’
 ‘Oh, no! Ananda, unlike me, has a definite mission. He has
pledged himself to his country. His path may not be a short cut to
heaven but it will encompass it. His leaving his home and family,
therefore, doesn’t amount to leaving the world. He has merely
renounced a smaller family for a larger one.’
Rajlakshmi looked thoughtful. I wasn’t sure she had
comprehended. Then she asked again, ‘Are you sure he said
nothing—nothing at all before he left?’
‘Nothing of any consequence.’
I didn’t know why I hid the truth from her, why I didn’t repeat the
sadhu’s words, ‘Ours is a strange country. Here mothers and sisters
are strewn in the streets. There’s no escaping them.’ I marvelled at
the boy’s sensitive understanding of our miserable land, and many
half-buried memories came up to the surface clamouring for light. I
thought of the innumerable sins of omission and commission whose
accumulated weight, through the centuries, had buried our
motherland in the slough of degradation in which we now live. And,
though only a boy, Ananda had perceived the truth about her.
Rajlakshmi sat up with a jerk and said, ‘If that is true, if he has left
home on a mission to serve his fellowmen, he will have to return. He
has no idea of the terrible frustration that falls to the lot of one who
strives unselfishly for another’s good. I’ve been through it, so I know.
A day will come when his cup of agony will brim over as mine has
done.’
‘You may be right,’ I answered. ‘But I have a feeling that he has
had a taste of it and knows what to expect.’
‘No. Never!’ Rajlakshmi shook her head violently. ‘No one could
suffer the same humiliation over and over again.’
Banku had told me of Rajlakshmi’s efforts at community welfare in
her husband’s village and of the humiliations she had suffered in
consequence. I realized, of course, that her position vis-à-vis the
villagers was quite different from Ananda’s. But knowing how deep
her hurt was, I refrained from telling her that. I sat silent, wondering
why it was in the nature of man not to accept his own good simply
and without question. I decided to ask Ananda for his opinion if he
ever came back.

One morning, a few days later, I woke to the melancholy strains of a

flute floating in through my window. ‘There’s a wedding in the
village,’ I said to myself.
As I rose from my bed I saw three or four men step into the yard
followed by Ratan who called out in a hearty voice, ‘Ma! These good
men are here from the village to pay you tribute. Come, don’t be
afraid. Come forward and speak to the mistress.’
The elderly man, to whom the latter part of his speech was
addressed, now stepped forward. He was wearing a dhoti of
ceremonial yellow and had a string of wooden beads around his
neck. In his hand was a sal leaf with a silver rupee and a betel nut on
it which he laid humbly at Rajlakshmi’s feet with the words, ‘My
daughter is to be wedded tonight, mistress.’
Rajlakshmi picked up the gift and asked in a bright voice, ‘Is this
what is given when one’s daughter gets married?’
‘People give what they can,’ Ratan, the know-all, said
philosophically. ‘These men are Doms. They hardly have anything
for themselves. How much can they spare for their zamindar? Even
the one rupee—’
At the word ‘Dom’, Rajlakshmi put down the leaf and exclaimed,
‘Then why are you giving it to me? Take it back and use it for the
wedding expenses.’
The rejection of the proffered tribute disconcerted Ratan even
more than it did the bride’s father. He declared vehemently that
Rajlakshmi would have to accept it; that she would be violating an
age-old custom if she didn’t, that the rites of a marriage could not be
solemnized if she refused the tribute, and much more in the same
strain. I also understood why Ratan was so loud in his protestations.
It was obvious that he had constituted himself the guide and
guardian of the Doms and that they knew and he knew that if the
tribute were to come through the proper channels, that is through
Kushari moshai, one rupee would not suffice. Hence Ratan’s alarm
at Rajlakshmi’s refusal.
I walked quietly up to the group and picked up the rupee saying, ‘I
accept it. Now you may go back and attend to your duties.’
Ratan beamed at me and Rajlakshmi relaxed visibly. Madhu Dom
twisted his hands obsequiously and said, ‘The rites will be
solemnized soon after dusk. If you would have the kindness to step
into my humble dwelling, I—’
We assured him we would. Rajlakshmi said, ‘Open the big trunk,
Ratan, and bring one of my new saris for the bride. Are there no
sweets to be bought at the village? Then buy some sugar puffs and
give them to her.’ Then turning to the Dom she asked, ‘How old is
your daughter, Madhu? And where is the groom from? Are lots of
people invited to the wedding? How many of you are there in the
village?’
Taken aback by so many questions, all together, from no less a
personage than the zamindar’s lady, Madhu folded his hands humbly
and stuttered out that his daughter was nine years old, that the
groom was in his prime—not more than thirty or forty; that they lived
in a village ten miles north of Gangamati where a flourishing
community of Doms lived, that they were not practising Doms but
farmers with enough money to live on. It was obvious, therefore, that
his daughter would be happy. It was not the girl’s future that was
worrying him but the anticipated events of the night. His
arrangements were all complete. The chire had been bought and the
curds and molasses. He had even procured a large sack of sugar
puffs to feast the bridegroom’s party. Still he was not sure that all
would go smoothly. He was relying on us to help him out if anything
untoward happened.
‘All will go well.’ Rajlakshmi smiled sweetly at him. ‘Your efforts will
not go waste. The groom’s party will be pleased with your
arrangements.’ Madhu touched his forehead to the floor of the yard
in great reverence and departed. His face, however, was no less
worried and anxious than when he had first come.
In spite of our promise we had no intention of actually attending
Madhu’s daughter’s wedding. But that evening, as I lay idly on my
bed hstening to Rajlakshmi’s account of her expenditure of the day,
the clamour of the wedding festivities took on a harsher, more
alarming note. Rajlakshmi raised a laughing face and said, ‘What is
that? Are quarrel and assault included in the rites of a Dom
wedding?’
‘Why not? After all, Doms have emulated their superior castes for
centuries. Have you forgotten what happened at your own wedding?’
Rajlakshmi’s face reddened. She sighed and said, ‘The way we
treat our women in this wretched country! From the highest to the
lowest it is the same story. I found out from the men who came this
morning that Madhu has sold his daughter to the groom’s father for
twenty-four rupees. She’s their property now. They will take her away
tomorrow morning and she may never see her parents again. How
she will weep for her mother! What does a nine-year-old know of
marriage?’
I had seen so many marriages of this kind that they no longer had
the power to move me. Receiving no answer she went on, ‘A Hindu
marriage, whether a Brahmin’s or a Dom’s, is part of our dharma. If it
were not for that—’
Words trembled on my lips. I wanted to ask her why she
complained if she truly believed all Hindu marriages to be
sacrosanct. What was the worth of the dharma that brought rebellion
and anger in the minds of its upholders instead of peace and
serenity? But, before I could utter a word, Rajlakshmi said in a tone
of finality, ‘The ancient rishis who wrote the Shastras could look into
the past, the present and the future. The laws they made were for
the good of mankind for all time to come. Who are we to question
their dictates? How much do we know—ignorant mortals that we
are?’
Her speech effectively silenced the retort I was about to make. It
was not for the first time that Rajlakshmi had expressed such
sentiments. As at the other times, I was silent. I knew that a bitter
quarrel would ensue if I even hinted that no code of laws could
ensure the welfare of humanity for all time to come. I have
mentioned elsewhere in this narrative, that Rajlakshmi had a gift of
reading my thoughts as if my face were a mirror in which they were
reflected. The soft lamplight in which we sat may have dimmed her
vision but did not obscure it.
‘You doubt my words,’ she continued after a pause. ‘You do not
believe that anyone can predict the needs of the future. But I say that
our rishis could and did. If it were not so, the mantras that still govern
our lives would have been lost in oblivion ages ago. You do agree,
don’t you, that our Hindu mantras are living and dynamic? How else
could they have withstood the onslaughts of time and history? Why
is it that the most mismatched of Hindu marriages evolve, with time,
into the firmest of unions. I don’t deny the presence of unholiness
and immorality among us. But isn’t that true of every race? Besides,
where else in the world will you find female chastity of the high order
that exists in our country?’
‘Nowhere,’ I answered dully, knowing that I was up against a blind
faith I could not fight with reason. Had this been an objective
discussion I could have named several countries in the world in
which female chastity is held in equally high esteem. I could have
reminded her of Abhaya and asked why the mantras that had been
pronounced at her marriage had not had life enough to bind her
husband to her. Why did this ‘firmest of unions’ hold good only for
the woman and not for the man? But, knowing argument to be
useless, I was silent.
I had a dim notion of the direction in which her thoughts had been
drifting of late. She had suffered, as few had, from the laws she
upheld so steadfastly. She had known the pain and guilt of bringing
down one she loved above life itself, to her own level of self-indicted
degradation. A desperate battle was raging within her, between a
slowly awakening fundamentalism and the overwhelming needs of
her heart. These two, like turbulent rivers, washed over her, turn by
turn, shaking her to the core of her being. Would they ever come
together to form a cool and tranquil sheet of water over which her
tortured soul could float, calm and pure and free? She herself saw
no such prospect. But I did. I had a sense, a very faint one, that the
passionate yearning that had driven her all these years, intoxicating
her body and firing her mind, had dimmed in these few months of
possession. Some subtle, scarcely perceptible, manner of speech
and look told me that she was now taking stock of her losses and
gains. I wondered what would become of me if her scales weighed
down in favour of the former. My life, as far as I could see, had taken
on the quality of a discarded fishing net—torn and flimsy and heavy
with dust. Where, among all these holes, would I find a space to tie a
knot and begin again? There was only one ray of hope. I had been a
wanderer for many years. I could take up that life again. If all else
came to naught there was always the road.
The strange thing was that even as we were arguing about the
power of the marriage mantra, a drama was being enacted around it
in the house of the Doms. We knew nothing of it, till a crowd of men,
carrying sticks and lanterns, burst into the yard calling, ‘Huzoor!
Babu moshai!’ I started up and ran to the veranda. Rajlakshmi came
and stood by me but we could make nothing of their clamour. Ratan
shouted to them to talk one at a time but, delirious with excitement,
they all shrieked together in high voices. It took me a long time to
understand what they were saying but when I did I was both shocked
and amused.
What had happened was this. The priest attending the groom’s
party had alleged that his counterpart from the bride’s party was
pronouncing the mantras incorrectly and that the marriage that was
being performed was not a true marriage. Not content with making
this allegation, he had actually clapped his hand over the other’s
mouth and had swept away his flowers and gangajal, scattering
them in the dust. I had heard of many grisly crimes being committed
by the priesthood but to burst in from an alien village, insult a
fellows-priest and prevent him from uttering the ‘living’ mantra must
surely be the worst of them all.
Rajlakshmi was struck dumb by this strange communication but
Ratan, more conscious than ever of his caste superiority in this
village of Doms and Bauris, thundered, ‘Priest! You dare talk of
priests! Since when has a marriage between Doms become equal to
one between Brahmins or Kayasthas or Nabasakhs that a real priest
will solemnize the rites?’ And he glanced from my face to Rajlakshmi
s, his own bursting with pride. Here it is appropriate to remind the
reader that Ratan was a barber by caste.
Madhu Dom was not present (he had been at the point of giving
his daughter away when the fight started) but his brother-in-law
spoke up. He admitted the truth of Ratan’s statement that Doms are
too low to be united in matrimony by a proper Brahmin priest but
added that their own Rakhal pandit, though a Dom, was as good a
priest as any Brahmin. He wore the sacred thread, knew all the
mantras and followed the sacred laws as strictly as any Brahmin. He
led a life of such purity that not a drop of water touched by a fellow
Dom ever passed through his lips. In the face of this evidence of
Rakhal pandit’s greatness, even Ratan’s arguments about true
priests and false priests lost their force.
By this time the wedding clamour had risen to alarming
proportions. I prepared to go, and Rajlakshmi, unable to contain her
curiosity, agreed to accompany me. As we stepped into Madhu
Dom’s yard we saw the two rival factions in full battle. About thirty
men of the groom’s party were screaming abuses and gesticulating
wildly at an equal number from the other side while the powerful,
hefty Shibu pandit held the pale, emaciated Rakhal pandit firmly in
his grip. He let go as soon as he saw us and stood glumly in a
corner. Lowering myself on the mat that was respectfully placed for
us I asked Shibu to explain his behaviour.
‘Huzoor!’ he replied. ‘This rascal here is ignorant of the first letter
of the mantra. And he calls himself a pandit. He was reducing the
rites to a mockery.’
‘Rites to a mockery!’ Rakhal echoed, sticking out his tongue and
grimacing fiercely at his opponent. ‘I have been conducting all the
marriages and funerals in these five villages for the last thirty years.
Who are you to come in from nowhere and teach me my mantras?’
I had come to mediate and I did so. After a prolonged argument it
was decided that Rakhal would be given another chance but that if
he made another mistake Shibu would take his place. Rakhal
marched up triumphantly to his seat and thrusting some flowers into
Madhu Dom’s hand, he began his recital of the Vedic mantras in a
manner that I have not forgotten to this day. Hearing him, I could not
help wondering if the mantras that had come down to us had
retained the forms given them by the rishis of old. I was also quite
sceptical about their immortality. Even if I were to admit Rajlakshmi’s
assertion that they had been animate when first created, I had not a
shadow of doubt that, like all created beings, they had died a natural
death in due course of time.
Rakhal pandit said to the groom, ‘Repeat after me: Madhu
Domaya putraya namaha.’ (Madhu Dom’s daughter, salutations!)
The groom obliged.
Rakhal now turned to the bride. ‘Repeat after me: Bhagwati
Domaya putraya namaha.’ (Bhagwati Dom’s son, salutations!)
The little girl looked frightened and burst into tears. Her father was
on the point of helping her out when Shibu jumped up and
announced in a thundering voice, ‘All wrong! The mantra is all
wrong! The marriage has misfired.’
I felt a tug at my sleeve. It was Rajlakshmi. She had stuffed the
edge of her sari into her mouth to prevent: herself from laughing out
aloud. Her face was red and her eyes bright with suppressed
laughter. The rest of the company now begged Shibu to take over, to
give Rakhal a quarter of the dues and keep the rest. Rakhal was
about to plead his case but the crowd would not let him. However, at
this moment of supreme triumph, Shibu decided to be
magnanimous. ‘There’s no use blaming Rakhal,’ he said kindly. ‘The
truth is that, barring myself, no one in these parts knows the right
mantras. I’m not greedy for money. I’ll recite the mantras from here
and Rakhal can repeat it after me.’
With that the great pandit, renowned for his knowledge of the
scriptures, started his recital in a booming voice. Rakhal, recognizing
defeat when he saw it, argued no more.
Shibu said, ‘Repeat after me: Madhu Domaya kanyaya bhujya
patrang namaha.’ (Madhu Dom’s daughter, leaves and food
offerings! Salutations!)
‘Madhu Domaya kanyaya bhujya patrang namaha,’ echoed the
groom.
Shibu said, ‘Madhu, repeat after me: Bhagwati Domaya putraya
sampradanang namaha.’ (Bhagwati Dom’s son, I give thee away!
Salutations!)
And so it went on. The company looked respectfully on. At last the
marriage was being conducted as a proper marriage should! Shibu
thrust a couple of flowers into the groom’s hand and said, ‘Bipin,
repeat after me: Jata din jibanang tata din bhat kapadh pradanang
swaha.’ (As long as I live I’ll give away rice and clothes into the
sacrificial fire.)
Bipin stammered and stuttered and made a mess of this most
wonderful of mantras. But Shibu was satisfied. He pronounced the
final, the climactic mantra with considerable aplomb.
‘Bride and groom repeat together: Jugal milanang namaha.’
(Union of two, salutations!)
‘Hari! Hari!’ the crowd chanted. Conch shells blew and the bride
and groom were taken into the house. People whispered to one
another, ‘Did you hear the mantras? Rakhal pandit has been
cheating us all these years.’
The nuptials over, I rose solemnly and departed with Rajlakshmi.
As soon as we reached home, Rajlakshmi threw herself on the bed
and, doubling over with laughter, mimicked what she had just heard.
‘What a great pandit! What knowledge of the scriptures! Rakhal has
been cheating us all these years.’
I, too, burst out laughing. Then controlling myself I said, ‘Rakhal
must be a great pandit too since his mantras have been forging
those “firmest of unions” you spoke of, for the last thirty years. Don’t
forget that the girl’s mother and grandmother were married by
Rakhal.’
Rajlakshmi stopped laughing. She sat up and glanced sharply at
my face, then, turning her own away, she fell into a reverie.
 6

WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING RAJLAKSHMI

INFORMED ME THAT WE had been invited to have our midday
meal in Kushari moshai’s house.
‘Am I to go alone?’
‘No. I’m coming too.’
Her answer surprised me. The act of eating, in Hindu society, is
hemmed in by innumerable rules and restrictions. Rajlakshmi was
aware of them and had respected them all these years. I didn’t know
much about Kushari moshai but it was obvious that he was a
practising Brahmin. It was also obvious that he knew Rajlakshmi’s
history. Yet he had invited her to a meal in his house. And, most
surprising of all, she had accepted his invitation.
The bullock-cart arrived, I came out to see Rajlakshmi standing
near it. I stared at her and asked, ‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘I was waiting for you,’ she said and climbed in. Ratan, who was to
accompany us, stared too. Rajlakshmi wore little jewellery at home,
as a rule. But this morning, it seemed to me, she had deliberately
denuded herself. Only a thin gold chain hung around her neck and a
pair of plain gold bracelets clasped her wrists. Even the bangles she
had worn till yesterday, or so it seemed to me, had been removed.
Her sari was of simple cotton—one she kept for everyday use.
I took my place next to her and remarked, ‘You are giving up all
your luxuries, one by one, Lakshmi. I’m the only one left.’
‘It may be that everything worthwhile is contained in the one that is
left. That is why all that is redundant is drifting away from me.’
Rajlakshmi glanced behind her to make sure that Ratan was not
within earshot and continued, ‘You know that you mean more to me
than anything else in the world. Help me to find the power to
renounce even you in favour of Him.’ I was so startled that I couldn’t
think of an answer and Rajlakshmi did not press me for one. She
picked up a pillow and curled up with it close to my feet.
Porhamati was only a ten-minute walk if one went over the
bamboo bridge that spanned the canal. By bullock-cart it was a good
two hours distance from our village. Not a word did we exchange
during that time. But she put out her hand, took mine, and held it
close to her neck. For the rest of the journey she lay motionless,
pretending to be asleep.
It was well past noon when the bullock-cart finally stopped at
Kushari moshai’s door. Quite a crowd hac! gathered to see us. The
master and mistress of the house came forward and took us in with
great ceremony. I realized that the norms of the city were not
applicable in this remote village of Bengal and that it was perfectly in
order for inquisitive neighbours to mill around the guests of the
house.
Rajlakshmi and I were led right inside to a veranda, overlooking
the yard, where two asans were laid ready, side by side. Our host
and hostess, still busy with the preparations, left us in the care of
their widowed daughter who stood behind us waving a palm leaf fan
above our heads. Despite Rajlakshmi’s presence, several men
crowded around me making inane remarks and plying me with
questions about the nature of my illness, the length of my stay in
Gangamati, and the difficulties of running a zamindari in an absentee
state. I answered briefly and looked around me with some curiosity.
There was no doubt that I had entered a household of plenty. The
house itself was built of earth but it was large and sprawling, with
many rooms. Two immense paddy bins built of straw stood in the
yard with a couple of husking pedals between them. A spreading
shaddock tree bearing globes of glistening fruit stood in one corner.
Beneath it were several grates for boiling paddy, now cold and clean
and raked of their ashes. Two plump calves, tethered to the tree,
slept in the shade. Their mothers were not to be seen but I hadn’t a
doubt that they were somewhere close at hand, ready to provide the
household with vast quantities of rich, creamy milk. Against one wall
of the veranda on which we sat, stood several enormous jars
balanced on coils of straw. They shone clean and bright in the
afternoon sun. It was easy to see that they were not abandoned or
empty. I was sure that they were filled to the brim with lentils, spices
and treacle. Rows of hooks on another wall had bundles of jute and
flax hanging from them.
Kushari moshai came hurrying in and, apologizing for the delay in
attending to us, announced that the meal had been served. I rose
instantly, glad of the respite from the curiosity of his neighbours.
However, I discovered to my dismay that a single place had been
laid and that I was to eat alone. My host explained, with shy pride,
that he was a vegetarian and that he had continued the observance
of eating in seclusion and silence that he had been initiated into
during his thread ceremony. I accepted his explanation without
comment but when I heard that Rajlakshmi was fasting that day and
would not partake of cooked food, I was both surprised and amused.
Was there really any need for such a pretence, I thought.
Rajlakshmi, who always read my thoughts even before they were
properly formulated, said instantly, ‘Don’t let that spoil your appetite.
Enjoy your meal. Everyone here knew of my fast.’
‘Only I didn’t,’ I said. ‘But why did you take the trouble of coming
then?’
Kushari moshai’s wife answered for her. It was the first time she
spoke that morning. She said, ‘It was at my insistence, Babu. I knew
the mistress would not eat here but I couldn’t resist the temptation of
receiving our patroness in my humble dwelling. Isn’t that true, Ma?’
And she smiled at Rajlakshmi.
I looked at her with some curiosity. I had not expected to find such
dignity and grace in the speech of a simple, unlettered village
woman. But there was another surprise awaiting me. I had not
dreamed that there was another woman in the same village whose
acquaintance would turn out to be the memory of a lifetime.
 ‘We are hardly what you call us,’ I said. ‘And if we are, we give so
little that you wouldn’t miss it if it were withheld.’
She shrank a little at these words and her benign, motherly face
paled and grew solemn. After a brief silence she said, ‘It is true that
we enjoy God’s bounty as few people do. But I feel, sometimes, that
it would have been kinder to us if He had given us less. What use
are all these riches to me when I have no one of my own to enjoy
them with except a widowed daughter? My loved ones have been
taken away from me—’ Her voice broke and her lip trembled. She
must have lost a grown son, I said to myself, and was silent,
respecting her grief. Rajlakshmi took her hand and held it without a
word. But her next sentence jerked us out of our speculations. ‘They
are your subjects just as we are. Make them come back to us I beg
of you.’ And she lifted the edge of her sari and touched it to her eyes.
Rajlakshmi and I exchanged glances. I realized that she was as
much in the dark as I was. But the situation was so strange that
neither of us knew how to react. After a while, our hostess collected
herself and slowly, haltingly, told us the whole story. How much of it
was true, I cannot say. But there was no doubt that it was a strange
one. The facts, as she related them were as follows.
Her husband’s parents had died many years ago leaving their
infant son, the present Jadunath Nyaya Ratna, in her care. Although
only fourteen years old at the time, she had taken the motherless
child to her bosom and cared for him as her own. They were poor
and life was a bitter struggle. All the ancestral property that her
husband had inherited was a one-roomed earthen house, two bighas
of land and a few families of disciples. What we saw now was his
own acquired property. The younger brother had contributed nothing
to it. Nor had anyone expected him to.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘He’s demanding more than his fair share.’
‘Oh, no!’ The kindly matron shook her head. ‘He demands nothing.
He doesn’t have to. It is all his. He would have had it all if his wife
Sunanda hadn’t stopped him. It is she who has taken him away from
me and poisoned my whole existence.’ Her voice broke. She cleared
her throat and continued, ‘God is witness that I’ve never failed in my
duty to the boy. So are my neighbours. But he, himself, has forgotten
the past altogether.’ She wiped her eyes and took up the narrative
once again. ‘After Thakurpo’s thread ceremony, my husband sent
him to Mihirpur to study Sanskrit in the tol* of the famous Shibu
Tarkalankar. I loved him so much that I couldn’t bear the separation. I
wept and wept till my husband took me to Mihirpur. Even that he has
forgotten! Anyway, the years passed one by one and I got used to
his absence. Then, when his studies were nearing completion and
his brother had started looking around for a suitable bride, he came
home. He had a wife with him. He had married Sunanda, the
daughter of Shibu Tarkalankar, without informing us, leave alone
asking for permission.’
‘Did he have a reason for doing that?’
‘Of course he had. Her family did not match ours in lineage or
status. Besides, they are from a lower order of Brahmins. My
husband was so disappointed that he didn’t speak to them for a
whole month. But I wasn’t. I loved Sunanda from the moment I saw
her sweet face. Then, when I heard that her mother was dead and
her father had become a sanyasi, my heart went out to her. What
that girl meant to me I cannot describe. And this is how she has
repaid me!’ And the good woman burst into tears.
‘Where are they now?’ Rajlakshmi asked gently.
Our hostess was so overcome that all she could do was shake her
head helplessly. We understood that they were in that very village.
But the mystery was still to be cleared. After a few minutes of
struggling with her emotions she continued, ‘Our property, as you
see it, belonged originally to a weaver of the village. He died some
years ago and my husband acquired it. One morning, some months
ago, his widow came to the house holding a little boy by the hand.
She was in a state of great agitation and accused my husband of
robbing her minor son of his inheritance. It may be that what she
said was a lie but Sunanda believed every word. She was preparing
to go for her bath when the commotion started. She stood where she
was for a long time, even after the woman had left. I called out to
her, “Chhoto Bou,* make haste and start the cooking. It is getting
late,” but she didn’t move an inch. I looked at her face and was
frightened. She was as pale as death but her eyes burned like living
coals.
‘“Didi,” she said, “You must return the weaver’s property. Will you
deprive a fatherless boy of his rightful inheritance?”
‘“What nonsense you talk,” I said angrily. “Kanai Basak was neck-
deep in debt. His property was auctioned off and your brother-in-law
bought it. Does one give away what is rightfully one’s own?”
‘“From where did he get the money to buy such a large property?”
‘“That I don’t know,” I snapped. “Go ask him!” and thinking that the
matter had ended I proceeded to the prayer room.’
‘If the property was auctioned off,’ Rajlakshmi said in a wondering
voice, ‘why should Chhoto .Bou insist on returning it?’
‘That’s just it,’ said our hostess, but a shade of embarrassment
came over her manner. She added feebly, The property wasn’t
auctioned in the usual way. My husband was the Basak family’s kul
(clan) guru. Kanai Basak left everything in trust to my husband
before he died. Who knew, then, that he was so deeply in debt?’
At these words a strange feeling came over me. I felt the presence
of something vile and treacherous all around. Suddenly the rich food
lay heavy in my stomach. I looked at Rajlakshmi. Her face was pale
and her eyes held a curious expression. But Kushari moshai’s wife
seemed not to notice. She went on with her narrative.
‘A couple of hours later I returned to find Sunanda sitting at the
same spot. She hadn’t had a bath or moved to the kitchen. My
husband was about to return from the court-house. Thakurpo had left
early to inspect the granaries and he had taken Binu with him. They
too would be arriving any minute. And the cooking hadn’t even
begun. “Have you decided not to enter the kitchen, Chhoto Bou?” I
asked exasperated. “What is the matter with you? Do you trust that
wicked woman more than us?”
‘“Didi,” Sunanda said lifting her chin and looking straight into my
eyes, “I will neither cook nor eat in this house if you do not return
what is not yours. I cannot snatch the food from the mouth of a
defenceless child and feed it to my husband and son.” And she
walked into her room and shut the door.
‘I knew Sunanda well. I knew that honesty was basic to her nature.
I also knew that her father had educated her in the Shastras as
thoroughly as the best of his pupils. But I was still to find out how far
she could go. She did not leave the room even after I started cooking
the midday meal and her husband and son returned. But the
moment my husband sat down to his simple meal she came and
stood outside the door. “Sunanda,” I begged with folded hands, “say
what you must after he has eaten.” But she turned a deaf ear to my
pleas.
‘She spoke in a voice as brittle as glass. “I wish to know the true
circumstances of the transfer. From where did you get the money to
buy the weaver’s property? I have heard you say, often enough, that
my father-in-law left nothing when he thed.”
‘This was the first time that my husband had heard Sunanda
speak. He asked in a surprised voice, “What do you mean by such
talk, Bou-ma?”
‘“You know what I mean well enough. The weaver’s widow was
here this morning. There is no point in repeating what she said. If
you do not return what is not yours—we have nothing more to do
with you. Not a grain of rice from this house of sin will pass through
the lips of my husband and child. Not while I have breath in my
body.”
‘I couldn’t believe my ears. “Either I’m dreaming,” I thought, “or
Sunanda is possessed by a demon.” My husband was too shocked
to speak for a while.
 ‘Then he answered her, his eyes blazing, “The property is mine—
not your husband’s or son’s. If you do not wish to stay here you are
welcome to leave.” He left the meal uneaten and went out of the
house.
‘I ran, weeping, to Thakurpo. “I have tended you like my own
child,” I said. “Is this the reward I get?”
‘His eyes were full of tears. “Bou-than,” he said, “You are the only
mother I’ve ever known and Dada the only father. But my conscience
is more important to me than anything else in the world. Sunanda
was right in what she said and I support her. Her father’s only gift to
her on our marriage was the blessing: Seek the truth with honesty
and purpose and a way will be shown to you. I have known her from
childhood onwards. She does not compromise with her conscience.”
‘The day was Bhadra Sankranti.* The sky was overcast and rain
fell in torrents. Sunanda took her son by the hand and walked out of
the house in the pouring rain. I ran after her screaming, “Where are
you going?” But she didn’t answer. There’s a crumbling old house at
the end of the village that had once belonged to a disciple of my
father-in-law. It had been abandoned many years ago and was
crawling with toads, snakes and jackals. It was to this house that she
was taking her husband and son.
‘“What will you eat?” I asked in despair.
‘“My father-in-law left two bighas of land. One bigha is legally
mine.”
‘“Accursed wretch!” I wailed. “That won’t feed you for a day. Starve
to death if you will. But why do you punish my Binu?”
‘“What about the son of Kanai Basak? Don’t you ever think of him,
Didi?” And, with that, she walked away.
‘The house became like a house of death. I didn’t have the heart
to light the lamps or cook the evening meal. My husband spent the
whole night leaning against that post and staring up at the sky. Tears
rushed into my eyes everytime I thought of Binu. I had reared him so
tenderly. What was he eating now? Where was he sleeping? As
soon as dawn broke, I sent the cowherd over with a cow and a calf
but Sunanda returned them with the message that she was going to
change Binu’s diet and train him to eat the coarse food of the poor.’
The elderly voice trembled and the pain of parting with those she
loved so dearly was stamped on every line of her motherly face. A
deep sigh escaped Rajlakshmi. Our hostess cleared her throat,
wiped her eyes and nose and continued. ‘The whole village was
talking. My husband became pale and thin with worry and
humiliation. He had brought up Thakurpo as his own son and the
child was dearer to him than life. “They can’t go on like this forever,”
he would say at first. “They’ll have to come back.” But I knew
Sunanda. She would break but not bend. After some days he sent
them a message asking them to return. He promised to see that the
weaver’s family was provided for. But Sunanda’s condition was not
to be shaken. Either all was returned or they lived apart.’
I had stopped eating for a long while. I dipped my hand in a glass
of water and asked, ‘What do they live on?’
The poor woman covered her ears and answered with a trembling
lip, ‘Don’t ask me that, Babu. It is too distressing to bear drinking or
talking about.’
A clatter of wooden clogs in the distance announced that Kushari
moshai’s meal was concluded. But he did not come near us. We sat
in silence for a while—till it was time to depart.
As we took our places in the cart, Kushari moshai’s wife gripped
Rajlakshmi’s hand and whispered urgently. ‘They are your subjects,
Ma. The land from which they get their living is in Gangamati. And
the house in which they live is at the edge of the canal. You can see
it from your house.’ Rajlakshmi nodded.
The cart started moving. Neither of us spoke. Rajlakshmi seemed
deep in thought. I interrupted her reverie with the words, ‘Trying to
help a person who is self-sufficient is a futile exercise, Lakshmi.’
Rajlakshmi smiled at me and said, ‘I know that very well. I’ve
learnt it from you.’
 7

ANALYSING THE PAST, AS I OFTEN DO THESE DAYS, I DISCOVER THE

PRESENCE of several women whose personalities are marked
indelibly in my memory. One of them is Kushari moshai’s rebellious
sister-in-law. I have not forgotten Sunanda to this day. Neither have I
overcome my gratitude to Rajlakshmi whose sensitive concern and
generosity made this acquaintance possible.
Jadu Nyaya Ratna’s dilapidated dwelling stood right across the
bleak, barren field that stretched westward to the edge of the canal.
It was only a minute’s walk over the bridge to the cluster of mud
rooms that huddled together in the shade of an ancient tamarind
tree. I had often seen it from my window but had never known that it
was inhabited by a fiery female who defied social norms with
impunity. Looking on it, the morning after my visit to Porhamati, I
thought how true the maxim was that nothing could be judged from
the surface. Who would ever have thought that classics like Kumar,
Raghu, Shakuntala and Meghdoot were contained within those
crumbling walls? Or that serious discourses on the nature of morality
and law took place between a young preceptor and his pupils? Or
that a young woman’s personal vision of right and truth dominated
the entire household, compelling its members to embrace a life of
want and struggle?
As I looked at the shapeless mass with an inexplicable pain and
yearning in my heart, I became aware of voices in the yard. One,
loud and inquiring, was Rajlakshmi’s. The other, low and indistinct,
was Ratan’s. But the moment she saw me, Rajlakshmi put the
responsibility for the disturbance squarely on Ratan. ‘Really, Ratan!’
she said. ‘You must learn to lower your voice. You woke Babu up
with your shouting.’
Ratan and I were both used to being blamed for what we hadn’t
done. So neither of us bothered to contradict her. On the ground, at
Rajlakshmi’s feet, was a large basket filled with rice, lentils, spices,
oil, salt, sugar and a variety of vegetables. I gathered that
Rajlakshmi was trying to persuade Ratan to carry the basket over to
somebody’s house and that he was mumbling excuses about its size
and weight.
‘Why don’t you get someone from the village to carry the basket?
Ratan can go with him wherever you’re sending it,’ I said, realizing
that it was the indignity of carrying a load that was upsetting Ratan.
‘Go then,’ Rajlakshmi commanded. ‘Fetch someone from the
village since you are too grand for such lowly work.’
‘Where is all this going so early in the morning?’
‘If foodstuff is to be sent to anyone—it must be done first thing in
the morning.’
‘But where are you sending it? And why?’
‘I am sending it to the house of a Brahmin. As to why—the answer
is simple. So that the family may eat.’
‘And who, may I ask, is the Brahmin?’
About to mention a name, Rajlakshmi thought the better of it and
smiled. ‘One shouldn’t brag about one’s good deeds or name
names. Go wash your face. Your tea is ready.’
Around ten o’clock that morning, as I sat in the outer room lazily
leafing through an old journal for want of anything better to do, an
unfamiliar voice fell on my ears. ‘Namaskar, Babu moshai.’
‘Namaskar. Please take a seat.’
I took stock of the stranger who stood before me. That he was a
Brahmin was obvious. That he was exceedingly poor was even more
so. He wore no shirt and his feet were bare. A fold of his frayed dhoti
was taken around his shoulders and a couple of knots were clearly
visible where the material had given way. He lowered himself onto a
bamboo stool and said, ‘I am one of the humblest of your subjects. I
should have come to pay my respects much earlier. Do forgive me
for the lapse.’
 Any reference to me as a landlord or zamindar embarrassed and
annoyed me and this was no exception. I answered coldly, ‘You
needn’t apologize for the “lapse” as you call it. I am not in the habit of
demanding courtesies. What is your business with me?’
My guest looked bewildered at these words. ‘I have come at the
wrong time,’ he said, rising. ‘I am disturbing you, perhaps. I’ll come
some other day.’
‘But what have you come for? What do you require from me?’ I
cried not caring to hide the impatience I was feeling. He was silent
for a while. Then he spoke with a simple dignity. ‘I am a small man
and my requirements are few. The mistress sent for me. I have not
come out of any need of my own.’
The answer was sharp but not rude, considering my question. It
would not have disturbed me anywhere else. But, steeped in
adulation as I was in Gangamati, I had lost the capacity for taking a
rebuff, Such is the power of authority, albeit surrogate, over human
beings! I was suddenly, violently angry. A harsh rejoinder rose to my
lips. But, before I could make it, Rajlakshmi walked into the room.
She touched her forehead to the ground in reverence to the
unknown Brahmin and said humbly, ‘Please don’t leave. I have
something important to discuss with you.’
‘Ma!’ the stranger said, equally humbly. ‘You have sent enough
food to tide us over the next fifteen days. But, considering that this is
a lean time of the year for religious rites and observances, my
Brahmini wondered—’
Rajlakshmi cut him short with a laugh. ‘I’m sure your Brahmini is
well versed in the dates of religious observances. But if she wishes
to learn the correct timings for interacting with one’s neighbours let
her come to me.’
I was afraid that the arrogant Brahmin would take exception to
such talk and make an insulting remark but Rajlakshmi did not give
him the chance. She threw him the sweetest of her smiles and said,
‘I’ve heard that your Brahmini has quite a temper. She might object
to my visiting her without an invitation. If I were not afraid of her I
would have gone to your house myself.’ At this reference to his
beloved’s temper (I had realized, by now, that the young man was
Jadunath Kushari) his own anger melted. He burst out laughing with
a happy sound that filled the room.
‘You are quite wrong, Ma!’ he said at last. ‘She is not bad-
tempered at all. She is a simple, straightforward girl. We are too poor
to offer you the hospitality due to you, should you come to us. It is
more fitting that she comes here to pay her respects. I’ll bring her
here myself.’
‘How many pupils do you have in your care, Nyaya Ratna
moshai?’
‘Five. It is not easy to find scholars in these parts.’
‘Do you have to provide them with food and clothing?’
‘Not all of them. One stays with my brother and another with his
parents in Gangamati. Three have made their home with us.’
Rajlakshmi digested this information in silence. Then she said in a
voice as tender and melancholy as the smile that flitted across her
face, ‘It must be hard for you—in the circumstances.’ The genuine
concern in her voice shattered what was left of the Brahmin’s
reserve.
He admitted his poverty and cares quite openly, adding, ‘Only my
wife and I know how hard it is. But what can I do to make things
better? Being a scholar and preceptor is the Brahmin’s caste
vocation. He owes it to society. I must return to others what I’ve
received from my acharyas.’ He paused a little, then added, ‘There
was a time when maintaining the Brahmin was the responsibility of
the lord of the land. Now things are different. The zamindar has lost
his power and with it his sense of responsibility. All he does now is
squeeze the lifeblood out of his subjects and wallow in the lap of
luxury.’
‘There may be one or two,’ Rajlakshmi said, ‘who genuinely wish
to take up their responsibilities. I hop you won’t stop them.’
 ‘I quite forgot whom I was addressing.’ Kushari’s thin face
reddened with embarrassment. ‘But why should I stop you? It is your
duty to take care of your subjects.’
‘You have a duty too—to deprived women like me. I use Sanskrit
mantras for worship but I neither know the meanings nor the correct
pronunciations.’
‘I’m ready to teach you whatever you wish to learn.’ He glanced at
the sky and, seeing that it was nearing noon, he took his leave.
‘You must have your bath and meal a little earlier than usual,’
Rajlakshmi said to me as soon as our guest left the room.
‘Why?’
‘We’re going over to Sunanda’s house this afternoon.’
‘Why me?’ I asked, surprised. ‘Why don’t you take Ratan with
you?’
‘No. I’ve decided not to go anywhere without you.’
‘As you wish—’
I closed the argument.
 8

RAJLAKSHMI STEPPED ACROSS THE THRESHOLD OF

JADUNATH KUSHARI’S dwelling house, leaving me standing
outside by the broken wall.
In a minute or two a good-looking boy of about seventeen
appeared. ‘The acharya is not at home,’ he said. ‘But Ma asked me
to take you into the house.’
Leading the way through an arch, which may have had a door
once but didn’t anymore, he took me across a crumbling yard with an
ancient husking pedal in a corner, to a high earthen veranda where
Rajlakshmi was sitting. A slim, dark woman of about twenty was
engaged in puffing rice at an earthen stove in a corner.
She rose and, spreading a strip of blanket on the ground, pointed
to it with a hand as divested of ornament as the house itself. Smiling
shyly she said, ‘Please sit.’ Then, turning to the boy, she said, ‘There
is some fire left in the stove, Ajoy. Prepare a hookah for the master.
I’m sorry I can’t offer you a paan, Didi,’ she glanced in Rajlakshmi’s
direction. ‘There’s no such thing in the house.’
‘No paan in the house?’ the boy asked in astonishment.
Sunanda laughed gaily and said in a voice like a bell, ‘You know
very well we never have any paan. Why do you pretend?’
Acutely embarrassed, the boy mumbled, ‘I’m not pretending. I only
—’
Rajlakshmi smiled at him and reprimanded Sunanda in a gentle
voice, ‘He’s a man, Sunanda. How is he to know what you have in
the house?’
‘You don’t know him, Didi!’ Sunanda doubled over with laughter.
‘My Ajoy is the real mistress of the house. He knows what we have
better than I do. In fact he manages us all. Only he won’t admit that
there is any poverty or hardship in the way we live.’
 ‘Why shouldn’t I admit it,’ Ajoy cried, his face as red as the embers
in the stove. ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of in being poor. I only
—’ and leaving the sentence unfinished, he dashed out of the yard in
search, perhaps, of a hookah.
Rajlakshmi took Sunanda’s hand and said, ‘Sit by me for a while
and let me talk to you.’
I glanced at Sunanda and thought, ‘Poverty means nothing at all if
you learn to ignore it. This girl—an ordinary village girl with nothing
special about her—has managed to keep poverty at bay by simply
refusing to acknowledge it. Before the glaring light of her personality
all want, all hardship is reduced to a shadow. It cannot touch her or
those about her. Yet, only a few months ago, her life was different.
She had wealth, power over people, friends. But she cast it all away
as easily as she would a torn garment in rigid protest over an act of
treachery. Yet, there is no rigidity in her person nor any mark of
struggle.’
‘I thought Sunanda to be a grown woman. But she’s no more than
a child,’ Rajlakshmi said, addressing me.
But before I could answer, Sunanda pointed to Ajoy who
approached, hookah in hand, and said in a bright voice, ‘You call me
a child? A woman with hulking sons like that one? You make me
laugh, Didi.’
Ajoy handed me the hookah and asked her, ‘Shall I put it away,
then?’
Sunanda nodded. Muttering something under his breath Ajoy
walked up to where the yellowing pages of some ancient manuscript
lay fluttering on a wooden plank. It was clear that the disturbance in
his study session had not met with his approval.
‘What manuscript is that?’ Rajkkshmi asked curiously.
‘The YogaVashishtha.’
‘Were you reading it out to your Guru Ma?’
‘Oh no. She was taking a lesson.’
 Sunanda blushed and snatched the words out of his mouth, ‘A
lesson indeed! As if I have learning enough for that. The boys come
to me when their guru isn’t home. But I don’t have answers to half
their questions, Didi.’
There was a long silence. Then Rajlakshmi sighed and said
gravely, ‘If my house were a little closer I would have become your
pupil, Sunanda. I have had so little education that I can’t even
pronounce my prayers correctly.’
I had heard this particular lament often enough. So I made no
comment. What surprised me was that Sunanda didn’t either. She
smiled and was silent. I wondered what lay behind her smile. Was it
disdain at Rajlakshmi’s concern for the correct pronunciation of
words whose meanings eluded her? Or was her smile one of modest
self-abnegation? If it was the former, if Sunanda had relegated
Rajlakshmi to the category of women who habitually express similar
sentiments only to forget them a minute later, she had made a
terrible mistake. A time would come when she would be compelled
to revise her opinion. Rajlakshmi, who had an instinctive
understanding of people’s reactions, expressed or otherwise,
clammed up immediately. She didn’t mention the subject again but
commenced talking, in a low voice, of ordinary everyday matters. I
was left alone to pull at my hookah and pursue my own thoughts.
There’s a general belief, and I share it, that the male of the
species has subordinated the female and forced her to occupy a
position of extreme degradation. Exactly how he managed to do so
was a question I had considered from many angles over many years
but my speculations had never yielded any satisfactory results. That
afternoon, sitting in Sunanda’s broken veranda, I got my answer.
Had I never met her I would have remained in the dark to this day.
I had seen and heard of many forms of women’s emancipation
both in my own country and abroad. I have already mentioned the
sight that met my eyes on my first day in Rangoon—of three women
belabouring a hefty male with sticks of sugar cane. I remember
Abhaya muttering dejectedly, ‘If only our women were like them.’ I
have heard an uncle of mine rail against a Marwari woman who had
boxed his ears and nose in a railway compartment for daring to
report her to the authorities and I remember how my aunt had sighed
wistfully and regretted that such a system was not to be found
among us. While sympathizing with the women of our land I still
failed to see how ‘such a system’ would have given them the
enhanced status they sought. Looking at Sunanda I realized where
the trouble lay. Sunanda’s father had given her little of material
things but he had educated her as he would have educated a son.
He had exposed her to the doctrines and philosophies of learned
men and had encouraged her to think and act for herself. It was
here, in this freedom of thought and action, that the source of her
power over self and environment lay. It was from this power that she
had derived the courage to walk out of her husband’s ancestral
home, to entertain a man in his absence and become a mother to
young men of her own age. Her husband didn’t dream of criticizing
her actions or of imposing restrictions. Neither did anyone else. Her
father had given her a good deal of learning but what she was to do
with it was her own concern.
The shadows of evening were falling, yet Nyaya Ratna moshai did
not return. I rose unwillingly, for the desire to meet him again was
strong.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I’ll come again if you don’t mind,’ and I added, ‘I
have no one to talk to. I, too, would like to visit you sometimes if I
may.’ Sunanda smiled and bent her head.
On the way home, Rajlakshmi said enthusiastically, ‘She’s a fine
girl. Husband and wife are perfectly matched. I didn’t bring up the
subject of their breaking away from the family because I’m not sure I
understand Kushari moshai well as yet. But there’s no denying that
the wives are excellent women.’
‘True,’ I admitted. ‘Why don’t you try to reconcile them? Your
power over human beings has been tested often enough.’
 ‘Don’t judge by your own case. Anyone could have done what I
did.’ Rajlakshmi smiled and tossed her head.
The afternoon had been shadowy, cool and calm. But now an
angry black cloud swam over the sun causing the western sky to
glow like a flame. In that unearthly light, the expanse of the dun-
coloured earth over which we walked, became a sheet of gold. A
twisted tamarind and a clump of bamboos in the distance seemed
smudged in lamp-black against a sky of deepening rose and violet.
The beauty of the scene flushed my being, entering my very soul.
I glanced at Rajlakshmi. The smile was still on her lips. Never had
she appeared more beautiful to my eyes. Was it only the colour of
the sky that had thrown this web of enchantment on a familiar
landscape—external and internal? Or was the colour and light
derived from the person of the woman I had just left? Rajlakshmi
may have felt as I did for she heaved a sigh of deep contentment.
‘This day has been a memorable one. I feel I’ve found a true friend
and companion.’
But the moment we stepped into the house we were flung into the
glare of harsh reality and the peace and serenity that had been ours
was rudely shattered. The yard was full of people. Ratan, evidendy
in the act of delivering a fiery oration, stopped short on seeing us
and said in a triumphant voice, ‘Ma! I’ve told you over and again that
this would happen, haven’t I?’
Rajlakshmi looked bewildered. ‘What has happened? What have
you told me over and over again? I don’t understand—’
‘Nabin has been arrested. He has murdered Malati.’
The blood drained from Rajlakshmi’s face. One of the men spoke
up quickly, ‘No, mistress. He has beaten her badly but she isn’t
dead.’
‘How do you know?’ Ratan bore down aggressively on the hapless
optimist. ‘Has anyone seen her? Who knows if she’s alive or dead
since she’s not to be found? Don’t forget that you’ll all be under
suspicion if—’
 ‘Go stand in that corner, Ratan, and don’t speak till you’re spoken
to.’ Rajlakshmi threw him a burning glance and, turning to Malati’s
father who stood trembling like a leaf, she said in a commanding
voice, ‘I want to hear the truth. Don’t try to hide anything or you’ll be
in trouble.’
The old man (his name was Bishwanath) said that, following the
previous evening’s incident, his daughter Malati had left her
husband’s house and come to her father’s. This afternoon, as she
was filling her ghara (pitcher) at the pond, Nabin had rushed out from
behind the bushes where he had been hiding and, falling upon her,
had beaten her mercilessly. With blood streaming down her face
from a deep cut in the head, and weeping bitterly, she had first come
here and not finding us at home had gone to Kushari moshai’s
house. Not finding him there either she had gone to the thana and
filed a case. She had arrived with a constable just as Nabin was
sitting down to his midday meal. The constable had kicked away the
rice Nabin had been about to eat and, binding him with iron fetters,
had taken him away.
Rajlakshmi’s face turned a fiery red as she heard the story. She
disliked Malati heartily and had no love for Nabin but the full force of
her anger was directed against me, ‘I’ve told you a hundred times
not to meddle in the filthy affairs of these low-caste people, but
would you listen? Now manage the situation as best as you can. I
have nothing to do with it.’ And sweeping into her room, she
slammed the door with the parting shot, ‘Nabin ought to be hanged.
And if that slut is dead—it’s a good riddance.’
A death-like silence fell on the people in the yard. ‘She is right,’ I
thought. ‘Had I not mediated and brought them together, this would
never have happened.’ But I forget that my readers have not been
introduced to Nabin and Malati, and are unaware of the events of the
previous evening. I’ll go over the facts briefly.
Ever since I had come to Gangamati, I had been hearing of the
exploits of Malati, the young wife of Nabin Dom. She was like a
smouldering coal that threatened to kindle the heart of any man who
came near her. All the women of Dom Para were terrified of her
power. Pretty, vivacious and sharp-tongued, she stood out from them
all in appearance and personality. She wore fine saris with broad,
black borders, drenched her long hair in lemon oil and marked her
lovely eyebrows with a green beetle’s glittering wing. She was not
unduly bashful and the sight of her uncovered face atop an arched
neck was often to be seen in the lanes of Gangamati. It was said that
she had refused to cohabit with her husband till he went away to the
city and, working for a year, returned to the village with a tin trunk, a
pair of silver bracelets, some expensive saris, coloured ribbons and
a bottle of rose water. With these riches he had been able to buy, not
only her presence in his household but her heart as well. However,
all this is hearsay. Unfortunately, beautiful relationships do not last.
No sooner had Malati surrendered heart, soul and body to their
rightful owner than Nabin began suspecting her of an illicit
relationship. Violent fights broke out and beatings became quite
frequent. A cut in the head was nothing new. Perhaps that was why
Nabin had sat down to his meal without any qualms or fears. He
hadn’t dreamed that Malati would set the police on him and have him
arrested.
The previous evening, when Malati’s shrieks rent the sky more
piercingly than usual, Rajlakshmi had said disgustedly, ‘This is not to
be borne. Why don’t you give her some money and tell her to leave
the village?’
‘Nabin is equally to blame,’ I answered. ‘He doesn’t do a stroke of
work. All he does is drink toddy and beat up his wife.’
Needless to say, these were habits he had picked up in the city.
‘There’s nothing to choose between them,’ was Rajlakshmi’s
verdict. ‘He would have worked if she hadn’t occupied all his time.’
It was true that the situation was becoming intolerable. I thought of
sending for them and giving them a talking to but, before I could do
so, they arrived at my door—followed by a crowd of eager
spectators.
‘Babu,’ Nabin said in a solemn voice. ‘This woman is a whore. I
can’t keep her in my house.’
‘Make him break my conch bangles and take off my iron hoop,’
Malati, the shrew, screamed from behind her veil.
‘You must return the silver bracelets first,’ was her husband’s
condition.
Malati pulled them off her wrists and threw them in the yard. Nabin
picked them up and said, ‘You can’t keep the trunk either.’
‘I don’t want to keep it.’ Malati fumbled for the key that was tied to
one end of her sari and flung it at his feet. Now Nabin marched up to
her and broke her conch bangles with the: air of a conquering hero.
Then, pulling off the iron hoop from her wrist, he flung it over the
wall. ‘Go,’ he roared at her. ‘I’ve made you a widow.’
I was too shocked to react. An old man in the crowd explained that
without this ritual, Malati could not marry again. Her brother-in-law’s
younger brother had been wooing her for the last six months. He
was a rich man and had offered Bishu Dom a bride price of twenty
rupees. No wonder Bishu was tempted. The suitor had also
promised Malati silver anklets, silver bangles and a gold nose stud
and had even deposited these articles with her father. I felt sickened
and unhappy for I realized that this conspiracy had been going on for
some time now.
‘I’m tremendously relieved,’ Nabin puffed out his chest and said
importantly, ‘Now I can go to the city and work in peace. There’s
such a good time to be had in the city! As for a wife—I can marry
twenty like you. Hari Mandai of Rangamati has been begging me for
years. His daughter is a hundred times prettier than you.’ Saying
this, he tucked the bracelets and the key into his waist and departed.
But the look on his face belied his brave words. It was clear that the
prospect of working in the city and marrying Hari Mandal’s peerless
daughter did not enthuse him in the least.
 Ratan came to me and said, ‘Babu! Ma says you must rid the
house of all these people at once.’ At these words, Bishwanath and
his daughter rose and left the house. The others followed. I entered
my bedroom with a heavy heart. I tried to tell myself that what had
happened was for the best. It was much better to end an
incompatible relationship than to live a cat and dog life together,
particularly when remarriage was permissible for both.
But what I heard the next day left me utterly confounded. It
seemed that Nabin’s proclamation of his wife’s widowhood meant
nothing at all. He had retained his right to beat and abuse her. I
stood at my window looking out into the twilight and wondering
where the girl could be. I was not sorry for Nabin. ‘Serves the
scoundrel right,’ I said to myself. ‘The poor girl can breathe freely at
last.’
Rajlakshmi entered the room with a lamp in her hand. She stood
looking at me for a few seconds, then turned to leave the room. But,
before she could cross the threshold, there was a sound as that of a
heavy body falling. The lamp wobbled and fell from her hand but it
didn’t go out. She picked it up and held it close to the bundle that
clung to her feet. The broad black border of Malati’s sari was not to
be mistaken.
‘Why did you touch me, you wicked girl?’ Rajlakshmi wailed. ‘Now
I’ll have to bathe in this twilight hour and catch my death. Ma go!*
What is this on my feet?’ I took the lamp from Rajlakshmi’s hand and
held it aloft. The blood, streaming freely from the wound in Malati’s
head, was flowing all over Rajlakshmi’s feet.
‘Save him, Ma! Save him,’ Malati knocked her head harder on
Rajlakshmi’s feet.
‘Why? What do you want now?’ Rajlakshmi asked in a tone of
anguish.
‘The constable says he will be jailed for five years,’ Malati shrieked
between sobs.
‘So what?’ I thundered. ‘He deserves it.’
 ‘What is it to you if Nabin is alive or dead? You are not his wife
anymore,’ Rajlakshmi said bitterly.
‘Don’t say that, Ma! Please don’t: say that. Save us this time—only
this time. We will leave the village and never trouble you again. The
constable kicked his rice away. He has had nothing to eat all day. I’ll
die if you don’t save him,’ and Malati wept as if her heart was
breaking.
Rajlakshmi’s eyes glistened. She put out a hand and touched the
dark head. ‘Be quiet,’ she said huskily. I’ll see what I can do.’
The rest of us saw too. A couple of hundred rupee notes
disappeared from Rajlakshmi’s coffer that night and neither Nabin
Mandai nor Malati was seen in Gangamati from the next morning
onwards.
 9

MALATI AND NABIN WERE SOON FORGOTTEN BY ALL

CONCERNED. THE ONLY exception was Ratan. It was obvious that
he disapproved of Rajlakshmi’s action though, wisely, he kept his
feelings to himself. As for Rajlakshmi herself, her passion for
improving her Sanskrit pronunciation became more and more
intense as the days went by. A visit to Sunanda’s house became part
of her daily routine. I have no idea of how much information was
imparted within those mouldy walls. All I could see were the
consequences which were unexpected, even alarming. I was,
habitually, a late riser and my bath and morning meal were seldom
concluded before noon. Rajlakshmi had always grumbled about it
and scolded me heartily but never in a manner that forced me to
mend my ways. But now, in these days of her spiritual awakening, I
was made to feel acutely ashamed of any delay, however minimal. ‘If
you don’t care to look to your own health, you might consider the
convenience of the servants,’ she would say with a sullen face.
‘When are they to have their own meals and rest if you insist on
delaying yours?’
The words were the same—yet not quite the same. The tone of
loving tolerance had been replaced by one of simple irritation—so
obvious that even the servants saw the difference So I would, out of
consideration for the servants, have my morning meal before I was
hungry. How much they valued this sacrifice I cannot say. But ten or
fifteen minutes later, Rajlakshmi would be seen crossing the field
that led to the bridge on the canal. Sometimes, Ratan went with her
but more often than not she went alone. I spent the day in my lonely
room, idle and vacant, while she spent hers in a state of tense
excitement. And thus, we gradually drifted apart.
I knew that I didn’t enter her thoughts even momentarily, that my
unhappiness and frustration made not a dent in her consciousness,
yet I could not stop myself from gazing at that lithe figure stepping
over the sun-baked earth, till it was lost from sight. I would rub my
eyes and strain them to see if there was even a speck of her in the
distance, then, sighing, I would turn from the window and seek
refuge in my bed. Sometimes I would sink into a heavy, dreamless
sleep induced by the terrible weariness of an aimless existence;
sometimes I would lie awake for hours staring at the babla bushes
out of which the cooing of doves fell softly and plaintively on my ear.
On hot afternoons, when the warm winds set up a sighing and
rustling amongst the bamboo leaves, I had the strangest feeling that
these sounds came from within me and not without. At such
moments, the premonition that this phase of my life was soon to end
was upon me. If Ratan tiptoed in, as he often did, to see if I needed
anything, I would feign sleep out of fear that he would see the pain
and bewilderment in my eyes.
That afternoon, after Rajlakshmi’s form had merged into the haze
of sky and sun, I was suddenly reminded of Burma. I sat down to
write a letter to Abhaya. I thought of writing one to my British officer
in Rangoon but what I would write and why … I could not think. As I
sat, pen in hand, a woman, her veil pulled low over her face, walked
rapidly past my window. There was something familiar about her
form and the way she walked. I thought it was Malati but by the time
I got to the window all I could catch a glimpse of was a red-bordered
sari, before it turned the corner of the wall and disappeared from
view.
A month had passed since Malati, the shrewish daughter of Bishu
Dom, had knocked her head on Rajlakshmi’s feet and begged her to
secure her husband’s freedom. Everyone in Gangamati had
forgotten about her—Rajlakshmi most of all—but I hadn’t. I often
thought of her and wondered where she was and what she was
doing. Genuinely believing that she had taken the right step in
leaving Gangamati and its base temptations, I visualized her living
happily with her wedded husband in some distant village.
 I went back to my letter but had barely started writing when Ratan
appeared at my elbow—a hookah in his hand.
‘Leave it, Ratan. I’m busy,’ I said.
‘Babu,’ Ratan said by way of introduction as he always did, ‘Ratan
Paramanik can see the future as clearly as in a mirror. The only thing
he can’t predict is the hour of his death.’
I looked up and smiled. ‘But since I can’t predict anything at all
you’d better tell me what you’ve come to say.’
‘Didn’t I tell Ma not to get taken in by these wily Doms? Didn’t I
beg her not to give Malati the two hundred rupees?’
As a matter of fact, Ratan had done nothing of the kind. No one,
not even I, had the courage to contradict Rajlakshmi these days. But
there was no point in arguing about it.
‘What is the matter, Ratan?’ I asked.
Ratan told me. How it had all happened he could not say (he was
still in the process of collecting information) but Nabin Mandai was
rotting in jail serving a five-year sentence and Malati had married her
brother-in-law’s wealthy brother and had returned to Gangamati this
morning. Had I not seen Malati only a little while ago I would not
have believed him but, having done so, there was no reason to
doubt his words. An acute depression weighed me down at the
thought of the treachery and deception the human race was capable
of and bitterness welled up in my heart.
Rajlakshmi heard the story that night as she served me my meal.
‘What are you saying, Ratan?’ she asked in a wondering voice. ‘The
wench played a likely trick on us all. Two hundred rupees she got out
of me and made me bathe at midnight! What is the matter with you?
You have eaten nothing.’
I remained silent as I generally did on occasions like this.
Rajlakshmi had always kept a vigilant eye on what I ate and how
much I ate. She would weep, scold, sulk, and coax by turns to make
me eat a little more, just a little more. But that was long ago! Of late
her senses had become dulled to everything other than her hours
with Sunanda. Her remark that I had eaten nothing, after so many
months of neglect, brought tears to my eyes. I rose hastily, before
she could see them, and, entering my room, lay down on the bed.
My days passed, one by one, in an endless round of drab and
meaningless routine. I was well looked after, but beyond that my life
held nothing. I rose the next morning, had a bath and a meal and sat
by my window looking out at the expanse of bleak, stony ground—
the long, hot afternoon stretching out before me like a nightmare. I
watched Rajlakshmi’s form moving rapidly away from the house and
then, when it had disappeared from view, I took up the letters I had
been writing the day before. I completed them with the intention of
catching the three o’clock post but, as I reread the letter I had written
to Abhaya, something caught at my heart and stalled my hand. I had
written—
I haven’t had news of you for a long time. Not that I have tried to acquire
any. I have only imagined, from time to time, your life with Rohini Babu.
Your happiness or possible unhappiness has not been my concern. I
leave that in the hands of God as I did the day we parted from one
another. I have not known you for long but our relationship cannot be
measured by time. It began at a point of intense suffering for you and
Rohini Babu and ended at a similar point—for myself. Stranded in an
alien land, sick to the point of death, friendless and helpless, I turned to
you and you took me under your wing without a moment’s hesitation.
Someone else had done the same for me on a similar occasion in my
life. Today, sitting hundreds of miles away from you, I see the difference.
The love, courage and sincerity that were yours were not different from
hers in degree or quality. But in yours there was a selflessness, a
general aloofness that saw nothing beyond my recovery and ultimate
welfare. Too much love suffocates and swamps me! Perhaps that is why
I long to see you again. Till I do, so much of what I think and feel will
remain a mystery—even to me.

By the time I completed the two letters it was past three o’clock
and the post had gone. I was not disappointed. On the contrary, I
breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that I had another day in
which to reread my letter to Abhaya. As I was putting away my
writing materials, Ratan came in with the message that Kushari
moshai’s wife was waiting outside to speak to me and, within
minutes, the lady was in the room.
‘Rajlakshmi is not at home,’ I said awkwardly. ‘She won’t be back
before evening.’
‘I know that. I hear she seldom returns before dusk.’ And unrolling
a mat, she seated herself calmly on the floor.
I had heard that her newly acquired wealth had made her so
haughty that she seldom condescended to visit anyone. She had
come to this house only twice before—once to pay her respects to
the zamindar’s lady and the second time in response to an invitation.
Why she chose to come that afternoon and seat herself even though
the mistress was absent, baffled me.
‘I hear that she and Sunanda are very close these days,’ she
began, touching a sore spot in my heart with a careless finger.
‘That is true,’ I admitted. ‘She visits her quite often.’
‘Often? Every day—or so I hear. But does Sunanda return her
visits? Oh, no! Sunanda is too high and mighty for that.’ And she
searched my face for tell-tale marks.
Till that moment I had concerned myself solely with Rajlakshmi’s
visits to Sunanda. Her words gave me a bit of a jolt, but what was
there for me to say? However, the purpose of her visit was revealed
by this outburst. She hoped to excite my indignation and enlist me on
her side. I had the strongest impulse to tell her that she was making
a grievous mistake if she thought I had any power or influence over
Rajlakshmi. I was helpless and worthless and could do nothing for
her.
But these things can’t be said and to pay for my silence I was
forced to hear a passionate account of her sufferings of the last ten
years. The weary monologue went on and on. I must have missed
quite a bit for my thoughts trailed away after a while. Then, on a new
note creeping into her voice, I sat up and asked, ‘Why? What has
happened?’
 ‘Thakurpo was seen at the haat* last evening. He was selling
brinjals.’
‘Selling brinjals?’ I asked astonished. ‘Why would he do that? And
where would he get them in the first place?’
‘They have a vegetable patch behind the house. It is all that
wicked girl’s doing. How can we live on in the same village if they
insist on humiliating us like this?’
‘Why should you feel humiliated? You don’t live together anymore.
They needed money. They had something to sell and they sold it.
That’s all there is to it.’
‘If that is your verdict I have nothing more to say.’ She looked at
me with dazed and saddened eyes. ‘I’ll take my leave.’ Her voice
shook.
I said gently, ‘Isn’t it better to ask your mistress to intervene? She
might be able to help you.’
She shook her head. ‘No one can help me now. Nor shall I ask for
anyone’s help. I admit defeat. If Sunanda could make her husband
sell vegetables—she can do anything.’ She paused a while and
continued. ‘There was a time when she loved and respected us as if
we were her own parents. But ever since she saw the weaver’s
widow she has turned hard and cold as stone. I used to send her
things for the house pretending they were from other people. My
husband believed that she knew where they really came from. But I
knew Sunanda. The moment she discovered the truth she sent
everything back. She’ll watch her only son die of starvation but she
won’t touch anything of ours. She is cruel and heartless. If only I
could be like her!’
She rose to leave but she suddenly turned around at the door. Her
eyes were streaming and her hands were folded in humble
supplication. ‘I hear Ma has a lot of influence over her. Can nothing
be done? My heart is breaking, Babu. I can’t bear it anymore.’
I had nothing to say. She waited for a while then, wiping her face
with the end of her sari, she walked quietly away.
 10

WITH RAJLAKSHML’S HECTIC PREPARATIONS FOR THE LIFE

HEREAFTER, MANY of the shackles that she had lovingly fitted on
me crumbled and fell away. It brought a measure of relief, for I was
no longer constrained to consider my ‘poor health’ or the
‘convenience of the servants’ and sit down to a meal almost as soon
as I left my bed. Now I was free to eat when I liked and as little as I
liked—that is, as little as I could without offending the cook. The
ordeal over, I would sit by my window looking out on the glaring plain
of dust and sun and wonder about our relationship.
That Rajlakshmi still loved me, I knew without a doubt. I was
closer to her than any other human being in the world. But what of
the world beyond? I had no document in my possession that would
enable me to claim kinship with her in our next birth and, orthodox
Hindu as she was, the fact had not escaped her. She realized now,
as never before, that this world was not an end in itself; that there
was another—a more glorious one—to strive for and attain, and that
her love for me would not prove to be an asset in that endeavour.
While she reasoned thus and acted upon her reasoning, my days
passed in ever-widening circles of monotonous inactivity. The weary
mornings trailed off into wearier afternoons and the sun set every
evening on a soul throbbing with anguish. Ratan looked after my
comforts as best as he could. Sometimes he brought a hookah,
sometimes tea. I thought I saw pity in his eyes.
‘Let me shut the window, Babu. There’s a burning wind outside.’
‘No. Leave it, Ratan.’ I liked the feel of the wind on my face. It
brought with it memories of many of my loved ones—now lost to me.
I thought it possible that the same wind had passed over the form of
my childhood friend, Indranath, before streaming in through my
window. It bore the breath, perhaps, of Annada Didi if she still lived.
As for Abhaya—Burma was just around the corner. I often had the
illusion that in the smell of hot dust and withered leaves was mixed
the faintest scent of Abhaya’s hair. The wind had carried it across the
sea out of pity for my sufferings.
Abhaya! I imagined her sitting by the window, even as I was,
stitching a tiny vest or pillowcase, her eyes resting from time to time
on the face of her sleeping infant. That wondrous being, innocent
and pure as a new-blown flower, breathed out a fragrance of
honeydew. Yet it had to be hidden from the public eye out of the fear
that it might be mocked or reviled for being born of shame. What a
travesty of morality this was! What a shattering comment on the
human race!
The hot wind dried my tears as fast as they came. Thoughts of
Abhaya crowded into my mind, possessed me, and would not let me
rest. I asked myself, over and over again, why Abhaya had not
abandoned me even at a time when the plague was raging like a
hundred-headed demon in the city of Rangoon, when brothers fled
from a sick brother’s side and children left parents to their fate in a
desperate endeavour to save their own lives? Why did she risk the
tearing apart of the fragile web of happiness that she had wrought for
herself with so much pain and so many tears?
Suddenly, I had the answer. Suddenly, I saw the truth about
Abhaya. I saw that she had a steel-like quality about her that feared
nothing—not want, not sickness, not even death. But it wasn’t only
fear that she had conquered. She had conquered desire. The needs
of her body, the cries of her heart were as nothing to her. She could
brush them away with as careless a hand as she could a cobweb
from a mouldy wall. This revelation left me with the strangest feeling.
I felt small, insignificant, low. I thought of how our lives had changed.
She had changed hers, voluntarily, with strength and purpose while I
was trapped in my own passivity and incapacity for action.
Exhausted by the weary indolence of the long, hot afternoons, I
generally went out walking in the evenings along the dusty tracks
over which the bullock-cart had brought me to Gangamati. On one
such walk, as I stood aside to allow a horseman enveloped in a
cloud of dust to pass, a voice fell on my ears. ‘You are Srikanta
Babu, aren’t you? Don’t you recognize me?’
‘That is my name, but I’m afraid I don’t recognize you.’
The man jumped off his horse and came forward. He wore a
threadbare suit of English tweed and a sola topi. ‘I am Satish
Bharadwaj. We were in school together.’
‘Frog!’ I exclaimed (that was the name we had had for him at
school). ‘Where are you off to, all suited and booted?’
‘I’m a sub-overseer for Railway Constructions,’ he said with a hint
of pride in his voice. ‘We are building a new railway line from
Sainthia. I have to wear English clothes or the coolies won’t obey
me. Why don’t you join me for a cup of tea? My camp is only a mile
away’
‘Some other time,’ I demurred.
Frog asked me where I stayed, what I did, how many children I
had and many other questions. Needless to say my answers were
brief and evasive. But Frog was a simple soul who took everything
as it came. Instead of trying to bore holes in the wall of my reserve,
he proceeded to tell me all about himself. The life he lived was
comfortable enough. The place was healthy and vegetables were
cheap. Fish and milk were difficult to procure but he had tremendous
powers of management. The evenings were lonely (there was
practically no company) but were made endurable with the aid of a
little liquor. The work was hard but the pay was good. He could put in
a word for me with the bara saheb if I was interested in a similar job.
Walking his sickly horse, he came with me part of the way and after
extracting a promise that I would visit him soon, he rode away.
I reached home rather late that night. As I sat down to my evening
meal, Rajlakshmi came in. Dropping down on the floor by my side
she said with a radiant smile, ‘Promise me you’ll give your consent.’
‘I promise.’
‘Without hearing what I’ve come to say?’
 ‘If you feel like telling me, do so—sometime.’
Rajlakshmi’s smile faded and her face grew tense. Suddenly, her
eyes fell on my thala. She asked angrily, ‘Why are you eating rice?
Do you want to fall ill again?’ Then, raising her voice, she called out
to the cook, ‘Maharaj! I’ve told you a thousand times that Babu is to
be served luchi in the evening. I’m going to cut a month’s salary for
disobedience.’
The loss of a month’s salary was a threat that Rajlakshmi often
held over the heads of her servants. But it was never carried out and
they knew it. This evening, however, the maharaj chose to take
offence. ‘Ma,’ he said irritably, ‘I’ve told you several times that there
is no ghee in the house but you don’t seem to remember anything
these days. How can I make luchi without ghee?’
Rajlakshmi’s face paled. ‘Since when—?’ she began.
‘For the past six days.’
‘Six days! You’ve been giving Babu rice for six days? Ratan, you
could have got the ghee, couldn’t you?’
Ratan wasn’t very happy with his mistress’s behaviour of the past
month or so. Her constant absence from the house and her neglect
of me had not met with his approval.
‘How could I? Have I ever done anything except on your express
command?’ he said—all servantly obedience. ‘I thought you didn’t
send for the ghee on purpose—it being so expensive.’
Rajlakshmi swallowed the barb, then rising, she slowly left the
room.
That night I was very restless. It was very hot and sleep wouldn’t
come. As I tossed and turned on my bed, the door opened and
Rajlakshmi came in.
‘Are you asleep?’ she asked softly.
‘No.’
‘I’ve wanted you all my life from early childhood,’ she whispered.
‘I’ve done everything I could to possess you. With even half that
effort, God would have been mine. But you didn’t give yourself to
me.’
‘Perhaps human beings are more elusive man God.’
‘Human beings!’ she echoed. ‘Love is a kind of bondage. I admit it.
And you find it irksome.’
I was silent. This particular argument was old and oft repeated. It
had started with the genesis of the human race and was still going
on. I was surprised, however, that Rajlakshmi did not press me for
an answer to the question that was so important to both of us. She
said instead, ‘Nyaya Ratna moshai was telling me of a religious rite
that is very difficult to perform. It goes on for three days. Sunanda is
very keen on taking it up and so am I. If you have no objection we
can do it together.’
‘Are my objections of any value?’
‘Of course they are.’
‘Then I forbid you to take up anything of the kind.’
‘But why? You are teasing me—’
‘I’m not. I genuinely dislike these elaborate rituals.’
A cloud came over Rajlakshmi’s face. She hesitated a bit, then
said, ‘But all my arrangements are made. Half the things are bought.
What shall I tell Nyaya Ratna moshai? And Sunanda will be so
disappointed! I know you are teasing me. Please, please give your
consent.’
‘You’ve never concerned yourself with my likes and dislikes,
Lakshmi, and I’ve never claimed any right to guide your actions. Why
is my consent so important all of a sudden?’
‘It is and you must give it without any reservations, or the entire
ritual will be useless,’ she said in a small voice.
‘You win,’ I turned over to my side. ‘I give my consent for whatever
it is worth. You’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning. Go, get some
sleep.’
Rajlakshmi did not leave the room. She sat at the foot of my bed
and trailed her fingers over my feet. All through my convalescence,
after she picked me up from Ara station, she had put me to sleep
thus. I had never asked for such devotion, not knowing what to do
with it. I had fought her with all my strength but she had forced her
way into my life with the passion and turbulence of a mountain
stream, shattering all resistance. Now the stream was changing
direction with the same ruthlessness with which it had come and my
faint cries of distress were lost in the sound of rushing waters.
Rajlakshmi left the room after a long time. She thought I was
asleep but had she taken a closer look she would have seen the
tears dropping slowly from my fevered, burning eyes. An
overwhelming sense of loss was upon me at that moment. I stifled it
as best as I could but the tears went on falling.
 11

I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO FIND RAJLAKSHMI GONE.

THE COOK informed me that she had bathed at crack of dawn and
had set out for Jadunath Kushari’s house taking Ratan with her. She
had left word for me that she would be away for three days. I had no
idea which religious rites were being performed in the crumbling
house across the canal or how far they would carry Rajlakshmi on
the road to heaven. I was not curious to know either.
Ratan came home every evening and said with a hint of censure in
his voice, ‘You haven’t visited Ma even once, Babu!’
‘Is it necessary to do so?’
‘Well, yes. Not really.’ Ratan would dither at a straight question like
that. ‘But you know how people are. They may drink you disapprove.
It is awkward for Ma.’
‘Has she ever said so?’
‘No. She hasn’t exactly said so. But we all know how she feels.
When people question her about your absence she tries to cover up
by telling them that you’re still recovering from your illness.’
‘I’m not a religious man, Ratan. Pujas and yagnas make me
uncomfortable. Is it not better for me to stay away in the
circumstances?’
Ratan would agree with a nod of his head.
One day, Ratan came with the news that Kushari moshai and his
wife had moved into Nyaya Ratna’s house in order to look after the
mistress’ comfort. He then proceeded to describe how the elderly
matron had clasped Binu to her bosom and wept as if her heart
would break; how Sunanda had washed her sister-in-law’s feet and
wiped away her tears and then fed her with her own hands, how
Kushari moshai had cried like a child and everybody had wept in
sympathy.
 ‘I have a feeling the two families will come together now,’ Ratan
prophesied. ‘And the credit for it goes to Ma.’
Knowing Sunanda, as I did, I did not share Ratan’s optimism. But
a great deal of my gloom was blown away. I realized that Rajlakshmi
had planned this moment and worked for it all these months. My
heart sang with happiness! I welcomed the thought that by today’s
sunset the third day would be over. Tomorrow Rajlakshmi would be
home!
But she did not come. Around noon Ratan arrived with the
message that his mistress had left for Bakreshwar—a place of
pilgrimage near Gangamati—and would not come home for another
week. Another week! I had looked forward to seeing her and I was
disappointed but strangely, neither hurt nor angry. I understood that
all her rituals, prayers and pilgrimages were part of a passionate
endeavour to wipe out the past. Pyari was dead but her memory lay
like a weary load on Rajlakshmi’s heart, afflicting and tormenting her
beyond endurance. Hence this frantic beating of wings against the
bars of her present existence, this desperate struggle to escape into
the world beyond. And the terrible irony of it was that I, whom she
loved, was the principal bar. It was my presence that disrupted her
flight, dashing her back to the floor of her cage, over and over again.
‘Shall I, whom nothing and no one could bind, stand in the way of
Rajlakshmi’s happiness and ultimate welfare?’ I asked myself. ‘No,’ I
resolved. ‘I’ll set her free, not like the last time out of anger and
jealousy, but out of love and pity for her suffering.’
I remembered the afternoon when I was leaving Patna. Rajlakshmi
had stood motionless, on an upper veranda, watching me step into
the carriage. Her lips had not spoken but the desperate cry of her
heart, tortured with the pain of parting, had filled my ears all the way
home. Not heeding it, I went away to distant Burma. But I couldn’t
escape that passionate appeal—formless and soundless though it
was. It had floated over land masses and oceans as effortlessly as a
ghost and, reaching me, had pierced me where it hurt most. The
scene of our second parting was being set, even now. She would
watch me go away, mute and still as an image of stone. But would
her heart cry out to me as it had done the time before? I thought not.
I woke up the next morning with a curious feeling of displacement.
I felt an alien, an intruder in the house and in the village. Even the
fields and the canal seemed remote and unreal. An overwhelming
desire to get up and walk away across the fields and over the bridge
to where the sky was huge and soft with morning light took hold of
me but, overcome with lassitude, I lay awake listening to the noises
of the household. Kushari moshai arrived with our rations of milk,
vegetables and fish and departed shortly afterwards. The cook
hummed a little tune as he chopped vegetables and washed rice.
And then Ratan came to wake me up. He said that his mistress had
made him promise that I would be looked after exactly as I was in
her presence. I was to be served my morning meal by eleven o’clock
and my evening meal by eight. The servants were to get a month’s
extra salary if her instructions were carried out to the letter.
I rose and had a bath and meal, not wishing my apathy to stand in
the way of Ratan’s gain. Then, exhausted with the effort, I sank into
a heavy slumber. When I awoke it was past four o’clock. I had a cup
of tea and prepared to go out for a walk. I had barely stepped out of
the door when a stranger came up to me with a letter in his hand. It
was from Satish Bharadwaj. He was very ill and wanted my
presence at his side as soon as possible.
‘What is he suffering from?’ I asked the messenger.
‘Cholera.’
‘Let’s go,’ I said instantly, glad to escape the pressures of my
immediate environment for the time being.
Dusk was falling by the time I reached the construction site which
was six miles away from Gangamati. I had formed all sorts of ideas
about the status and comfort enjoyed by that exalted being, sub-
overseer, S. C. Bharadwaj. What I saw did not make me lament my
own fate. A plump Bauri woman was cooking something over a wood
fire in a corner of a shed. She rose as I entered and led me to a
tattered tent on the floor of which, on some equally tattered and
soiled sheets, lay the sick man.
Frog was, by now, in a state of coma. There was a Punjabi doctor
with him who rose to leave the moment he heard I was the patient’s
childhood friend. His trolley was ready, he said, and he couldn’t
delay leaving any longer. As it was he would not reach headquarters
before midnight. I must hasten to add that he wasn’t callous or
heartless for, before he left, he gave me some medicines together
with innumerable instructions on their use. He even told me to keep
an eye on the rest of the camp for, cholera being extremely
contagious, the coolies might get affected at any moment. Then,
warning me not to drink any water from the quarry, he departed.
I stood, dazed, watching him mount the bony back of his dispirited
nag and ride away. I realized that I’d just landed myself in a mess.
And it wasn’t for the first time either. Rajlakshmi had come into my
life in a similar situation and so had Abhaya. Sighing in self-pity, I
turned to the Bauri woman, Kalidasi, who, as I guessed rightly, was
Frog’s mistress. ‘Is there no better bedding to be found in the camp,
Kali?’ I asked.
Frog’s beloved shrugged and pushed out her lower lip.
‘Could you get me some straw?’
‘Straw?’ she giggled. Rows of white teeth flashed in a shiny, black
face. ‘Do we keep cows here?’ Then, leaning over her protector, she
asked, a practical note creeping into her voice, ‘Will he live—do you
think?’
‘This is true love,’ I thought. Aloud I said, ‘These sheets are filthy.
Doesn’t Babu have a dhoti I can spread under him?’
She shook her head. Then, rummaging in a bundle, she brought
out a pair of torn trousers. ‘Pantaloon?’ she asked brightly. But I
shook my head. Pantaloons, though European articles of clothing
and highly valued by natives, cannot, unfortunately, be used in lieu of
sheets. Suddenly I remembered seeing a piece of canvas lying
outside the tent. I dragged it in and, spreading it against one wall,
lifted Frog’s inert body onto it with Kali’s help. Then, seating myself
on a packing case, I prepared to keep a vigil. Kali finished her meal
and, curling up in a corner, proceeded to snore so violently that the
flimsy walls of canvas shook to the ground.
Around midnight, Frog’s limbs started stiffening with cramp. I
shook Kalidasi awake. ‘Get up and light a fire. We must warm Babu’s
feet and hands or he will die.’
‘Where’s the wood?’ Kali asked briefly before turning over to a
more comfortable position. Within a few minutes she was snoring as
energetically as ever. I walked over to the shed that was Kali’s
kitchen and found that she hadn’t lied. There was nothing fit to burn
except the shed itself and, unwilling to consign my friend’s living
body to the flames, I decided not to take the risk. I set fire, instead, to
the packing case on which I had been sitting. Taking off my shirt, I
rolled it into a ball and, warming it at the fire, began fomenting the
patient’s limbs.
Around three o’clock a couple of men, carrying a lantern, called
loudly at the door of the tent, ‘Doctor Babu! Doctor Babu!’ I came out
to be informed that my presence was urgently required as two in the
coolie camp had been taken violently ill. Taking the doctor’s
medicines with me, I followed my guides across a barren tract of
land to where a line of trucks stood silhouetted against a steel grey
sky. My surprise knew no bounds when I was told that my patients
lay in the trucks for, as f learned later, the trucks served as
conveyers of stones and earth during the day and coolie quarters at
night. I climbed the bamboo ladder that led to the floor of the first
truck and flashed the lantern in the face of the sick man. I saw that
he was very old and on the verge of death.
‘Where is the other one?’ I asked.
‘There!’ A crowd of frightened faces pointed to a truck at the far
end of the line. This time it was a young woman in her twenties.
There were two children sleeping by her. I was informed by the other
occupants of the truck that she had been abandoned by her husband
a year ago. He had fallen prey to the recruiters and gone off to work
in a tea garden of Assam in the company of a younger woman.
Sadly, apart from vivid descriptions of her brute of a husband, I got
nothing out of the sick woman’s neighbours. Not one of them came
forward to help me treat her or take care of the children.
By morning, another, a young boy, was smitten. And Frog’s
condition grew steadily worse. I sent a message to the Punjabi
doctor at Sainthia but the messenger returned with the depressing
news that the doctor was on a visit and could not come. Two days
and three nights I spent on the trucks. Not a wink of sleep did I get
during that period nor anything to eat, for I had no money. What was
worse, not a drop of water passed through my lips, for, drinking the
quarry water had been forbidden and there was no other source.
Added to all this was a sense of agonizing defeat. Despite all my
efforts I couldn’t save one life—not even Frog’s.
I buried Frog’s body (there was no money for a cremation) on the
third day and returned to the trucks. I could do nothing much but I
couldn’t abandon them either. There was a young boy who kept
crying for water but no one agreed to walk down to the village well
and fetch it. The coolies continued to drink the quarry water despite
my repeated appeals. They would risk death but would not
undertake any work that did not yield hard cash. Besides, who had
the time? Those who were still fit went back to their digging for the
prospect of a weekly wage was dearer to them than the lives of their
fellowmen. The railway line was a government project and could
hardly be abandoned because cholera had broken out in the coolie
camp. I noticed a kind of callousness among the workers that I’ve
never seen in a village. With all its feuds and tensions, a village has
a composite inner life that binds its members with invisible threads.
In a labour camp, where people, uprooted from their natural habitat,
are massed together with only one common interest—that of making
a living—no links, either of love or hate, are formed. The civilized
elite knows this and since its financial expansion depends on its
capacity to dehumanize a man and get an animal’s work out of him,
it has resorted to this trick from time immemorial.
Every evening the workers returned drunk on toddy. Every night
there was singing and dancing and unabashed love-making in the
open trucks. Life and death went hand in hand. Even as the ground
was being dug for corpses, the wails of newborn infants rent the sky.
Sickened by the tumultuous, teeming life around me I sat, a little
apart, watching over a sick mother and child. The boy opened his
eyes and, passing a stiff tongue over cracked lips, murmured,
‘Water.’
‘There’s no water, son.’
He nodded weakly and shut his eyes. My eyes burned and
bitterness welled up in my heart. It wasn’t only the indifference to
another’s pain that tortured me. It was the meek acceptance of one’s
own. This wasn’t self-control. This was a state of insensate inertia—
subhuman, bestial.
Above my head, the stars and constellations hung like golden
lamps out of a blue-black sky of incredible beauty. At my feet lay the
dying. Suddenly a red-hot rage swept over me, stiffening my spine
and misting my eyes with flecks of blood. ‘Die,’ I muttered between
clenched teeth. ‘Spawn of vermin, die! But curse your oppressors!
Curse them with your dying breath—you who bear the burden of the
civilized world on your backs! Drag it down, down to the bottom-most
layer of human history though your bones and sinews be ground in
the process.’
 12

THE BOY DIED THE NEXT MORNING AND TWO OTHERS WERE
AFFLICTED. I handed out medicines and sent another message to
Sainthia. Then, crossing the field, I stepped on to the path where,
just ahead of me, two elderly gentlemen dawdled along holding
umbrellas over their heads. ‘Is there a village nearby?’ I asked.
‘There!’ one of the men pointed a finger.
‘Can I buy something to eat?’
‘Why not? Rice, dal, ghee, vegetables—whatever you wish.’
The other turned to me and fired a volley of questions with the aim
of ascertaining my caste, parentage and business in the locality. I
tried to satisfy his curiosity as best as I could but the moment I
mentioned the name of Satish Bharadwaj, the two old men
spluttered in rage, ‘Cheat! Drunkard! Scoundrel!’ Expletive after
expletive was hurled at the unfortunate Frog.
‘All railway employees are like that—thieves and rascals!’
‘I’m afraid he has gone to a place where your abuses can’t reach
him,’ I said, pointing to the mound under which the dead man lay.
This shocked them into silence. At last one of them said in a voice
that shook, ‘He was a Brahmin.’
‘I know, but there was no money to buy wood.’
‘You could have come to us,’ the other said, his face red and
swollen. ‘To bury a Brahmin—’
‘Are you a relative?’ the first asked curiously.
I heard later that he was the headmaster of the village school. I
told them who I was and how I came to be there and how I hadn’t
eaten anything for three days. The old men clicked their tongues in
sympathy. ‘Come home with me,’ the headmaster said. ‘You need a
bath and a good meal. It is extremely dangerous to starve when
surrounded by cholera patients.’
 I was dying of hunger and thirst and needed no second invitation.
Agreeing instantly, I began to follow them to the village.
‘I don’t blame Satish Bharadwaj,’ the headmaster said as we
walked along. ‘Everyone who works for the British is corrupt. Such is
the contagion they spread among us.’ And, with this introduction, he
proceeded to elaborate on the politics of British rule. ‘Look around
you, young man,’ he said ponderously. ‘We have no tanks, no wells,
no ponds—no proper sources of water. People die like dogs in the
summer heat. Our villages are infested with malaria. Cholera claims
the lives of a third of the villagers every year. But does the
government do anything about it? No. Instead, it spends lakhs of
rupees on another railway line. There was no railroad in my
childhood. How cheap things were then! How plentiful! Whatever
grew in the village—mangoes, jackfruit, rose-apples—everyone got a
share. Now, thanks to the railway line, even the greens that grow in
one’s backyard are sold in the city for a few coins. It is shameful the
way men, women, even children are caught by me lure of money.’
I had my own reservations about the railway. I had not a doubt that
this immense network with its insidious links was responsible for the
disappearance of food from Indian villages. Rice, lentils, vegetables
—the staple food of the people and that which sustained life—were
being bartered for worthless luxuries imported from abroad. And how
many of us enjoyed them? There had always been a gap between
the rich and the poor in India, but now it was no longer a gap. It had
assumed the dimensions of a vast abyss. Yet I argued for the sake
of argument, ‘Is there anything wrong in converting excess food into
money?’
‘Yes, there is,’ came the ready answer. ‘That is a Western concept
not born out of the soil of India. There is no such thing as excess
where food is in question. Is it enough only to fill our own stomachs?
Do we have no duty towards our fellowmen? Do we have to emulate
our conquerors and snatch the food out of the mouths of the weak
and afflicted?’
 ‘I agree with you up to a point. But I don’t go the whole way.
Charity ennobles the giver but degrades the taker. Why shouldn’t
every man work for his own living? Besides, the British pay for what
they buy. We needn’t sell if we don’t wish to.’
The old gentleman got terribly excited. He jumped up and down on
his little feet, ‘You talk like an Englishman. Put a hand on your heart
and ask yourself which is better—to barter the produce of the
country and fatten your bank balance or to feed your starving
brothers? In the pre-rail days there were some idlers and wastrels in
every village of Bengal. They had to be looked after and someone or
the other did so, grumble and curse though he may. Yet they were an
integral part of the community. They were the chief entertainers at
weddings and celebrations and chief pall bearers at funerals. They
ran errands and sat up nights in sickness and death. Today, thanks
to the rail and the pressures of civilized living, that breed is extinct.
But are we better off without them? Have they not taken away with
them much of the joy of living?’
I must confess that his words startled me. In appearance he was
an elderly semi-literate rustic of the kind commonly found in Bengal’s
villages. But what he was saying went beyond him somehow. I said,
hesitating a little, ‘I’d like to ask you a question if I may. Are these
ideas your own? That is, are they born of your own experience?’
‘They are Swamiji’s,’ he answered without a trace of
embarrassment. ‘Swamiji never lies.’
‘Who is Swamiji?’
‘Swami Bajrananda. Young as he is, he is a great scholar and—
‘Bajrananda!’ I cried. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Know him?’ the headmaster, whose name was Jadav Chakravarty
as I later found out, said with a curious mixture of pride and humility.
‘He resides in my house as Krishna did in the house of Vidhur. He
came among us a couple of months ago. He started the school in
which I teach. And he doctors the sick—’
 This was the same Ananda who had walked in our company from
Sainthia station to Gangamati. How Rajlakshmi had wept when he
went away! How she had pleaded with him to come back to her! But,
true sanyasi that he was, there was no room in Ananda’s heart for a
woman’s tears. He was living within a few miles of Gangamati but
had never thought of visiting her. ‘When my time comes to leave her,
as it will very soon, can I find the same detachment?’ I asked myself.
‘No, never,’ came the reply. ‘You are too weak, too abject in your
love.’
The village we were bound for was called Mahmudpur but I was
assured by my companions that the name was deceptive. ‘There are
no Mussalmans in the village. And no untouchables either,’ Jadav
Chakravarty said, with an arrogant lift of his head. Then, turning to
his friend, he sought confirmation, ‘Are there, Naren?’
‘Not one! Not one!’ the man called Naren cried enthusiastically.
‘Only Brahmins, Kayasthas and Nabasakhs! We wouldn’t dream of
living in a village which had Mussalmans and Doms.’
What he said was probably true. But what was so wonderful about
living in a village exclusively inhabited by upper-class Hindus I could
not see. Particularly as they were self-confessed disciples of Swami
Bajrananda!
The first person I saw on entering Jadav Chakravarty’s house was
Ananda. His eyes lit up and he came forward eagerly. ‘Dada! What
are you doing here?’ My host and his friend stared and a new
respect crept into their eyes. It was obvious that they thought I was
no ordinary mortal. Why else would that divine being, Swami
Bajrananda, greet me the way he had?
‘You look ill,’ Ananda said, scanning my face.
‘He hasn’t eaten for three days,’ Jadav Chakravarty answered for
me. ‘He was in the coolie camp nursing the sick.’ And he gave a
heart-rendering description of the suffering he hadn’t seen. Ananda
didn’t look particularly disturbed.
 Continuing in his own fine of thought, he said under his breath,
‘Three days of starvation couldn’t wreck you on this scale. It has a
longer history. What was it? Malaria?’
‘Something of me kind,’ I smiled.
‘How did you manage to get involved with the coolies?’
‘Fate!’ I touched my forehead.
‘I have my doubts. You have quarrelled with Didi and left home in
a huff. She must be worried sick by now.’
I smiled. ‘I left home—but not in a huff.’
Ananda nodded. He thought he understood the situation perfectly.
After a bath and meal I felt considerably refreshed. I would have
liked to rest but Ananda led me to the door. A bullock-cart stood
outside. ‘Your royal equipage is ready to convey you back to my
sister. Do step in,’ he said, smiling.
‘I can’t go home just yet. I must go back to the camp.’
‘Don’t nurse your anger, Dada,’ Ananda said, his voice gentle and
pleading. ‘You have suffered enough, have you not? You are neither
a doctor nor a sanyasi. I’ll do what I can for the coolies. Trust me and
go home. Tell Didi her Ananda is well and happy’
I thanked my host and stepped into the cart. Ananda walked along
with it for a while. ‘You have lived the major part of your life in the
west, Dada,’ he said. ‘Your body is attuned to its climate. Go back
where you belong. The air and water of Bengal are making you sick
and languid. Tell Didi I said so.’
I sighed. Ananda had no idea of the enormity of the task he was
assigning to me!
‘You have not asked me to visit you even once,’ he said, breaking
the long silence.
‘You are a busy man. Your good works are innumerable. How can
I ask you to waste your time in idle visiting?’
The truth was that I didn’t want Ananda anywhere near
Gangamati. I feared his keen intelligence. He would perceive the
degradation into which my life had fallen at a moment’s glance.
There was a time when I wasn’t afraid of facing the naked truth. I
could cut my losses with a smile. Even a year ago I could have told
Ananda, ‘Don’t grieve at my fallen estate. I have riches stored up
which lie beyond your powers of perception.’ But today, I lacked that
power. A wave of self-pity swept over me. I saw myself as a
worthless parasite—weak, vulnerable! A sick, broken man with only
a host of broken dreams to keep me company.
‘I’ll come on the strength of the old invitation, then,’ Ananda said,
smiling.
‘When?’ I asked, dully.
‘Don’t be alarmed. I promise not to come before you two are
reconciled.’
I lacked the energy to repeat that there was no quarrel and
therefore the question of a reconciliation did not arise. Ananda
turned and walked away. The cart moved on, creaking and groaning
over ruts and furrows, over bleak, stony ground.
Ananda’s words rang in my ears. But where was the question of
quarrels and reconciliations? Why would I quarrel with Rajlakshmi?
What was her offence? Disputes over water rights make sense only
when the stream is full and flowing. When the source itself is dry,
what is to be gained by dashing one’s head against the bank?
These thoughts ran round and round my head like rats in a trap
and I lost my sense of time. Suddenly I sat up with a jerk. The
bullocks had tumbled into a ditch. Pushing aside the sacking that
hung in front of the cart, I poked my head out. The afternoon light
had mellowed and the sun was about to set.
‘Why don’t you keep to the road, boy?’ I asked the driver, a good-
looking hulk of about fifteen.
‘The bullocks climbed down. It was not my fault.’ The boy’s answer
came sharp and clear in the Rarh* dialect.
‘You’re supposed to control the bullocks.’
‘I’m not used to them. They are new.’
‘It will soon be dark. How far is it to Gangamati?’
 ‘How do I know? Have I ever been there?’
‘Then why did you offer to bring me?’
‘I did nothing of the sort. Mama** said, “Take Babu to Gangamati.
Keep going south till the road forks. Then turn east.”’
‘I hope we aren’t travelling north instead of south and west instead
of east.’
‘We may be. Who knows?’
The boy’s cryptic, arrogant answers angered me. ‘You are a fool
and a scoundrel,’ I shouted. ‘Why did you come if you don’t know
north from south? Who is your father?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘And your mother—?’
‘She’s dead too.’
‘Good for them. Looks like we will both join them shortly. Come on,
get going.’
The bullocks ambled along for a hundred yards or so. Suddenly
the boy broke down. ‘I can’t go any further. I’m tired.’ And he burst
into loud sobs.
‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll go back home.’
‘What about me?’
‘You must fend for yourself, Babu. The fare is one rupee, four
annas. Mama will beat me if you give less.’
I looked around me with apprehension. Dusk was falling. Soon it
would be dark. The best course would be to go back with the
blubbering boy. But at the thought, a tremor passed through my
frame. I couldn’t face Ananda again. I scanned the landscape.
Wasn’t that dark mass a grove of mango and jackfruit? Then human
habitation couldn’t be far off. I would find shelter for the night. If I
didn’t, I could walk on and on—away from Rajlakshmi, away from my
familiar world. I had done it before. I could do it again.
I climbed down and paid the boy. I saw that his actions were suited
to his words. His tears dried as if by magic. He changed direction
within seconds and, even as I stood there, became a speck on the
horizon.
 13

AS I WALKED THROUGH THE TREES IN SEARCH OF A NIGHT’S

SHELTER, A CURIOUS feeling came over me. A sense of
encroaching on someone’s private preserve oppressed me. I tried to
tell myself that this was not the first time, that I had accepted
people’s hospitality often enough before. But the feeling persisted. I
thought, at first, that it was prompted by the fact that my roving had
hitherto been outside Bengal. This was Rarh. I knew nothing of it.
But, by the same logic, I had known nothing of Burma when I first set
foot on it. Yet, I had felt no shame, sensed no humiliation in throwing
myself on Da Thakur’s charity.
The truth, as I saw it now, was that I myself had changed. I had
been free then. I could float, effortlessly as a bird, from experience to
experience. Now, bound to Rajlakshmi as I was, the desire to lose
myself was a travesty, an imitation of the old. Yet, not knowing what
else to do, I kept on walking.
Suddenly, I caught a glimmer of white through the dark branches
on my left. Changing direction, I walked on till I came to an old
derelict building with a high iron gate. But the hinges had rusted
away and many of the spikes were gone. Inside, two rooms opened
out on to a veranda. I entered one. Four iron cots stood in the
corners. They had mattresses on them but the covers were ripped
and torn and the stuffing bulged out in places. Some plates and
glasses of thick enamel, encrusted with dirt and grime, lay scattered
about. The air was mouldy and smelt of bat droppings.
As I looked around, a man, pale and gaunt as a ghost,
materialized from one of the corners. I guessed that the place was a
hospital and this shadowy creature its sole inmate.
‘Can you spare me a few annas, Babu?’ he said in a nasal whine.
‘Why?’ I asked, surprised.
‘I’ll buy something to eat. I’m starving.’
 ‘You are a patient. You shouldn’t be eating food from the bazaar.’
He was silent.
‘Don’t they feed you here?’
‘I get a bowl of sago in the mornings. By the evening I get so
hungry that I stand at the gate and beg from the passers-by. If I get a
little money, I buy muri (puffed rice) or chire. If I don’t, I starve.’
‘Doesn’t the hospital have a doctor?’
‘Yes. He comes once a day—in the mornings, usually. There was
another man. He did everything—from mixing medicines to cleaning
lanterns. But he left last month. He said he hadn’t been paid for over
a year. He hasn’t been replaced.’
‘Do you know whom the hospital belongs to?’
In answer the man led me to the veranda where, fixed on the wall,
was a vast marble plaque. On it, inscribed in gold leaf, was the name
of the hospital and the date of its inception together with a panegyric
in honour of the English magistrate who had performed the
ceremony. There was also a kind of family tree of the founder—one
Rai Bahadur, who had immortalized the memory of his dead mother
by this tremendous service to the nation. Unfortunately, as I
gathered, after meeting the expenses of the building and the plaque,
he had had no money left to run the hospital. His interest, too, had
waned and finally disappeared.
In return for a few annas, the man gave me the heartening news
that within a hundred yards of the hospital lived a family of
Chakravarty Brahmins who were renowned for their hospitality. They
would be happy to give me a night’s lodging. In fact, he would take
me there himself on his way to the grocer’s.
A few minutes walk brought me to my destination. I had thought,
from the man’s description, that the people whose hospitality I
sought were well-to-do, generous folk. What I saw depressed me
considerably. The house was in the worst state of disrepair
imaginable. And, for all my companion’s tributes to their gracious
hospitality, the inmates turned a deaf ear to his calls.
 ‘Thakur moshai!’ he cried, over and over again, banging on the
door with all his might. But a death-like silence pervaded the little
house.
I tried to stop him but his tenacity was really admirable. I
understood, now, how he had managed to keep alive in that
mausoleum of a hospital. After hours, or so it seemed, when the frail
door was on the point of bursting at the seams, a fretful voice
answered from within, ‘Not today. I can’t give you anything today.
Please go.’
My friend was not put off in the least. ‘Come out and see who’s
here,’ he cried. I was horribly embarrassed. He spoke of me as
though I was the family’s gurudev and my sole purpose in coming
was to bless the household.
‘Who is it, Bhim?’ The voice changed. It became gentle and had a
glow in it. There was a click and within seconds a lean, faded man in
a ragged dhoti stood in the doorway. ‘Who is it?’ he asked again,
peering up at me.
‘He’s a gentleman, a Brahmin!’ Bhim answered enthusiastically.
‘He lost his way and came to the hospital. “Don’t worry, Babu,” I said,
“I’ll take you to Thakur moshai. He’ll look after you.”’
I must admit that Bhim had not exaggerated. My host received me
with great warmth. Spreading a mat on the floor, he invited me to sit
down. Then he proceeded to prepare a hookah mumbling
apologetically, ‘My servants are all ill with fever.’
As I digested this piece of information, a woman’s voice boomed
from the inner room, ‘Who is it? Who is being entertained at this time
of the night?’
My heart missed a beat at the sound. I guessed that this was the
voice of the mistress. The master of the house trembled visibly as he
answered, ‘He’s a Brahmin, ginni,* a great man from the city. He lost
his way and needs a place to stay. He’s our guest for the night—only
the night. He will leave as soon as dawn breaks.’
 ‘Everyone loses his way. And manages to find it to this house,’ the
voice came loud and clear. ‘What are you going to feed him with?
Ash from the hearth? You know very well that we have no food—’
The blood froze in my veins. The hand that held the hookah
shook. I attempted to rise but my limbs were paralysed. Chakravarty
moshai said quickly, to hide his embarrassment, ‘Come, come, ginni.
What nonsense you talk! No food in my house! Come to the kitchen.
I’ll arrange everything.’
‘What will you arrange? There’s a handful of rice in the jar. I’m
going to cook it and give it to the children. You are mistaken if you
think I’ll deprive my own babies to feed that hulk.’
After this, a marital war ensued in which all norms of civilized
behaviour collapsed and disintegrated. I tried to rise but Chakravarty
moshai grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me down. ‘You are
my guest. And a guest is akin to Narayan. If you leave—I’ll hang
myself.’
‘An ideal solution,’ the voice came prompt and sharp. ‘If I’m rid of
you I’ll gladly beg from door to door to feed my children.’
I couldn’t bear it anymore. I stood up and said in a resolute voice,
‘That may be the best course for you, Chakravarty moshai. But
kindly do it at your leisure. For the present, either let me go or get
me a length of rope so that I may hang myself and be relieved of
your hospitality.’
There was a stunned silence. Then my host addressed his
opponent, ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Hunh,’ said the voice from within.
Suddenly an arm appeared through the door and set a brass
pitcher, with a bang, on the floor. ‘Take this to the grocer’s and bring
back rice, dal, salt and oil. See that the devil Srimanta doesn’t cheat
you.’
‘No! No!’ My host was happy again. ‘I’m not a child.’ Then peering
into the hookah he said, ‘The fire is out. Change the bowl, ginni. I’ll
have a few puffs before I go. I won’t be long.’ He pulled at his
hookah with tremendous enjoyment and departed. Thus, husband
and wife were reconciled.
After an hour or so I was invited into the kitchen. My appetite had
vanished and I felt sick and exhausted. I had spent many nights of
my life under strange roofs but nowhere had I witnessed the kind of
scenes that I had in that house. Yet, I couldn’t get out of the situation
either. I followed my host with a heavy heart but that night was,
obviously, one of surprises. On entering the kitchen I found that,
instead of a cooked meal, rice, dal, ghee, salt and vegetables lay in
mounds on pieces of banana leaf. A fire roared in the hearth and a
brass pot stood before it.
‘Put everything in the pot and set it on the fire,’ my host directed,
fairly dribbling at the mouth. ‘The dal is excellent—khari musuri*—
and so is the ghee. It will make a fine kedgeree.’
I didn’t understand the situation in the least, but, afraid of sparking
off another controversy, I did as I was told. My ignorance of the art
did not escape the eyes of my hostess.
She came out of the shadows and addressed me directly, ‘You
know nothing of cooking,’ she said in the voice that still had the
power to make me tremble.
‘No,’ I admitted humbly.
‘My husband wanted me to cook the meal. He said, being a
stranger, you would never come to know. But I refused. My
conscience would not allow me to rob you of your caste. We are
Agradani** Brahmins. Our touch is polluting for high-caste Brahmins
like you.’
I didn’t dare tell her that I had eaten at the hands of people far
lower in the caste ladder than she. I cooked the meal according to
her instructions and forced myself to swallow it. But the ‘fine
kedgeree’ tasted like sawdust and felt like a pile of nuggets in the pit
of my stomach. I wished, desperately, for the night to be over. I
would walk out of the depressing house the moment I saw a glimmer
in the east.
 I steeled myself and went on eating but the moment I washed my
mouth everything came up and I vomited, violently, all over the floor.
I wanted to clean up the mess but, overcome with exhaustion, I
couldn’t move a muscle. A dark mist swirled before my eyes. I said,
gasping, ‘Let me lie down for a few minutes. Then I’ll get up and
clean the floor.’
‘Hush, child!’ said a voice, surprisingly soft and maternal, and a
pair of gentle hands took hold of me. ‘Come and lie down on my bed.
I’ll clean it up in a minute.’ She led me to her room and I shut my
eyes, surrendering to the inevitable.
When I awoke, it was morning and the sun was high over the
horizon. My head ached unbearably and my body burned with fever.
‘Are you awake, Baba?’ the voice of last night spoke from the foot
of the bed. I opened my eyes painfully. I saw a woman in her forties,
dark and pock-marked with commonplace features. But not a trace
of the harshness that had emanated from her person last night was
evident this morning. Most prominent in her physiognomy were the
marks of a lifetime of struggle and suffering.
‘I didn’t see you properly last night,’ she said. ‘You are very young
indeed. Had my eldest son lived, he would have been your age.’ She
placed a cool hand on my forehead and murmured, ‘The fever is
quite high.’
I felt acutely guilty at the thought of the burden I had become on
this poverty-stricken family. ‘The hospital is not too far off. I can walk
to it—with a little help,’ I said, my throbbing eyes shut against the
glare.
I couldn’t see her face but the voice that answered was suffused
with pain. ‘I said some unforgivable things last night. Don’t take them
to heart, son. Hardship and constant anxiety have worn away all my
patience. Don’t go to the hospital—that hell of hells. Stay here with
me. The sick are not bound by any rules—so the Shastras say. I’ll
cook you sago and barley water and nurse you till you are well.’
 I stayed in her house for four days and during that period I had first
hand experience of the oppressions inherent in the Brahminical
hierarchy. As if the grinding poverty was not bad enough, life was
made hell for these Agradanis by other Brahmins of a higher order. I
heard from my hostess that Chakravarty moshai had once been a
prosperous landowner but, owing to his excessive generosity and
lack of a sense of self-preservation, he had lost all he had. Loss of
prestige had followed and they were living in a state of
excommunication from the Hindu order. And their chief persecutors
were those very Brahmins who were in their debt.
On the second day of my stay I proposed shifting myself to the
outer room but my hostess shook her head. ‘It is going to rain and
the roof leaks. You’ll catch your death.’
‘Why didn’t you get the roof repaired before the rains came?’ I
asked.
She pointed to a pile of straw standing just outside my window. ‘No
Hindus will work for us—such is the rule of the village. We hire
Mussalman peasants from the neighbouring village to thatch our roof
every year. This year no one came.’ Then, bursting into tears, she
continued, ‘There’s no end to our troubles, Baba. When my eight-
year-old daughter died of cholera, not a soul came forward to
console us or help to take the body to the burning ghat. My husband
carried her in his arms and my younger son went with him. But he
wasn’t allowed to cremate the body. He had to dig a hole and bury
the child—his own child—’ She broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
My fevered brain pulsed and pounded and pain tore at my
eyeballs as I heard this terrible tale of suffering and humiliation.
Centuries ago a Brahmin ancestor of theirs had committed the
heinous crime of accepting alms in return for performing the pre-
cremation rites of a dead man. That single act had branded him and
his descendents as Agradanis and relegated them to the lowest rung
of the Brahmin caste ladder for all time to come. Yet the acceptance
of alms is mandatory. Without it the rites are incomplete, according
to the Shastras. This paradox is embedded in the system to this day
and given unquestioning respect, leaving Agradani Brahmins
vulnerable to all kinds of social and moral pressures. The moral
perversity that is reflected in the treatment meted out to Agradanis is
peculiar to Hinduism and is not to be found in any other religion of
the world.
Controlling herself with an effort, the woman said, ‘Sometimes I
wish we would move to a Mussalman village. We might be better off.’
‘But you’ll lose caste—’ I began.
‘My husband’s uncle went away to Dumka and became a
Christian. His troubles are over,’ she said by way of an answer.
I was silent. The thought of Hindus defecting to other religions was
painful. But what were the alternatives? I had believed that only the
lowest of the low, the untouchables, suffered persecution on this
scale. I realized now, that it was inherent in the system and not a
single caste was protected against it.
I found out years later that some enlightened Hindus do admit to
this defect in our religion. Yet they are prepared to live with it and
perpetuate it. Not even one of the men I conversed with even tried to
offer any viable alternatives or proposals of constructive change. It
has left me speculating on the future of Hinduism. I’m convinced that
a religion that saps the moral fibre of its followers to the extent that
Hinduism does cannot last for long.
On the fourth day I got ready to depart. ‘Bid me farewell, Ma,’ I
said, ‘I’m going.’
My hostess came to the door. ‘We are poor, wretched folk,’ she
said, her face flushed, eyes swimming. ‘All we’ve given you is a
share of our suffering.’
I was silent. Formal speeches of thanks never come easily to me. I
remembered Ananda’s words, ‘This is a strange country, Dada.
Here, mothers and sisters are strewn on the streets. There’s no
escaping them.’
 Chakravarty moshai had procured a bullock-cart with great
difficulty. As I took my place in it, his wife called upon the gods to
protect me from harm and made me promise to come again if I was
ever in these parts. I never saw her again. Later, much later, I
learned that Rajlakshmi had paid the mortgage on much of their land
and helped to bring the family back to a position of comparative
stability.
 14

IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK BY THE TIME I REACHED THE HOUSE IN

GANGAMATI. AS I stepped down from the cart, I noticed vat the
doorway was hung with a garland of mango leaves. Banana fronds
were placed on either side and consecrated pots stood next to them.
The outer room was full of men, many of whom came crowding in at
the door on hearing the sound of the cart. One of them came rushing
out with a happy laugh. He was no other than my old friend, Swami
Bajrananda. While he plied me with questions, informing me
mischievously that search parties had been sent in all directions to
look for me, Rajlakshmi came and stood quietly by the door.
‘Where were you all these days?’ she asked. ‘We were all sick
with worry. Ananda, I told you he would come today, didn’t I? I felt it
in my bones.’
‘You did?’ I asked, smiling. ‘Is that why you’ve placed these
auspicious symbols at the door? To welcome me home?’
‘No, no, Babu,’ Ratan intervened enthusiastically. ‘Ma is feeding
Brahmins today to mark her return from the holy pilgrimage of
Bakreshwar—’
‘Ratan,’ Rajlakshmi fixed him with a stern glare. ‘Stop jabbering
and go and attend to your work.’ Her cheeks were flushed and her
eyes bright.
Ananda threw a brief glance in her direction and said, ‘Didi found it
impossible to endure the worry of your disappearance. She
organized the Brahmin bhojan to take her mind off—for a short while
at least. You know how it is. The idle mind is a breeding ground for
all kinds of tensions and fears. But you still haven’t told us where you
were all these days. The cart driver’s boy told us he had dropped
you off on the road to Gangamati.’
I recounted the history of the last four days. He heard it carefully
and said, ‘Don’t repeat the disappearing trick, Dada. You have no
idea of what Didi has suffered.’
I knew it well enough so I did not contradict him. In a little while
Ratan brought me a hookah and a cup of tea. Ananda rose to leave.
He said, ‘If I sit here a moment longer I’ll earn the curses of a good
woman. Why take the risk?’ He left the room and Rajlakshmi came
in.
‘It is very late,’ she said. ‘I suggest you don’t bathe at this hour.
Have a wash and change your clothes.’
‘I’m very hot and sticky. I must have a bath.’
‘Then let me help you. You are still so weak—you can’t manage by
yourself.’ She burst out laughing and added, ‘Don’t try to punish me.
You’ll only end up punishing yourself. Take my advice. Don’t bathe.
The fever will return if you do.’
This was typical of Rajlakshmi. I have not known her equal for
foisting her wishes on others. This was a small thing she asked of
me, but she dominated, equally easily, in other, more important
areas of my life. Yet she was never offensive, never jarring. And it
wasn’t only in her relation with me that she wielded this power. It was
apparent everywhere. As she rose to fetch me my meal I said, ‘Let
the good work be concluded first. I’ll eat after your Brahmins have
been fed.’
‘Oh no, you won’t,’ she answered instantly. ‘That may go on till late
in the evening. If I keep you starving till then I’ll end up in hell instead
of heaven,’ and she left the room, laughing.
Sitting down to eat I noticed that I was served with the very light
food that is usually given to convalescents. I realized that Rajlakshmi
had prepared it especially for me with her own hands. She sat by my
side encouraging me to eat as she had always done. But the old
habit of command had gone. She begged humbly where she had
protested passionately—even a few days ago. ‘She’s a changed
woman,’ I thought and a wave of melancholy swept over me.
Late that night, Rajlakshmi tiptoed into the room and, dimming the
lantern, moved towards her bed. ‘Your Brahmins were fed long ago,’
I spoke from out of the dark. ‘What were you doing all this time?’
Rajlakshmi gave a little start. ‘I thought you were asleep. That’s
why I walked in as quietly as I could.’
‘I kept awake on purpose. I wanted to talk to you.’
Rajlakshmi lifted the mosquito net and sat on my bed. Then,
running her fingers through my hair in the old manner, she asked
tenderly, ‘Why didn’t you send for me, then?’
‘Would you have come if I had?’
‘Do I have the power to disregard your call?’
I knew she didn’t but, weak as I was, I lacked the power to admit it.
‘Why are you silent?’ she asked after a while.
‘I’m thinking.’
‘What of?’ She lowered her head till the soft cheek rested on my
forehead. ‘You were angry with me. That’s why you left home, didn’t
you?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Wouldn’t you know if you were in my place?’
‘Perhaps I would.’
‘There’s no “perhaps” about it. These feelings are instinctive.’
‘I know.’
‘If you do, why do you say things that hurt me?’
‘I don’t. I haven’t for a long time now. Only you haven’t noticed it,
have you?’
The old Rajlakshmi would have reacted violently to this statement.
She would have sulked and probed and asked a hundred questions.
Now, silence fell between us. After a while she sat up and said, ‘I’m
told you had a fever. Why didn’t you send for me?’
‘There was no one to send. Besides, I didn’t know where you
were.’
Then I recounted my experience of the last few days. Tears of
gratitude and humility coursed down my cheeks as I described the
poor woman who had nursed me as tenderly as she would her own
child even while bowed down by toil and care. Rajlakshmi wiped
them away and said softly, ‘Why don’t you send her some money?’
‘If I had the money I would.’
Any suggestion that her money was not mine had always offended
Rajlakshmi. She would reject it outright and the argument would end,
invariably, in a quarrel. But, as before, today she was silent. When
she spoke her voice was changed. ‘A letter has arrived for you—
from Burma. It was in an official envelope so, drinking that it might
contain some urgent message, I asked Ananda to open it.’
‘What does it say?’
‘The manager of the company informs you that your request for
reappointment has been granted. Your old post is open for you any
time you choose to claim it. Shall I fetch the letter?’
‘There’s no hurry. I can read it tomorrow morning.’
Another silence fell between us, pregnant with meaning. I felt torn
apart. I didn’t know what to do, what to think. I wanted to speak but
didn’t know how. Suddenly a teardrop fell on my forehead. I said
softly, ‘I have been offered my old job again. That is not bad news,
Rajlakshmi. Why do you cry?’
Rajlakshmi wiped her eyes and said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me you
were planning to go back? Did you think I would stop you?’
‘No. I’m convinced you wouldn’t have stopped me. You may even
have encouraged me. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you
would care to waste your time on trifling matters like these.’
The hands in my hair stiffened and became cold and rigid and her
voice, when she spoke, sounded far away, insubstantial. ‘I deserve
your reproaches. I realize, now, that in dragging you here to
Gangamati I have sinned grievously against you. This aimless, idle
existence into which I’ve pushed you is akin to death—for a man. I
can never forgive myself for destroying you as I have done.’
‘When did this realization dawn on you?’
‘I went on a pilgrimage but I didn’t find God. Wherever I looked I
saw your face—broken, vulnerable. You have suffered enough at my
hands. It is time I released you. Go back to Burma. Live your own life
with meaning and purpose.’
At these words, the anger melted away from my heart and I
became whole and pure again. ‘You, too, have suffered, Lakshmi.
Gangamati is no place for you. You belong—’ I stopped myself in
time. What I was about to say would offend and humiliate her.
But, though my unspoken words hit her where it hurt most, she
forgave me this time. ‘On the contrary,’ she said gently. ‘I’m not fit for
Gangamati. Others may believe that I’ve paid for my love by
surrendering the pleasures of the city. But you should know better.
You should know that I’ve lost nothing that I valued. I’ve only shed
the terrible weight that people hung round my neck and forced me to
carry from childhood onwards. And you—whom I’ve desired above
all else from the beginning of memory itself! In possessing you, did I
not acquire ten thousand times what I surrendered? You should
know that.’
I tried to speak but words would not come. My breast heaved with
indignation for Rajlakshmi. ‘Fool, fool and thrice fool!’ I chastised
myself. ‘You have misjudged her! You don’t deserve her love.’
‘I thought I would keep this knowledge from you in your own
interest,’ she continued. ‘But I couldn’t help myself. What hurts me
most is your belief that I’ve neglected you in the hope of a place in
heaven.’ A shower of tears fell on my face. I took one of her hands in
mine and pressed it without a word. She wiped her eyes with the
other and stood up. ‘I had better go and see if the servants have
eaten. Try to sleep.’ And, gently pulling her hand away from mine,
she left the room.
I lay awake for hours after that. Innumerable thoughts chased one
another in an unending circle. But the one that dominated, recurring
over and over again in an unchanging pattern, was that she had truly
cut me loose at last and, in doing so, had set herself free.
I awoke the next morning to find Rajlakshmi’s bed empty. She had
either not come in at all last night or had left before dawn. I rose and
went into the outer room where the ascetic, Swami Bajrananda,
looked eagerly on as Rajlakshmi fried some delectable delicacies on
a stove in the corner. Against one wall sat Ratan pouring tea out of
an enormous kettle. Bajrananda greeted me heartily, ‘Come, Dada,
let’s fall to while everything is piping hot.’ Then, peering into my face,
he added, ‘You don’t look too good. Let me feel your pulse.’
‘No, Ananda,’ Rajlakshmi protested. ‘Don’t treat him like a patient.
You’ll be recommending a diet of sago any minute.’
‘I’ve been living on sago for the last four days. I refuse to eat it
now—even on doctor’s orders,’ I said, stretching out my hand.
Rajlakshmi put some singaras* and kachauris on a plate and
handed it to me. Then, pushing the vessel that contained the rest
towards Ananda, she said, ‘Come, bhai. Eat.’
‘So many?’ he asked, amazed.
‘Why not? Why are you a sanyasi if you can’t eat more than
ordinary men? You could just as well have been a householder.’
Ananda’s eyes softened. ‘If it weren’t for sisters like you I would
have torn off my saffron robes and thrown them into the river long
ago. But I have a request, Didi. You have been fasting for the last
three days. Why don’t you share our breakfast?’
‘Goodness, Ananda! Some of my Brahmins are yet to be fed. Not
all could come yesterday.’
‘Then there is nothing for me but to go in search of them. Give me
their names and addresses. Let me drag the rascals to your feet by
the hair of their heads.’ He suited the action to the words by pulling
the pot of snacks towards himself and falling upon it with a
vengeance. Rajlakshmi smiled a crooked little smile and said, ‘What
a fine sanyasi you are, Ananda! How deep is your respect for gods
and Brahmins!’
The morning was bright and clear and my spirits rose with
Ananda’s banter. Rajlakshmi looked relaxed and happy. I persuaded
myself that her mood of last night had been induced by her
prolonged mental strain and her self-inflicted mortifications of the
flesh. All my fears and worries drained away and a sense of well-
being flooded my body and soul.
All day the Brahmins came, singly and in twos and threes, ate and
departed. In the evening, her work over, Rajlakshmi came into the
outer room where Ananda and I sat having our tea.
‘Welcome, Didi,’ Ananda called.
‘What makes the sanyasi so happy this evening?’ Rajlakshmi
dropped down by his side.
‘Your wonderful snacks and sweets! We sanyasis never resist the
temptations of the flesh. Householders have a different code. Just
look at yourself. While we ascetics are enjoying one good meal after
another you are killing yourself with your innumerable fasts.’
‘Killing myself? On the contrary! This wretched body flourishes day
by day.’
‘That is the wonder of it!’ Ananda looked at her with admiring eyes.
‘Every day I see you, you are more beautiful. And your beauty is not
of this world. It is unearthly, ethereal!’
Rajlakshmi blushed and lowered her face. Ananda turned to me
and said, ‘It is obvious you do not see with my eyes. If you did you
would never have attempted to go back to Burma. I wonder which
deity, in his malignance, planted this blind man in your path, Didi.’
Rajlakshmi laughed and answered, ‘It was all my own fault,
Ananda. I blame no one—him, least of all. He was the head boy of
the village pathshala and I, a junior pupil. He had a whip which he
laid about my shoulders whenever I forgot my lessons. That didn’t
aid my memory in the least but it created—other feelings. Child as I
was, I roamed the woods picking bainchi berries and stringing them
into garlands to appease him. I wish I had strung the thorns in
between.’
What a blood-thirsty woman you are, Didi!’
‘I would still do it—if he had someone to pluck them out for him,’
and laughing, she left the room.
 Ananda turned to me after she left. ‘Are you still planning to go to
Burma? Didi will never go with you.’
‘I know that.’
‘But why must you go? You don’t need the money. Why tie yourself
to a desk from morning till evening?’
‘It is a good habit I believe.’
‘You haven’t got over your annoyance with Didi. That’s what it is.’
‘Can’t you think of any other reason?’
‘Frankly, I can’t.’
I felt like asking him why he involved himself in something that
didn’t concern him. But, fearing unpleasantness, I desisted.
When Rajlakshmi came in again, Ananda said to her, ‘Dada says
that enslaving oneself is a good habit. My question is that why go to
distant Burma, why not do so right here? We could work together for
our country.’
‘But he is not a doctor, Ananda,’ Rajlakshmi pointed out.
‘There are other ways of serving the country. We must build
schools, dig wells and teach the villagers to value themselves as
human beings. The poor are deprived in so many ways.’
Rajlakshmi glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and shook
her head gently. She was afraid, perhaps, that I would agree.
‘Why do you shake your head, Didi?’
‘No, Ananda,’ she smiled. ‘I know our country is in a shocking
state. But I don’t see what a single man can do about it. If you take
him with you, you’ll spend all your time and energy looking after him.
You’ll have nothing left with which to serve the country.’
Ananda laughed at her fears. ‘Rest assured, Didi. I won’t steal him
away from you. But you were wrong when you said that a single man
can do nothing. It is not the number of people who rise at the call of
the motherland but the strength with which they rise that matters.
The power of the will is a tremendous power. Do not underestimate
it.’ He was silent for a while. Then he continued, ‘It is true that I can
achieve very little by myself. But one thing I can, and do. I share the
misery of the poor and degraded to the best of my ability.’
‘I know that. I have known it from the very beginning.’
‘I needn’t have done it. My father is a wealthy man. I could have
had a life of ease and comfort. But I turned my back on it. The fact
that I have overcome the desire for good living is virtue enough for
me. My conscience is at rest.’
At this point, Ratan came in and announced that the evening meal
was ready. Rajlakshmi ordered him to start serving and turned to me.
‘I am very, very tired. I’ll retire as soon as you have eaten.’
Weariness was stamped upon her face but it was the first time that
she had admitted it. We stood up and followed Ratan without a word.
Suddenly the bright, beautiful day was over and a wraith-like gloom
descended on the house. My old depression returned.
Ananda left the next morning. Rajlakshmi accompanied him to the
door. I remembered the last time she had bidden him farewell. How
bitterly she had wept! How inconsolable she had been for so many
days! Now her calm, clear gaze rested on his face as she asked,
‘When do I see you again, Ananda?’
‘I’ll come as soon as I can. I promise.’
‘But we’re leaving Gangamati. Will you come to me, wherever I
maybe?’
‘If you command me, can I disobey?’
‘Then give me your address. I’ll write to you as soon as we reach
—’
Ananda fished in his pocket for a pencil and paper, and writing his
address, handed it to Rajlakshmi. Then bidding us farewell he
walked slowly away.
 15

WHEN SWAMI BAJRANANDA LEFT WITH HIS TIN TRUNK AND

CANVAS BAG, HE took away with him all the joy of living that had
remained with us. Not content with that, he had, it seemed to me,
packed the vacuum created by his absence with the deepest and
most active gloom. Our lives had been like a stretch of sea water
that had retained a measure of clarity by dashing against the coral
reef that was Ananda. With its removal, the water stagnated and
became foul and evil-smelling. A week went by. Rajlakshmi went out
every day—where, I did not know. Nor did I want to ask. In the
evenings she spent hours discussing business with Kushari moshai.
I yearned for Ananda as I had never yearned for anyone before. I
knew Rajlakshmi did the same. At times the irony of the situation
was too much to be borne. We, who had loved one another and had
sought to create a little world of our own away from the public eye,
were reduced to seeking a stranger’s presence in our midst.
One day, Ratan came in beaming from ear to ear. He looked
around him surreptitiously, even though Rajlakshmi was away from
home, and whispered, ‘Have you heard the news, Babu? We are
leaving Gangamati in a day or two. Pray to Goddess Durga that Ma
doesn’t change her mind.’
‘Where are we going, Ratan?’
Ratan threw another furtive glance at the door. ‘That I don’t know,
yet. It has to be Kashi or Patna. Ma has a house in each of these
cities. Where else could it be?’
I was silent. Mistaking my lack of enthusiasm at his great news for
lack of faith in his communication, he continued, ‘It’s true, Babu. It’s
absolutely true. We are leaving. Ma has finalized the arrangements
with Kushari moshai. All we need to do now is pack up and leave. It’s
wonderful news, isn’t it?’ And, bursting with the anticipated pleasures
of the city, Ratan left the room.
 It was obvious that Ratan looked upon me as a mere member of
the retinue that went with Rajlakshmi wherever she chose to go. He
knew that my likes and dislikes held no ground before hers and that,
like the rest of the company, I was completely dominated by the will
of the mistress. Ratan, in his innocence, was unaware that he had
filled my cup of agony and humiliation to the brim with his words.
‘How weak I am,’ I thought and marvelled at her strength. I saw now,
more clearly than ever before, that I was merely a pawn in the game
Rajlakshmi was playing—that of testing her own strength. She had
employed all the force of her magnetic beauty and overwhelming
desire to bring me to her feet. And I had been powerless to resist.
But now I was redundant. Fool that I was, I had allowed myself to be
dragged through the dust and believed I was flying on golden wings.
I had valued myself against the riches she had discarded for my
sake not knowing that, for her, they had no value.
Ratan’s words were confirmed the next morning. After her morning
bath and prayers, Rajlakshmi came up to me and asked softly, ‘If we
leave tomorrow morning, around this time, we can catch the train
going west, can’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve concluded the arrangements here. Kushari moshai will
continue to look after the property as he has been doing.’
‘Very good.’
Rajlakshmi hesitated a little and said, ‘I’ve written to Banku. I’ve
asked him to reserve a compartment and wait for me at Sainthia. I’m
not sure—’
‘You needn’t worry. Banku will never disobey you.’
‘He’ll try not to. But—would you like to come with us?’
I didn’t know where she was going or why. But I could not ask. I
answered hesitantly, ‘I’ll come—if you want me to.’
Rajlakshmi couldn’t reply for a few seconds. Then she spoke,
changing the subject all of a sudden, ‘Where is your tea? Hasn’t
Ratan brought you your tea?’
 ‘Not yet. He must be busy.’
Such an aberration, in the early days of our relationship, would
have been enough to spark off a domestic disturbance lasting for
days. But now Rajlakshmi did not even call Ratan and demand an
explanation. She hung her head, as if in shame, and quietly left the
room.
On the day of our departure, Rajlakshmi’s subjects came to pay
their respects. I missed Malati in the throng but I knew that she had
left Gangamati and was now happily settled with her new husband in
his ancestral village. The Kushari brothers arrived with their families
at crack of dawn to bid us goodbye. Rajlakshmi had managed to
bring them together—how, I did not know. But it was evident from
their faces that the quarrel over the weaver’s property was at an end
and amity and concord had been restored.
Sunanda brought her son over to me and said, ‘Asking you not to
forget me is unnecessary. So I won’t do that. I seek your blessings
for my son.’
‘Even that is unnecessary, bon,’ I replied. ‘A child of yours is
blessed in his birth. He needs no other blessing.’
Overhearing the conversation, Rajlakshmi said, ‘Pray that he
grows up to acquire a heart and soul like yours.’
‘Like mine?’ I laughed. ‘You must be joking.’
‘A mother doesn’t joke when the good of her own child is in
question,’ Rajlakshmi’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I love the boy as if he
were my own and that is my prayer for him.’
We left Gangamati amidst tearful farewells. Even Ratan wiped his
eyes unashamedly every now and then. The inhabitants of
Gangamati clamoured about their mistress begging her not to forget
them, to return as soon as she could. Only I stood apart, like a
spectator watching the last scene of a play—poignant and
bittersweet. Soon it would be time to ring the curtain down. The lights
would go out, one by one. The viewers would rise and shuffle out of
the theatre to take up the separate burdens of their everyday lives.
But I was not one of them. I stood alone, apart, like a star wrenched
out of its socket. I drifted aimlessly in space, apathetic and
lustreless. Trapped in a maze of clouds, I had lost my sense of
direction.
We reached Sainthia before dusk. Banku had obeyed
Rajlakshmi’s instructions and was waiting at the: station. As soon as
the carts rolled in, he got busy stowing away the luggage and
directing the servants to their third-class seats. Then, taking his
place with his stepmother in their reserved compartment, he
proceeded to converse with her in a low voice. He ignored my
presence but not very overtly. I knew why. He was now a full-grown
man, wealthy and powerful in his own right, and he had no use for
such as me.
As I walked up and down the platform (my train to Calcutta was
not due before midnight) my eyes fell on Rajlakshmi beckoning me
through the window of her compartment. She grasped me by the
hand the moment I reached her and said, ‘Won’t you come and see
me once—before you leave for Burma?’
‘Certainly—if you desire it.’
‘I don’t desire it,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘At least not in the way
I did. But I would like to see you once before you leave. Will you
come?’
‘I will.’
‘Write to me as soon as you reach Calcutta.’
I nodded. The final whistle sounded and the green light came on.
Rajlakshmi released my hand and I stepped off even as the train
moved with a jerk and glided away from the dim light of the station
towards an enveloping darkness.
On reaching Calcutta, I wrote my promised letter to Rajlakshmi.
Then I started preparations for my departure from the country. A
fortnight went by. I had promised Rajlakshmi that I would visit her but
my heart quaked at the prospect. I hadn’t a clue to her present state
of mind. She might take it into her head to stop me from going to
Burma. It was true that in the letter that she had written from Kashi,
she had not reminded me of my promise. But, weak as I was, I
persuaded myself that that was normal in the circumstances. Even I,
I reasoned, would not humble myself to that extent. The truth was
that Rajlakshmi had become so much a part of my life that I couldn’t
live without her. Suddenly I longed to see her again, so passionately
that I was lost to all sense of propriety. Glancing up at the clock I saw
that, if I made haste, I could catch the train to Kashi. I didn’t even
pack a change of clothes. I told myself that she, to whom I was
going, knew my requirements better than I did. I rushed out of the
house and, buying a ticket, boarded the train to Kashi. All night I
tossed and turned on my narrow berth. Then morning came. A fierce
sun rose and blazed white hot in the sky. Everywhere, the light was
pitiless and glaring. But a mist lay over my eyes and coiled its damp
and streaky strands around my heart. And so I arrived at my
destination.
The first person I saw, on entering the house, was an elderly
Brahmin smoking a hookah.
‘Yes?’ he asked, fixing his tranquil gaze upon my face. ‘Are you
looking for someone?’
‘Is Ratan—?’ I murmured—my heart sinking. ‘Ratan has gone to
the market. He’ll be back in a few minutes.’ His eyes took in my
dishevelled hair and clothes grimy with smoke and sweat. ‘Please sit
down.’
‘Is Banku Babu at home?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The old man called a servant and instructed
him to fetch Banku. Banku was extremely surprised to see me. ‘We
thought you were in Burma,’ he said, not specifying who ‘we’ were.
‘Are your things in the carriage?’
‘I have no luggage with me.’
‘No luggage? Are you returning tonight, then?’
‘Yes. That’s what I had planned.’
 Banku rose and went about his work. A servant came in with
water, towels and fresh clothes but no one else came near me. After
a long while, a message came from within that my meal had been
served. I followed the servant to a flagged veranda where two thalas
were laid side by side. As I took my place beside Banku, someone
entered from a side door and everything—Banku, the shining thala
with its surrounding bowls, and the black and white marble of the
floor—swam before my eyes. Only for a moment, however. Then,
recovering myself with a desperate effort, I commenced eating.
Rajlakshmi came forward and sat by me. She was wrapped in
widow white from head to toe and not a speck of gold remained on
her person. Not only had she stripped herself ruthlessly of all
adornment—she had even cut off the long black river of her hair. The
shorn locks tumbled about her face—now harsh and worn with
prolonged austerities. I had parted from her only a month ago. She
had aged ten years in the interim.
My eyes burned and the rice stock like glue in my throat. I wanted
to get away from her—far, so far away that I need never see her
again. I couldn’t bear to look at her face or even hear her voice. I
swallowed mouthful after mouthful in a fierce determination that she
should not get a chance to comment on my lack of appetite.
‘Banku tells me that you are leaving tonight,’ she said, after a
while.
‘Yes.’
‘So soon? But your ship leaves on Sunday.’
I glanced up at her face and she shrank before the look in my
eyes.
‘There are still three days to go,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, but I have a few things to tie up before I leave.’
She hesitated a little, then said, ‘My gurudev is here.’
I gathered that the old gentleman I had met on my arrival was
Rajlakshmi’s gurudev—the one she had talked about and wanted me
to meet. Since my train was to leave at midnight, I had ample time in
which to make his acquaintance. I found him a good, kind man,
fiercely protective of his personal religion but also open to that of
others. He knew the truth about us for Rajlakshmi had hidden
nothing from him but, far from looking down on me, he sought my
company and conversed with me for a long time. He spoke words of
comfort and sympathy and gave plenty of advice. I have forgotten
much of what he said but I remember that he expressed his faith in
Rajlakshmi and said that he had anticipated the change that had
come over her. ‘I have had many disciples but not one like her,’ was
his comment. ‘Her unwavering faith and devotion to duty are
incomparable.’
The hour of my departure drew near. The carriage that was to take
me to the station stood at the door. I took leave of Gurudev and
stepped in. Rajlakshmi’s face appeared at the window. Her lips
trembled but no words came. I thanked my Maker that my face was
hidden from her view. Inside the carriage, everything was dark.
The stinging tears poured down my face in blessed release as the
horses bore me away from Rajlakshmi. ‘We cast ourselves adrift
together,’ I murmured to myself. ‘I, hapless that I am, will never sight
the shore but your goal is before you, fixed and immutable like the
northern star. May it be ever so. May peace and happiness be
yours.’ I repeated this prayer over and over again as the rushing
wheels and galloping hooves took me further and further away from
her. Suddenly I felt as I had that last day in Gangamati—a spectator
watching the last scene of a play. It was a glorious conclusion to a
sordid tale of human weakness and error. But even while the triumph
and glory that were Rajlakshmi’s awed and uplifted me, I suddenly
drought of Rohini Babu. He and I were two of a kind, floundering and
sinking in a slough of base desire. But for him there was Abhaya. I
remembered her as she stood at her door bidding me goodbye, tears
trembling in her eyes, steadfast and unwavering in her love. The
breadth of her vision, the courage of her convictions and the innate
purity of her soul came upon me in a flash. I would go to her and she
would not forsake me.
The moment the carriage stopped, a figure leaped nimbly from the
box and touched his forehead to the ground at my feet.
‘Ratan!’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes, Babu. If you need a servant in that foreign land where you
are going—send for me. I’ll serve you faithfully to the end of my
days.’
The light from the flare of the carriage fell on his face. ‘Why? What
makes you cry, Ratan?’ I asked in genuine surprise.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and walked away
rapidly. I stared at his retreating back. Ratan offering to accompany
me to Burma! Wonders will never cease.
 Journeys’ End

1
ALL MY LIFE I HAVE REVOLVED LIKE A SATELLITE AROUND A
LUMINARY I NEVER possessed but could not disown. I dared not
go too near it but I lacked the power to wrench myself out of orbit. So
it has been for me from early childhood. The years spent as a poor
relation in my aunt’s house saw a physical transmutation. My frail
child’s form expanded, filled out and became that of an adult’s. But a
corresponding mental progression was denied me. My mind
remained as it was in its infancy—dependant, trusting, vulnerable.
I realized that Rajlakshmi was as good as dead in my life. I stood
by the bank watching the dark waters swirl around the glorious
image I loved, drowning it inch by inch till nothing remained. Then,
when the last ripple was still, I came away—a sense of loss weighing
heavily on my heart. I bore it alone for I had none of my own with
whom to share it. It seemed only the other day that I first saw Pyari
in Kumar Saheb’s tent and gained a whole world I had done nothing
to deserve. Yet I hadn’t deserved to lose it either, as I had now. ‘The
loss has outweighed the gain,’ I thought. ‘It encompasses the whole
world. However far I go—to Calcutta, to Burma even, all is dark and
unreal. Only the journey remains. May it never cease.’
‘… Arre! That is Srikanta! Look, look. It is Srikanta.’
I hadn’t realized that the train had stopped. Shaken out of my
reverie, I looked up to see Thakurdada’s face at the window. Close
behind him stood Ranga Didi with a girl of seventeen or so by her
side. All three were laden with boxes and bundles and looked
harassed from running up and down the platform.
‘The crowds in the other compartments—you wouldn’t believe—’
Thakurdada wiped the sweat pouring down his face. ‘Is yours
reserved? Can we come in?’
I opened the door. They tumbled in, scattering their belongings all
over the floor.
‘Is this a first-class coach? I hope they don’t clamp a fine—’
Thakurdada looked around nervously as if expecting a guard to leap
on him any moment.
‘Oh no. I’ll go down and speak to the collector.’
On my return, I found my guests sprawled comfortably all over the
padded seats—all signs of apprehension wiped off their faces.
‘How thin you’ve become, Srikanta,’ Ranga Didi commiserated as
soon as the train started. ‘Were you ill again after leaving us? Why
didn’t you write? We were so worried about you.’
Fortunately, no one expects answers to questions like these, so
my silence was received without comment. Instead, Thakurdada
rushed into explanations with characteristic gusto. He said that they
were on their way back home from a pilgrimage to Gaya and that the
girl with them was Ranga Didi’s sister’s granddaughter. Her father
was willing to give a dowry of a thousand rupees for her but a
suitable bridegroom could not to be found. They were taking her
along with them in the hope of acquiring one in their own village.
‘Putu!’ he called after this introduction. ‘Open the pot of pedas. I
hope you haven’t left the curd behind, ginni! Give Srikanta and me
some on the sal leaves we’ve brought with us. It’s the best curd
you’ve ever tasted, Srikanta. I promise you that. No, no, Putu, wash
your hands before touching the pot. Remember you are serving
someone special. It is time you learned these things.’
Putu obeyed Thakurdada’s instructions very carefully and soon a
sal leaf, with a mound of curd and a handful of pedas on it, was
placed before me. Though this in itself was not unwelcome, the
accompanying emotions were. Putu’s docility was faintly alarming. I
hoped I was not under consideration as the ‘suitable bridegroom’
worth a thousand rupees. As the train moved further and further
away from Gaya, Thakurdada and Ranga Didi outdid each other in
their praises of Putu. They needn’t have exerted themselves so
much, for I could see that she was pretty enough and pleasant
enough. Neither of them mentioned Rajlakshmi. It seemed as though
they had forgotten that part of my life altogether.
Next morning, around ten o’clock, the train arrived at my ancestral
village. Thakurdada expressed so much concern at parting from me,
and Ranga Didi was so loath to let me go on without a bath and
meal, that I was forced to alight. Once in the house, I was treated
like a distinguished guest by everyone, including Putu, and within a
few days the whole village knew that I was the lucky man who was to
receive her and her father’s thousand rupees. Putu’s parents were
sent for. Thakurdada was eager for the rites to be solemnized soon
—that very Baisakh,* if possible. It was to be a grand wedding with
all their relatives attending.
‘Wonder of wonders!’ Ranga Didi pronounced triumphantly over
and over again. ‘Whoever would have thought that our own
Srikanta?’ etc., etc. This kind of talk went on and I was powerless to
stop it. I ignored it at first and tried to leave but the bonds of love
were tied too tightly for me to break. Then I grew really alarmed. I felt
the net closing around me but I could not escape. I even started
wondering about my own commitment in the affair. Had I, in some
unguarded moment, given my consent?
One day, on Thakurdada’s inquiring if I had a horoscope, I took my
courage in my hands and asked him point-blank, ‘Are you planning a
marriage between Putu and me?’
Thakurdada stared at me as if I had gone mad.
‘What a question, Srikanta!’ he said.
‘But I haven’t made up my mind.’
 ‘You haven’t? Then make it up fast. The girl is well past the age of
marriage and—’
‘That’s not my fault.’
Thakurdada found my answer illogical to a degree that was not to
be borne. ‘Is it my fault, then?’ he shouted, losing his temper. At the
sound of his voice, the girl’s parents, Ranga Didi and even some of
the neighbours crowded near the door. Tears and recriminations
followed. The men of the village decided that I was the biggest
scoundrel they had ever seen and threatened to teach me a lesson.
My wily Thakurdada shut up like a clam and so did everyone else.
But above all considerations loomed the spectre of the girl who had
passed marriageable age five years ago. Putu crept about the house
in abject humiliation and her mother cursed her incessantly. ‘Ill fated,
wretched girl!’ she lamented over and over again. ‘She was born to
bring me disgrace and ruin. What accursed destiny made me bear
her in my womb!’
I thought the cursed destiny was Putu’s—not her mother’s. My
heart went out to her and to all the miserable girls who had had the
misfortune of being born among us.
I gave Thakurdada my Calcutta address the day before I left. ‘I
need someone’s permission before I marry,’ I said. ‘If I get it, I’ll
come back.’
Thakurdada’s face crumpled and he took my hands in his old,
trembling ones. ‘Do your best to get it, son. The girl is as good as
dead—as you can see.’
‘I’m confident there’ll be no objection.’
‘When shall I come to you?’
‘In a week or so.’
Ranga Didi and Putu’s parents came with me to the door. There
were tears in everyone’s eyes. I felt a curious relief. I had as good as
given my word. Now there was no looking back. Rajlakshmi would
give her consent. I had not a doubt of that.
 2

I REACHED THE STATION JUST IN TIME TO SEE THE

CALCUTTA TRAIN GLIDE past. There were a couple of hours to go
before the next one came. I was looking around for some diversion
when a young man came up and peering into my face asked,
smiling, ‘You’re Srikanta, aren’t you?’
‘Yes—
‘Don’t you recognize me? I’m Gahar.’ He grasped me by the hand
so tightly that I winced. Then, twining an arm around my neck, he
said, ‘Where were you going? To Calcutta? Go another day. Come
home with me.’
Gahar was a friend of my pathshala days. He was four years older
than I and had always been somewhat eccentric. For one thing, he
would never take ‘no’ for an answer. I could see that, with age, this
inability had grown. I realized that I was in his clutches, for the night
at least, and the thought made me quake. Oblivious of the fact that I
had not responded with half his fervour, he slung my bag across his
shoulder and, calling a carriage, practically pushed me in. The
village in which he lived was a couple of miles away from mine along
the riverbank. We had played about in the woods as children,
shooting birds with an ancient musket that had belonged to his
father. I used to go to their house often in those days. His mother
was always glad to see me and would give me big bowls of muri
mixed with milk, banana and molasses. They were wealthy and had
plenty of land.
‘Where were you all these years, Srikanta?’ Gahar asked as soon
as the carriage started moving.
‘Here and there,’ I gave a brief resume of my past and asked,
‘What do you do, Gahar?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How is your mother?’
 ‘Dead. I’ve lost both my parents. I’m alone in the world.’
‘You didn’t marry?’
‘She’s dead too.’
I understood why he was so eager for company. For want of
anything better to say, I asked, ‘Do you still have that musket,
Gahar?’
Gahar laughed delightedly. ‘What a memory you have, Srikanta!
Yes, I have it. And a rifle I bought some years ago. If you wish to go
shooting I’ll come with you. But I don’t kill birds anymore. I can’t bear
to see them die.’
‘Strange! There was a time when you thought of nothing but
shooting birds.’
‘True. But I’ve given it up.’
There was another side to Gahar’s personality. He was a poet. As
a child he had a marvellous gift. He could reel out rhymed stanzas
on any subject conceivable. I realize now, that the rhymes were
doggerel and the ideas trite but I can never forget the excitement
with which I would hear him recount the exploits of Raja Tikendrajit in
the battle of Manipur.
‘You remember you wanted to write a Ramayana that would put
Krittibas to shame? Have you abandoned the project?’ I asked with a
mixture of amusement and curiosity.
Gahar’s face grew solemn in an instant. ‘Such projects are not
conceived to be abandoned, Srikanta. I’ve been working on it day
and night—for years. It’s my whole existence. I’ll read out some
extracts to you, tonight, if you don’t believe me.’
His eyes shone with poetic fervour while mine grew dim with
anxious fears. If he carried out his threat I may well be kept awake
the whole night. ‘It was an idle question, Gahar,’ I said, quickly. ‘I
knew you would do it. I’m proud of you.’
‘You’ll be prouder after you’ve read what I’ve written. I shouldn’t
boast about it, but—’
 ‘I don’t feel well at all,’ I said, desperately. ‘I’ve been feverish since
morning. I’m dying to go to bed.’
But the vanquisher of Krittibas brushed my ailments aside. ‘You
remember that part,’ he cried enthusiastically, ‘when Sita is being
carried away in the chariot? When she flings off her ornaments, one
by one? I tell you, truly, Srikanta, whoever reads it has tears in his
eyes. You will too.’
‘But—’
‘You remember old Nayan Chand Chakravarty? He comes over
every evening. “Baba Gahar,” he says, “Just read that passage out
to me once again. You are no Mussalman, my son. The purest of
pure Brahmin blood must flow in your veins to make you write like
that.”’
The name Nayan Chand, being an uncommon one, rang a bell.
‘Nayan Chand Chakravarty?’ I exclaimed. ‘That wily old man who
was your father’s bitterest enemy—’
‘The same. There was a long court case and Chakravarty moshai
lost it. His property was auctioned and my father bought it up—lands,
orchards and even the ancestral house. After Baba’s death, I
returned the house and the bit of pond from which they draw their
water. They are very poor, Srikanta. I couldn’t bear the old man’s
tears.’
‘I trust his tears have dried by now,’ I said, beginning to
understand the old man’s fascination for Gahar’s verse.
‘He is a good man at heart,’ Gahar replied. ‘He did worry Baba a
great deal, I know. But that was because he was up to his ears in
debt. All men turn nasty when they are cornered. We have a mango
grove of theirs, each sapling of which Chakravarty moshai planted
with his own hands. The trees get laden with fruit every summer. He
has so many grandchildren and I have no one—’
‘True. Why don’t you return it to him?’
‘I ought to. The poor are so deprived, Srikanta. When all the other
villagers are gorging themselves on mangoes and jackfruit, the little
ones look on with hungry eyes. All my other orchards are leased out
to traders but not this one. I’ve told Chakravarty moshai that his
grandchildren can pick as many mangoes as they like.’
I told myself that Gahar was a poet. Naturally he was indifferent to
material things. And if poverty-stricken Nayan Chakravarty was
making a living out of this indifference, who was I to complain?
It was the middle of Chaitra* and spring was in the air. Gahar
opened the door of the carriage and a warm, sweet wind, laden with
the scent of bakul flowers, gushed in.
‘The wind from the south,’ Gahar murmured. ‘Do you feel it,
Srikanta?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Do you know how the poet welcomes spring? Aaj dakshin duar
khola (the door to the south is open today). Have you heard the
song, Srikanta?’
Before I could reply, the wind churned up masses of dust and
dried leaves from the path and lashed out at our clothes and hair.
‘Shut the door, Gahar,’ I said irritably. ‘Or you may have to change
the words of your song. Yama may walk in through your dakshin
duar if you’re not careful.’
Gahar laughed and cried ecstatically, ‘Spring! Enchanting spring!
The shaddock trees are bursting with bloom. You can smell them a
kos** away. The rose-apple tree in my yard is smothered with
madhavi vines. The malati vine is yet to flower but every tendril is
heavy with buds. And the mango trees are weighed down with
moul***. Bees hum from out of the flowers and nightingales and
cuckoos sing all day long. Even the nights, warm and sweet with
moonlight, are resonant with the cuckoo’s call. If you keep your
window open you won’t sleep a wink for the scents and sounds of
the night. I’ll tell you straightaway, Srikanta. I’m not letting go of you
in a hurry. As for your meals—Chakravarty moshai will arrange
everything. I only have to tell him. He’ll look after you as if you were
his gurudev.
 I was carried away by Gahar’s warmth and memories of our
shared boyhood. I was seeing him after so many years but he was
the same Gahar, the simple, unaffected boy of nature he had always
been. His delight at our reunion was genuine and heartfelt. A wave
of nostalgia swept over me!
Gahar came from a line of fakirs. I have heard that his grandfather
went from village to village singing Ramprasadi songs and begging
for alms for a living. He had a pet blackbird whose singing prowess
was famed in those days. Gahar’s father had abandoned the family
vocation and started a jute business that had brought him plenty of
money. He acquired a lot of property and, later in life, became a
prosperous moneylender. It was obvious that Gahar had not
inherited his father’s business capabilities. He was a throw-back of
his fakir ancestors and their love of poetry and music flowed strongly
in his blood. I had grave doubts about his ability to hold on to the
wealth that his father had amassed for him.
As the carriage clattered over the narrow track, I was
overwhelmed with memories. I dimly recalled the house and the thick
jungle one had to cross in order to reach it. Suddenly Gahar gave a
shout, ‘Stop! Stop!’ and the horses were jerked to a halt startling me
considerably. Gahar leaped out of the carriage crying, ‘Get out,
Srikanta. Give me your bag.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘The horses can’t go any further. Don’t you see there’s no path?’
It was true. In front of me, as far as the eye could see, stretched a
sea of thornberry bushes and clumps of reeds so tall and thick that
they blotted out whatever light was left in the sky. I followed Gahar
into the dim wilderness, my clothes getting torn and skin being
pricked by thorns and rough branches. By the time we reached the
poet’s haven, the sun had set and the soft darkness of a spring night
was upon us. Around the house were dense forests of bamboos and
reeds out of which, if one were to believe Gahar, cuckoos and
nightingales sang all day long, driving the poet to the brink of a
divine frenzy. But now they were silent. The only sounds to be heard
were the rushing of the wind and the crackle of fallen leaves as they
swept into the house, covering the yard and the veranda and even
the floors of the rooms. Soon a bright moon would rise, silvering the
forest and lending it magic and mystery, but now there was no light
except from the lantern that Gahar had lit to guide me to my room.
An elderly servant turned a key in a rusty old lock and said, ‘You will
sleep here, Babu.’
I peered into the room. The wind from the south had come in
before me through a window our host had left hospitably open, and
had covered the wooden cot and floor with dry leaves and creepers.
I was afraid to step in for who knew what lurked in the masses of
leaves? Even in the dim light I noticed a couple of holes in the
earthen floor. ‘Don’t you ever use this room, Gahar?’ I shivered
involuntarily.
‘I don’t need to,’ he answered, carelessly. ‘One needs only one
room to sleep in. I’ll get it all cleaned up tomorrow, Srikanta.’
‘But there might be snakes in these holes.’
‘There were two snakes,’ the servant informed me, ‘but they’ve
gone. Snakes never stay indoors in spring. The south wind draws
them out.’
‘Who told you that, mian?’
Gahar gave a roar of laughter. ‘He’s no mian.* He’s Nabin. Don’t
you remember? He used to look after the cows. Now he’s my friend,
guide and counsellor. He does everything for me and knows what I
have better than I do.’
I remembered Nabin but that didn’t help me overcome my fears. I
was convinced that he had caught the ‘south wind’ fever from his
master and was not to be trusted. ‘What you say may be true,
Nabin,’ I said. ‘The wind may draw them out of doors. But what is to
prevent them from coming in?’
Gahar realized that my fears were genuine. He said in a
comforting tone, ‘Even if they come in they’ll crawl on the floor. You’ll
be on the bed. Besides, snakes are everywhere. How can one
escape them? Even Raja Parikshit couldn’t. Who are we? Sweep the
floor, Nabin, and put bricks over the holes. What will you eat tonight,
Srikanta?’
‘Whatever I get.’
‘We have muri, milk and molasses. If you could make do with that
—just for tonight.’
‘Excellent! Excellent! That’s just what I’m used to eating in this
house. But please get a large brick to cover the hole, Nabin. I don’t
want the creeping pair to come romancing into my room after they’ve
had their fill of moonlight.’
Nabin peered under the bed and shook his head mournfully.
‘Impossible!’ he said.
‘What is impossible, Nabin?’
‘To cover the holes. There are far too many of them. We’ll need a
cartload of bricks.’
Gahar didn’t seem unduly agitated by the announcement. ‘Get it
done tomorrow,’ he told Nabin. ‘Now fetch water for Babu to wash.
And some muri and milk.’
‘What will you have, Gahar?’ I asked after a while, digging into my
bowl.
‘An old aunt of mine lives with me. I’ll have whatever she has
cooked. After we’ve both eaten, I’ll read out the passage I promised.
Shall I ask Nabin to make the bed? I can spend the night here with
you, if you like.’
‘No, Gahar. I’m very tired and need some rest. I’ll hear what you’ve
written tomorrow morning.’
‘Will you have the time?’
‘Why not?’
Gahar thought for a while and said, ‘I’ve got an idea. You could lie
down with your eyes shut while I read. I’ll go away the moment you
fall asleep.’
 ‘No, Gahar,’ I begged. ‘Not tonight. I can’t insult your Ramayana
by falling asleep in the middle of it. Tomorrow morning, when my
brain is fresh and clear, I’ll hear it with full concentration.’
A shadow fell across Gahar’s face. My heart was saddened as I
watched him leave the room. I realized that his ambition of a lifetime
would never be fulfilled. No one would publish his work Nor would
anyone read it. He had hummed snatches from his Ramayana in the
carriage as we came and I had known, instantly, that they held no
promise. He had inherited a love of poetry from his fakir ancestors
but had done nothing to cultivate it. He had little education and no
knowledge at all of what lay outside his native village. All he had was
faith—in himself and in the world. I lay on my bed and murmured to
myself, ‘Twelve years of unstinted labour! Twelve years of
unwavering devotion to an idea conceived in childhood! And what is
it worth? Not even the cost of the paper it is written on.’
Gahar shook me awake early next morning. He wanted me to
experience the full glory of a spring morning in rural Bengal. From
the way he was behaving I might have come from England. Having
had a taste of his insistence, I made no effort to shake him off. I
washed my face and accompanied him to the yard where a partially
blighted rose-apple tree stood in a corner. A madhavi vine had
entwined itself in some of its branches and a few bunches of flowers
bloomed half-heartedly right on top of the tree. A young malati vine,
newly in bud, was seen climbing up the ancient trunk from the other
side. My poet-friend wanted to give me some flowers but they were
so far beyond his reach and such streams of black ants darted up
and down the trunk that even he was daunted.
‘I’ll pull some down with a pole after the sun rises. Come along,’ he
said, taking my arm.
Nabin, who had been puffing away at his early morning hookah in
a corner of the yard, coughed and spat noisily. ‘Don’t go into the
jungle,’ he said, shaking an authoritative hand.
‘Why not?’ Gahar asked testily.
 ‘Some mad jackals are on a rampage.’ He thrust his chin out in the
direction of the jungle. ‘A number of children and cows have been
bitten.’
I stepped back a pace. ‘Where are these jackals, Nabin?’
‘How can I say? They lurk about in the bushes. Keep a sharp look
out if you insist on going.’
‘I’m not going, Gahar.’
‘Not going? Dogs and jackals get into a frenzy sometimes in this
season but people don’t lock themselves in their houses because of
that.’
Having no arguments to counter Gahar’s, I was obliged to follow
him into the jungle to feast my eyes on the beauties of nature. As we
walked through a mango grove, innumerable insects flew down from
the globes of blossom, buzzing around my ears and getting into my
eyes and hair. At my feet, masses of dry leaves, sticky with the
dripping juice of new-forming fruit, clung to my shoes making them
slip and slither uncomfortably. At places, the narrow track was
overgrown with reeds and sprawling bushes of ghentu flowers and
wild fig. I remembered Nabin’s warning and quickened my steps.
And thus we came to the edge of the river—the same river along
whose banks we had played as children. I remembered it as broad
and beautiful and swollen with monsoon rain. But now the banks
stretched vast and dry on either side of a thin trickle and the bitter,
pungent smell of drying lichen and rotting hyacinth was foul in my
nostrils. Some silk-cotton trees on the opposite bank were splashed
with scarlet blooms but even the poet was too discouraged by now to
point them out to me.
‘Shall we go home, Srikanta?’
‘Yes.’
‘I love the earth and sky of the month of Chaitra. I thought you
would too.’
‘I will—when I can see them with your eyes.’
‘Are my eyes different? Is that why the villagers—’
 ‘The poet’s eye is always different. It imbues the commonest
reality with beauty and enchantment. That doesn’t mean your vision
is defective. What you see is as true as what the rest of the world
sees. Be satisfied with that, my friend.’
On the way back, we came across a tree whose trunk had been
stripped of its bark—for medicinal purposes, presumably. Gahar
started trembling at the sight and tears sprang up in his eyes.
Looking at him I stumbled on a profound truth. Nayan Chand
Chakravarty had not regained his properly through flattery and wiles
as I had thought. The reason for it lay within Gahar himself, his
excessive sensitivity to suffering. Much of my anger and dislike of
the old man melted away.
As soon as we reached home, Gahar took out his manuscript—the
size of which would have daunted men far more daring than I. ‘You’ll
have to read the whole of it,’ he said, ‘and give me your opinion.
Promise me you won’t leave before you’ve reached the end.’
I didn’t make any promises. Nevertheless, seven days passed
before I took my leave. This period was spent in reading and
discussing, sessions which were neither educative nor entertaining.
But, during those seven days of close companionship, I gained
something of great value. I gradually awoke to a true sense of the
beauty of Gahar’s character.
One morning, Gahar said, ‘Do you have to go to Burma, Srikanta?
We are both alone in the world. Why don’t we spend our lives
together, here, where we were born?’
‘I’m not a poet like you, Gahar,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I don’t
understand the language of the trees. I would get stifled to death in
this dense jungle.’
Gahar’s face grew solemn. ‘You are right, Srikanta. Trees have a
language of their own. And I know it. You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘I find it difficult, I must confess.’
‘Yes, it is difficult,’ Gahar murmured. Suddenly he posed a
question, ‘Have you ever been in love, Srikanta?’
 I looked up, startled. I had been up half the night writing a long
letter—perhaps my last—to Rajlakshmi. I had described my meeting
with Thakurdada and the circumstances in which I was caught. I had
also sought her permission to marry Putu. With that letter still in my
pocket, I laughed and answered, ‘No.’
‘If you ever do, if such a day comes in your life—write me a letter.’
‘Why, Gahar?’
‘I’ll come and stay with you for a few days. And if you ever need
money, don’t hesitate to ask. Baba left me a lot of money. I have no
use for it—but you may.’
Tears pricked my eyelids. I said. ‘I’ll remember your offer, Gahar.
But, if you truly love me, pray that the need never arises.’
On the day of my departure, Gahar came with me to the station,
my bag slung, once again, across his shoulder. I tried to take it away
from him. So did Nabin. But he clung to it as if it were his dearest
possession. As I stepped onto the train, he burst out crying loudly
and unashamedly—like a woman.
‘Come and see me, Srikanta, once at least, before you leave for
Burma.’
I couldn’t turn down his appeal. ‘I promise,’ I said.
‘Write me a letter as soon as you reach Calcutta.’
‘I will.’
When I reached my lodgings, late that evening, I found Ratan
outside, on the steps.
‘Why, Ratan? What brings you here?’
‘I’ve been here since yesterday waiting for you, Babu. I’ve brought
a letter.’
I understood that the letter was in reply to mine. ‘It could have
been sent through the post,’ I said. ‘Why did you have to come all
the way to Calcutta?’
‘The post is for ordinary people like you and me, Babu. Ma’s
letters have to be carried by a special messenger or they get lost. It
doesn’t matter if he starves and dies on the way—’
 I found out, later, that Ratan’s allegation was false. It was he,
himself, who had begged and pleaded with Rajlakshmi to send him
to me. The discomfort of the journey and the long wait outside my
door had harassed him to a point of gross injustice to his mistress.
‘Come in, Ratan,’ I said. ‘Have a bath and something to eat. The
letter can wait.’
Ratan touched my feet and stood up. ‘Yes, Babu,’ he said.
 3

THE SOUND OF A LOUD BELCH MADE ME LOOK UP. RATAN

STOOD IN THE room patting his stomach lovingly.
‘Had a good meal, Ratan?’
‘Yes, Babu. A very good meal. Our Bihari maharaj can learn a
thing or two from the Calcutta cooks, whatever you may say.’
I don’t remember ever holding a brief for the maharaj either before
Ratan or anyone else. But I did not point that out. I understood that
this was in a manner of speaking, an expression of his supreme
satisfaction at the meal he had eaten.
‘The journey was rough,’ he continued, suppressing a yawn. ‘I
need some rest.’
‘Spread your bedding in a corner of the veranda and go to sleep.
We can talk tomorrow morning.’
For some reason I was not anxious to see the letter. I knew what it
contained and the knowledge depressed me. However, when Ratan
brought it out from the pocket of his fatua,* I put out a hand and took
it. It was in a long envelope heavily sealed with lac. I turned it over in
my hand, hesitating.
‘I’ll lie down just below the window,’ Ratan said. ‘There’s a fine
breeze blowing. Thank God there are no mosquitoes here like in
Kashi.’
‘How are they all in Kashi, Ratan? Well, I hope.’
‘Well, enough, I suppose,’ Ratan pulled a long face. ‘Thanks to
Gurudev the outer rooms are crammed with people from dawn to
dusk. And, within the house, Banku Babu and Bou-ma (his wife) hold
court with their servants and maids. And Ma? Well, you know Ma.
I’m a very old servant and a barber by caste. No one can fool me.
That’s why I offered to go with you to Burma. I knew that serving you
would be the best way of serving her.’
I looked at him in surprise. I didn’t understand.
 ‘Banku Babu is a grown man now—a married man,’ Ratan
continued. ‘What is more, he has had some education and takes
himself very seriously on account of it. He is his own master and he
wants everyone to know it. He has managed to acquire quite a bit of
property in his own right—thanks to the deed of gift. But how long
can that last?’
I still didn’t understand, though an idea was slowly forming in my
mind. But, by now, Ratan was on a different track. ‘You’ve seen, with
your own eyes, how often she has asked me to leave her service. I
can go back to my village. I have enough to live on. But I don’t. Do
you know why? Because it is through her generosity that I acquired
whatever I have. And if I cause her pain it will all vanish before my
eyes. I have never told anyone about my past because Ma has
forbidden me to talk about it. But I’ll tell you, Babu. I had to leave my
ancestral village, in search of a living, after my uncles cheated me
out of my inheritance. It was my great good fortune that I found
service with Ma. After a year, when I asked for leave to see my wife
and children, Ma put a bundle of notes in my hand and said, “Don’t
quarrel with your uncles, Ratan. Buy back your share with this
money.” There was five hundred rupees—can you believe it, Babu? I
thought I was dreaming. And Banku Babu! He contradicts her to her
face and says cutting things and grumbles within her hearing. I tell
myself that his spell of luck is coming to an end.’
I was shocked, for I hadn’t anticipated anything like this. Ratan
went on, his breast heaving with indignation. ‘Ma has never stinted
over anything. She has given Banku more than he ever dreamed of
having in seven lives. That is why he has lost his head. He treats his
benefactress like a liability. After one has drained out all the honey,
of what use is the comb? Fool that he is, he does not know that with
even one of the jewels she still has in her possession she could buy
five houses of the kind she has given him.’
I hadn’t known either. ‘Really!’ I exclaimed. ‘Where does she keep
them?’
 ‘In safe custody,’ Ratan smiled. ‘Ma is not a fool. The only person
for whom she would willingly give up everything is you. Banku does
not know that, while you live, Ma needs no other protection. And
while Ratan lives—no other servant. Ma’s heart was torn to pieces
the day you came away from Kashi. Only I could see it. Not Banku.
Not even Gurudev.’
‘But your mistress didn’t want me to stay. You know that well
enough.’
Ratan touched his ears and bit his tongue, a gesture that
apologized for his presuming to contradict me. ‘I’m only a humble
servant, Babu. But I’ll say that’s a lie. I won’t hear a word against
Ma.’ He left the room. He was fatigued with the journey and needed
his sleep.
I sat up for a long time after Ratan’s departure, mulling over the
news he had given me. I had first seen Banku in Ara when he was a
boy of sixteen. I remembered his loving tenderness for the
stepmother who had taken him out of an obscure village, brought
him to the city, educated him and given him an identity. Now he was
twenty-one, married, and a man of means. If his complacency
outweighed his gratitude who could blame him? Was it not the way
of the world? If he was insensitive to Rajlakshmi’s deepest feelings—
so was Gurudev, if one was to believe Ratan.
I slit open the envelope and drew out the letter. Rajlakshmi had
evidently taken great pains with her writing for it was much more
legible than her usual hand. The reason was obvious. This was one
letter she wanted me to read from beginning to end, word by word. I
didn’t expect anything much beyond a permission to marry Putu and
a few words of sympathy and advice. Nevertheless, my hand
trembled as I held it. This is what she wrote.
Kashidham
With her humblest greetings your servant presents:
I’ve just read your letter for the hundredth time. And I wonder which of
us has gone mad—you or I. I didn’t pick you off the trees as I did my
bainchi berries. God gave you to me after a long and arduous struggle.
Thus the right to abandon me does not rest with you.
In my earliest childhood, I strung garlands of bainchi and gave them to
you as tokens of worship. My little hands bled from the thorns and the
rose-coloured berries were stained with the hues of the deepest crimson.
But, blind as you were, you could not read the letters that were etched in
blood over your neck and breast. God could and He did. My garland
reached His feet though it did not touch your soul.
Then a terrible storm burst over my head. Dark clouds spread like a
stain over my moon-washed sky. I look back and wonder. Was it a
dream? Was it really I who was so grievously afflicted? I do not search
too deep for fear of losing my sanity. But, at moments, when memory is
rudely awakened, I try to drown it by muttering a name over and over
again. I cannot mention that name. No one can. But I have not a doubt
that if he forgives me—God will, too. Here my courage does not fail.
What was I saying? Oh! Yes. A storm burst over my head. Shame and
humiliation blotted out the light of my eyes. The garb of disgrace was
flung on me. But it was only a garb, wasn’t it? The real me eluded the
world and lay waiting in silence, in secret. If it wasn’t so, if the demon of
my past had truly swallowed me up, would I have had the power to
receive you when you came?
Twenty-seven summers have passed over this frame. Youth is a thing
of the past and so are its desires. Don’t misunderstand me. If you do, the
shame would be too grievous to be borne—even though my life admits
nothing but shame. Banku is no longer a child. I have a daughter-in-law.
How shall I face them on the day of your wedding? With what shall I
support the humiliation? And if you are sick or in trouble who will look
after you? Putu? And I? Shall I receive your news from the servant and
come away from your door? Will I ever live down the disgrace?
Now you may pose a question. You may ask if you are, then, to be
condemned to a solitary existence for all time to come. But whatever be
your question, it is not for me to provide the answer. That task is yours. If
you can’t, if your mind and brain are truly dead, I can lend you some of
mine. You needn’t repay the loan but don’t forget to acknowledge it. You
believe, don’t you, that Gurudev has educated me in the value of
renunciation, the Shastras have shown me the path and Sunanda has
instilled in me her own devotion and piety. And you—you have been the
burden on my back. How blind you men are!
I have a question I want you to put to yourself. We parted when I was
but a child. When you came back to me I was a woman of twenty-three.
Where, in all those years, was Sunanda? Or Gurudev?
 I had drought I would wipe out my sins. I had wanted to purify myself.
Not in the hope of heaven but in the hope of being reborn. Do you
understand why? The stream of my life had become muddied and foul. I
had sought to cleanse it. I never dreamed that it would dry up at the
source. If it does, of what use are my prayers, my fasts, my penitential
rites?
I have no desire to take my own life. But I can’t live the life of an
outcast. I can take poison from your hand but banishment—never. You
know me. If the sun sets I shall not have the patience to wait for another
dawn.
Rajlakshmi

I breathed a sigh of relief as I folded the epistle. Its commanding

tone hurt but the words fell like a blessed rain on my heart. By
withholding her consent, Rajlakshmi had saved me from marriage
with Putu. But what was I to do now? How I was to elude my captors,
was a problem she had completely ignored. Thakurdada would be
here any day for I had promised him that the permission would be
forthcoming. Preparations for the wedding would have started and
the unfortunate girl, past marriageable age, would be ecstatic at the
prospect. Her parents would have given over cursing and lamenting
their fate and started treating her with kindness and consideration. I
knew what I would tell Thakurdada but I didn’t know how. The
ruthless dunning and irrational insistence that I anticipated hardened
my heart but the thought of Putu and her treatment at the hands of
her baulked and infuriated relatives melted it and brought tears to my
eyes. I lay awake in bed hour after hour. Memories of Gangamati
wove in and out with thoughts of Putu and Thakurdada. Gangamati!
Those brief weeks of tasting the forbidden fruit. Those honeyed days
of sunshine and laughter. Those nights—deep and tender and
poignant. There had been moments of pain, of separation even, but
we had borne them with dignity. No taunts or recriminations ever
darkened the sky of Gangamati. The villagers loved us. They
awaited our return not knowing that the blossom of dawn wilts and
withers by dusk and is blown away by the wind.
 My eyes burned with staring into the dark but I prayed, like one
possessed, that the night be endless. My supplications—to whom I
did not know—grew more agonized as the night wore on. The image
of Rajlakshmi, going about her work with a smile on her lips, in the
little thatched house with the earthen yard, flashed over and over
again before my eyes. Never again would I know the peace and
contentment of those days.
As I lay awake, ruminating, I made a curious discovery. I had
always thought of myself as weak and ineffectual and had been
caught by Rajlakshmi, time and again, in droughts and acts of
cowardice. Tonight, I discovered where her weakness lay. She knew
I was sickly and often ill. She couldn’t endure the thought of another
woman looking after me while she stood outside—an alien in my life.
She could give up everything in the world but not the right to nurse
me in sickness. She would gladly embrace a physical death but she
could never support the psychic death that such a deprivation would
bring in its wake. The threat contained in her letter was not an idle
one.
I must have fallen asleep with the first glimpse of dawn for it was
broad daylight when Ratan shook me awake. ‘There’s an old
gentleman downstairs asking for you. He’s just arrived in a carriage.’
Thakurdada! But would he come in a carriage? ‘There’s a girl of
seventeen or eighteen with him.’ I rose from my bed, trembling with
anger. The old man’s shamelessness and insensitivity were really
insupportable. To drag the poor girl all the way to Calcutta! ‘Bring
them upstairs to this room, Ratan,’ I commanded. ‘I’m going down for
a wash.’
When I returned, an hour or so later, Thakurdada rose to welcome
me as if he was the host and I the guest. ‘Come, come, son. I trust
you are in good health. Putu!’
Putu, who had been standing by the window, came forward and
touched my feet. Thakurdada said, by way of explanation, ‘Putu’s
mashi is married to a hakim in Diamond Harbour. He’sa very rich
man—earns five hundred rupees a month. They can’t come to the
wedding so I thought I’d bring the girl along to visit them before she
gets married.’ He paused to take a breath and continued, ‘They may
be rich and important but I won’t let them off so easily. I’ll insist they
come to the wedding. The presence of a hakim will prevent all kinds
of mischief. You don’t know our village politics, Srikanta.’
I had a feeling that this information was significant in some way.
Ratan brought tobacco in a new hookah and offered it to Thakurdada
who gave him a long and level stare. ‘I seem to have seen this man
somewhere,’ he said in a sombre voice.
‘Yes, Babu,’ Ratan said enthusiastically. ‘I came to your house
when Srikanta Babu was ill.’
Thakurdada’s face grew dark and ominous as he remembered the
incident. He was an extremely wily man, so he swallowed his wrath
and said in a voice he fought to control, ‘I thought it best to complete
the formalities of betrothal as soon as possible. So I looked into the
almanac before coming. Today is a good day. I can take your servant
with me to the new market and buy everything we need. After all, this
is Calcutta.’
I was so agitated that I couldn’t frame a full sentence. I shook my
head violently and said, ‘No!’
‘Why not? The hours of the forenoon are extremely auspicious. Do
you have an almanac?’
‘I don’t need one. I am not getting married.’
Thakurdada rested his hookah against the wall and prepared
himself for battle. He said gently but gravely, ‘A girl’s marriage is no
joke—as you well know. You can’t go back on your word. The
arrangements are all complete.’
I was aware of Putu standing by the window and of Ratan listening
by the door. Nevertheless, I said as firmly as I could, ‘You know, as
well as I do, that I made no promise. I said! would ask someone for
permission.’
‘You didn’t get the permission?’
 ‘No.’
Thakurdada thought for a while and said, ‘Putu’s father is ready to
spend a thousand rupees. If we put a little pressure he will raise the
sum by a hundred or two. What do you say?’
Ratan entered the room and stretched out a hand for the hookah.
‘Shall I change the tobacco, Babu?’
‘Yes. What is your name, boy?’
‘Ratan.’
‘A fine name. Where do you live?’
‘In Kashi.’
‘Oh! So madam is in Kashi, is she? What does she do there?’
Ratan reared up suddenly. ‘Is that any of your business?’
Thakurdada lifted a hand and smiled benignly at him. ‘Why do you
lose your temper, son? I didn’t mean any offence. I’ve known her
from the time she was a little girl. Naturally, I’m interested in her
welfare. Besides, I may have to visit her shortly. Who knows?’
Ratan took the hookah from his hand without a word and brought it
back, freshly packed, in a few minutes. Thakurdada took a few deep
pulls and rose abruptly. ‘Wait, wait,’ he cried. ‘In which direction is
the lavatory? I had to leave very early, so I—’ and he ran out of the
room after Ratan’s retreating back.
Now, Putu turned from the window and said, ‘Don’t believe a word
of what Dadu (Grandpa) says. My father is a poor man. He doesn’t
have a thousand rupees. He borrowed the ornaments for Didi’s
wedding and now her in-laws have driven her out. They are
arranging another match for their son.’
‘You mean it’s all a bluff? Your father can’t spend a thousand
rupees?’ I cried, shocked.
Putu shook her head. ‘Baba earns only forty rupees a month and
there are so many of us. My brother’s name got struck off the school
register because we couldn’t pay the fees. He cries and cries—’ Her
lips trembled and her eyes grew moist.
 ‘Is that why your father can’t find a husband for you? Because he
has no money?’
‘Yes. Baba wanted to marry me off to our neighbour—Amulya
Babu. His daughters are much older than I. Ma threatened to jump
into the wel so Baba was forced to call it off. But now—’
‘Are you prepared to marry me, Putu?’
Putu blushed and nodded.
‘But I’m old too. Nearly fifteen years older than you.’
Putu smiled and looked down at her feet. She didn’t speak.
‘Was any other match ever arranged for you?’
‘Yes.’ Putu lifted her head and a note of happiness crept into her
voice. ‘With Kalidas Babu’s youngest son—Sasadhar. You know
Kalidas Babu of your village? Sasadhar is only a little older than I
and very clever. He has passed his BA.’
‘Do you like Sasadhar?’
Putu giggled delightedly.
‘But suppose Sasadhar doesn’t like you?’
‘He does like me. He walks up and down the path outside our
house. Didima (Grandma) says it’s because of me.’
‘Why didn’t the marriage take place, then?’
A shadow fell across Putu’s laughing face. ‘His father wanted a
thousand rupees in cash and another thousand in gold ornaments.
And the expense of the wedding would come to another five
hundred. Where would my father find all that money? Only a
zamindar could spend so much on one daughter. Ma fell at his
mother’s feet and begged. But they wouldn’t listen—’
‘Didn’t Sasadhar say anything?’
‘What could he say? He’s very young and he can’t go against his
parents.’
‘True. Is he married already?’
‘Not yet. I hear a marriage is to be arranged for him—very soon.’
I put a hand on her head and asked gently, ‘Supposing you are the
bride and they don’t love you—what will you do then?’
 ‘Why shouldn’t they love me? I can cook and sew and do every
kind of housework. I’ll do all their work for them.’
I sighed. That is all that simple village girls like Putu know, I
thought. To toil like beasts and hope for love! I smiled at her. ‘Putu,
you promise you’ll work hard and win their love?’
‘I promise.’
‘Then go home and tell your mother that Srikanta Dada will send
the money as soon as he can.’
‘You’ll give the money?’ Putu lifted her large, dark eyes to my face.
‘Then you’ll come to the wedding?’
‘I will.’
At this point, Thakurdada walked in wiping his face with the edge
of his dhoti. ‘Ahh!’ he sighed in satisfaction. ‘Where is Ratan? He can
fetch me a fresh bowl of tobacco, can’t he?’
 4

THAT GOOD ADVICE IS USELESS, FOR THE SIMPLE REASON

THAT IT IS NEVER taken, is a fundamental truth. Yet, like all truths,
it has exceptions. One such exception occurred in my life and I’d like
to tell my readers about it.
Hearing my proposal, Thakurdada beamed from ear to ear. Putu
fell at my feet and knocked her head on the tiles in gratitude. But the
moment they left, I was overcome with regret. I felt so frustrated—I
could’ve banged my head against the wall. What had I done? Why
had I pledged the savings of my years of exile to people I knew
nothing about and cared for even less? Who was the girl? What was
she to me? Till I saw her on the train, I hadn’t even known she
existed. And that oily scoundrel, Thakurdada! How cleverly he had
caught me in his web! I wished he would never get home. I wished
him dead on the spot but something told me that men of his type
were indestructible. He would be here next weekend, the hakim with
him, perhaps, and would get the money out of me even if the world
came to an end. The more I thought about it, the more enraged I got
—with myself, with Putu, with Thakurdada and the whole clan of
parasites.
The thing to do was to escape—to Burma. I rushed to the booking
office but, alas, all the tickets were sold. There was nothing for me
but to wait for the next boat and that was not due for another week. I
thought of changing my lodgings but that was easier said than done.
Who would rent me rooms for only a week? Matters were further
complicated by the continued presence of Ratan. He made no move,
whatsoever, to go back to Kashi.
‘I’ve written a letter to your mistress, Ratan,’ I hinted delicately.
‘Would you like to take it back with you tomorrow?’
‘Oh no!’ Ratan said, comfortably. ‘Now that I’m here I’ll stay for a
while and see the sights. I have never been to the museum or the
zoo. Who knows when I can come again?’
‘But your mistress will be worried about you.’
‘I’ve written to her saying that I need a rest. My bones are still
rattling from the train journey.’
‘But my letter—’
‘Give it to me. I’ll send it by registered post. Ma will get it in a
couple of days.’
I sat in glum silence. The sly fox of a barber was too clever for me!
His next sentence confirmed not only his intelligence but his superior
knowledge of the world.
‘I would like to ask you a question, Babu, if you don’t mind the
impertinence.’
‘Yes. What is it, Ratan?’
‘Two thousand and five hundred rupees is a great deal of money.
Who are these people? What is the girl to you that you pledged such
a large sum for her wedding? Besides, anyone can see that the old
man is a crook. You shouldn’t have fallen into his trap, Babu.’
Ratan’s comment was just what I was looking for. It strengthened
and comforted me. ‘You are right, Ratan,’ I said. ‘I should have been
more careful. But I haven’t given him the money yet. I won’t give it—
that’s all.’
‘You think he’ll let you off?’ Ratan stared.
‘What can he do? I haven’t put down anything in writing, have I?
Besides, I may not even be here when he arrives. I may have left for
Burma.’
Ratan smiled ruefully and shook his head. ‘You don’t know the old
man and his breed, Babu. Where money is in question he’ll let
nothing stand in his way—shame and censure least of all. He’ll beg,
weep, sulk, threaten, even blackmail but he’ll get it out of you. And if
you aren’t here when he comes, he’ll catch the first train to Kashi
and get it out of Ma. That will be terribly humiliating for her. You’d
better abandon your plan, Babu.’
 Ratan’s words shocked me into silence. He was right. I had
indulged the emotion of a moment and I would have to pay for it.
There was no way out.
Thakurdada returned on the fourth day, bursting with pride and
reflected glory. ‘Your fame has spread over seven villages, Srikanta.
Never has generosity like yours been seen in this degenerate age in
which we live.
To save a poor Brahmin from social ostracism! You don’t know
what you’ve done! You’re no ordinary man, Srikanta. You were made
for immortality.’
‘Have you fixed the date?’ I asked coldly, cutting off his flight of
rhetoric.
‘Yes. The rites are to be solemnized on the twenty-fifth. We have
just ten days in which to arrange everything. We’re having the
betrothal tomorrow morning as the evening hours are inauspicious.
But if you can’t attend, I’ll cancel everything. Here, Putu sent you this
letter. I must say this for her. She’s a jewel among women. You’ll
never find another like her.’
And, saying this, he handed me a square of yellow paper thickly
covered with a close, neat hand. I opened the letter but before I
could start reading it, Thakurdada sighed and exclaimed, ‘Chamar!
He is nothing but a chamar for all his money. Kalidas Babu wants the
entire sum in his hands before the betrothal. He’s getting his own
goldsmith to make the ornaments. He trusts no one. Not even me!’
This was unforgivable indeed. To trust no one. Not even
Thakurdada!
We set off the next morning. Before we left, Thakurdada assured
himself that I was really taking the money by saying point-blank, ‘I’d
better count the money before we leave. We are not gods—only
erring mortals. You may have made a mistake.’ I handed him the
packet without a word.
Ratan had left for Kashi the previous evening, bearing my letter to
Rajlakshmi in his pocket. ‘So be it,’ I had written. And, regretting my
inability to send her my address, I had begged her forgiveness.
On our reaching the house in the village, everyone heaved a sigh
of relief and I was overwhelmed with the love and attention. I made
Kalidas Babu’s acquaintance the next morning. I found him a harsh
and arrogant man with only one mission in life—to apprise the whole
world of his wealth. ‘I’m a self-made man, moshai,’ he declared
several times in the course of the morning. ‘I don’t believe in Fate
and Chance and rubbish like that. I neither ask the gods for any
favours nor do I blame them when things go wrong. I alone am
responsible for my success. I trust only the power of my own hands.’
Those among his neighbours who had been invited to the
betrothal, nodded their heads in agreement for Kalidas Babu was a
rich man and the sole moneylender of the village. Who would dare to
offend a man like that? Tarkalankar moshai even recited a shloka (a
Sanskrit couplet) in support of Kalidas Babu’s views. The lion of the
gathering beamed in self-satisfaction and threw a careless glance
around the room. His eyes rested on me for a brief moment before:
turning away in disdain. He obviously thought me to be some kind of
hanger-on in the house of his future kinsman. I was burning with fury
at the loss of my money and I couldn’t bear the glance.
I cleared my throat and said, ‘You know your hands and their
power better than I do. But I cannot accept your statement that Fate
plays no part in success—particularly in the acquiring of money.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kalidas Babu asked in an ominous voice.
‘I mean that I’m a living example of the manoeuvrings of Fate. I
have nothing to do with either the bride or the bridegroom but it is my
money that is paying for everything—from the bride’s necklace to the
bridegroom’s ring. It is possible that the money you will spend on
your son’s reception will also come from my pocket. You said just
now that you’ve never asked the gods for any favours. Yet you are
taking a favour from me—an ordinary mortal and a complete
stranger.’
 A death-like silence pervaded the room. Thakurdada rose and
tried to speak but couldn’t utter a sound. Kalidas Babu’s face turned
a fiery red. He said in a voice of thunder, ‘How was I to know you
were giving the money? Why are you giving it, anyway?’
‘I can’t tell you why I’m giving it. You wouldn’t understand even if I
did. But your first question is strange—to say the least. Everyone
present here knows I’m paying the dowry. Only you, who are to
receive it, doesn’t. So be it. But you knew, didn’t you, that the bride’s
father earns only forty rupees a month? That he doesn’t have forty
paise saved up? Have you ever asked yourself where he found the
two thousand and five hundred rupees with which he is buying your
graduate son? Didn’t your wife tell you that the girl’s mother had
clutched her feet and begged for mercy?
However, many men enrich themselves by selling their sons. You
are no exception. Only don’t brag about the power of your hands, in
future. Remember that you got two thousand and five hundred
rupees by a sheer stroke of luck. That was a windfall—you must
admit it.’
At this speech, everyone present turned blue with fear. They
thought, doubtless, that Kalidas Babu would never forgive this
insolence and would have us all whipped before throwing us out. But
there were no such dire consequences. Kalidas Babu sat motionless
for a few minutes, then, raising his head, he said quietly, ‘I’m not
taking the money.’
‘You mean you are breaking off the engagement?’
‘No. I don’t mean that. Kali Mukhopadhyaya does not go back on
his word. What is your name, young man?’
Now Thakurdada came forward eagerly and introduced me.
Kalidas Babu knitted his eyebrows and said, ‘Oh! So that’s who you
are. I filed a case against your father once—a criminal case.
However, that was long ago. Had my eldest son lived, he would have
been your age. You must come to the wedding, son, I invite you to
attend.’
 Sasadhar, who had been sitting meekly all this while, threw me a
grateful glance. I rose and touched Kalidas Babu’s feet. ‘I accept
your invitation and will certainly come. But I must beg your
forgiveness. I spoke harshly—’
‘You did, but I forgive you. Sit down, Srikanta. Have some
refreshment before you go.’
At the beginning of the chapter I made a reference to the
uselessness of good advice. I conceded, however, that there are
exceptions. Putu’s wedding was one of these. In our country, where
the social laws are such that the bridegroom’s father can enrich
himself with the greatest of ease at the expense of the bride’s, what
fool will refrain from doing so? We may rave and rant at the unequal
laws but we can do little else. Paradoxical as it may sound, change
can be brought about in society—not by the parents of the groom but
by those of the bride.
 5

GAHAR WAS NOT AT HOME BUT NABIN WAS VERY PLEASED

TO SEE ME. ON MY inquiring after his master, he pulled a long face.
‘He hasn’t come home all night. If you want to see him, go to the
akhra* at Muraripur where the Vaishnavi harlots are selling their
wares.’
‘Vaishnavis! Where did they come from, Nabin?’
‘Things are no longer the same, Babu,’ Nabin sighed. ‘When old
Mathura Das Babaji died, a young man called Dwarika Das came in
his place. He is a colourful personality and surrounds himself with
women. My master has struck up a great friendship with Dwarika
Das. He spends all his time in the akhra.’
‘But your master is a Mussalman. Don’t the Vaishnavis object?’
‘These belong to the lowest sect of auls* and bauls.** They don’t
make any distinction between Hindus and Mussalman. All they want
is to strengthen their numbers.’
‘But when I was here last time, Gahar didn’t mention the akhra or
visit it even once.’
‘That was because of Kamal Lata. He was afraid of the truth
coming out. The moment you left he went back.’
In the course of my conversation with Nabin I gathered that
Dwarika Baul was a poet and composer and that Kamal Lata was a
young Vaishnavi who had recently come to the akhra. She was
beautiful and intelligent and had a fine singing voice. Many men
were attracted to her and much money had been poured at her feet.
I had heard of the akhra of Muraripur in my childhood. It was
reputed to be very old, the founder being a disciple of Mahaprabhu***
himself and many generations of Vaishnavs had lived and died within
its hallowed walls.
I decided to go and investigate. ‘Will you take me to the akhra,
Nabin?’ I asked.
 ‘No, Babu,’ he answered with an emphatic shake of his head. ‘I
have a lot of work to do this morning. If you take the road going
north, you’ll come to the akhra in half an hour. There’s a lake with a
bakul tree growing by it. The dalliance that goes on there is equal to
that of the gopis of Vrindavan. You can’t miss it.’
‘What do they do at the akhra, Nabin? Sing kirtans?’
‘Day and night. Their drums and cymbals never get a rest.’
‘There’s no harm in that surely,’ I said smiling. ‘I’ll go fetch Gahar.’
‘Do that,’ Nabin said with a smirk. ‘But take care not to fall into
Kamal Lata’s web. Men can’t resist her.’
‘I’ll go and try my luck,’ I said and, leaving the house, strode
purposefully towards Kamal Lata Vaishnavi’s akhra.
Twilight was falling by the time I came to the bakul tree by the
lake. It was an ancient tree, gnarled and black, with a circular
platform around its base. But that too was old and crumbling and
totally worn away in places. There was no sign of anyone and no
sounds of singing or beating of drums was borne upon the wind. I
stood, uncertain, for a minute or two, then discerning a faint track in
the foliage at my feet, I followed it till I came to the river. Here, on a
bit of raised ground, neatly swabbed with cow-dung, sat Gahar and a
man who, I presumed, was Dwarika Das—the present incumbent of
the akhra. I could see him clearly even though the light was failing.
He was a young man—in his mid-thirties perhaps—tall, slim and
dark. His hair was swept up into a knot on the top of his head and a
dark, velvety stubble covered his cheeks and chin. His eyes were
large and bright with suppressed laughter.
I stood by them, unnoticed, for both were absorbed in the scene
before them. Across the shadowy streak that was the river, the sky
had taken on the hues of sunset. And, out of the rose and gold, a
thin slice of a crescent moon glimmered, pale and watery, with the
evening star beside it winking like a jewel. The woods stretched
away, blue-black in the weird light, as far as the eye could see. The
tattered clouds tossed and turned, changing colour and form as
though at the whim of any unruly child who, gigantic brush in hand,
dipped and splashed paint in reckless abandon. The painter would
return, any moment, and snatch his brush away and the colours
would dim and fade and turn to ashes in the deepening dusk.
I glanced down at the river. The moon and the stars flickered in its
depths and little flashes of light appeared on the surface like streaks
of gold on a touchstone. Somewhere in the woods, masses of wild
jasmine were unfurling their petals. The air was full of their scent,
sweet and heady. The branches above my head were astir with the
flutter and hum of nesting herons. The water gleamed dully, still and
soundless, in the enveloping twilight. And silhouetted against the
greying expanse of sky and river, sat the two men.
‘Gahar!’ I called softly.
Gahar came out of his trance and stared at me with unseeing
eyes. His companion nudged him with an elbow, ‘Gosain!* Isn’t that
your friend—Srikanta?’
Now Gahar sprang up and clasped me to his bosom in a
passionate embrace. I extricated myself with some difficulty and,
walking over to where Dwarika Das sat, I asked, ‘How did you know
me, Babaji?* You haven’t seen me before.’
‘Of course I have seen you,’ came the reply. ‘You are no stranger,
gosain! We were together in Vrindavan, don’t you remember? I
recognized you by your eyes. They hold oceans of love—like Kamal
Lata’s eyes. I knew her the moment she stepped into the akhra.
“Kamal Lata,” I cried, “where were you all these years? Why did you
go away from me?” “I’ve come back,” she said. “I’ll never leave you
now.” She became mine all over again. Our love encompasses the
three worlds. It flows like an unending stream, eternal and infinite.
True love is religion, gosain; true love is God-consciousness.’
‘But where is Kamal Lata? I have come all the way to see her.’
‘And so you shall. Though it won’t be for the first time. You’ve seen
her often enough in Vrindavan. You’ve forgotten her, haven’t you? It
was so long ago. Gahar gosain! Go call Kamal Lata from the akhra.
Tell her Srikanta has come to see her.’
‘You’ve heard of me from my friend, haven’t you?’ I asked as soon
as Gahar left.
‘Yes. When I asked Gahar gosain why he hadn’t come to the
akhra for a whole week, he answered, “Srikanta was here!” He told
me you would come again before leaving for Burma.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had feared, for a moment, from his
recognition of me, that he possessed superhuman powers. But now I
knew that he had guessed my identity from Gahar’s description. So
far so good. Dwarika Das seemed a nice man, simple and
uncomplicated, though slightly addled by his passion for Vaishnav
philosophy. I took an immediate liking to him.
In a little while, Gahar reappeared with the Vaishnavi. Kamal Lata
was about thirty, dark, slim and taut, with quick, graceful movements.
She had bangles on her wrists, whether of gold or brass I could not
say. The long hair flowing down her back was held by a knot at the
end. She had a string of basil about her throat and another in a little
pouch in her hand. She may have marked her brow and the ridge of
her nose with sandal paste, as Vaishnavis do, but most of it had
rubbed off. I glanced up at her and was startled. I was convinced that
I had seen her before. Even her walk seemed familiar.
Kamal Lata looked straight into my eyes and said without a trace
of self-consciousness, ‘Do you remember me, gosain?’
‘No, but I think I’ve seen you somewhere.’
‘You’ve seen me in Vrindavan. Hasn’t Bara gosain told you that?’
‘Yes, but I’ve never been to Vrindavan in all my life.’
‘Of course you have. It was so long ago that you’ve forgotten. You
drove the cows out to the meadows and picked fruit from the trees.
You wove garlands of flowers and hung them around our necks.
Don’t you remember?’ And she pursed her pretty mouth and smiled.
I smiled with her, admitting her pleasantry.
‘It is getting dark,’ she said presently. ‘We had better go in.’
 ‘I must leave you now. I have a long way to go. I’ll come tomorrow
morning.’
‘Who showed you the way to the akhra? Nabin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t he tell you that men get caught in Kamal Lata’s web and
can’t escape?’
‘He did.’
The Vaishnavi’s laugh rang out like a peal of bells. ‘He has your
welfare at heart,’ she said. ‘You should have heeded his warning.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Kamal Lata didn’t answer my question. She said, instead, ‘Gahar
gosain tells me you are leaving the country to take up a job in
Burma. Why should you do that? After all, you have only yourself to
fend for.’
‘What else can I do? How else do I make a living?’
‘You can live as we do. On Govindaji’s prasad. No one can deprive
us of that.’
‘I know. I have been a bairagi* once.’
‘I knew it the moment I saw you,’ the Vaishnavi cried. ‘Why did you
give it up? Didn’t the life suit you?’
‘Not for long.’
‘It is better so. Come into the akhra and meet the others. I’m only
one in a wilderness of kamal (lotus).’
‘I believe so. But I can’t come in now. It is getting dark and I have a
long way to go.’
‘You think we’ll let you cross the jungle at this hour? The night may
be long and dark, gosain, but dawn is sure to follow. Go home in the
morning.’
‘As you say.’
‘Gour! Gour!’*
‘Gour! Gour!’ I chanted after her. And we both entered the akhra.
 6

THOUGH NOT A RELIGIOUS MAN MYSELF, I HAVE NEVER BEEN

IRREVERENT towards the religion of others. The academics of
Hinduism are too convoluted for me to understand, but I do not doubt
the veracity of those who claim that they do. Thus, the universally
acclaimed swamiji (the guru) is as much the object of my devotion as
the self-proclaimed sadhuji (the ascetic). I am prepared to listen to
their discourses with equal attention.
Many scholars of antiquity believe that the true spirit of Hinduism
is contained in the Vaishnav tradition and that, among all the
provinces of India, it is in Bengal that this tradition is preserved in its
purest form. I have rubbed shoulders with the sadhus and sants of
Bihar without much enlightenment, as my readers may remember.
But here was the real thing! I decided not to miss the opportunity of
getting to the heart of our spiritual heritage. Since I had promised to
attend Putu’s wedding reception, I could not leave for Burma just yet.
Why spend the few days left to me in the boredom and isolation of
my lodgings in Calcutta when I could employ them, far more
profitably, in pursuit of a higher knowledge? I decided to stay on in
the akhra.
On entering it, I found that Kamal Lata’s claim was not without
foundation. Here, indeed, was a wilderness of kamal. But the blooms
were ravaged and scattered as though a herd of elephants had
passed over them. There were Vaishnavis of every age, appearance
and colour—each employed in her own allotted task.
One was engaged in cooking milk into a delicious-smelling kheer.
Another was kneading a large pat of dough. Yet another was rolling
coconut and sesame balls between her palms, while a fourth sliced
and stoned a heap of fruit. All this was, obviously, in preparation for
the bhog (cooked food offered to a deity) that would be offered to Sri
Sri Govindaji, the presiding deity of the akhra. A young Vaishnavi sat
in one corner, stringing flowers into a garland while her companion
(another young woman) smoothed and folded bits of bright satin and
silk. I understood that these were to be worn by Govindaji after his
ritual bath the next morning. The women were all equally absorbed
in the work they did but their lips moved, soundlessly, at the same
time, in silent incantation of the 108 names of Krishna. Darkness had
set in and a lamp or two flickered here and there.
Kamal Lata said, ‘Come. Let us make our obeisance to Govindaji.
But I haven’t found a name for you. What shall it be? Natun gosain?’
‘Yes. If Gahar can become a gosain in your akhra, why can’t I? I
am a Brahmin, after all. But what is wrong with my name? Why not
call me Srikanta with a gosain added on?’
‘Oh no.’ The Vaishnavi dimpled and smiled. ‘It is not for me to utter
that name. I would be guilty of misconduct.’
‘Why so?’
‘You are very persistent. Do you have to have answers to all your
questions?’
At this, the young Vaishnavi in the corner giggled and bent her
head over her garland. I followed Kamal Lata to the shrine where
half a dozen images of Radha and Krishna in black marble and
bronze stood in a semicircle. Here, too, I saw Vaishnavis at work
busy preparing for the evening arati. After bowing my head before
the images, with the correct amount of reverence, I followed Kamal
Lata through several rooms and courtyards till I came upon a
veranda facing east. Here, Kamal Lata spread an asan and invited
me to sit.
‘Rest yourself, Natun gosain, while I get your room ready. I won’t
be long.’
‘Do I stay here tonight?’
‘Of course. Why do you ask? You won’t suffer any discomfort while
in my care.’
‘I know that. I’m worried about Gahar. He might take offence.’
 ‘Leave that to me. When your friend hears that it was I who
prevented you from going back, he won’t be offended in the least.’
And she walked away, laughing.
I sat and watched the Vaishnavis. So busy were they that not one
deigned to cast a glance at me. By the time Kamal Lata returned,
they had completed their work and left.
‘Are you the mistress of the akhra?’ I asked.
Kamal Lata bit her tongue in embarrassment. ‘We are all servants
of the Lord. No one is higher than another. We have our appointed
tasks. Mine is—’ And, turning her face in the direction of the shrine,
she closed her eyes and folded her hands.
‘Where are Bara gosain and Gahar gosain?’ I asked.
‘They’ll be returning in a little while. They’ve gone for a dip in the
river.’
‘In the river? At this time of the night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gahar too?’
‘Yes. Gahar gosain too.’
‘Why didn’t you send me with them?’
‘We don’t send anybody anywhere. People do as they think best.
A day may come when you’ll follow their example—if Govindaji so
desires.’
‘Govindaji is unlikely to be interested in me. I am not rich … like
Gahar.’
The insinuation was not lost on the Vaishnavi. She was about to
burst into a passionate protest when she controlled herself and said
quickly, ‘You are not poor either. One who can give away thousands
of rupees in charity is not poor in the eyes of the Lord. It is possible
that Govindaji may draw you to Him.’
‘That’s a fearful prospect. However, since I have no control over
my destiny, all shall be as Govindaji wills! But tell me, from where did
you get the news of my giving away thousands in charity?’
 ‘We beg from door to door. All the local news reaches our ears.
We had heard of your generosity in paying a poor girl’s dowry long
before we saw you.’
‘As a matter of fact, I didn’t pay it. But that doesn’t seem to have
reached your ears—yet.’
‘You didn’t pay it?’ the Vaishnavi asked in a surprised voice. ‘Does
that mean they’ve broken off the engagement?’
‘No,’ I smiled at her agitation. ‘The engagement stands. If anything
is broken—it is Kalidas Babu’s ego. The groom’s father has realized
that enriching himself at the expense of a stranger is inconsistent
with his dignity as a zamindar and a man of means. And that was a
stroke of luck—for me.’
‘I’ve never heard of anything like this in all my life.’
‘As Govindaji wills! Gahar gosain’s bathing in a stagnant river just
before the evening arati is not the only manifestation of His power.
After all, the whole universe is Govindaji’s sporting ground.’
As soon as I uttered these words I realized that, this time, I had
gone too far. But Kamal Lata did not react. She turned her face, once
more, in the direction of the shrine and bowed her head as if begging
forgiveness on my behalf. At this moment, a Vaishnavi crossed the
veranda on her way to the shrine. She bore an immense thala piled
high with luchis in her hands.
‘The bhog seems special tonight,’ I observed. ‘Is today a feast
day?’
‘Oh no! It is the same every day. We have enough and to spare by
the grace of God.’
‘That is a happy thought. The arrangements are on a larger scale
in the evenings, I suppose.’
‘No, again. The morning bhog too—if you stay with us for a few
days, you will see everything with your own eyes. Slaves of slaves
as we are, our lives are dedicated to His service. We work at His
bidding from morn till night.’
‘What work do you do?’
 ‘You have seen some of us at work.’
‘I’ve seen Vaishnavis chopping vegetables, grinding spices, boiling
milk, stringing flowers and dyeing bits of material. Is that all you do?’
‘Yes. That is all we do.’
‘But these are domestic tasks. All women do them. What are your
hours for prayer and meditation?’
‘From dawn till dusk. Work is our prayer and meditation.’
‘Do you mean to tell me that fetching water, kneading dough and
cooking are forms of worship?’
‘Work is worship, gosain. We are the lowest of mortals. What else
do we have to serve Him with but our hands?’ Tears glistened in the
Vaishnavi’s eyes and the lines of her face softened. I suddenly
thought it the most beautiful face in the world.
‘Kamal Lata,’ I asked gently, ‘where is your home?’
The Vaishnavi wiped her eyes with the edge of her sari and
smiled. ‘Under the trees,’ she said.
‘But it wasn’t always so,’ I persisted.
‘No. I lived in a house of bricks and mortar—once. But that is a
long story. We haven’t time for it now. Come, let me show you your
room.’
It was a charming room, clean and bright with lamplight. Against
one wall stood a bamboo rack with a neady folded tussore dhoti
hanging from it.
The Vaishnavi pointed to it and said, ‘Change into that and come
to the shrine. Do not delay.’ And she walked rapidly away.
A neady made bed stood in one corner. There was a small table
beside it with a few books and a thala of bakul flowers on it.
Someone had just lit the lamp and filled the air with incense smoke. I
was tired from my long walk and, having avoided the gods all my life,
I decided to take a nap instead of proceeding to the shrine. I
changed my dhoti and lay down on the bed. I wondered whose it
was. Had Kamal Lata lent me her own room and bed for the night?
In other circumstances, such a thought would have made me
uncomfortable. But it didn’t now. I felt I had come to my own people
and a strange peace descended on me. I closed my eyes and drifted
away—for how long I cannot tell. I awoke to the sound of an insistent
rapping on the door accompanied by the words, ‘Natun gosain?
Aren’t you coming to the shrine? They have sent me for you.’
I sat up hastily. The sounds of kirtan-singing accompanied by the
tinkling of cymbals wafted in through the window. This was no loud
chorus of clamouring voices. It was a woman’s voice—sweet and
clear. I knew, without a doubt, that the voice was Kamal Lata’s. It
was with her singing that Kamal Lata had woven a spell around
Gahar, according to Nabin. I didn’t wonder at it for the voice was
melodious enough to deserve all the attention it could get. I entered
the shrine and sat quietly in a corner. No one looked up for all eyes
were fixed on the divine pair.
In the centre of the ring of devotees stood Kamal Lata. She
swayed from side to side, clashed her cymbals and sang:
Madan Gopal jai jai Jashoda dulal ki
Jashoda Dulal jai jai Nanda Dulal ki
Nanda Dulal jai jai Giridhari lal ki
Giridhari lal jai jai Govinda Gopal ki …
(Glory be to thee, Madan Gopal
Son of Yashoda, son of Nanda
Glory be to thee, Giridhari Lal
Glory be to thee, Govinda Gopal.)

Tears poured down the Vaishnavi’s cheeks as she repeated the

few lines over and over again with slight variations. Her voice dipped
and swelled, threatening to break with the intensity of her feelings. I
stared at her in wonder. This was not the Kamal Lata of an hour ago
—the bright, laughing woman who had teased me and taken care of
me. She had become an instrument, a medium through which a
torrent of love and devotion was passing. Her audience listened,
mesmerized. Dwarika Das Babaji leaned against one wall, eyes
shut, as if in a trance. The women who had been engaged in petty
domestic tasks only a while ago and whom I had thought ordinary,
even ugly, had undergone a transformation. In the dim lamplight,
rendered dimmer with incense smoke, their faces took on an
incredible beauty. Even I, though not generally moved by the
spiritual, felt uplifted, pure. I had the strangest feeling that those
graven images lived and breathed and heard Kamal Lata’s song.
Afraid of being swamped by the religious fervour that flowed
around me, I rose and left the shrine. I found Gahar sitting outside in
the courtyard, motionless as a statue. He didn’t move or open his
eyes at the sound of my footsteps. I waited for a few moments but he
showed not a flicker of recognition. As I crossed the courtyard, I was
aware of a curious sensation. I felt alienated, abandoned—as if all
the inmates of the akhra, Gahar included, had set off on a journey to
some distant land leaving me behind. I yearned to go with them but
the path was strange and beset with many fears. I went back to my
room, blew out the lamp and lay down on the bed. I knew myself to
be superior to them all. I was a man of intelligence and learning
whereas they were crude, unlearned rustics. Yet I felt as though I
had failed at something they had all passed with flying colours. The
thought saddened me and large tears rolled from the corners of my
eyes and fell on the pillow. I don’t know when I fell asleep or how
long I slept. I was awakened by a voice calling, ‘Natun gosain! O,
Natun gosain!’
‘Who is that?’ I woke up with a start.
‘I’m your friend of the evening—don’t you remember? What a
sleeper you are!’
‘I saw no sense in keeping awake. I’ve enjoyed a good nap and I
consider the time well spent.’
‘I can see that. I came to ask if you were ready for the prasad.’
‘I most certainly am.’
‘How do you expect to get it if you go on sleeping?’
‘I know I’ll get it. My friend of the evening will not abandon me—be
the night as long and dark as it will.’
 ‘Only a Vaishnav can claim that privilege,’ the Vaishnavi smiled.
‘Why should you?’
‘I too can become a Vaishnav and the slave of your slave—if you
give me hope. If you could make Gahar a Vaishnav, why not me?’
The smile left Kamal Lata’s face. Her voice grew deep and solemn
as she said, ‘Don’t mock our sect, gosain. It isn’t worthy of you. And
don’t jump to conclusions about Gahar gosain. He is not a Vaishnav.
His own people call him a kafir but he hasn’t abandoned the religion
of his ancestors. He is a good Mussalman.’
‘It doesn’t seem so from the way he behaves.’
‘That is the wonder of it. But don’t delay anymore. Come for your
prasad.’ She turned to go, then thought the better of it. ‘Shall I bring
it to your room?’ she asked.
‘Do that. But where is Gahar? Why don’t you serve the two of us
together?’
‘You don’t mind eating in his company?’
‘I’ve eaten with him all my life. Besides, Gahar is a poet. Poets
have no religion or caste.’
I couldn’t see the Vaishnavi’s face for she had moved away from
the light. But I heard her suppress a sigh. ‘Gahar gosain isn’t here. I
don’t know when he left the akhra.’
‘I saw him sitting in the yard a while ago. Don’t you allow him to
enter the shrine?’
‘No.’
‘You accused me of mocking your sect. But are you not making a
mockery of your God, Kamal Lata? I saw Gahar s face this evening
and—’
The Vaishnavi walked away, stopping me in mid-sentence and
reentered the room a few minutes later with a thala full of prasad in
her hand. A young Vaishnavi followed her, carrying a lamp and an
asan. Kamal Lata arranged the bowls with neat, deft fingers and
said, ‘This may not be your idea of a good meal, Natun gosain, but
nothing passes through our lips except Govindaji’s prasad. While in
the akhra you’ll have to be content with that.’
‘Rest assured, my friend of the evening. I won’t spoil this beautiful
moment with complaints about the food. I’m not such an oaf. You’ll
find I’ve licked the thala clean when you return.’
‘Good. That’s the way to eat Govindaji’s prasad,’ said Kamal Lata.
Early next morning, I was awakened by a loud clamouring of bells.
The morning arati was in full swing. In the pauses between the
rhythmic clash of metal on metal, I heard snatches of kirtan sung in a
morning raga, mellifluous and tender:
Kanu gale banamala biraje
Rai gale moti saje
Arunita charane manjari ranjita
Khanjana ganjana laje …
(A string of wild flowers adorns the neck of Kanu
Pearls sway on Radha’s breast
Blossoms blush crimson at the touch of her rosy foot
And her eyes—fluttering like the wings of a bird
Are lowered in shame.)

The rest of the day was devoted to a worship of Govindaji that did
not flag for an instant. The inmates of the akhra were all equally
occupied in an endless round of prayer and kirtan-singing
interspersed with the rituals of bathing and feeding the Lord, wiping
his body and covering it with sandal-paste, then dressing it up in
bright silks and garlands of flowers. It occurred to me that such
unwavering attention and persistent service was possible only
because the recipient was a figure of stone. Flesh and blood could
not endure it and would have rebelled. Last night I had asked the
Vaishnavi, ‘What are your hours for prayer and meditation?’ and she
had answered, ‘Work is our prayer and meditation.’ Today, I
acknowledged the truth of her statement.
Nevertheless, I snatched a brief moment in which to ask her, ‘You
are not like the others, Kamal Lata. Tell me, honestly, do you really
believe that the symbol of God that you worship, that stone image in
the shrine—?’
Kamal Lata raised an imperious hand. ‘Symbol?’ she cried. ‘He is
God. Don’t ever use that word again, Natun gosain.’ Her vehemence
startled me. I glanced at her face and saw that she had a high colour
almost as though she blushed for me. I felt foolish and
uncomfortable.
‘I know nothing of the spiritual, Kamal Lata,’ I said humbly. ‘I only
asked a question. Do you really think that an image of stone can be
imbued with the power, the consciousness of God?’
‘I don’t think. I know. I’ve seen Him manifest Himself with my own
eyes. People like you, who believe power and consciousness to be
vested only in the human body, are miserably deluded. That is
because you cannot break out of the conditioning your education has
imposed on you. Why shouldn’t God be found in a stone? Is He not
everywhere? Why else do we call Him Omnipotent and
Omnipresent?’
As an argument, this was neither clear nor conclusive. And it was
certainly open to question. But she drove home her point with the
authority of a divine edict. Her words were an expression of a deep-
rooted conviction. Before her unswerving faith, I felt lost and vaguely
defeated. I couldn’t summon up the courage to argue, to prove her
wrong, for I knew that, try as I would, I couldn’t fight it. I realized that
her wholehearted surrender to an object, whatever it might be, was
the source of her strength. And the same was true of the others.
They were not children playing a game. Had they believed that, even
for a moment, the whole cult would have disintegrated. It stood by
virtue of their faith, their genuine belief that they served Him who
was above all others. And so their numbers grew and their joys
multiplied a hundred fold.
‘Why don’t you speak?’ the Vaishnavi asked.
‘I’m thinking.’
‘Of whom?’
 ‘Of you.’
‘Really? I feel flattered.’ She paused a moment and added, ‘Yet
you are leaving me and going off to Burma. Do you really need a job
that badly?’
‘I do, for the simple reason that: one must live somehow. If I had a
throng of devoted disciples and the wealth of a math* to enjoy, I
wouldn’t go.’
‘God provides.’
‘I doubt it. You doubt it too or you wouldn’t go a-begging.’
‘We go because it is His hand that is held out to us from every
door. If it weren’t for that we would never go “a-begging” as you call
it. No, not even if we starved to death.’
‘Where do you come from, Kamal Lata?’
‘I told you yesterday. The path is my village and my home under
the trees.’
‘Then why do you stay in the akhra?’
‘I wandered about for years. I would go away again, this moment,
if I found company.’
‘That shouldn’t be difficult. Anyone would be happy to go with you.’
‘Would you?’
‘Certainly. As a boy I wasn’t afraid of wandering about with a jatra
dal*. Why should the prospect of going off with a Vaishnavi frighten
me, now that I’m an adult?’
‘You were with a jatra dal? Then you must know how to sing.’
‘No. The manager threw me out long before I reached that stage.
Who knows what would have happened if you were in his place!’
The Vaishnavi laughed. ‘I would have thrown you out too.’ Then,
sobering down, she said, ‘You’ve never been to SriVrindavan Dham,
you said. Why don’t we go together? I’ll show you everything. We will
beg as we walk. I can sing and you—you may take God’s name as
you will. People give alms easily. The truth is that I feel cooped up
here in the akhra. I long to set foot on the path again—the path to
Vrindavan. Come with me, Natun gosain.’
 I looked up at her, amazed. ‘Kamal Lata,’ I said, ‘You’ve known me
for less than twenty-four hours. What makes you trust me so
implicitly?’
‘Trust is not a one-way affair, gosain. You must trust me too or
you’ll be in trouble in strange lands and climes. But I know we won’t
let each other down. Shall we leave tomorrow? It is the fifth day of
the new moon—a very auspicious day. And if you get tired and wish
to return, you may take a train back. I won’t stop you.’
I scrutinized her face. I had not a doubt that she meant every word
she said. For some reason or the other she wanted to leave the
akhra and go off on a pilgrimage and she would do it with or without
me. It was obvious that her links with the akhra were crumbling. Its
air had grown oppressive to her and she was anxious to escape. At
this moment, a Vaishnavi came in and announced that prasad had
been served.
‘Let’s go to your room,’ Kamal Lata said.
‘My room! That’s a joke.’
I entered it, however, and found a sumptuous meal of prasad laid
ready on the floor. I would have enjoyed discussing the details of our
flight while I ate, but no sooner did I sit down to do so than a
Vaishnavi came and took Kamal Lata away. I finished my meal and
came out into the yard. But there was no sign of Kamal Lata or of
Dwarika Das Babaji. A cluster of ancient Vaishnavis with dour faces
went about their tasks. I recalled that these very faces had appeared
angelic to my eyes last evening in the dim light of the shrine. But
daylight dispelled the illusion with a ruthlessness I couldn’t bear.
Sickened, I walked out of the akhra as rapidly as my legs could carry
me till I came to the faint trickle, choked with sedge and hyacinth,
that was the river. Around me, on all sides, were dark, thorny woods,
thick with reeds and bamboo clumps. A shiver ran down my spine for
I hadn’t been in these woods for many years.
As I turned to retrace my steps, a man moved from behind a tree
and stood before me. I jumped, for I hadn’t expected anyone to
come creeping out of the jungle. I judged the man to be about my
age or some ten years older. His body was thin and worn away; his
complexion was sallow, and there was something odd about his face
for the lower part was disproportionately small and the upper
adorned with a pair of eyebrows of astonishing length, breadth and
thickness. It seemed as if Nature, in a whimsical mood, had planted
a pair of fierce moustaches on his brow. He was dressed like a
Vaishnav with thick ropes of basil knotted about his throat but his
clothes were soiled and torn and his general appearance was wild
and dishevelled.
‘Moshai!’ he said, blocking my path.
‘Command me.’
‘May I ask when you came here, without giving offence?’
‘You may. I came last evening.’
‘Did you spend the night at the akhra?’
‘I did.’
‘Oh!’
A brief silence followed. As I took a step forward he stopped me
again. ‘It is obvious, from your appearance, that you are a gentleman
—not a Vaishnav. How did they let you stay?’
‘You had better put the question to the inmates of the akhra.’
‘Was it Kamal Lata who asked you to spend the night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know her real name? It is Ushangini. She is from Sylhet
though she pretends she’s a Calcutta woman. We both come from a
village called Mahmudpur. Would you like to hear the truth about her
morals and character?’
‘No,’ I said, shortly. But, overcome with curiosity, I added, ‘Are you
related to Kamal Lata?’
‘Am I not?’
‘How?’
The man hesitated a little then, working himself up, roared in a
menacing voice, ‘I’m her husband. That’s who I am. A kanthi badal*
took place between us with her father as witness. He’s dead now but
there are other witnesses.’
I didn’t believe him—why, I do not know. ‘What caste are you?’ I
probed.
‘We are Tills.’
‘And Kamal Lata’s family?’
‘They are Sunris.’ The eyebrows shrank with distaste. ‘We don’t
even wash our feet in their water. Can you send her to me?’
‘No I can’t. You may go in and speak to her yourself, if you wish.
Everyone is welcome in the akhra.’
‘I will do that,’ the man said angrily. ‘I’m not afraid. I’ve bribed the
constable and he has promised me a couple of men. I’ll go in one of
these days and drag her out by the hair. That rascal of a Babaji
wouldn’t dare stop me.’
I walked away in disgust. His voice came from behind, harsh and
grating, ‘What sort of a gentleman are you? Why can’t you send her
to me? What harm will it do you?’ He spat out the word gentleman
with a venom that made me walk rapidly away. I feared that if I
turned back, I’d thrash the puny fellow till his bones rattled. At last I
understood or thought I understood Kamal Lata’s need to escape.
On reaching the akhra, I went straight to my room and shut the
door. Then, carrying the lamp to the head of the bed, I picked up a
volume of Vaishnav philosophy from the pile on the table and lay
down on the bed. As I turned the pages (books of Vaishnav
philosophy are not meant to be read), I went over the afternoon’s
encounter. Needless to say, it had disturbed me considerably. And
the disturbance was compounded further by the fact that Kamal Lata
kept assiduously away. Dusk fell and the sweet sounds of cymbals
and kirtan-singing wafted in through the window. The evening arati
had begun, but no one came to call me and take me to the shrine. I
wondered where Gahar was. I hadn’t seen him all day and the fact
puzzled me. I had planned to spend a few days at the akhra but, as
matters stood, I thought the better of it. I decided to leave for
Calcutta the next morning.
Late that night, there was a tap on the door accompanied by a
voice calling, ‘Natun gosain!’ I sat up on the bed.
Kamal Lata stood in the doorway, her form dim and shadowy in
the dark. ‘You are sad, Natun gosain,’ she said softly. ‘Is it because I
didn’t come to you?’
‘Yes.’
The Vaishnavi hesitated a little and asked, ‘What was that man
saying to you—in the woods?’
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said he was your husband.’
‘Did you believe him?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
The Vaishnavi sighed softly and asked, ‘Did he hint that I was a
woman of loose morals?’
‘Yes.’
‘And my caste—’
‘He said you came from a family of Sunris.’
There was a long silence. Then a voice, seemingly disembodied,
spoke from out of the dark. ‘Shall I tell you my story, Natun gosain?
My childhood and youth—but no, you will despise me if I do.’
‘Then, I’d rather you didn’t tell me. I’m leaving tomorrow and I
would like to remember you as I see you now. Knowing you has
been a beautiful experience. Why spoil it, Kamal Lata?’
Another long silence. I wondered what she thought and felt as she
stood there in the dark. ‘What are you drinking of, Kamal Lata?’
‘I’m thinking,’ she said clearing her throat, ‘that I won’t let you go
tomorrow.’
‘When will you let me go?’
Her answer took me by surprise. ‘Never,’ she said firmly, adding, ‘It
is very late. You had better go back to sleep. Is the mosquito net
properly tucked in?’
‘I’ve no idea. It must be.’
The Vaishnavi laughed. ‘You are a strange man, gosain.’ Then,
moving forward, she ran her hands deftly around the bed and said,
‘I’m going now. Try and get some sleep.’
She tiptoed away, shutting the door gently behind her.
 7

ONE DAY, THE VAISHNAVI MADE ME SWEAR A SOLEMN OATH THAT I

WOULD listen to the story of her life even if it meant abhorring her
ever afterwards. ‘I don’t wish to hear it,’ I said, ‘though I will if you
insist. But I won’t hold you in abhorrence—ever.’
‘Why not? Everyone does. Men and women equally.’
‘Women are less forgiving than men when one of their own sex
goes astray. I know the reason for it though I shan’t tell you. When
men condemn women—it is mostly a pose. I may tell you
straightaway that I’ve heard of worse crimes than the one you are
about to charge yourself with. Yet, I’ve never found myself hating or
despising anyone.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know. I’m made that way, I suppose.’
Kamal Lata was silent for a minute or two. Then she said, quite out
of context, ‘Do you believe in reincarnation, Natun gosain?’
‘No. I have better things to believe in.’
The Vaishnavi fixed her eyes, dark and sombre, on my face. ‘I’ll
tell you something,’ she said. ‘Look, I have my face turned towards
the shrine. I shall not lie.’
‘I know you won’t, Kamal Lata.’
‘Then listen carefully. About a month ago, Gahar gosain came to
the akhra after a week’s absence. He said that a childhood friend
had come to visit him. I wondered who it was who had the power to
keep Gahar gosain away from the akhra for six whole days. I also
marvelled at the fact that a Brahmin thought nothing of spending a
week in a Mussalman household. When I put the question to Gahar
gosain, he answered, “He is alone in the world and a law unto
himself. He fears no one.” “What is your friend’s name, gosain?” I
asked. When he told me your name I was startled. You know, don’t
you, that I mustn’t utter that name?’
 I smiled. ‘I’ve heard you mention the fact.’
‘I asked him a lot of questions about you—your age, your looks
and he answered them faithfully. But my head was in a whirl and my
heart beat loud and fast and I saw nothing and heard nothing. You
must be laughing at me, gosain! You must think me insane to react
so over a name. But it is true. Utterly and absolutely true! I’m not the
first woman in the world to be driven to madness by a name.’
‘And then—’ I prompted, smiling.
‘After a while I became myself again. I even laughed at my
foolishness. But, try as I would, I couldn’t drive you out of my
thoughts. “He’ll come to me,” my heart sang. “I’ll see him with my
own eyes.”’
The smile left my face. There was something in her eyes that I
couldn’t fathom.
‘I saw you for the first time only yesterday. But, today, no one in
the world loves you more than I do. Isn’t that proof enough that we
were very close in a previous incarnation?’ The Vaishnavi paused for
a few moments and added, ‘I know you haven’t come to stay and
stay you won’t however hard I beg. You will go away from me in a
day or two. How shall I bear the pain of parting?’ And she raised the
edge of her sari and wiped her streaming eyes.
I was so shocked that I didn’t know how to react. Here was a
young woman declaring her love for me as openly and unashamedly
as the sun was shining in the sky. Far from having encountered
anything like it in my life, I hadn’t even read about it in books. Yet, I
could swear that this was no play-acting. I felt dazed and acutely
depressed. I wondered if I had done anything to deserve the
situation. It was perfectly true that Kamal Lata’s beauty and sweet
singing voice had attracted me and I had told her so out of a sense
of indulging in a mild flirtation. She had looked after my comforts with
genuine concern and, in return, I had paid her lavish compliments
and sought her company. But the fact that she was nurturing a secret
passion for me was beyond my wildest dreams.
 My face burned with shame and my heart beat thick and fast. I
sensed danger around me. I had no idea that a beautiful woman’s
love could convey such unpleasant sensations. It was indeed an ill
wind that blew from Kashi, I thought. First Putu, then Kamal Lata.
And, all the while, Rajlakshmi held me in the hollow of her hand
refusing to relax her grip even infinitesimally. I wondered why such a
flood of feminine passion was engulfing me at my time of life when
youth and health were things of the past. The need to escape was
urgent. ‘To hell with Vaishnav philosophy, Putu’s wedding and the
rest,’ I thought, and decided, there and then, to leave for Calcutta the
next day.
‘Oh! My goodness. I nearly forgot. I must fetch you your tea.’ The
Vaishnavi rose.
‘Tea? Is there such a thing in the akhra?’
‘There isn’t—usually. I sent someone to the village to buy the
leaves. I’ll make it in a minute. Don’t run away.’
‘I won’t—but do you know how to make tea?’
In answer, Kamal Lata smiled and left the room. I looked at her
departing figure and something clutched at my heart. I knew that tea-
drinking was not part of the akhra routine. It may even have been
forbidden. But Kamal Lata had discovered my preference for it and
taken the trouble to procure the leaves and make it herself. I knew
nothing of her past or present, and what had been hinted at by the
man in the woods was unsavoury enough. She, herself, believed that
I would despise her if I knew the truth about her. Yet, she had
wanted to tell me! I had refused to listen but she had insisted. I could
see that her need to unburden herself was great. And, till she did so,
she would know no peace.
One thing puzzled me—her statement that if she uttered my name
she would be guilty of misconduct. I wondered who this other
Srikanta was in her life. He was, undoubtedly, at the root of my
present troubles. A chance meeting, a common name and the
Vaishnavi had escaped into an imaginary world. She had created a
myth of love through many incarnations and had drowned herself in
it. The real world and its claims meant nothing to her now. My
feelings changed. I experienced a flash of intuitive understanding. I
realized that she, who had submerged herself in the religion of love,
had never known love in the flesh! Her unfulfilled body and soul were
weary with years of whipping up emotions that did not spring from
the heart. The fount was running dry. Hence her bewilderment.
Hence her fear and pain. Her unsatisfied cravings sought a path of
escape but she knew not where it lay. I was her only hope. If I
understood her, if I admitted her—her life would have a direction and
a meaning. My name, Srikanta, would be her password. Clutching it
tightly in her hands she would set sail for an unknown destination.
The Vaishnavi brought me my tea and I drank it with pleasure. The
depression and distaste of a little while ago vanished and my heart
was light.
‘Kamal Lata,’ I asked, ‘Are you a Sunri?’
‘No.’ She smiled. ‘We are Sonar Bene. But surely that is
unimportant. It is all the same—to you.’
‘True. I don’t believe in caste.’
‘So I gathered. I’ve heard you’ve even eaten food served by
Gahar’s mother.’
‘She—she was a wonderful woman, Kamal Lata. Gahar is exactly
like her. Have you ever seen anyone with a sweeter, gentler
disposition than Gahar? He’s got it from his mother. I’ll tell you of an
incident I remember from my childhood. Gahar’s mother had given
away some money to someone—I don’t remember who—and his
father had discovered it. He was a hot-tempered man and very
worldly. There was a violent quarrel and I ran away, frightened.
When I returned, a few hours later, I found her sitting, downcast, in a
corner. I asked where Gahar’s father was. She sat, glum and silent,
for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing. Tears
rolled down her cheeks but she couldn’t stop laughing—’
‘Why? What was there to laugh at?’ Kamal Lata looked puzzled.
 ‘That is exactly what I asked her. When she had collected herself
she wiped her eyes and said, “I’m laughing at my own foolishness,
Srikanta. Your uncle has had a good lunch and is snoring away
happily in his bed. And here I am—sitting and sulking. What have I
gained but an empty stomach and a host of bitter feelings?” And,
with that, her troubles were over! It is a great quality in a woman—
this ability to make light of a quarrel. Only those who have
experienced the opposite can appreciate it.’
‘Are you among them?’
I was taken aback for I hadn’t expected the question to rebound on
me. ‘Everything needn’t be experienced personally,’ I said. ‘Many
things are learned from strangers. What about the man with the
eyebrows? Have you learned nothing from him?’
‘He is no stranger.’
I stared at her, incapable of uttering another word. The Vaishnavi,
too, was silent for a long time, then clasping her hands before me,
she said, ‘I beg you, gosain. Allow me to tell you the story of my life.’
‘Well—do so, if you must.’
But, in attempting to, she found it difficult. Her lips trembled and
she sat with her head bowed, struggling with her feelings. Only for a
few seconds, however. Then she raised her head. There was a glow
on her face I had never seen before. She said firmly, ‘One’s ego
stands between oneself and the truth, Natun gosain. It is like a fire of
chaff that burns unseen. “Blow away the ashes,” Bara gosain says,
“and you’ll see it smouldering in spasms.” But I dare not fan it into a
flame, either. I must put it out or else the vows I took on my initiation
will be rendered meaningless. I’ll tell you the truth. I may gloss over
some details—I’m a woman, after all.’
I felt embarrassed. I begged her, once more, not to tell me
anything. ‘Forgive me, Kamal Lata,’ I said. ‘I have never been
interested in female immorality. I feel no curiosity—in fact it
distresses me terribly. I don’t know if your insistence on telling me
about your past arises out of any desire for penitence. If that is so, if
you Vaishnavis believe that to reveal one’s secret sins is equal to
wiping them away, I request you to take your story to people who’ll
enjoy listening to it. I’m leaving the akhra tomorrow and we may
never see each other again.’
‘My insistence on telling you the truth about myself arises out of
my needs—not yours. I thought I had made that clear. But I cannot
accept your statement that we may never see each other again. My
heart tells me otherwise. And I will live out my life with that hope
burning in my breast. But tell me—are you really averse to hearing
the truth? Rumours, doubts, speculations—will they always be
enough for you?’
‘Then tell me, first, about the man I met today in the woods, the
one you don’t allow into the akhra and from whom you are anxious to
escape?’
‘So you guessed—’
‘It’s obvious isn’t it? But who is the man?’
‘If the agony and torment of hell can be personified—he is that. He
hounds me and will continue to hound me from this life to the life
hereafter. Do you know what my only prayer is these days? “Oh
Lord, take pity on me. Remove this venom from my breast. My years
of dedicated service, at your feet, are being wiped away by my
hatred of Man. It chokes and pollutes me. Save me. Give me a
breath of fresh air to breathe.” Yet, there was a time when no one
was closer to me in the world—no one I loved more dearly.’
I stared at Kamal Lata’s tormented eyes. I recalled the man’s
cadaverous face and crude manners and marvelled that a lovely
woman like her could ever have loved him.
My disgust must have shown on my face for the Vaishnavi smiled.
‘What you saw was only the outside. You know nothing of him. Allow
me to tell you.’
‘Go on,’ I said.
The Vaishnavi drew a deep breath and began, ‘I am the eldest of
my parents’ children and the only daughter. We come from a village
in Sylhet but my father had a flourishing business in Calcutta and
that is where I lived from childhood onwards. My mother lived in the
ancestral house with my two younger brothers. I used to visit her,
from time to time, but I didn’t like it there and would come away as
soon as I could. I was married at seventeen and widowed almost
immediately afterwards. My husband’s name was the same as
yours. That is why I call you Natun gosain.’
‘Go on.’
‘The man you saw today was a steward in our household. His
name is Manmatha—’ She paused, then went on with a kind of
desperation, ‘When I was twenty-one I discovered I was pregnant.
Manmatha had an orphaned nephew called Jatin. He lived with us
and Baba paid for his education. He was younger than I and loved
me more dearly than anyone else in the world. I had no one to turn
to so, in my desperation, I sent for him. “Jatin,” I said, “I have never
asked anything of you before. Don’t refuse me what I ask now. Get
me some poison that I may kill myself before anyone discovers my
shame.” He didn’t understand at first, but when he did his face
turned as white as a sheet. “Don’t delay, bhai,” I begged, “Get it as
soon as you can. I haven’t much time.” Jatin wept as if his heart
would break. How bitterly disillusioned he was in me—only I could
tell. “Usha Didi,” he said, “taking one’s life is a grievous sin—even
more grievous than the one you are guilty of. The first will not wipe
out the second. I will obey you in everything, but not this. If you truly
believe death to be the only path left to you—you must seek it alone.
I cannot help you.” So I had to go on living.
‘The news reached my father’s ears. He was an upright,
honourable man and a true Vaishnav at heart. He didn’t say a word
to me though the shock half killed him. Yet, overwhelmed with shame
and grief though he was, he collected himself and, taking me with
him, left for Nabadweep where his gurudev lived. On Gurudev’s
advice, it was decided that Manmatha would be sent for; that we
would be initiated into the Vaishnav cult and then married, according
to custom, by an exchange of basil strings. I felt a tremendous relief,
not at the thought of becoming respectable again but because
marriage would allow me to keep the child that had come unbidden
into my womb. The initiation took place. I was given a new identity
and a new name. I became the Vaishnavi—Kamal Lata. I didn’t
know, then, that Manmatha had agreed to marry me on the promise
of a payment of ten thousand rupees. I only knew that the marriage
had been postponed for about a week. Why—no one cared to tell
me.
‘I spent the days by myself in the house at Nabadweep. Manmatha
was hardly to be seen. Then the auspicious day came. I rose early,
bathed and entered the prayer room. I felt pure in body and my heart
was light. My father came in for a moment. I noticed that his face
was pale and careworn. And then I caught a glimpse of Manmatha in
the garb of a new initiate. A tremor ran through my frame—whether
of joy or sorrow I could not tell. I wanted to run to him and lay my
head on his feet—so humble, so truly grateful did I feel. As I sat
waiting, an old maidservant—she had nursed me in childhood—
entered the room. And it was from her lips that I heard the reason for
the postponement.’
The Vaishnavi’s voice grew heavy with tears. What she was
speaking of had taken place years ago but it still had the power to
make her suffer. She turned her face away from me and wiped her
eyes.
I waited a little and asked, ‘What did she say was the cause?’
‘She said,’ the Vaishnavi went on, ‘that a day before the date fixed
for the kanthi badal, Manmatha had declared that ten thousand
rupees was too small a sum for what he was about to undertake and
had demanded twenty thousand from my father.
‘“You mean Manmatha agreed to marry me on the payment of
money? And Baba agreed?” I asked, amazed.
‘“What else could he do, didimoni?”* the maid answered. “He
would lose everything if the truth came out—caste, position, prestige
—”
‘Then she went on to tell me that Manmatha had disclaimed
responsibility for my condition and accused his nephew—Jatin. He
had said that accepting the paternity of another man’s child was not
such a trifle that he would do it for the paltry sum of ten thousand
rupees. Jatin was sent for and charged with the; offence. He was too
shocked to react at first, then he said in a trembling voice, “That is a
lie.”
‘“You worthless rascal!” Manmatha roared, “I took pity on your
orphaned state and brought you over from the village. The master
took you in, at my request, fed you, clothed you and educated you. Is
this how you repay his kindness?” And the disgraced uncle beat his
head and chest and shouted, “Don’t you dare deny it! Usha has
admitted that you are the father.”
‘“Usha Didi has admitted—” Jatin’s voice was a whisper, “but that’s
impossible. She has never told a lie in her life.”
‘“You dare open your vile mouth and deny it? Ask the master. Hear
what he has to say.”
‘The master nodded his head.
‘“Didi said that? You heard her say it?” Jatin asked, again and
again.
‘The master said, “Yes.”
‘Jatin didn’t utter another word. He revered my father like a god.
He stood silent for a while, then left the room. Nobodv knows what
he thought or felt. The next morning, his body was discovered
hanging from a beam in the stable.
‘I don’t know what purificatory rites are laid down in the Shastras
for a man whose brother’s son has taken his own life. Perhaps none
at all. Perhaps a dip in the river—nothing more. Whatever it may be,
Manmatha was back in Nabadweep in a few days, all set and ready
to do his duty by a wronged woman—’
The Vaishnavi’s lips twisted into a smile as she went on. ‘The
garland I was to hang on his neck was in my hands as I heard the
story. I tore it to shreds and flung it at God’s feet, then rose and left
the room. Manmatha’s purification was complete. But mine had yet
to begin. The man was clean and whole but the adulterous woman
had to burn for her sins till she was reduced to ashes. The burning
goes on to this day, Natun gosain.’
‘What happened then?’ I asked.
The Vaishnavi’s face was turnec away from me. I could see that
she was struggling for self-control. In a little while she said, ‘Do you
see, gosain, why sin should be so dreaded in the world?’
‘Well, yes. In a sense—though I’m not sure I understand what you
mean.’
‘From that day onwards I saw the effects of sin as I never had
before. The powerful and vicious commit evil and the innocent and
weak pay for it. Manmatha and I lived on and still do, but little Jatin,
who feared the taking of life above all else in the world, had to die by
his own hands. He paid for his didi’s sin with his life. Such is God’s
justice!’
I had no wish to argue. Her reasoning was neither clear nor
convincing but if it gave her the strength to overcome the pain and
humiliation of the past—who was I to interfere?
‘What happened then?’
Kamal Lata looked up. Her eyes were wild and tormented. ‘Tell
me, honestly. Do you still wish to hear the rest of my story?’
‘I do. Believe me, I do, Kamal Lata.’
The Vaishnavi wiped her eyes and said, ‘Four days later, I
delivered a stillborn child. I took him in my arms and walked down to
the river. I laid him on the waves and watched him float away. Then I
bathed in the Ganga and came home.
‘“I must go back to Calcutta, beti,” my father said, his voice heavy
with tears. “I can’t stay here any longer.”
‘“Yes. You must go back.”
‘“You’ll send me your news from time to time?”
‘“No. You mustn’t seek it either.”
 ‘“Your mother—what shall I tell her?”
‘“Tell her I’m dead. She will grieve for me but it is better so. If my
chaste and noble mother hears the truth she’ll never survive it.” My
father wiped his eyes. Next morning he left for Calcutta.’
The Vaishnavi paused. I waited for what was still to come.
‘I had some money with me,’ she continued. ‘I paid the rent,
wound up everything and left Nabadweep. I joined a group of
pilgrims and went with them to Sri Vrindavan Dham. And after that—
it was one pilgrimage after another. I walked the roads from dawn till
dusk. At night I sheltered under the trees.’
‘What about the thousands of Babajis that lurk in those places?
Didn’t any of them cast loving glances at you? Tell me the truth,
Kamal Lata.’
The Vaishnavi laughed and said, ‘Their glances were all pure and
holy. You mustn’t make fun of them, Natun gosain.’
‘I’m not making fun. I respect them highly. I’m curious to know the
truth. That’s all.’
‘Our Shastras command us to hide the truth from those who love
us.’ There was a hint of laughter in her voice.
‘So be it. Obey your Shastras. Tell me about Dwarika Das Babaji.
From where did you pick him up?’
Kamal Lata bit her tongue and shook her head. ‘You mustn’t say
things like that, gosain. He is my gurudev.’
‘Gurudev! Was it he who initiated you?’
‘No. But I revere him nonetheless.’
‘And all these other Vaishnavis? What are they? Handmaidens of
the Lord?’
Kamal Lata bit her tongue again and said, ‘They are his disciples
—the same as I am. He has redeemed them as he has redeemed
me.’
‘I’m sure he has. But how? By making them his concubines? Isn’t
there some such custom amongst you? I’ve heard Vaishnavs refer to
it as the Parakiya* philosophy.’
 The Vaishnavi’s face reddened. ‘You only betray your ignorance
when you say things like that. You have never lived among us and
know nothing of our philosophy. All you can do is jeer from a
distance. Don’t ever say such things about Bara gosain again. He is
an ascetic in every sense of the word.’
Her words and manner shamed me. She noticed it, smiled and
said, ‘Why don’t you stay with us for a while? I don’t ask it for Bara
gosain’s sake but for my own. You love me. Wouldn’t you like to
know how I live? What I think and feel? We may never see each
other again. I want you to go away knowing that I haven’t forgotten
jatin.’
I was silent. I didn’t accept her statement that I knew nothing of
Vaishnavs and their ways. I remembered the pure Vaishnav-born
Tagar, but I didn’t have the heart to tell Kamal Lata about her. Her
mention of Jatin saddened me.
‘Tell me, gosain,’ she continued. ‘Have you ever been in love?’
‘What do you think, Kamal Lata?’
‘I think—not. Yours is the nature of a true bairagi. You flit like a
butterfly from flower to flower. Nothing and nobody can bind you.’
‘That’s a good comparison,’ I laughed. ‘Calculated to drive the
woman I love to a fine fury—if there is such a woman.’
The Vaishnavi laughed too. ‘Never fear, Natun gosain. If there is
such a woman she won’t believe a word I say. And she’ll never
guess that your love is no more than a bubble of sweet nothings.’
‘Why worry about her, then? Let her remain happy in her illusions.’
‘No,’ the Vaishnavi shook her head sagely. ‘A lie cannot pass for
the truth—for any length of time. She may not know what makes her
weep but weep she will. I’ve seen the effects of deceit, over and over
again, in my own life. Self-deception is the worst. So many people
dedicate their lives to the service of Govindaji but their dedication is
a lie. So all their fasts and prayers and abstinences are like
scatterings of sand on the sea. The waves engulf them in seconds—’
She paused to take a breath and went on, ‘Such people know
nothing of true faith and true surrender. They waste their time in the
futile service of a stone image. They torture and punish themselves.
And, wearying of it all in a few days, they turn their thoughts
elsewhere. It is these amongst us who deserve your taunts. But I
wander from the point. What I’m trying to tell you is that the woman
who loves you truly will have to weep for you all her days. You’ll
forget her in a trice but she cannot forget you—ever.’
‘Are you trying to tell me that any woman who loves me is destined
to be unhappy?’
‘I didn’t say anything about unhappiness. I only spoke of tears.’
‘Isn’t it the same thing?’
‘No, gosain. They are different. Women are not afraid of either. But
you, of course, do not understand—’
‘I confess I don’t. Why speak to me of things I do not understand?’
‘I can’t help it. When you men declare you know all there is to
know about love—I can’t resist a smile. You don’t know, nor do you
care to know, that women love differently from men. In love men
seek expansion, women—depth; men seek excitement, women—
peace. Did you know, gosain, that we women are afraid of excessive
love? That its passion and intoxication make our hearts quake?’
I was about to say something but the Vaishnavi swept on, ‘We
accept them but never make them our own and we heave a sigh of
relief when they are spent. What we truly yearn for in love is security.
But you won’t give anyone that—’
‘You know it for certain?’
‘I do know it for certain. That is why I can’t abide your boasting.’
‘I’ve never boasted in my life, Kamal Lata. Not before you at any
rate,’ I cried, stung by her words.
‘Not in words perhaps but that superior, withdrawn, roving mind of
yours is a piece of arrogance—the likes of which I’ve never seen.’
‘We only met two days ago. You think you know all there is to
know about me?’
‘I do. But that, you see, is because I love you.’
 ‘I know you too, Kamal Lata,’ I said to myself, a vague idea of the
difference between tears and unliappiness dawning on me. I realized
that what she was saying was the consequence of her years of
wallowing in the sentiments of a religion of love.
‘Do you mean it, Kamal Lata?’ I said, aloud. ‘Do you truly love
me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you have dedicated yourself to Govindaji’s service. What will
become of that?’
‘With you by my side, my service to Him will grow in strength and
meaning. Come, Natun gosain. Let us leave everything behind us
and walk out into the world.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m leaving the akhra tomorrow. But before I go
I’d like to hear the truth about Gahar.’
The Vaishnavi sighed. ‘It’s no use. You won’t understand. Are you
really going away?’
‘I am.’
She was silent for a minute or two, then fixing her eyes on mine,
she said, ‘You’ll come back again one day, but you won’t find Kamal
Lata.’
 8

I KNEW I SHOULDN’T STAY A MOMENT LONGER BUT, EVEN AS

I TOOK THE decision to leave, a voice whispered within me, ‘Don’t
go. You wanted to stay a week. Why don’t you stay? There’s no lack
of comfort here.’ That night, I lay on my bed dunking, ‘What are
these beings that lurk within us and drive us mad with their secret
promptings? Are they strangers or are they closer kin than reason,
intelligence, drought and logic? Why are we swayed more by what
they say than by what we recognize as the truth? This incessant
conflict—will it never cease? Logic and reason tell me I must leave—
for my own good. Why, then, do tears gush into my eyes at the
thought? Why am I denied all peace and tranquillity?’
I hardened myself. Go I must. But how? There was a way I
remembered from my childhood. I had used it often and could do so
again. Tomorrow morning, at crack of dawn, even before Govindaji’s
mangal arati began, I would rise from my bed and walk out of the
akhra without a word of farewell or explanation or promise of return. I
was here once, I was here no more. That was to be the final, the
ultimate reality. I would leave that burden to be borne by those who
discovered my absence. My plans were made. But there was one
hitch. I had left my bag, with Putu’s dowry money in it, in Kamal
Lata’s care. I decided to go without it. I had a few rupees in my
pocket. It would suffice for the train journey to Calcutta. I would write
to her from there or from Burma. Leaving my bag behind would
ensure her continued presence in the akhra. She wouldn’t leave it
before I reclaimed my money.
These thoughts ran frantically round in my tired brain till sleep
overtook me. I don’t know how long I slept but it seemed only a few
minutes before I woke to the sound of a woman’s voice singing a
morning raga, caressing and sweet. I thought, at first, that I was
dreaming. Then, still in the twilight zone between sleeping and
waking, I thought that the night had just begun and the evening arati
not yet concluded. But the familiar thudding of drums and clashing of
cymbals were missing. The sound came closer, became words:
Rai jago, Rai jago
Suk sari bale
Kata nidrajao lo
Kalo maniker kole …
(The love birds call out to Rai
‘Awake, Radha, awake’
How much longer will you sleep,
In the lap of the dark jewel—Krishna?)

‘Wake up, gosainji. The night is over. How can you go on

sleeping?’
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. The mosquito net had been lifted
and the window was open. Through it, I caught a glimpse of the sky.
It was dark but the east was streaked with dawn like a distant fire. A
cloud of bats wheeled by. The rush of their wings came to my ears
and my heart felt heavy. Faint stirrings came from the bakul tree
beyond my window. Throngs of robins, nightingales and thrushes
nested among its branches. Bengal was their country, I thought
whimsically, and Calcutta their capital city. And the bakul tree must
be their stock exchange. The business of the day had begun for
them—the business of singing and dancing. They were all skilled
professionals, no less untiring in their efforts than the famous ustads
of Lucknow. The akhra was surrounded by woods in which they flew
and sang. The inmates were drowned in music. If the one within
ceased for a while the one without didn’t—ever. It went on relentless
and overpowering. I remembered with what persistence a pair of
hawk cuckoos had disturbed my afternoon siesta of the day before. I
was not the only one they offended, for an egret, perched
precariously on a hyacinth leaf, had scolded them heartily in a
grating voice. I thanked heaven there were no peacocks in the
woods. They would have compounded the confusion further.
 I remembered my decision of the previous night. I had planned to
escape before anyone was up. But Kamal Lata had been a step
ahead. Like a careful gaoler she had taken up her position by my
side even before the night was over.
‘I’m not Rai,’ I said angrily. ‘And I have no Shyam hidden in my
bed. Why do you wake me up in the middle of the night?’
‘The night is over, gosain. It is dawn and you have a train to catch.
Don’t you remember? Go have a quick wash while I make the tea.
But don’t bathe. You’re not used to bathing at this hour. You may
catch a chill.’
‘I could have caught a later train. Why are you trying to pack me
off at crack of dawn?’
‘I would like to walk with you as far as the highway. We must leave
before anyone awakes.’
Her face was not clearly visible in the dim light. But I could see
that the long hair streaming down her back was damp and clinging.
She had had her bath and was ready to leave.
‘Will you return to the akhra after we part?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ She put down my bag on the bed with the words, ‘Keep it
carefully. Count the money first.’
I was struck dumb for a minute. Then I said, ‘You are no Vaishnavi,
Kamal Lata. You were born Usha and Usha you have remained.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Why did you ask me to count the money? Do you really believe
me capable of it? There is a name for people who say one thing and
mean another. It is hypocrite. And that’s what you are—a hypocrite.
Before I leave the akhra I’ll tell Bara gosain to strike your name from
the akhra register. You are in the wrong place.’
The Vaishnavi didn’t say a word and I didn’t press her. I said
instead, ‘I have no desire to leave the akhra. Not today, at any rate.’
‘Then sleep a while longer. Send word to me when you wake up.’
‘What will you do now?’
‘I’ll go out and pick flowers.’
 ‘So early? You won’t be afraid to enter the forest at this hour?’
‘Why should I be afraid? I always pick the flowers for the morning
puja.’
I had noticed, in my two days in the akhra, that Kamal Lata always
took upon herself the duties that were most difficult and demanding.
It was she who arranged everything and looked after everyone’s
comfort. The Vaishnavis worked under her direction and the akhra
ran on oiled wheels. No feuds or tensions marred the routine. It
saddened me to think that she was being compelled to leave the
place she loved because her past had caught up with her. As for the
akhra, her absence would plunge its inmates into confusion and
despair. Like a satellite that had lost sight of its sun, it would spin
crazily in a million different orbits till it was shattered into fragments.
‘Come, Kamal Lata,’ I said. ‘Let us pick flowers together.’
‘You haven’t bathed or changed. Your flowers will not be
acceptable to God.’
‘I needn’t touch them. I’ll pull the branches down for you. That will
be a help, will it not?’
‘The trees are not too high. I can reach them by myself.’
‘We can chat as we go along. It will keep you entertained.’
‘You show a lot of concern for me—all of a sudden. Come along,
then. Wash your face and hands and change your clothes. I’ll fetch
the basket in the meantime.’
The flower garden was situated a little distance away from the
akhra. We walked through a mango grove, dark and shadowy, the
Vaishnavi leading—I following in her footsteps. Piles of dry leaves
crackled beneath my feet. As far as I could see, there was no trail.
‘I hope you won’t lose your way, Kamal Lata.’
‘I can’t afford to, now that you’re with me.’
‘Will you say “yes” to a request of mine?’
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t leave the akhra.’
‘How does my leaving or staying back affect you?’
 I had no answer. The Vaishnavi went on, ‘There’s a verse by
Murari Thakur. Have you heard it?
Sakhi hé, phiriya apan ghare Jao
Jiyanti mariaje apna khaiyachhe
Tara tumi ki ar bujhao …
(Go back home, dear friend
What do you hope to teach one
Who has lost herself in a life-in-death.)

‘You leave this evening, don’t you, gosain?’

‘I haven’t made up my mind. Let’s see what the morning brings.’
The Vaishnavi made no further comment. After a while she started
humming under her breath:
Kahe Chandidas shuno Binodini
Sukho dukho duti bhai
Sukher lagiyaje kare piriti
Dukho jai tari thain …
(‘Listen Binodini—’ says Chandidas,
‘Happiness and sorrow are twin brothers
If your love is a quest for happiness
Sorrow will follow you for ever.’)

‘And then?’ I prompted.

‘Then—nothing.’
‘Sing something else.’
The Vaishnavi sang softly:
Chandidas bani, shuno Binodini
Piriti na kahe katha
Pinti lagiya paran chharile
Piriti milaye tatha …
(‘Listen Binodini—’ says Chandidas,
‘Love is dumb and bereft of words
If you lose your soul in your quest for love
Love will find her way to you.’)

‘And then?’
‘Then—nothing. This is the end.’
 It was the end. Silence fell between us. A madness came upon me
all of a sudden. I wanted to rush up to her and seize her hand and
walk the path holding it in mine. I knew she wouldn’t reject me, she
wouldn’t pull her hand away. Yet, I could neither move nor speak. I
followed her, dragging my feet, till we came to the edge of the wood.
In front of us, under a patch of open sky, was a garden full of flowers.
It was neatly fenced on all sides and had a bamboo gate.
We had come out of the shadows but the light was still faint. I
could discern the shapes of jasmine bushes glimmering white and
pure and knew that they were covered with flowers. A champa tree,
just within the gate, stood stark and leafless with not a bloom on it,
but a sheaf of tube roses, somewhere near at hand, made up the
deficiency with its overpowering scent. In the centre was a little
cluster of sthal-padma—some five or six trees growing thick and
intimate, their leaves and branches entwining and their innumerable,
crimson buds gleaming like eyes in the dim light. I had never left my
bed so early before. Like a hibernating animal, I had slept off the
best hours of the day. I realized what I had missed. The sights and
scents of dawn overwhelmed me. I felt uplifted, pure.
‘Kamal Lata,’ I said in a gush of sentiment. ‘Life has treated you
cruelly. I pray that your sufferings cease and some happiness falls to
your lot.’
The Vaishnavi had hung her basket on the champa tree and was
opening the gate. She turned around and asked, ‘Is anything wrong,
gosain?’
My own words had taken me by surprise and her startled question
embarrassed me. I had no answer. We stepped into the garden and
she commenced her work. After a few minutes she said gently, ‘I’m
quite happy, gosain. I have dedicated myself to one who will never
reject me.’
I was not sure of her meaning but I dared not ask. The Vaishnavi
swayed her head and sang:
 Kalo maniker mala ganthi nibo gale
Kanu guno jnsh kane paribo kundale
Kanu anurage ranga basan pariya
Deshe Jeshe bhoromibo jogini hoiya
Jadunath das kahe—
(The dark jewel’s garland will I string around my neck
Kami’s fair name will hang in rings from my ears
Crimson robes will I wear for love of my Kanu
And like a wandering mendicant, roam from land to land.
Jadunath Das says—)

I stopped her in the middle of her song. ‘Leave Jadunath Das for
the present. Can’t you hear the cymbals? It is time we returned.’
Kamal Lata smiled archly at me and went on singing:
Dharam karam jauk tahe na darci
Manor bharame pachhe bandhu re harai …
(I care not for piety, service or creed
For losing myself in thee
I might forget my beloved one.)

‘Respectable men find the singing of women offensive to their

ears. Do you know that, Natun gosain?’
‘I do. But I don’t belong to that class of respectable barbarians.’
‘Then why did you stop me in the middle of my song?’
‘Because the arati has begun. And without your presence the ritual
will be marred.’
‘This is a fine bit of deceit, Natun gosain.’
‘Why should I deceive you?’
‘That—only you can tell. Anyway, what makes you think that my
absence from the shrine affects the worship of the Lord in any way?’
‘I have eyes to see.’
She threw me a strange glance, then went on filling her basket
with the freshest of blooms. At last she turned. ‘That’s enough. Let’s
go.’
‘You didn’t pluck any sthal-padma blooms?’
 ‘No. We dedicate those to the Lord from the trees. We don’t touch
the blooms.’
The sky was filling with light but the woods were still dark and
lonesome. As we walked along, I asked, ‘Are you really leaving the
akhra, Kamal Lata?’
‘Why do you ask me the same question over and over again?
What is it to you?’
Once again I had no answer. I wondered why I felt this compelling
urge to stop her from going. What would I gain by her staying on?
On entering the math, we found everyone awake and going about
their tasks. The mangal arati had not yet begun. The cymbals I had
heard were part of the ‘Waking the Lord’ ceremony. Several pairs of
eyes looked up at us as we walked in together but there was no
curiosity in them. Only young Padma giggled a little as Kamal Lata
put down the basket by her side. ‘How dare you laugh, you wicked
girl!’ Kamal Lata rolled her eyes at her in a mock threatening
manner. Padma giggled some more but didn’t lift her head. Kamal
Lata went into the shrine and I entered my room.
I was to catch the evening train to Calcutta. Before leaving for the
station, I went to say goodbye to Kamal Lata. I found her in the
shrine dressing the Lord. She looked up as I entered and said
urgently, ‘Padma has a headache and Lakshmi and Saraswati are
both down with fever. I can’t manage all this by myself. I need your
help, Natun gosain. Do sit down and crimp this yellow material for
me.’
I obeyed her command and missed my train. I stayed on the next
day and the day after. Early dawn saw me out in the garden picking
flowers with the Vaishnavi. Afternoons and evenings were spent in
her company helping her in her innumerable tasks. The days
passed, one by one, in a dream of contentment. Bird-song and
evensong; laughter and prayer; the perfume of incense and flowers
became a part of my life. I floated on a sea of love and tender care.
Sometimes I asked myself what I was doing, why I was shutting out
the real world and wasting my time in the service of a graven image.
But try, as I would, I couldn’t break away.
One morning I awoke by myself. Kamal Lata had not come into my
room singing her song of awakening as she always did. At first I
thought it was still night but when I opened my door I found the
courtyard bathed in pure, clear light. Kamal Lata stood before, me,
unbathed and dishevelled. I had never seen her like that before.
‘What is it?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’
A smile flickered on the pale face. ‘I don’t feel too well this
morning. I couldn’t rise at dawn.’
‘Who is picking the flowers?’
She pointed to a straggling oleander growing in the yard. It had a
few blooms on it. ‘We’ll make do with those for the morning puja.’
‘And the garlands for Radha Govinda?’
She shook her head. I felt my heart go out to those stone images. I
couldn’t deprive them of their garlands.
‘I’ll have a quick bath and pick your flowers for you,’ I offered.
‘Do that,’ she answered. ‘But don’t bathe at this hour. You’ll catch
a chill.’
‘I don’t see Bara gosain. Where is he?’
‘He left for Nabadweep the day before yesterday. He is visiting his
gurudev.’
‘When does he return?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea, gosain.’
Despite my prolonged stay in the math, I had not come any closer
to Dwarika Das Babaji. This was partly owing to my own lack of
initiative and partly to his temperament which was austere and aloof.
But I had noticed several traits in him that interested me for they
didn’t fit with my preconceptions of the head of an akhra. He was a
man of very strong morals. He was not a hypocrite and he didn’t
bore his audience with long recitations and analyses of Vaishnav
texts. Although I didn’t share his religion or philosophy of life, I found
much in him that was admirable. His voice was gentle, his looks
frank and honest and his living clean and disciplined. He
commanded respect and, barring one occasion when he shamed me
by fixing his benevolent gaze on me for a long while, I never entered
into any argument with him. In fact, I avoided him as best as I could.
However, something continued to intrigue me. He was the only
man in the akhra. He was surrounded by females eager to serve
him. He practiced a religion that placed human love above all things
in the world. Yet he succeeded in living the life of an ascetic. I had
planned to ask him the secret of his strength the day I left the akhra.
But that, evidently, was not to be. I decided that if I ever returned, I
would put the question to him.
A couple of days went by. I pulled myself together and took a
decision. Now was the time to leave. If I didn’t go today I would
never go. Kamal Lata had recovered from her illness. Padma and
the two sisters, Lakshmi and Saraswati, had taken up their duties.
There was no excuse for tarrying. Bara gosain had returned the night
before. I went to take leave of him.
Babaji said, ‘You leave today. When do you return?’
‘I can’t say, for sure, gosainji.’
‘Kamal Lata will weep her eyes out.’
I was annoyed at the insinuation. I said, a little roughly, ‘Why
should she weep?’
‘Don’t you know, gosain?’
‘Indeed I don’t.’
‘It is her nature. She can’t bear to see anyone leave the akhra.’
That annoyed me even more. ‘If that is so,’ I said, ‘who can help
her?’ I caught Dwarika Das Babaji’s glance and turned around.
Kamal Lata stood behind me.
Dwarika Das hastened to say, ‘Don’t be angry with her, gosain. I
hear she made you work very hard when some of the Vaishnavis
were ill. It was wrong of her and she admits it. We are humble folk
who beg for a living. You have been uncomfortable living among us
but we love you and wish you well. When you are in these parts
again, do not forget to visit us.’
I nodded my head and came out of the room, my heart heavy and
dull. I had anticipated the tenderest of leave takings from Kamal
Lata. I had wanted to hear so much from her and say so much. But it
was all ruined by my own foolishness. My weakness was feeding
inwards, turning me harsh and bitter. That I knew. But I never
dreamed that it would burst out into the open with such shameless
hostility against the woman who loved me. I was filled with self-
loathing.
Nabin came to the akhra looking for Gahar. His master hadn’t
come home for two days, he said.
‘That’s impossible!’ I cried. ‘He hasn’t been here either.’
Nabin didn’t seem unduly alarmed. ‘He must be roaming about in
the woods, then,’ he said stoically. ‘All we need now is the news that
he’s been bitten by a snake. Then we can all sit back and relax.’
‘We must look for him, Nabin.’
‘Where? I have no intention of losing my life chasing him about in
the woods. But where is she?’
‘Who?’
‘Kamal Lata.’
‘How is she to know where Gahar is?’
‘She knows everything. If she doesn’t, who does?’
I didn’t want to get into an argument with Nabin so I steered him
gently out of the akhra with the words, ‘Believe me, Nabin, Kamal
Lata knows nothing of Gahar’s whereabouts. She has been ill for the
last three days and hasn’t stepped out of the akhra.’
Nabin didn’t believe me. He said angrily, ‘She knows everything.
Heaven knows what charms she practices on the wretched boy—
she’s enslaved him completely. All the money his father left him has
disappeared as if by magic.’
‘Kamal Lata hasn’t taken his money, Nabin.’ I tried to calm him
down. ‘She’s aVaishnavi and her habits are simple. She sings the
name of the Lord and lives on what people give her. She’s not
greedy or acquisitive.’
‘I didn’t say she has taken it for herself,’ Nabin said in a softened
tone. ‘She’s a gentlewoman—anyone can see that. And the Babaji is
a decent soul. But they need money to feed all the women who
crowd into the akhra. And that too on fine foods—luchi and
sweetmeats and milk and butter—in the name of the Lord. Nayan
Chakravarty says that my master has signed away twenty bighas of
land in Kamal Lata’s name.’
‘That may only be a piece of malicious gossip. Nayan Chakravarty
is no angel. Hasn’t he wangled quite a bit of property for himself?’
‘You are right, Babu,’ Nabin admitted. ‘That rascally Brahmin is as
cunning as a fox. But I can’t help believing him. I know my master,
you see. Only the other day he signed away ten bighas of land in
favour of my sons. I begged him not to but would he listen? “I know
your father left you a lot of land,” I said, “but if you give it all away,
how will you live?” “I come from a line of fakirs, Nabin,” he replied. “I
can take up my ancestral vocation whenever I need to. No one can
cheat me out of that.” This is the way he talks, Babu.’
Nabin went away. I noticed that he didn’t ask me what I was doing
in the akhra. I’m glad he didn’t, for the question would have
embarrassed me. Just before leaving he gave me the news that
Kalidas Babu’s son’s wedding had taken place the day before with
much pomp and ceremony. The date—the twenty-seventh—had
slipped my mind.
I kept worrying about Gahar’s disappearance till the truth dawned
on me, suddenly, like a bolt of lightning. Why was the Vaishnavi so
eager to leave the ashram? And why was she hiding the reason from
me? I was convinced that it was not the Vaishnav in the woods and
his demand for the restitution of his conjugal rights that was worrying
Kamal Lata. It was Gahar’s love for her. I remembered Kamal Lata
saying, on my first day in the akhra, that Gahar would not mind my
staying the night if he knew I had done so at her request. Gahar was
a mild, gentle soul. He had nobody in the world and he cared for
notbing—neither land and money, nor public disapproval. What was
it that was keeping him away from the akhra he loved? The
Vaishnavi knew the reason—I was sure of it. And it was out of a
desire to release him from the pangs of an unrequited love that she
had decided to go away.
I sat on the bench beneath the bakul tree for a long time after
Nabin left, these thoughts and many others flitting through my head.
Then I took out my watch and looked at the time. If I meant to catch
the five o’clock train I should start getting ready, I told myself. But
planning to leave and staying behind had become a habit. A
tremendous lassitude overtook me and I could not move. I told
myself that it was my duty to look for the missing Gahar and that I
had promised to attend Putu’s wedding reception. But I had no one
barring myself, to remind me of my obligations. After a while Padma
came with a message from Kamal Lata. Following her into the yard I
came face-to-face with the Vaishnavi.
She said, ‘The train won’t reach Calcutta before midnight. You’d
better have something to eat before you go. I’ve got some prasad
laid out in your room.’ There was not the faintest change in her voice
or manner. She was the same Kamal Lata—warm and tender and
loving.
‘You’ll come again, won’t you, Natun gosain?’ she said just before
I left.
‘If you promise not to leave the akhra.’
‘How long must I stay?’
‘You tell me when you want me back.’
‘No, I can’t do that.’
‘Then tell me something else—’
‘I can’t tell you that either. You must work out the answers for
yourself.’
I wanted, desperately, to stay. ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ I wanted to say.
But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. As I rose to leave, I saw that
Kamal Lata had turned her face away. The gesture went straight to
my heart. I walked out of the akhra without a word.
 9

ABANDONING THE HIGHWAY, I WALKED THROUGH THE WOODS

TRYING OUT one trail after another. I knew I would get a train,
whenever that might be, and I was in no hurry. As I walked on, the
unfamiliar woods became familiar. I remembered the trails from my
childhood. Only what had seemed wide and clear then was cramped
and confined now. Why, wasn’t that the garden with the haunted
tree? It had belonged to the Khans if I remembered right. That meant
I was walking along the southernmost fringe of my own village. I
came up to the tree and stood below it. It was rumoured that a man
had hanged himself from the topmost branch and had haunted the
garden ever afterwards. I remembered how terrified I was of the tree,
as a child. If I came upon it, unawares, I would run away, trembling.
But now the tree was old and gnarled. It had fared no better nor
worse than other tamarind trees of its years. It was bent over double
and its roots stood out, monstrous and black. It wrinkled its old face
into a smile and said, ‘How are you, friend? You haven’t passed by in
many years. Are you still afraid of me?’
I put out a hand and stroked the rough bark. ‘I’m well, bhai,’ I said.
‘I’m not afraid. Why should I be? You are my childhood friend—
dearer to me than the closest of relations.’ The shadows of twilight
gathered slowly around me. I turned reluctantly. ‘Farewell, my friend,’
I said. ‘It was my great good fortune that we could meet again.’
I passed garden after garden on my way to the station. Then came
a little clearing among the trees. Overwhelmed by childhood
memories, I would have walked through it but there suddenly came,
wafting on the air, a rich scent, long forgotten yet maddeningly
familiar. I looked around and saw that I stood on Jashoda
Vaishnavi’s land. And, sure enough, there was her aush tree
standing in its corner, gnarled and mossy with age. It was a dead
tree but one branch still lived and breathed, and on it, tucked away in
a nest of green leaves, were the tiny, white flowers that gave out
such a heady perfume. I remembered how I had loved those flowers
as a child; how I had pestered the Vaishnavi to give me some, for
this tree was the only one of its kind in these parts. The Vaishnavi’s
Vaishnav was buried beneath it. Gahar and I had never seen him—
he had left the world before we came into it—but his presence was
made real to us by the mound of earth on which the Vaishnavi lit her
lamp each evening. Whenever we worried her for aush flowers she
would point to the mound and shake her head. ‘No, Baba Thakur.
Those flowers are for my puja. My Lord will be offended if I let you
touch them.’
Jashoda made a living out of selling combs, ribbons, spools of
thread, glass dolls, tin whistles, hair oil, vermilion, fishing-rods and
tackle. It was her husband’s business but she had carried it on after
his death. All her wares were contained in one barrel yet not a week
went by without one or the other of us knocking on her door to buy
something from her.
I could see that Jashoda had found a place beside her husband,
for now there were two mounds beneath the aush tree. But they
were not clean and smooth as of old. Weeds and creepers grew on
them, thick and lush with many rains and, coming closer, I found the
lamp, rusty and blackened with age, lying face downwards on a bed
of nettles. The hut still stood, though the thatch had come down in
several places and many of the posts were missing. I remembered
Jashoda’s dwelling as I had seen it in my childhood. A neat, strong
hut with an earthen yard, smooth and gleaming with cow-dung,
behind it and a little garden with the aush tree in it, in front. A secure
fence of bamboo rails had surrounded it on all sides. My heart was
heavy as I surveyed the havoc wrought by time. But worse was to
follow. A starved, mangy skeleton of a dog came creeping out of the
shambles and, looking at my face with hollow eyes, tried to wag a
feeble tail. This was Jashoda’s dog. The red flowered collar that she
had made for him out of a sari border was still around his neck. The
childless widow had reared him with all the tender care she would
have lavished on a child. But now he was old and gaunt and left to
fend for himself and he neither had the training for it nor the capacity.
He stayed on in the only place he knew, waiting for the only person
he knew to return. And all the while he was dying a slow death.
I entered the hut and threw a quick glance around. I couldn’t see
much in the dark but I noticed that the pictures on the walls were still
intact. Jashoda had a craze for collecting pictures and pasting them
on her walls. Mouldy and blurred with age and the lashings of many
monsoons, her gods and goddesses and kings and queens still
clung to the mud walls with desperate life. And the gaily daubed
claypot in which she kept her vermilion stood, as it had always done,
in a little niche on the wall. A few other things lay scattered about. I
had the strangest feeling that they recognized me and tried to reach
out to me. But they spoke a language I did not know.
The dog followed me a little way. Then, overcome by fatigue, he
stood gazing on my departing back with soulful eyes. We were of a
kind, I thought sadly. I was on my way to an alien country and an
unknown future, and he had no option but to return to an
environment which, though familiar from infancy, was now strange
and friendless.
The trail turned and I lost sight of him. My heart twisted with pain
and tears gushed to my eyes. ‘Why do these things happen?’ I
asked myself over and over again. The agony of a dying dog may
not have moved me, to any great extent, at any other time. But,
today, my heart was heavy with clouds of misery and despair and a
little waft of breeze was sufficient to set a fierce storm raging in my
breast.
I was lucky, for on reaching the station, I found the train to Calcutta
standing on the platform. I bought my ticket and boarded it. The
guard blew the whistle and the train moved away without a backward
glance. It had no nostalgic memories. It didn’t bid any tearful
farewells. ‘Ten days are so few in a man’s life and yet so many,’ I
thought for the hundredth time that day. ‘Kamal Lata will pick her
morning flowers without me. She will perform her innumerable
duties, but her Natun gosain will not be by her side.’ I wondered how
long it would take her to forget her friend of ten days. She had said
that she was happy, that she had dedicated herself to one who
would never reject her. ‘So be it,’ I said to myself. ‘May she find
peace and fulfilment in the service of her Lord.’

I have never had a goal before me for as long as I can remember.

Nor have I desired anything with passion or conviction.
Consequently, I have lived my life in another’s shadow. Conditioned
by her needs and desires, I have gradually lost the little capacity I
was born with for independent thought and action. My acquaintances
believe me to be weak and worthless but the truth is that a part of
me does not belong to the ordinary world. I have resented that
aspect of my being all my life; I have tried to disown it. Then, in a
bairagi’s akhra, tucked away in the remote wilds of a Bengal village,
it met me—not glaringly, not face-to-face, but in the form of a
shadow, elusive and insubstantial. I have been compelled to
acknowledge its presence ever since. I have seen its beckoning
fingers and been haunted by its timid smile.
And the Vaishnavi, Kamal Lata! Her life was a re-enactment of an
ancient myth cast into verse and song by poets of old. One could
fault the metre or look askance at the imagery but the tune went
straight to the heart. She was like the sky at twilight, changing colour
every moment. She defied description. ‘Come, Natun gosain,’ she
had said. ‘Let’s roam the world together, singing for a living as we go
along.’ She wouldn’t utter my name for she believed me to be the
companion she had lost, over and over again, through many
incarnations. She had no fears of me, no doubts. I was awed by the
strength of the mantra her guru, Bara gosain, had given her.
Suddenly, I remembered Rajlakshmi and the letter she had written.
Its tone was harsh but it did not offend, for mixed with her selfish
preoccupations was a strain of true and tender concern. I smiled to
myself. I realized now, as never before, that my life was drawing to a
close and that my need of her was over. The place she occupied
was a blank. I wondered if there was anyone in the world who could
fill it.
As I stared out of the window at the darkening expanse, I was
overwhelmed by memories … that first meeting in Kumar Saheb’s
tent … those bright, dark eyes fixed on my face in fascinated
wonder. I had not recognized her—believing her to be dead. Then,
her impassioned appeal when I declared my resolve to go to the
burning ghat at dead of night, and her anger, desperation and hurt
bewilderment at my rejection. She had stood at the door of the tent
blocking my path. ‘Do what you will, I shan’t let you go,’ she had
said. ‘Who will look after you if anytiling happens? Your friends or I?’
It was then that I had recognized her.
Her strength had been her most significant attribute and it had
remained with her through all the upheavals of her life. I had lain
unconscious in Ara station and when I opened my eyes I had seen
her sitting by my bed. It was from that moment onwards that I had
entrusted myself to her keeping. I had surrendered body and soul.
Then, again, when I lay sick with fever in our ancestral village—she
had not hesitated to come to me. She had no place there. She was
dead to its inhabitants. But she had braved everyone’s scorn for my
sake. In her letter she had written, ‘Who will nurse you in your
illness? Putu?’ I had not replied. I had not had the courage.
My mind wandered over her many attributes—her beauty, her
intelligence, her rigorous self-control and her ability to command.
How little was the tender, humble flower, Kamal Lata, hidden away in
a remote ashram, in comparison! Yet, it was in Kamal Lata’s gentle
obscurity that my soul had found true affinity. I had had a taste of
freedom. I had found space to breathe. I had value in her eyes. She
would never take me in hand, as Rajlakshmi had done, and
overwhelm me with her presence. What would I do in Burma? Why
was I going? I had been there once. Had I come back enriched in
any way? It wasn’t Kamal Lata alone who had welcomed my
presence in the ashram. Bara gosain had begged me to return. Was
that only a ploy to get at my money? I had discredited people like
them all my life. I had believed them all to be hypocrites and
charlatans. But my life wasn’t over yet. It might be that I still had a lot
to learn. Was faith always to be scoffed at and scepticism to be
idealized? I did not know.
By the time the train entered Howrah station, I had arrived at a
decision. I didn’t need a job and I didn’t want to go to Burma. I would
spend the night in Calcutta but first thing, tomorrow morning, I would
wind up my affairs, pay my creditors and leave for the akhra. On
reaching my lodgings I washed, changed and was preparing to go to
bed when a well remembered voice murmured behind me, ‘You’ve
come back, Babu!’
‘Ratan!’ I turned round, dismayed. ‘Since when have you been
here?’
‘I came just before dusk. I fell asleep on the veranda and didn’t
hear you come in. There’s a fine breeze outside.’
‘Have you had your dinner?’
‘No, Babu. What about you?’
I shook my head. I was hungry but there being nothing to eat, I
had decided to ignore the pangs.
‘All the better!’ Ratan said happily. ‘I’ll have the privilege of
partaking of your prasad.’*
‘In that case,’ I said drily, cursing his self-possession, ‘you’d better
go out and see if any prasad is to be bought at this hour. But what
brings you here? Is there another letter?’
‘No, Babu. Letters are useless. She will say what she wishes to
say with her own lips.’
‘Does that mean I’m to follow you to Kashi?’
‘Oh, no! Ma is here.’
 ‘Here!’ I exclaimed, agitatedly. ‘Has she been sitting in the carriage
all this while?’
‘No, Babu, though she is quite capable of it,’ Ratan smiled. ‘We’ve
been in Calcutta for the last four days. I’ve been stationed here with
instructions to catch you the minute you return and take you to her.’
‘Where is she? How far away?’
‘We’ve taken a house at a little distance from here but I have a
carriage waiting. Let’s go.’
There was nothing for me to do but put on my clothes, lock the
door and follow Ratan into the carriage. We drove through half the
city, then stopped before a handsome mansion with high walls
enclosing a garden. Rajlakshmi’s old durwan, a man from Munger
and a Kurmi by caste, opened the gate with a great salute of
welcome.
‘How are you, Babuji?’
‘I am well, Tulsidas. And you?’
He bent down and touched my feet. He had always stood in
tremendous awe of me because I was a Brahmin. Another servant, a
new one, came running out of the house at the sound of our arrival.
He looked dazed and stupid with sleep and was roundly abused by
the superior Ratan. ‘Why do you think you’re here? To eat and
sleep? Go, get the hookahs ready at once.’ Bullying the other
servants, shamelessly, was Ratan’s way of showing the special
position he enjoyed in the household. This man, being new, was
suitably impressed and darted back the way he had come.
We went up a flight of steps and, crossing a veranda walked into a
huge, beautiful room, lavishly spread with carpets and bolsters and
bright with gas light. My favourite hookah—dear and familiar with
years of use—stood in a corner and by it were my gold embroidered
velvet slippers. Rajlakshmi had made these herself and given them
to me as a birthday present some years ago. There was another
room leading from it with a connecting door. This being open, I
caught a glimpse of the interior. There was a neatly made up bed
and a clothes-horse with some clothes on it that I recognized as
mine. They had been bought just before we left for Gangamati but I
had never worn them and had consequently forgotten that they
existed. All the furniture was new and bright with polish but both
rooms were empty.
‘Ma!’ Ratan called and the next moment Rajlakshmi stood in the
room. She bent down to touch my feet, then turning to Ratan, said,
‘Bring up some tobacco, Ratan, then go and rest. You’ve had a hard
time these four days.’
‘I don’t worry about myself, Ma,’ Ratan replied. ‘I’m thankful I could
bring him to you safe and sound.’
I looked at Rajlakshmi with new eyes. This was the old Pyari—but
not quite. Bathed in the tears and suffering of the last few years she
had emerged in a new form—infinitely brighter and incredibly
beautiful. Her jewels, few but choice and expensive, dazzled the
eyes. Yet her sari was a simple one of ordinary cotton. Its finely
worked border encircled the lovely face and little tendrils of silky,
black hair peeped out from under it and rested on her glowing cheek
and brow. I stared at her, fascinated.
‘Why do you stare at me? Am I a stranger?’
‘That is what it seems.’
‘Do you know what I feel like doing?’
‘No!’
‘I feel like putting my arms around your neck.’ Rajlakshmi laughed,
peal after peal of delighted laughter. ‘Will you push me away if I do?’
‘Try me,’ I laughed with her. ‘You seem intoxicated. Have you had
shiddhi?’
The sound of approaching footsteps (the intelligent Ratan always
made a great clatter as he approached us) forced her to control
herself. She whispered threateningly, ‘I’ll show you what I’ve had in a
minute. Wait till Ratan leaves.’ Then, suddenly her voice became
heavy and tearful. ‘It is just like you to leave me alone in a strange
city and go off to attend Putu’s wedding. Do you have any idea of
how I’ve spent my time?’
‘How was I to know you were here?’
‘You knew it well enough. You wanted to punish me and that’s why
you disappeared.’
At this point, Ratan entered with the tobacco and, turning to
Rajlakshmi, said, ‘Shall I tell the cook to serve Babu’s meal? I’m to
get some prasad and it is past midnight.’
‘I’ll bring it up myself.’ Rajlakshmi rose hurriedly. ‘Spread an asan
on the floor of my bedroom, Ratan.’
I remembered my last days in Gangamati when the cook and
Ratan were the custodians of my welfare, when Rajlakshmi had had
no time for me. Today, she would do everything for me with her own
hands. She could trust no one. I heaved a sigh of relief for this was
the old, the true Rajlakshmi. The other was an aberration.
‘What was the wedding like?’ Rajlakshmi asked after I had eaten.
‘I didn’t attend it but I’ve heard it went off very well.’
‘You didn’t attend it? Then, where were you all these days?’
I told her of my meeting with Kalidas Babu and its consequences
and she was suitably impressed.
‘It’s a strange world,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘You should have
gone to the wedding and given the girl a present.’
‘You can do that for me.’
‘I will do that but not on your behalf. You still haven’t told me where
you were.’
‘Do you remember the Babaji’s akhra at Muraripur?’
‘Of course. The Vaishnavis used to come singing to our door. I
remember my childhood very well.’
‘That’s where I was.’
Rajlakshmi shuddered from head to foot. ‘In the Babaji’s akhra!’
she exclaimed. ‘Ma go, Ma! I’ve heard they lead lives as filthy as
hell!’ Then, quite unaccountably, she burst out laughing. ‘You are the
limit. You really are. Remember the sanyasi at Ara? The matted hair
and brass bangles and rudraksha beads? What a beauty—’ she
could say no more for, overcome with laughter, she rolled all over the
bed. I took her by the shoulders and made her sit up. She went on
laughing, then controlling herself with a great effort, she said, ‘What
did the Vaishnavis say to you? There are lots of them there—all flat-
nosed and tattooed …’ She burst into another fit of laughter.
‘You’d better stop laughing at once,’ I said sternly, ‘or I’ll teach you
such a lesson you’ll be ashamed to show your face to the servants.’
Rajlakshmi sat up quickly and drew herself away, out of my reach.
However, that didn’t prevent her from saying witheringly, ‘You’ll never
have the guts. You are the biggest coward the world has ever
known.’
‘You know nothing of me, Lakshmi. You call me a coward but there
was a Vaishnavi in the akhra who said I was arrogant and superior.’
‘Why? What had you done to her?’
‘Nothing. She called me Natun gosain and said that my withdrawn,
roving mind was a piece of arrogance—the like of which she had
never seen. So you see, I’m a strong man and a hero—not a coward
at all.’
‘From where did the Vaishnavi slut get the key to your roving
mind?’
‘Mind your language, Lakshmi. Remember that Vaishnavis are
women of God.’
Rajlakshmi swept my admonition aside with a wave of her hand.
‘She called you Natun gosain. What did you call her?’
‘Her name is Kamal Lata. Some call her Kamli Lata and swear
she’s a sorceress. Her singing drives men mad and they lay their
souls down at her feet.’
‘Have you heard her sing?’
‘Yes. Her voice is beautiful.’
‘How old is she?’
‘About your age. A little older, perhaps.’
‘What does she look like?’
 ‘She’s attractive enough. Not ugly at any rate—certainly not flat-
nosed and tattooed. She comes from a good family.’
‘I knew that the moment I heard what she had said. Did she look
after you while you were in the akhra?’
‘Yes, very well.’
Rajlakshmi suppressed a sigh and rose. ‘She has no idea of what
she has undertaken. It is easier to realize God—she’ll learn that
soon enough. Why should I feel threatened?’ And she swept out of
the room. I lay back on my pillows and pulled deeply on my hookah.
As the rich, scented smoke curled into my lungs, my eyes fell on a
corner of the ceiling where a tiny spider ran around in circles,
weaving a web. In the dim light its shadow took on immense
proportions and hung from the beam like some gigantic animal—
grotesque and frightening. I thought of how the shadow overcomes
the substance in the absence of true light, and a sigh escaped me.
Rajlakshmi returned a few minutes later and lay down beside me
—her elbow resting on my pillow. I put out a hand and stroked her
face. It was damp. ‘What made you decide to come to Calcutta all of
a sudden?’ I asked.
‘It wasn’t sudden. I’ve been wanting to come to you ever since the
day you left Kashi. I’ve been so unhappy—I was afraid I’d die without
ever seeing you again.’ She put out a hand and pushed the pipe
away. ‘Give over puffing for a moment and listen to me. I can’t see
your face for the smoke.’
I let go of the hookah and took her hand instead. ‘How is Banku
behaving?’ I inquired.
‘The way sons behave when daughters-in-law take over.’
‘Just that much and no more?’
‘I can’t specify the quantity. Anyway, Banku’s behaviour does not
worry me in the least. How much pain can he inflict? True affliction,
for a woman, can only come from the man she loves—as mine
does.’
‘Have I ever hurt you in any way, Lakshmi?’ I asked, gently.
 ‘No,’ she said instantly, stroking my brow with a gentle hand. ‘On
the contrary, it is I who have hurt you over and over again. I reduced
you in the eyes of the world out of my selfish love, and, having
entangled you in my life, I neglected you upon a whim. I’m being
punished for it—can’t you see?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ I said, smiling.
‘You must be wearing blinkers, then,’ she said with a flash of her
old spirit. Then her voice softened and her eyes grew dim. ‘I was the
lowliest of sinners but God didn’t forsake me. He gave you to me out
of His great goodness. And what did I do? I threw away His gift in the
belief that, in rejecting it, I was being purified. Not content with
abandoning you, I turned you away from my door when you came
again to me.’ Tears rolled down her cheeks. She put up a hand to
wipe them away and continued, ‘I planted the poison tree with my
own hands and the fruit was too bitter to swallow. I couldn’t eat, I
couldn’t sleep. Doubts and fears beset me from all sides. Gurudev
tied an amulet on my arm and commanded me to chant the name of
God ten thousand times a day. I sat in my prayer room for hours on
end but God was not with me. Then your letter arrived and the
disease was diagnosed.’
‘Who diagnosed it? Gurudev? Did he give you another amulet?’
‘Yes. But that was for tying around your neck.’
‘Tie it by all means if it cures your disease.’
‘I read the letter over and over again for two days. Then I wrote my
reply and gave it to Ratan. After he left, I bathed in the Ganga and,
standing in the temple of Annapurna, I prayed that the letter would
reach you in time. “Save me, Ma, from destroying myself,” I wept.’
Rajlakshmi fixed her full, dark eyes on my face and asked, ‘Why do
you bind me so ruthlessly?’
I couldn’t answer for a moment. Then I said, ‘Women allow
themselves to be bound in a way men can’t dream of.’
‘You admit it?’
‘I do.’
 ‘Coming out of the temple,’ Rajlakshmi continued, ‘the first person
I saw was a silk merchant called Lakshman Sahu. The old man used
to sell me Benarasi saris and was very fond of me. “I wish to go to
Calcutta, Sahuji,” I said. “I know you do business there. Can you
arrange a house for me?” He said I could have a house he owned in
Bangali Tola at the price of construction. I agreed instantly for I knew
him to be a good and pious man. I brought him the money. He made
all the arrangements.’ She paused for breath and continued, ‘A week
later, I left Kashi and took up residence here. Ma Annapurna must
have heard my prayers for without Her intervention none of this
would have been possible. I wanted to see you so desperately and
here you are.’
‘I won’t be here long. I’m going to Burma.’
‘We’ll go together,’ she said instantly. ‘I hear there are Buddhist
temples all over the country. I can see them. And Abhaya is there!’
‘It is a filthy country, Lakshmi. You’ll lose your caste.’
Rajlakshmi brought her lips close to my ear and whispered
something I couldn’t catch.
‘Speak a little louder,’ I said.
‘No,’ she said decidedly, then resting her head against my chest,
she lay silent for a long while. Her warm breath floated over my neck
and face.
 10

‘WAKE UP. RATAN IS WAITING WITH YOUR TEA.’

Not receiving a reply, Rajlakshmi went on, ‘The sun has been up
for hours. How can you go on sleeping?’
I snuggled into the pillow and murmured drowsily, ‘I’ve only just
dropped off. You kept me awake all night—’ The bang of a teacup on
the table told me that the embarrassed Ratan had made his escape.
‘What a shameless creature you are!’ Rajlakshmi cried. ‘And what
lies you tell! I sat up all night fanning you while you snored like
Kumbhakarna* and now you accuse me of keeping you awake. Get
up this instant or I’ll throw a bucket of water on you.’
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. The windows were wide open
and the morning light streamed in. Rajlakshmi stood in the middle of
the room. The rich folds of a vermilion Benarasi sari glowed like
flames around her freshly bathed body and the red and white sandal
paste on her brow (put there by the Oriya panda** at the bathing-
ghat) gave her face an unearthly beauty. A beam of golden light,
slanting in from the eastern window, fell on her face and neck. Her
cheeks glowed with embarrassment but the familiar dimple twinkled
mischievously and the rosy mouth curved upwards in a saucy smile.
Her eyes, too, were bright with laughter as she said, ‘Why do you
stare at me? You’ve been doing so all evening.’
‘Why don’t you tell me why?’
‘You’re comparing me with Putu and Kamal Lata and trying to
decide which of us is the prettiest.’
‘Wrong. Putu and Kamal Lata are not a patch on you where looks
are in question. A glance at you is enough to tell me that. I don’t
have to stare.’
‘What about accomplishments?’
‘That is a question that needs serious consideration.’
 ‘Indeed!’ Her lovely lip curled in derision. ‘All she can do is sing
kirtans.’
‘Yes, and very well too.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well! Her sur and laya are perfect. And her tal—’
‘What is tal?’
‘Tal is that which used to fall on your back when you were a
scrawny kid with a stomach like a drum. Don’t you remember?’
‘Of course I remember. Kamal Lata has found out all about your
roving mind. Haven’t you told her what a man of action you were?’
‘No. Self-advertisement is not a good thing. You can do that for
me. But, believe me, she has a beautiful voice and sings truly well.’
‘You, of course, are the best judge. Do you remember the song
you used to sing when we were together in the pathshala? The one
that had us all enthralled?’ Her eyes twinkled with merriment. ‘It went
something like this—Kotha geli praner pran bap Duryodhan re-e-e-!
(Where are you lost, life of my life, son Duryodhan). It was a truly
touching song. Even the cows and goats had tears in their eyes!’
And she stuffed her sari into her mouth and doubled up with
laughter.
Footsteps were heard on the stairs and within seconds Ratan was
at the door. ‘I’ve put the kettle on for fresh tea. It’ll be ready in a
minute.’ And, picking up the cup of stone-cold tea, he was preparing
to depart, when Rajlakshmi said, ‘If you don’t get out of bed at once
the second cup will also go waste. And Ratan can’t stand waste, can
you, Ratan?’
‘I don’t know about you, Ma, but I can stand a good deal,
particularly from Srikanta Babu.’
Rajlakshmi looked at his departing back with a tender smile and
said, ‘Ratan loves you very much.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘He threatened to leave my service the day you came away from
Kashi. “Ratan!” I said to him, “Have you forgotten all I’ve done for
you?” “No,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten. I’m not an ingrate. I’m going
to Burma to serve Srikanta Babu. That’s the best way I know of
repaying you.” It took a lot of persuasion to make him change his
mind. And then—your wedding invitation arrived.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense,’ I interrupted. ‘I only asked for your opinion
—’
‘Oh yes? And what if I’d said “go ahead”? You would have married
her, wouldn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Of course you would. You men are capable of anything.’
‘That’s not true. Everyone is not capable of everything.’
‘I don’t know what Ratan thought or felt,’ she continued, cutting me
short. ‘I noticed him giving me strange glances and several times I
saw tears in his eyes. Then, when I gave him the letter to post, he
said, “I’ll go to Calcutta and deliver it myself.” “Why waste all that
money, Ratan?” I asked and his answer was, “I don’t know why but,
looking at you, I get the feeling that the ground is being cut from
under your feet and that the tide will sweep you out to sea in a
matter of moments. I won’t take the fare from you even if you offer it,
for all I have today is through your kindness. However, if Lord
Vishwanath hears our prayers and all goes well you may send a little
something to my woman in the village.”’
‘That son of a barber is as shrewd as a fox,’ I remarked with a wry
smile. Rajlakshmi smiled too but did not comment. She urged me,
once again, to get up and get ready before Ratan arrived with the
second cup of tea.
Sitting down to my midday meal, I asked Rajlakshmi why she was
dressed in Benarasi silk.
‘You tell me the reason,’ she said, smiling.
‘How would I know?’
‘Don’t you recognize the sari?’
‘Yes. It is the one I sent to you from Burma.’
 ‘The moment it came I decided to wear it on the most important
day of my life. Neither before nor after.’
‘Is that why you are wearing it today?’
‘Yes.’
After a while I said, ‘I hear you’re leaving for Kalighat in a few
minutes.’
‘How can I? I must feed you first and put you to sleep. Only then
I’ll be free.’
‘No, you won’t be free even then. Ratan tells me that your fasts
have doubled in number and you eat practically nothing these days.
You must give up your wilful ways. I’ve decided to be very strict with
you and I’m beginning now. You’re not going to Kalighat today.’
Rajlakshmi folded her hands in entreaty. ‘Grant me this one day
for my own. Keep me as your humble slave from tomorrow onwards.’
‘What utter and abject servility!’ I sneered.
Rajlakshmi’s face grew solemn. ‘That is how I should be. I became
so proud and insolent that I forgot what I owed to you. I don’t
deserve your love and tenderness. I’ve lost my right to them through
my own fault.’
I looked up and saw that her eyes were wet. ‘Go tomorrow,’ I said
gently. ‘You stayed awake all night fanning me. You must be tired.’
‘Serving you doesn’t tire me. I’ve stayed up night after night
nursing you in illness and never felt anything at all. Something—I
don’t know what—soothes all my weariness away. I’ve lost sight of
God for so long now. Today, on my day of happiness, I want to find
Him again. Don’t stop me, dearest. Let me go.’
‘Then let’s go together.’
Rajlakshmi’s eyes brightened. ‘Come then,’ she cried joyfully. ‘But
promise not to think any blasphemous thoughts.’
‘I can’t guarantee that. I’ll tell you what. I’ll wait for you at the
temple gate. You may say a prayer on my behalf and ask for a boon.’
‘What boon?’
 I thought for a while but could come up with nothing. ‘Lakshmi,’ I
asked, ‘What would you wish for me?’
‘A long life,’ she said promptly. ‘And health and strength. And the
capacity to be stern with me. I was on the point of being destroyed
by your indulgence.’
‘This is gross self-pity, Lakshmi.’
‘It is. Can I ever forget your letter?’
I sat silent, my face downcast. She put out a hand and raised it,
smiling. ‘I can’t bear this either,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘But
sternness is not part of your nature so I shouldn’t expect it of you. I
must undertake it myself.’
‘What will you do? Fast some more?’
‘No. Fasting is no punishment for me. If anything, it makes me
more arrogant. That won’t be my way.’
‘What is your way as you see it now?’
‘I don’t see anything. I’m groping in the dark.’
‘Tell me, Rajlakshmi—do you think I’m capable of harshness and
cruelty?’
‘I do, my love, I do.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘It is a lie but it is also at the root of all my troubles, gosain. A fine
name your Kamal Lata has found for you. I shall call you Natun
gosain too, from now on.’
‘Do so—by all means.’
‘The name has many advantages. You may, occasionally, mistake
me for Kamal Lata and heave a sigh of relief. Am I right?’
‘This is the language of slaves indeed!’ I laughed. ‘You haven’t
changed one bit, Lakshmi, for all your talk. If you were a real slave
your master would have punished you for your impertinence by
sending you to the gallows.’
‘Perhaps. But I’ve put the noose round my neck and my fate in a
hangman’s hands from childhood onwards.’
 ‘You’re a very naughty girl and have been so from childhood
onwards. No hangman has ever had the power to keep you under
control.’
Rajlakshmi was about to make a laughing rejoinder when she
glanced at my thala and stood up. ‘Good Heavens! You’ve finished.
Where’s the milk? Promise me you won’t get up. I’ll fetch it in a
minute.’ And she hurried out of the room.
A sigh escaped me. ‘Rajlakshmi and Kamal Lata!’ I thought.
She came in a few minutes later and put down a bowl of milk,
then, picking up the fan, waved it gently and said, ‘I used to think
there was something wrong, something sinful in all this. That is why I
left Gangamati and went to Kashidham. I cut off my hair, wore
widow’s weeds and started a course of rigorous penance under
Gurudev’s guidance. I was sure I was on the right path and the
golden gates of heaven almost within reach. You were the one
obstacle in my path and I swept you away harshly, ruthlessly. But
ever since that day my tears have not ceased. I forgot my mantra
and lost sight of God. My soul was parched as if with years of
drought and I thought, “If this is the path to God, why do I suffer so?”’
I looked at her and smiled. ‘God wishes to test the faith of His
devotees. Had you been a little patient, a little more firm of faith, you
would have realized God.’
‘I don’t wish to realize God. I’ve found what I wanted.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Here. In this house.’
‘Impossible! Prove it.’
‘Why should I prove it to you? Have I nothing better to do?’
‘Slave girls don’t talk like that!’
‘Don’t keep calling me a slave girl. I don’t like it.’
‘Very well, then. You aren’t a slave girl. I give you your freedom.’
‘Oh! You do, do you? Last night you fell asleep with your arms
around my neck. I removed them gently and sat up. I saw that your
brow was drenched with sweat. I wiped it with the end of my sari and
took up the fan. Your face looked so beautiful in the lamplight—I sat
gazing on it for hours. “If this is immoral,” I thought, “who cares for
morality? If this is vice—to hell with virtue. My soul recognized him
for my own even before it awoke to full consciousness. If this is a lie
—what and where is the truth?” You haven’t had your milk. Shall I
bring some fruit?’
‘I can’t eat any more, Lakshmi.’
‘But you must. You’ve become very thin.’
‘If I have, it is from months of neglect. Don’t try to remedy it in one
day. I’ll die in the attempt.’
Rajlakshmi’s face grew pale. ‘It won’t happen again. I’ve learnt my
lesson.’ Then, after a few minutes’ silence, she continued, ‘And so
the night went by. I woke with the first glimmer of dawn and, taking
the durwan with me, went down to the river. As I sank into the water I
felt my pain and guilt flow out of me. Ma Ganga took me to her
bosom and made me whole again. I came home and entered my
prayer-room. I found that my mantra had come back to me and I
could pray. My God had come back to me. I felt His presence blotting
out the glaring light of my sky like masses of shadowy cloud and my
shrivelled up soul, smouldering with years of aridity, grew moist and
green again. Tears poured out of my eyes but they were not wrung
out of a heart burning with pain. They ran down like cascades of
silvery light. They drenched me in their sweetness, they drowned me
in their joy … Let me bring some fruit and feed you with my own
hands. Shall I?’
I nodded. As she left the room I sighed, once again. ‘Rajlakshmi
and Kamal Lata!’ I thought. I wondered who had presided over her
birth and thought of naming her Rajlakshmi. After all, there were
thousands of other names.
It was nine o’clock at night when we returned from Kalighat.
Rajlakshmi had a bath, changed into a simple sari and came and sat
by me.
 ‘I see that you’ve shed your regal apparel,’ I remarked. ‘It’s a relief
to see you as your normal self.’
‘It was given by my king—so it had to be regal. I want that sari put
on me when I am dead.’
‘I’ll remember your command. But you’ve lived on dreams all day.
Aren’t you ever going to eat? Shall I ask Ratan to bring up your
meal?’
‘Here? Have you ever seen me eat in your presence?’
‘I haven’t, yet. But what if I do?’
‘Women eat like monsters. They prefer to eat in private.’
‘You can’t fool me with your tricks, Lakshmi. I’m not letting you
starve anymore. If you don’t do as I say, I shall stop talking to you.’
‘Go ahead. See if I care.’
‘I won’t eat, either.’
‘You win,’ she laughed. ‘I couldn’t stand that.’
The cook brought up her meal—a simple one of fruit and
sweetmeats. She ate a little and said, ‘Ratan has complained to you
that I don’t eat enough. Would you be able to eat if you were in my
place? My case was lost irretrievably, I thought, yet I came to
Calcutta to seek a fresh court of appeal. Every day I sent Ratan to
your lodgings and sat here tense with fear that you would refuse to
come. What could I expect after treating you the way I did?’
‘You could have come to my lodgings yourself and pounced on me
the way a green beetle pounces on a cockroach.’
‘Who’s the cockroach? You?’
‘Who else? There isn’t a meeker and humbler insect in the world.’
Rajlakshmi thought for a moment and said, ‘Yet I fear you more
than anyone else in the world.’
‘That’s a joke.’
‘It isn’t. I know you better than you know yourself. You care very
little for the opposite sex. You don’t desire women or really need
them though you feign an interest, sometimes, out of consideration
for their feelings. If you had refused to come to me I would have
been powerless to make you do so.’
‘You’re wrong. If I desire anything at all in the world, to this day, it
is you, Lakshmi. I can refuse anyone anything—but not you. You say
you know me better than I do myself. And you don’t know this?’
‘I’ll go and wash my hands,’ Lakshmi rose and left the room.
The following evening, her daily duties concluded, Rajlakshmi
came and sat by me. ‘I want to hear all about Kamal Lata,’ she said.
‘Tell me.’
I told her all I knew but, fearing a misunderstanding, left out those
bits that concerned just the two of us. She heard Kamal Lata’s story
with great concentration and commented, ‘It was Jatin’s death that
broke her. After all, she was responsible.’
‘How was she responsible?’
‘Wasn’t she? Had she not sought his help in taking her life, it
would never have occurred to him to do the same. It was inevitable.
That is why one must never ask a friend to be a partner in one’s sin.
The scales overbalance and one has to pay for the other’s crime.
She lives on but the boy she loved so dearly had to die.’
‘Your reasoning is a bit obscure, Lakshmi.’
‘It may be to you. It isn’t to me or to Kamal Lata!’
‘Is that so?’
‘Of course it is. I’m ashamed to go on living when I look at you.’
‘You said, yesterday, that all your guilt and pain had been washed
away. Was that a lie?’
‘Of course it was. They are my constant companions and will
remain with me till the hour of my death. I’ve tried to die but I couldn’t
—because of you.’
‘I know that, Lakshmi. But if you keep hurting me like this, over
and over again, I’ll go away—so far away that you’ll never find me
again.’
Rajlakshmi shivered and, clutching my hand, laid it on her breast.
‘You are too cruel,’ she said. ‘Don’t ever speak those words again.’
 ‘I won’t.’
‘You mustn’t even think them. And promise me you’ll never leave
me—’
‘I didn’t leave you because I wanted do. You asked me to go.’
‘That wasn’t your Lakshmi. That was someone else.’
‘But I’m still afraid of that someone else.’
‘You needn’t be, anymore. She’s dead—the wicked ogress.’ And
she gripped my hand with all the force of her delicate flower-like one.
We sat, silent, for a few minutes, then she asked, ‘Are you really
going to Burma?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you going? We are just the two of us. How much do we
need?’
‘However little we need—it must be earned.’
‘God will provide. I won’t let you take up a job. You’re not strong
enough.’
‘If my health breaks down, I’ll come back. What else can I do?’
‘You will come back. I know it. But must you torture me by
dragging me away to the end of the world?’
‘You do’t have to be tortured. You needn’t go.’
‘Don’t joke—for God’s sake.’ Rajlakshmi’s eyes flashed fire.
‘I’m not joking. It will be a hard life. You’ll have to cook, clean,
sweep and swab, make beds—’
‘What will the servants do then?’
‘There won’t be any servants. I won’t be rich enough to afford
them.’
‘I don’t care. I will go with you no matter how hard you try to
dissuade me.
‘Come then. We’ll go together—you and I. There’ll be so much to
do that you’ll have no time for your innumerable prayers and fasts or
for quarrelling with me.’
‘I’m not afraid of work.’
 ‘Very true. But it will be a different kind of work. I doubt if you’ll stay
even a week.’
‘I’ll go with you and come back with you—if I don’t like it there. I
don’t have to leave you behind.’ She thought for a minute and said,
‘As a matter of fact, it might be rather nice. Just the two of us in a
little house with no servants to disturb us. Keep me as you will. I
won’t complain. And I won’t want to come back either.’ She put her
head down on my lap and shut her eyes.
‘You seem deep in thought,’ I remarked after a while.
She opened her eyes and smiled. ‘When do we go?’
‘You’ll have to make arrangements for your house and servants.
We’ll go as soon as you are ready.’
She nodded and closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘Let’s
go to Muraripur before that, and spend some time in the akhra.’
‘I did promise to do so before leaving the country—’
‘Then, let’s go tomorrow.’
‘Will you come?’
‘Why not? Kamal Lata loves you and Gahar Dada loves her. This
is a fine state of affairs.’
‘Who told you all this?’
‘You told me.’
‘I did nothing of the sort.’
‘Oh yes, you did. Only—you don’t know when.’
I was alarmed and tried to retrieve the situation. ‘I’d rather you
didn’t go.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll make fun of the poor girl and worry the life out of her.’
Rajlakshmi drew her brows together. ‘Is that your reading of my
character? After all these years? Am I likely to make fun of Kamal
Lata because she loves you? Am I not a woman? Is loving you a
crime? It is quite possible that I may grow to love her myself.’
‘Nothing is impossible for you. Come along, then.’
 ‘We’ll go by the morning train tomorrow. Don’t worry, dearest. I
won’t give you cause for a moment’s unhappiness. Not anymore. I
promise.’ She lay down again and shut her eyes. Her breathing grew
slow and measured; her breast heaved gently. She seemed to have
gone far away—very far. I was frightened and gave her a little shake.
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘No, nothing.’ Rajlakshmi opened her eyes and smiled. But even
her smile seemed strange, for some reason.
 11
WE DIDN’T LEAVE THE NEXT DAY—I DIDN’T FEEL UP TO IT—BUT THE DAY
after saw us on our way to Muraripur. Rajlakshmi’s faithful retainer,
Ratan, without whom she wouldn’t stir a yard, left by the morning
train with a vast quantity of luggage and Rajlakshmi and I followed
with another lot of bundles and baskets and the kitchen maid, Lalur
Ma, in attendance.
‘Are you planning to settle down in Muraripur?’ I asked Rajlakshmi.
‘I’ll stay for a while. You went and saw the woods and fields and
river of our childhood all by yourself like the selfish creature you are.
Don’t they belong to me too? And don’t I yearn for them the same as
you do?’
‘That’s understandable enough. But do we need so many things?
And so much food?’
‘We can’t go empty-handed to a place of God. Besides, you
haven’t been asked to carry anything. Why do you worry?’
As a matter of fact, that was the least of my worries. What I feared
most was Rajlakshmi’s reception of Govindaji’s prasad and the effect
it would have on Kamal Lata. Rajlakshmi would treat it with the
utmost reverence but not a morsel of it would pass through her lips
for it would be touched by bairagis and Vaishnavs, She might start
fasting all over again or she might, just possibly, set up a kitchen of
her own. Both would be acutely embarrassing for me. But I knew that
she would do whatever she did gracefully and courteously. She
would be so charming and vivacious that the inmates of the akhra
wouldn’t dream of taking offence. That was the only thought that
comforted me.
I watched her as she put away a variety of things in two tall
almirahs that had been brought in the day before. Her body had
always been light and slim and supple of movement. And the
prolonged fasts and deprivations of the last few years had given it a
glow that nearly dazzled the eyes. She had bathed early this
morning and draped a Vrindavani sari about her form. It was of
catechu brown silk, woven over with fruits and flowers and leaves
and buds whose colours matched the streaks of sandal, vermilion
and saffron that the Oriya panda at the bathing-ghat had marked,
carefully and tastefully, upon her brow. The jewelled eyes of her
shark-headed bangles flashed fire with every movement of her
hands and the diamonds and emeralds around her neck glittered
and sparkled between the borders of her sari. A blue flame darted
from the jewels in her ears. She wore no blouse—she rarely did, in
the house—(she always said that, being a simple village girl, she
found these newfangled articles of clothing constricting and irksome)
and her neck and arms and part of her breast were bare. I couldn’t
take my eyes off her.
She shut the door of the almirah and locked it. Then, turning
around, she caught my eye and, drawing her sari quickly about her
shoulders, laughed ruefully. ‘Why do you stare at me so? Do you see
anything special?’
‘I see God’s handiwork. I wonder who gave Him the assignment.’
‘You. Who else has such perverted taste? You came into the world
some five or six years before me. You told Him to make me for you
just before you came. Don’t you remember?’
‘No. But how do you know all this?’
‘Because God whispered it in my ear just before packing me off.
Have you finished your tea? We’ll miss the train if you don’t hurry.’
‘What if we do?’
‘You don’t seem very enthusiastic about going. Tell me why.’
‘Because I’m afraid of losing you in the crowd.’
‘You won’t lose me. On the contrary, I may lose you.’
‘That isn’t desirable either.’
‘Don’t put me off, please. Let’s go. I hear Natun gosainji has a
room of his own in the akhra. The first thing I’ll do when I’m there is
to break the bolts of the door. As for me—your slave girl will be there
for you whenever you want her.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
It was mid-afternoon by the time we reached the akhra.
Govindaji’s bhog had just been concluded. We had arrived without
any intimation and there were so many of us but the inmates of the
akhra were delighted to see us. Bara gosain was away, I was told,
on a visit to his gurudev in Nabadweep and a couple of bairagis had
taken possession of my room.
‘I never dreamed you would come back to us so soon, Natun
gosain,’ Kamal Lata said in a voice thick with emotion.
‘He would have come sooner, Kamal Lata Didi,’ Rajlakshmi replied
for me. From the way she spoke, one might think she had known
Kamal Lata all her life. ‘I am responsible for the delay. Blame me, if
you will.’
Kamal Lata’s face reddened at these words and Padma let out a
squeal of laughter. From Rajlakshmi’s appearance and manner, it
was obvious that she was a gentlewoman of good birth and
breeding. What the Vaishnavis wanted to know was her connection
with me. The intelligent Rajlakshmi perceived this in a moment and
proceeded to satisfy their curiosity. ‘Do you recognize me, Kamal
Lata Didi?’ she asked brightly. ‘Have you never seen me in
Vrindavan?’
The joke was not lost on Kamal Lata. She smiled and answered, ‘I
don’t seem to remember, bon.’
‘That’s just as well, Didi, because I’ve never been to Vrindavan in
all my life. I lived here, in these parts, as a child.’ Pointing to me, she
continued, ‘We went to the pathshala together. We were so fond of
one another—we were like brother and sister. I called him Dada and
he loved me as tenderly as a little sister. He never laid a finger on
me!’ And, turning to me, she asked, ‘Isn’t that true?’
‘I knew it,’ Padma said with her customary giggle. ‘That’s why you
look alike—both tall and slim. Only you are fair and Natun gosain is
dark. I knew it the minute I saw you.’
‘Yes, Padma,’ Rajlakshmi replied gravely. ‘We have to be alike.
There’s no other way for us.’
‘You know my name?’ Padma cried out in wonder. ‘Who told you?
Natun gosain?’
‘Yes. That is why I’ve come to see you. “Take me with you to the
akhra,” I said to your Natun gosain. “Your reputation won’t suffer with
me by your side. And, even if it does, no harm will come to you. The
poison will stick in your throat as it did for Neelkanth.* It won’t spread
to the rest of your body.”’
‘Why do you talk such nonsense?’ I asked angrily. ‘That too before
a child.’
‘It isn’t nonsense. I’m absolutely serious.’
‘Don’t believe her, Kamal Lata,’ I said. ‘She’s eternally plotting and
planning mischief.’
‘Oh I am, am I? Why do you malign me, gosain? It must be you
who is plotting something—in connection with me.’
‘I don’t deny it.’
‘But I have nothing to do with it. I’m as innocent as a new-blown
flower.’
Kamal Lata laughed at her manner but I could see that she was
bewildered and didn’t know what to make of this exchange. I hadn’t
told her about Rajlakshmi. After all, what had been there to say,
then?
‘What is your name, bon?’ she asked after a while.
‘My name is Rajlakshmi. Your gosainji has dropped the first
syllable and shortened it to Lakshmi. I had no name for him till you
gave him one. He tells me to call him Natun gosain these days. “I’ll
feel better if you do,” he says.’
Padma laughed and clapped her hands. ‘I know what that means,’
she said happily.
Kamal Lata glared at her. ‘What do you know, you nitwit?’
‘I know, I know. Shall I tell?’
 ‘There’s no need. Run along now.’ Then, taking Rajlakshmi’s
hand, she said, ‘It is very late, bon, and you look tired and hungry.
Wash your hands and feet and come to the shrine. Then we’ll
partake of prasad together. You, too, Natun gosain.’
The crucial moment was upon us and I waited, tense with inner
conflict. Rajlakshmi’s mania for purity and sanctity, particularly where
food was in question, had become so much a part of her that logic
and reason held no ground before it. It wasn’t a question of belief—it
was habit, pure and simple. Her set of standards was for herself
alone. She didn’t expect it of others, least of all, me. Whenever I
reported some particularly unholy or unscriptural conduct of mine (as
I enjoyed doing) she would cover her ears and pretend not to hear,
or laugh and shake her head. ‘Honestly! I don’t know what I’ve done
to deserve you. You’ll drag me to hell at this rate.’
But the situation here was different. Here she was up against a
group of intensely religious beings who had given up the world and
embraced a doctrine of love and brotherhood. Caste and its
hierarchy meant nothing to them for, in their code, birth was; an
accident and the past insignificant. What mattered was the present—
the association of a group of people drawn together by a religion of
love. No one had, to this day, insulted them by refusing to partake of
Govindaji’s prasad. If such a thing happened, and through me, I
could never hold my head up again. I knew Kamal Lata. She would
not utter a word of reproach. Nor would she allow me to explain. She
would hold my eyes with her own for a brief moment before walking
away. And her unspoken comment would sear my soul!
‘Come, Natun gosain,’ Padma came to call me. ‘Have you had
your wash? They’re all waiting for you. Prasad is being served.’
‘What is the prasad today, Padma?’
‘Today is Govindaji’s anna bhog.’*
‘Worse and worse,’ I thought. Aloud I said, ‘Where are you taking
me?’
 ‘To me eastern veranda. Your thala has been laid beside Babaji
moshai’s. We women will eat later. Rajlakshmi Didi is to serve us.’
‘Isn’t she going to eat with you?’
‘No. She’s a Brahmin. She’ll lose caste if she eats anything
touched by Boshtoms like us.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wasn’t your Kamal Lata Didi offended?’
‘No. Why should she be? She laughed and said, “In our next birth
we’ll be born sisters and we’ll eat together from the same thala. And
if you brag about your caste, then, and try to be saucy, Ma will box
your ears.”’
I was pleased at Rajlakshmi’s discomfiture. She had met her
match at last.
‘What was her reply?’ I asked Padma.
‘Rajlakshmi Didi laughed too. “Why should Ma box my ears, Didi?”
she said. “You’ll be the older sister. You may punish me as you will.”’
On seeing them together I found that this little exchange hadn’t
soured their relationship. If anything, it had helped to forge a mutual
bond that was pleasing to behold. Bara gosain arrived by the
evening train, a group of babajis with him. Bara gosain was pleased
to see me but not the others. One couldn’t blame them for they were
all, without exception, wholeheartedly, even ostentatiously, Vaishnav,
with intricately marked noses and foreheads. One was a famous
kirtaniya (so I was told) and another—an expert on the mridanga.
The meal over, I walked down to my favourite haunt in the woods.
Pushing my way across great stretches of reeds and brambles that
tore at my skin, I came upon the sun setting over the dying river. I sat
on the bank watching the scene but not for long for somewhere, near
at hand, a clump of the bulbous andhar manik* was opening its
petals and the stench of putrid flesh came to my nostrils with every
gust of wind. I returned to the akhra wondering why poets rated
flowers so highly. If someone were to send them a bunch of andhar
manik as a gift, what would they feel?
Padma met me as I entered and said, ‘You love to hear kirtans,
don’t you, gosain? Manohar Das Babaji will sing to us tonight after
Govindaji’s arati. He has a wonderful voice. You’ve never heard
anything like it before.’
‘I’ve loved the padavalis** of Vaishnav poets from my childhood,
Padma. I find them more melodious than any other music in the
world. As a child I would walk miles and brave every kind of
punishment to hear the songs of kirtaniyas. Won’t you be singing
tonight, Kamal Lata?’
‘No, gosain. I have hardly any training. Singing before a great
master like Manohar Das Babaji would be impertinent of me.
Besides, my voice is not what it used to be. My throat was affected
by the fever and is still heavy and hoarse.’
‘But Lakshmi must hear you sing. She thinks I exaggerate—’
‘I’m sure you do, gosain,’ Kamal Lata blushed and turned to
Rajlakshmi. ‘I’ll sing, whatever little I know, some other time, bon.’
‘Do that,’ Rajlakshmi smiled. ‘Just send me word when you are
ready and I’ll come to you myself. One other thing. Tell Bara gosain
that I would like to sing tonight—after Babaji moshai’s kirtan—’
Kamal Lata shook her head doubtfully and said, ‘I wonder if that
would be wise. The Babajis are very particular—’
‘There’s no harm in taking the name of God—surely. No one could
be more particular than my Durbasha muni*** here,’ she laughed,
pointing at me. ‘I’m not nervous of Radha Govinda or of the Babajis
but I am of him.’
‘You’ll get a reward from me if you pass the test,’ I said.
‘Ma go! Don’t give me any rewards please. Not in front of all these
people. I don’t trust you. You’re capable of anything.’
The Vaishnavis giggled at her words and little Padma clapped her
hands and sang joyfully, ‘I know what that means.’
 ‘Be quiet, you silly girl,’ Kamal Lata scolded her tenderly. ‘Take her
away. One never knows what she’ll say next.’
The singing commenced at dusk. The open space outside the
shrine was packed with people from the neighbouring villages:
bairagis and Vaishnavs for the most part. The inmates of the akhra
sat at one end, guests and outsiders at the other. In the centre,
under a blaze of hanging lamps, Manohar Das Babaji and his
musicians sat, ready for their performance. The young Vaishnav who
had dislodged me was to play the harmonium. The harmonium and
mridanga belonged to the akhra, and were brought out on occasions
like this one. Word had gone around that a young woman of high
birth and surpassing beauty had arrived from Calcutta and that she
would be singing devotional songs in praise of Radha Govinda.
People whispered to one another about her wealth, the servants she
had brought with her, the goods she had donated to the akhra and
the young man who was her companion, one Natun gosain—a
compulsive rover, born and bred in these parts.
Babaji had not yet concluded his prefatory verses in praise of Lord
Chaitanya when Rajlakshmi made an appearance. There was a hum
of awed whispers from the crowd. Babaji’s voice shook a little and
the mridanga player nearly missed a beat. Only Dwarika Das Babaji
sat, immobile as a statue, eyes closed, back resting against a pillar.
Rajlakshmi wore a sari of midnight blue whose intricately woven
border of silver threads blended and became one with her powder
blue blouse of fine silk. The same choice jewels hung upon her
person but the sandal and saffron of her forehead had got rubbed
off. Only the faintest traces remained, pale and glimmering like the
mist on an autumn morn. She walked straight past me without
deigning to throw a glance in my direction but her lips were curved in
a smile—or so I imagined.
That evening, Manohar Das Babaji failed to command the
attention he usually did. The fault did not lie in his singing but in the
audience, who were all eagerness to hear Rajlakshmi. Dwarika Das
Babaji turned to her and said, ‘Come, Didi, sing something for my
Radha Govinda,’ then, pointing to the khol (drum), he asked, ‘That
won’t be in the way, will it?’
‘No.’ Rajlakshmi took her place composedly, facing the shrine. Her
answer took the Babajis by surprise for they hadn’t expected such a
degree of skill from a mere woman. But there was a greater surprise
in store for them. A gasp rose from the audience as the rich, pure
tones of aVaishnav padavali cascaded from her throat with the force
and clarity of a mountain stream. She had a naturally melodious
voice and was rigorously trained in the classical music of the north.
But I never knew that she had mastered this particular tradition of the
devotional music of Bengal. Her intonation was perfect, her rhythm
masterly and her diction unflawed. But there was more—much more.
She sang, not with her voice alone, but with every fibre of her being.
Her Radha Govinda were in front of her, her Durbasha muni behind
her and I knew not for whom she sang these lines:
E ke pada pankaja, panke bibhushita
Kantake jura jam bhel
Tua darashana asi kachhu nahi janulu
Chira dukho aba dure gel
Tohari muralijaha shravane prabeshilo
Chhorunu griha sukho as
Panthaka dukho tunhu kari na ganunu
Kahe tahin Govinda Das …
(Earth and slime adorn my lotus feet
Thorns tear them to shreds
At the hope of a glimpse of your wondrous form
All pain is gone; all sorrow’s spent
I left my home and kin for ever
The day your flute’s melodious strain
Entered my ears, my long dark path
Is naught to me, so says Govinda Das.)

Tears of ecstasy rolled down Dwarika Das Babaji’s cheeks. He

stood up, swaying on his feet and, walking over to the shrine, took
the thick garland of mallika flowers from Govindaji’s neck and put it
around Rajlakshmi’s. ‘May all that is dark in your life be wiped away,’
he said. ‘May only truth and light guide you on your way.’
Rajlakshmi bent her head in acceptance of his blessing then,
rising, she came to me and touched the dust of my feet to her brow
in everyone’s presence. Lowering her head she whispered, ‘This
garland is yours. If you hadn’t threatened me with a reward, I would
have put it round your neck, here and now.’
While prasad was being distributed, I took her aside and said,
‘Keep the garland carefully. I won’t wear it here. Put it around my
neck when we get home.’
‘Are you afraid of wearing it here because this is a place of God?
Are you afraid that it will bind you in some way?’
‘No. I have no fears left. They’ve all been wiped away. If I had the
world in my possession I would have laid it at your feet, tonight,
Lakshmi.’
‘How generous of you! You know very well that whatever you give
me will remain yours.’
‘Thank you a million times for this day, Lakshmi.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because today I know for certain how little I deserve you. I’m no
match for you in anything—beauty, brains, accomplishments, love,
passion, tenderness. What God has given me, He has given no one
in the world. I’m humbly and truly grateful to you, Lakshmi.’
‘I don’t like such talk—’
‘You’ve thrown yourself away on an unworthy person. I don’t know
where to keep this priceless treasure.’
‘Are you afraid someone will steal it if you’re not careful?’
‘No, Lakshmi. No one would dare do that. Where would the thief,
poor fellow, find a storehouse large enough to contain you?’
Rajlakshmi took my hand and laid it on her breast without a word.
Then she said, ‘The Vaishnavis will laugh if they see us whispering
together in the dark. But I’m worried about something. Where will
you sleep tonight?’
 ‘They’ll make some arrangement. You needn’t worry.’
‘I wonder what arrangement they’ll make. Everything is so
disorganized here.’
Things were disorganized with the sudden arrival of so many
people. A bed was made for me in the veranda. Rajlakshmi
grumbled about it but could do nothing. I’m sure she checked on me
several times during the night but, tired with the journey and the
varied events of the day, I slept like a log and knew nothing.
On waking up the next morning, I saw Rajlakshmi and Kamal Lata
enter the akhra with baskets heaped with flowers. I don’t know what
passed between them in the privacy of the flower garden but the look
on their faces removed the last of my fears. Peace flooded my soul.
They had slept together the night before (the difference in their
castes had not presented itself as an obstacle) and today they
behaved as though they had known each other all their lives.
Referring to yesterday’s incident, when Rajlakshmi had refused to
eat anything touched by her, Kamal Lata laughed and said, ‘Don’t let
that worry you, gosain. I’ve found a way to punish her. I’ll box her
ears soundly in our next birth for I’ll be the older sister.’
‘I’ve agreed to that on one condition, gosain,’ Rajlakshmi
retaliated. ‘If I die first she’ll have to leave the akhra and come and
look after you. I know I’ll have no peace, even in heaven, worrying
about you. Like the old demon in Sindbad’s story, I’ll sit on her hack
and make her do whatever I want.’
‘Ma go! I can’t carry you on my back, bon. So you’d better not
think of dying first.’
After drinking my tea I went out to look for Gahar. ‘Come back as
soon as you can and bring Gahar gosain with you,’ Kamal Lata said.
‘I’ve got hold of a Brahmin cook this morning, to prepare the bhog.
Rajlakshmi is helping him. She’ll have a hard time for he is as dirty
as he is lazy.’
‘You’ve made this new arrangement for Rajlakshmi’s sake. But I
doubt if Govindaji will approve—’
 ‘Don’t say that,’ Kamal Lata bit her tongue and shook her head. ‘If
Rajlakshmi hears it she won’t let a drop of water pass through her
lips.’
‘You met her only yesterday. Yet you understand her perfectly,’ I
smiled.
‘Yes. I do understand her. She is one in a million. You are a lucky
man, gosain.’
Gahar was not at home. I was informed by Nabin that he had gone
over to Sunam village where his maternal cousin—a widowed
woman with many children—lived. A strange, new fever had
appeared in those parts and was devastating the villages. Some of
her children had been afflicted and Gahar had gone over to help her
out. It was over a fortnight now but not a word had come from him.
Nabin was distracted with worry but hadn’t a clue to where the
village was. Suddenly, he burst out weeping—great, racking sobs
shaking his chest. ‘He may be dying, Babu, and I’m sitting here
doing nothing. I’m an ignorant, unlettered peasant. I don’t know
where to go or what to do. I keep begging Chakravarty moshai to
accompany me to Sunam village—I even offered him a hundred
rupees—but the rascally Brahmin refuses to budge an inch. But I tell
you this, Babu. If my master dies I’ll set fire to his house and burn
him alive even if I have to jump into the flames myself. Such a base
ingrate should not be allowed to live.’
‘Do you know the name of the zila, Nabin?’
Nabin shook his head. ‘All I know is that it is somewhere near
Nadia and that the village is situated several kos away from the
railway station. One has to reach it by bullock-cart. The old man
knows but he refuses to tell.’
I told Nabin to bring me all the old letters and papers he could lay
his hands upon but the examination yielded no result. Only one
significant fact came to light. Nayan Chand Chakravarty had
borrowed two hundred rupees from Gahar to get his widowed
daughter remarried, two months ago. Gahar was a simpleton with a
lot of money. Such people are the natural prey of cheats and
swindlers. Resentment was useless. But I had to agree with Nabin
that the extent of the old man’s villainy was rarely to be seen.
‘He wants my master to die,’ Nabin said. ‘Then he won’t have to
pay back a paisa.’
I couldn’t deny his logic but, there being nothing else to do, I took
him along with me to Chakravarty moshai’s house. Such a kindly,
humble, sympathetic, decent old soul was never to be found! But old
age had afflicted him so grievously, had robbed him of his memory
so ruthlessly that he could remember nothing—not the name of the
zila nor the direction nor the name of the station.
I got hold of a railway guide and read out the names of all the
stations in north and east Bengal but not one of them rang a bell. It
grieved him excessively and he shook his head in self-pity. ‘I’m an
old man, Baba, and my powers are failing me. People cheat me in so
many ways. They borrow money and household articles but nothing
is returned. I can’t recall who took what. I’m resigned to my fate.
“God is watching everybody,” I say to myself, “and He will dispense
justice. He will give the righteous their due.”’
Nabin could bear it no longer. ‘Yes,’ he roared, ‘He will dispense
justice. If He doesn’t, I will.’
Chakravarty clicked his tongue gently and shook his head. ‘Don’t
distrust me, Nabin. I’m an old man with a foot already on the road to
heaven. Am I likely to tell a lie? Besides, don’t I love Gahar as my
own son?’
‘I don’t know all that. I’m asking you for the last time. Will you or
will you not take me to my master? If you don’t and anything
happens to him—remember that you have me to reckon with.’
Chakravarty moshai tapped his forehead with a shaking hand.
‘Destiny,’ he moaned. ‘All is preordained. If it were not so would you
be standing here talking to me in that tone of voice?’
We returned—defeated. I waited outside his door for a while in the
hope that he might, in a moment of repentance, come out and tell us
what we wanted to know. But nothing of the kind happened. I
glanced within, for the door was ajar, and saw him pick up his
discarded hookah and proceed to pack it with tobacco, his
countenance as calm and benign as it always was.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon when I returned to the akhra.
The Babajis were not to be seen. I guessed that, worn out with the
effort of swallowing the enormous meal of prasad that was habitual
with them, they were enjoying a prolonged siesta with true ascetic
fervour. The same amount of time and energy would be required at
night. No wonder they needed to recharge themselves. A little knot
of women huddled around someone on the veranda. Looking over
their shoulders, I saw that it was an astrologer complete with
almanac, slate, pencils, chalk and other essentials of his trade.
Padma was the first to see me. ‘There’s Natun gosain,’ she cried.
Kamal Lata looked up eagerly. ‘I knew Gahar gosain wouldn’t let
you come away without a meal. What did you have?’
Rajlakshmi clapped her hand on the Vaishnavi’s mouth. ‘Don’t,
Didi,’ she begged, ‘don’t ask him that—for God’s sake.’
Kamal Lata removed the restraining hand gently but firmly and
said, ‘You look hot and tired and your hair is full of dust. Have you
had a bath?’
Nabin had begged me, many times, to have a bath and a meal in
the house but, needless to say, I had refused.
‘Ganak Thakur tells me that I have a great future. I shall be a
queen some day,’ Lakshmi informed me, mightily pleased.
‘How much did you give him?’
‘Five rupees,’ Padma answered for her.
‘If you had given them to me I would have predicted something
better for you.’
The astrologer was an Oriya Brahmin but he knew Bengali and
spoke it well. He smiled at my words and said, ‘No, moshai! It wasn’t
the money. I earn enough, in my profession, to keep me in comfort.
Her hand is unique. I haven’t seen one like it in all my years of
fortune-telling. Mark my words, I won’t be proved wrong.’
‘Can you tell me something I want to know without looking at my
palm?’
‘I can. Take the name of a flower.’
‘Simul.’*
The astrologer laughed. ‘So be it,’ he said, and proceeded to draw
a number of lines and figures on his slate. Then he looked up and
said, ‘You are worried about something. You are looking for
information.’
‘What kind of information?’
He looked me in the eye and said, ‘No. It has nothing to do with a
court case. You want to know the whereabouts of a certain person.’
‘Can you tell me, Thakur?’
‘I can tell you that he is alive and will return home in a couple of
days. There’s no cause for worry.’
I must admit that his answer startled me. It must have shown in my
face for Rajlakshmi exclaimed triumphantly, ‘I told you, he is a very
good astrologer. But you are such a sceptic.’
Kamal Lata rushed to my defence. ‘He’s not,’ she said. ‘Show your
palm to Ganak Thakur, gosain.’
I stretched out my hand. The astrologer took it in his and studied it
carefully. Then, making his calculations, he looked up gravely. ‘You
have a bad time ahead of you, moshai.’
‘A bad time? When?’
‘Very soon now. It’s a question of life and death.’
I looked at Rajlakshmi. She was as white as a sheet. The
astrologer turned to her and said, ‘Let me have another look at your
palm, Ma.’
But, this time, Rajlakshmi turned on him and snapped, ‘No. I’ve no
need of your predictions.’ Her sudden, violent change of mood was
obvious and the wily astrologer knew that his shaft had gone home.
 ‘I’m only a mirror, Ma,’ he said humbly. ‘The future is reflected in
me and my mouth utters what the inner eye sees. That’s all. But it is
possible to dilute the influence of evil planets. There are certain
rituals for which a little money is required. A paltry ten or twenty
rupees.’ Rajlakshmi did not reply. It was obvious that though she had
full faith in the man’s prediction, she had grave doubts about his
ability to get around the planets.
‘Come, Natun gosain,’ Kamal Lata said. ‘It is time you had your
tea.’
‘I’ll make it,’ Rajlakshmi rose hastily. ‘Where is Ratan? I haven’t
seen a hair of his head since yesterday. Ask him to prepare a
hookah, Didi.’
Ratan dusted the string-cot on the southern veranda, brought me
water to wash and prepared a hookah, his face red and indignant.
He hadn’t had a moment’s rest since yesterday and his mistress
complained that she hadn’t seen a hair of his head! If I were to tell
him of the Rahu that threatened to swallow me up in the near future
he would, I’m convinced, have answered, ‘No, Babu. Not you. It is I
who am about to be swallowed up and I know by whom.’
I was telling Kamal Lata about Gahar’s disappearance when
Rajlakshmi came in with the tea. She put the cup down on a stool
and said, ‘I’ve told you, again and again, not to wander about in the
woods alone. Who knows what might happen? I beg you with folded
hands—listen to me, please.’ She must have thought this up while
making the tea. For, what else could happen ‘very soon’?
Kamal Lata looked up, surprised. ‘When has gosain been
wandering about in the woods?’
‘How do I know? Is it possible for me to keep a watch on him every
minute of the day? Have I nothing else to do?’
‘She hasn’t seen anything. She only assumes it,’ I said, irritably.
‘That son of an astrologer has made life hell for me.’
Ratan smirked and walked away hastily and Rajlakshmi turned on
me. ‘Why do you blame the astrologer? He only told us what he saw
on your palm. Haven’t you heard of such filings before? Have you
never seen anyone going through a bad phase?’
There was no point in arguing with her, so I didn’t. Neither did
Kamal Lata. Rajlakshmi looked sharply at me for a minute and
asked, ‘Why are your eyes so red? Have you been bathing in the
river?’
‘No. I haven’t bathed at all today.’
‘Have you been eating anything you shouldn’t?’
‘I haven’t eaten anything at all. I wasn’t hungry.’
Rajlakshmi hurried to my side and laid a hand on my brow. Then,
feeling my chest under the shirt, she exclaimed, ‘Just what I thought!
Touch him and see, Kamal Didi. He’s very warm—’
Kamal Lata stayed where she was and answered composedly,
‘What if he is? Why do you worry?’
‘He has fever—’
‘If he has fever we’ll do something about it. You have come to us.
You are our responsibility.’
Her cool, measured tones and matter-of-fact manner shamed
Rajlakshmi into exercising a measure of self-control. ‘I know that,’
she said awkwardly. ‘Only there are no doctors and I’ve noticed that
his fevers always turn serious at some stage. Besides, that sour-
faced astrologer has frightened me so—’
‘You shouldn’t allow anyone to frighten you.’
‘You’re right, Kamal Didi. But I’ve noticed something about
astrologers. When their predictions are good they never come true
but when they are bad—God help us!’
‘Don’t be afraid, Raju.’ Kamal Lata smiled kindly at her. ‘It won’t
come true this time. Gosain has been out all afternoon and has got a
touch of the sun. That’s all. He’ll be as fit as any of us by tomorrow
morning.’
At this moment, Lalur Ma appeared with the message that
Rajlakshmi’s presence was urgently required in the kitchen.
Rajlakshmi hastened away but not before throwing a grateful glance
towards Kamal Lata.
Kamal Lata was right. The fever left me, not the next morning but
in a couple of days. But our secret was out. Kamal Lata understood
how filings were between us and so did Bara gosain.
Kamal Lata sent for us the day we were to leave the akhra. There
was a thala by her side with a pair of garlands and bowl of sandal
paste on it which, I guessed rightly, had been brought in from the
shrine.
‘Do you remember the year you got married, gosain?’ she asked.
‘He remembers nothing,’ Rajlakshmi answered for me. ‘Ask me.’
‘Isn’t it strange that one should remember and the other forget?’
‘It happened in our childhood. He was very young—’
‘But he is older than you, Raju.’
‘Only five or six years older,’ Rajlakshmi said carelessly. ‘I was
eight or nine then. One day, I put a garland around his neck and said
to myself, “From this day onwards you are my hushand.” I said it
three times. But this monster stood right where he was and ate up
my garland.’
‘Ate up your garland? Did you eat flowers in your childhood,
gosain?’ the Vaishnavi laughed, unbelieving.
‘It was a garland of ripe bainchis,’ I answered. ‘Anyone would’ve
eaten it.’
‘From that moment onwards my troubles started,’ Rajlakshmi took
up her tale again. ‘I lost sight of him and—don’t ask me the rest, Didi.
People say so many things and think so many things. None of them
are true. I only know that I wept and prayed day and night and, at
last God took pity on me. He gave back to me what He had taken.’
She turned her face in the direction of the shrine and shut her eyes.
Her lips moved as though she uttered a prayer of thanksgiving.
‘His garlands and sandal are before you, bon. Put them on one
another before you leave the akhra.’
 But Rajlakshmi shook her head and folded her hands in
supplication. ‘I don’t know about him,’ she said, ‘but I can’t obey you
in this, Kamal Didi. Whenever I close my eyes I see my red garland
swaying on his youthful breast. I want that image to remain the
eternal one.’
‘But I ate up that garland,’ I said.
‘Yes, Mr Monster, you did. Now eat me up if that will fill your
stomach.’ And, laughing, she dipped her fingers in the bowl of sandal
paste and smeared it all over my face.
We went to take leave of Bara gosain. He looked up from the book
he was reading and welcomed us warmly.
‘We have very little time, gosain,’ Rajlakshmi said, dropping down
on the floor. ‘We’ve come to say goodbye and to beg forgiveness for
all the trouble we’ve caused you.’
‘We are bairagis, bon. We are not used to others begging from us.
But when do you propose to trouble us again? Let it be soon for the
akhra will become dark and lonesome without you.’ Kamal Lata
smiled and nodded her head in agreement and Bara gosain went on,
‘The last few days were some of the happiest days of my life, bon.
You are a veritable spirit of joy. You shower love, happiness, song
and laughter wherever you go. Your presence illumined our little
hermitage with the power and force of lightning.’ He stopped, then
pointed to me and said, ‘Kamal Lata calls him Natun gosain. I shall
call you Anandamayee.’
I had to interrupt this flow of rhetoric. ‘You’ve only seen the
lightning of your Anandamayee’s eyes. You haven’t heard the
thunder of her voice as I do all day long. Ratan is here before us.
Ask him, if you don’t believe me.’
Ratan fled in embarrassment and Rajlakshmi said coolly, ‘Don’t
believe a word of what he is saying, gosain. He’s jealous of me—
that’s all.’ She glanced witheringly in my direction and went on, ‘I
don’t get a moment’s peace with this sickly, boring creature hanging
around me day and night. I shall keep him locked up at home when I
come next.’
‘You’ll never do that, Anandamayee. You won’t be able to.’
‘I will. I get so exasperated sometimes—I wish I could die.’
‘Such a wish was expressed by Radha Rani in Vrindavan, many a
time. But she couldn’t die for who would look after her Kanu? Don’t
you remember the song:
Sakhi kare diye jabo?
Tara Kanu sebar ki ba jane?
(Friend! In whose care shall I leave my Kanu?
Can anyone serve him the way I do?)

‘How little we know of love! Most of the time we only delude

ourselves. But you are different. You have known true love. You have
felt it in your heart. If only you could surrender what you have at Sri
Krishna’s feet—’
‘Don’t wish that for me, gosain!’ Rajlakshmi shuddered. ‘Pray,
rather, that I live out my life as ordinary people do and leave him
alive and well when I go.’
I understood Rajlakshmi. I knew that the guilt and pain of casting
me off still lay on her heart like a weary burden and that she lived,
from moment to moment, in fear of a terrible retribution. I wanted to
soothe her fears away so I said, lightly, ‘Taunt my poor, sickly body
all you can. You haven’t a clue to its hidden powers. It is
indestructible. I’m certainly not going to die before you.’
Rajlakshmi gripped my hand and cried feverishly, ‘Swear before all
these people that what you said is true. Swear it thrice.’ Her eyes
swam and large tears rolled down her cheeks. Everyone stared at
her—shocked at her vehemence. She released my hand, quickly,
and laughed awkwardly. ‘That old fraud of an astrologer has made
me so nervous—’ She dabbed at her eyes and laughed, unable to
complete her sentence.
 We took leave of everyone in the akhra. Bara gosain promised to
visit us and to bring Padma, who had never seen the city, with him.
On reaching the station, the first person we set eyes on was the
‘sour-faced astrologer’ of Rajlakshmi’s description. He sat on a piece
of blanket in the centre of the platform, a group of people around
him.
‘Is he to go with us?’ I asked Rajlakshmi.
She nodded but averted her face to hide her embarrassment.
‘No, he is not,’ I said, firmly.
‘Why not? He won’t do any harm even if he can’t do any good.’
‘I don’t care about what he can do—good or bad. Give him
whatever you promised and get rid of him. If he really has the power
to appease the planets he can do it here, where we won’t see him.’
‘I’ll tell him that.’ Rajlakshmi commanded Ratan to bring the man
to her. I don’t know what she gave him or what she said but he
nodded his head many times and looked pleased. The train arrived
in a few minutes and we set off on our journey back to the city.
 12

RAJLAKSHMI’S CROSS-QUESTIONING FORCED ME TO REVEAL

THE SOURCE OF my new found wealth. The facts of the case were
as follows. While in Burma, a racing enthusiast who was an officer of
mine had borrowed my savings, on the promise that I would get fifty
per cent of his gains, if any, over and above the interest accrued
thereon. On my return to Calcutta, I found a registered parcel
containing four times the amount I had loaned out, waiting for me.
‘What is the amount?’ Rajlakshmi probed.
‘A fortune to me but a mere trifle to you.’
‘Still, how much is it?’
‘Eight thousand.’
‘You must give it to me.’
‘Arre! I thought Lakshmi was a giver—not a taker.’
‘Lakshmi doesn’t approve of squandering money. She doesn’t trust
fakirs and sanyasis. They are worthless wastrels, in her opinion.
Bring me the money.’
‘What will you do with it?’
‘I’ll spend it on myself. From this day onwards it will be the sole
means of my support.’
‘The sum is too small. You can’t even pay your servants’ salaries
out of it—let alone Gurudev, your widows in Benaras and your
hundred and one charities.’
‘I’m not speaking of them. I’m speaking of my own day-to-day
living.’
‘This is another of your self-delusions, Lakshmi.’
‘It isn’t. I’m not giving up my own money. That will be used for all
my other expenditure. But I will live on what you give me. If it is
enough, well and good. If not—I’ll starve.’
‘Then you’d better make up your mind to starve.’
 Rajlakshmi laughed. ‘You think it is a small amount. But I know the
secret of making a little go a long way. I’ve often wanted to tell you
how I made my money but I couldn’t because of the way you clam
up the moment I mention my past. But, one day, you’ll realize that
your preconceptions are totally without foundation.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’
‘Because you wouldn’t have believed me. You won’t touch my
money because you think it is tainted. Yet you’ve never asked me for
the truth.’
‘Then why do you talk of it today, all of a sudden?’ I cried, hurt by
her allegation.
‘It may be sudden to you. It isn’t to me. It is a thought that torments
me day and night. Do you really believe me capable of using money
earned in sin in the service of my gods? Or for your welfare? Could I
have saved your life, over and over again, if I had done anything so
vile? God would have taken you away again, I’m convinced of it. But
you don’t trust me. You don’t believe me to be truly yours.’
‘I do.’
‘No, you don’t. You had barely met Kamal Lata, yet you gave her a
patient hearing. You allowed her to share the most intimate details of
her shameful past with you and, in doing so, relieved her of the
burden she had carried for years. You released her from the pain of
memory. But I, whom you’ve known from childhood, what have you
ever done for me? Have you ever asked me for the truth about
myself? You haven’t. Why? Because you distrust and fear me.
Because you distrust yourself.’
‘I didn’t ask her to tell me anything. She compelled me to listen.’
‘You didn’t ask her because she was a stranger. Her life was not
tied up with yours in any way. Would you say the same of me?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. But are you Kamal Lata’s disciple? Do you have to
pour out your woes before me simply because she did?’
‘Don’t try to put me off. I insist on telling you.’
‘Was ever a man plagued so? I don’t want to hear—yet I must.’
 ‘You may stop loving me. You may even cast me off but hear me
you must.’
‘Why do you force me to take these difficult decisions?’
‘You are a man,’ Rajlakshmi laughed. ‘Don’t you have the strength
of mind to cast me off if you think it right?’
I confessed my lack of strength with a humility that would have
melted any woman’s heart. ‘Lakshmi,’ I said, ‘don’t make the mistake
of counting me among the men of your acquaintance. They are iron
men with hearts of steel and I esteem them highly. But I am human
and weak. I dare not cast you off for fear that you’ll really go away.
And then, what will become of me? Is it not better to leave things as
they are?’
‘You may have heard,’ Rajlakshmi went on inexorably, ‘that my
mother sold me in childhood to a Maithili prince.’
‘Yes. I heard another prince mention the fact many years later. He
was my friend.’
‘One day I lost my temper and threw her out. She went back to the
village and spread the news of my death. You must have heard of
my death in Kashi.’
‘Yes I did.’
‘What did you feel?’
‘I felt—sad. “Poor Lakshmi!” I said to myself. “She died young.”’
‘Just that and nothing more?’
‘Not just that. “She’s fortunate to have died in Kashi,” I thought.
“Her soul is already on its way to heaven. Poor Lakshmi!”’
‘I don’t believe a word. “Poor Lakshmi” indeed! I’m sure you didn’t
waste a moment’s thought on me. Swear on my head that you did.’
‘It was so long ago,’ I said hastily. ‘I don’t remember exactly. That
is what I must have felt.’
‘You felt nothing of the sort. You don’t have to reconstruct the past
for my benefit. I know what you felt well enough.’ She paused for a
moment and continued, ‘And I? I wept day and night and prayed
unceasingly to Lord Vishwanath. “Why do you punish me so
cruelly?” I cried, over and over again. “Am I to live this life of shame
to the end of my days? Am I to lose him whom I took for my husband
even before my heart and soul were fully awakened?” I can’t bear to
think of those days, even now. Memory is so painful! I’d die, willingly,
if death would blot it out.’
I glanced at the tense, pale face and felt my heart constrict with
pain. I wanted to stop her from undertaking the nightmarish journey
into the past, but I lacked the power. I understood her completely.
Her memories had tormented her night and day but she hadn’t dared
to share them with me for fear of losing the little she had gained. But
her association with Kamal Lata had strengthened her. She was
determined today, to lay down her burden of memories, as Kamal
Lata had done, and so win her release. She would burst the
shackles of fear that bound her and stand revealed before me even if
it cost her love, Kamal Lata was the only one before whom this
proud, arrogant woman had bowed her head and begged humbly for
a way out of the darkness that stifled her soul. I saw this in my
mind’s eye as clearly as in the clear light of day and peace and
contentment filled my heart at the thought.
After a brief silence, Rajlakshmi took up her tale again. ‘After the
prince’s death—he died suddenly—Ma secretly conspired to sell me
again.’
‘To whom?’
‘To another prince. That gem of a friend of yours—don’t you
remember?’
‘Not very well. It was so long ago. What happened then?’
‘The plot was discovered. I told Ma to go back home. “I’ve taken a
thousand rupees as an advance,” she cried. “You may keep the
touting fee,” I told her. “I’ll repay it to the last paisa. But if you don’t
leave by the night train I’ll sell myself to Ma Ganga. By daybreak,
tomorrow, you’ll only have my corpse left to do what you like with.
You know me, Ma. I don’t make idle threats.” Ma went back to the
village and spread the news of my death, on hearing which you
sighed and said, “Poor Lakshmi! She died young.”’ She laughed a
little and continued, ‘Had your sigh come from the heart it would
have been enough for me, then. But today, I want more from you. I
want you to shed a few tears for me when I’m really and truly dead. I
want you to say to yourself, “Every day, since the world began,
thousands of lovers exchange garlands and vows of constancy. But
no love in the past, present or future can compare with my poor,
unchaste, unfulfilled Lakshmi’s love. Not one heart in the world can
match the constancy of the nine-year-old one that beat for me alone
to the day of her death.” Will you whisper these words in my ear? I’ll
hear them even after I’m gone.’
‘Why, Lakshmi! You’re crying.’
She wiped her streaming eyes with the end of her sari and
continued, ‘Do you think God didn’t see how a helpless child was
tormented by her own mother? Will He not dispense justice?’
‘He should. But religious people like you understand God and His
ways better than I do. In any case, He is not likely to listen to a
heretic like me even if I request Him to do so.’
‘You must joke about everything!’ She thought for a minute and
said, ‘People say that a man and a woman cannot live together
unless they share a common faith. We share nothing yet we manage
to live together. How?’
‘We live a snake-and-mongoose life, threatening to kill one
another every minute. But since killing is punishable by law we
torture each other in so many different ways. One banishes the other
out of a fear that he will become a hurdle on her path to heaven.’
‘What happens then?’
‘Then she realizes that she’s made a terrible mistake. She weeps
and beats her breast and begs forgiveness.’
‘Is she forgiven?’
‘Yes. But go on with your story.’
‘An old Bengali ustad of Kashi—I called him Dada Moshai—used
to come to the house to give me singing lessons. He had been a
sanyasi once but had abandoned the saffron robes many years ago
and married a Mussalman woman. This lady was a celebrated
dancer and taught me all I know about dance. They loved me as
tenderly as if I was their own daughter and I trusted them implicitly.
“Dada Moshai!” I begged. “Let us run away from here. I can’t live this
kind of life anymore.” He was a poor man and was reluctant to take
the risk. “I have a lot of money with me,” I said. “It will last us a long
time. After that—He will provide. We must put our faith in Him.” We
wandered all over the country. We went to Allahabad, Lucknow,
Delhi, Agra, Jaipur, Mathura and finally settled down in Patna. Half
the money I loaned out, at a high rate of interest, to a usurer and the
other half I invested in a cloth and cosmetics business. I bought a
house and had Banku brought over from the village. And how I
earned my living—you’ve seen with your own eyes.’
I was silent for a long while. Then I said, ‘I believe this story
because you are telling it. If it were anyone else I would have
dismissed it as fiction.’
‘Can’t I cook up a story?’
‘You can, I suppose. Only I don’t believe that you are capable of
deceiving me.’
‘Why do you trust me so implicitly?’
‘Because I know you, Lakshmi. You would live in mortal fear of
some harm coming to me had you deceived me. You wouldn’t be
worried for yourself—only for me.’
‘How do you know that? This fear haunts me day and night—it
doesn’t haunt you.’
‘Would you be happy if it did?’
‘No. I wouldn’t ever want you to share my pain. I’m your slave.
Don’t drink of me as anything else.’
‘Hopeless!’ I exclaimed in exasperation. ‘You should have been
born a thousand years ago—in the age of Sita and Savitri and the
other chaste women of our myths.’
 ‘Yes. I should have. I feel closer to them than to the women of
today. You admire modern women and think you understand them
but I know them better than you do. Try exchanging me with one of
them. You’ll come back in a week, weeping and beating your breast
—as you accused me of doing a little while ago.’
‘The argument is purely hypothetical. You know, very well, that I
won’t exchange you with anybody. But you’re being excessively
unjust to the modern woman, Lakshmi!’
‘Even if I’m being unjust, it’s not excessively so. I’m not blind,
gosain, and I haven’t lived in a well. I’ve travelled a lot, seen a lot. In
fact, if you have one pair of eyes, I have ten.’
‘Maybe, but since they’re all fitted with coloured glasses, none of
them are to be trusted.’
‘If I wasn’t so stupidly bound to you, I would have taught you the
lesson of a lifetime. But, shame me all you can, I will follow in the
footsteps of the “chaste women of our myths” as you call them.
Serving you will be my highest duty. You’ve wasted a lot of your time
and energy on this worthless slave. You shan’t any more. You are a
man. There is a great deal for you to do, to achieve.’
‘That is why I wish to get back to my job as soon as possible.’
‘I won’t let you take up a job.’
‘Then what’ll I do? I can’t run a cosmetics business!’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m hopeless at figures. I can’t remember the prices of things and I
can’t make quick calculations. Your business will collapse if I am in
charge. I may even get into a fight with your customers.’
‘Open a cloth shop, then.’
‘I’d rather open a shop of wild animals. I’d get along better with
lions and tigers.’
Rajlakshmi burst out laughing. ‘What a lazy good-for-nothing God
gave me—after all my prayers and entreaties. What use are you to
me?’
 ‘Your prayers couldn’t have come from the heart or they wouldn’t
have rebounded on you as they have done. However, nothing is lost.
There is plenty of time for another try. You may get the man you
deserve, yet. A strong man—tough as a betelnut; a man no one can
get the better of; a yes-man who never learned the word ‘no’; a man
who can look after himself and you and your money; a man who
never falls sick, never gets lost, never—’
‘Stop! Stop!’ Rajlakshmi cried, shuddering and covering up her
ears.
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
‘The picture you drew terrified me so! I’d die of fear if even half of
what you said came true.’
‘But what will you do with me?’
‘What can I do but curse God and die a million deaths? What else
have I done with you all these years?’
‘Why don’t you send me to the akhra at Muraripur?’
‘The Vaishnavis will have no use for you either.’
‘I’ll pick flowers for them at dawn. I’ll weave garlands for Radha
Govinda and live on their prasad. And, when I die, they’ll bury me
under the bakul tree. Every evening, at dusk, Padma will light a lamp
over my grave but, being young and playful, she will forget—
sometimes. On those nights I shall lie in the dark feeling lonesome
and unloved. But every dawn, on her way back from the flower
garden, Kamal Lata will stop by and throw a handful of flowers over
me—mallika sometimes and sometimes kunda. And if someone I
know stops by at the akhra on her way to some other place, Kamal
Lata will show her my grave. “There!” She’ll point out. “That’s where
our Natun gosain lies. Can’t you see a little mound under the bakul
tree? There, where heaps of flowers lie strewn—champa and mallika
and rain-washed bakul? There—”’
Rajlakshmi’s eyes swam with tears. ‘What will she do then? The
someone you know?’
‘I have no idea. She may spend a lot of money and build a shrine.’
 ‘You’re wrong. She won’t build a shrine. She’ll build a little hut for
herself under the bakul tree. Birds will flutter and sing among the
branches, nest and make love, and flowers will drop on her head,
pitter-patter, like starry raindrops. She’ll spend her mornings
sweeping the little grave clean of fallen leaves and weaving garlands
of bakul. And, at night, when all the world is asleep, she’ll sit under
the moon and stars and sing the old padavalis of Vaishnav masters
—the songs he had said he loved. And when her time comes she’ll
send for her Kamal Lata Didi and say, “Bury me close, so close that
our mounds become one. Leave no gap between us. And—here is
the money. Build a shrine over us for the worship of Radha Govinda.
But carve no names on the lintel. Leave not a trace of our identities.
Let no one who comes here know who we were or from where we
came.”’
‘Lakshmi!’ I murmured. ‘The picture you present is beautiful,
infinitely more beautiful than mine.’
‘Yes, because mine is real, gosain. It is woven out of age-old
feelings that time cannot erode or circumstances dim. Yours is made
up of hollow words. That is why, while mine will be transmuted into
reality, yours will remain what it was.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I know you. Better than you know yourself! Who has
occupied the thoughts of my days and the dreams of my nights for
as far back as memory can go? Whose face comes before me as I
pray? Whose—’
‘Ma,’ the maharaj called from below. ‘Ratan is out and Babu’s tea
is ready.’
‘I’m coming, Baba,’ Rajlakshmi wiped her eyes and hurried
downstairs. She came back a little later, a cup of tea in her hands.
Setting it down on the table, she said, ‘You love reading books. Why
don’t you do just that from now on?’
‘That won’t bring in any money.’
 ‘We don’t need more money. We have enough.’ She paused for a
moment and continued, ‘Ananda Thakurpo will buy the books. The
south-facing room upstairs will be your study. I’ll dust and clean it
myself and make it the loveliest room in the house. The room next to
it will be my bedroom and the one adjacent—my prayer-room. This
little area will be the three worlds for me. May I never wish to venture
beyond it.’
‘If the sanyasi is to buy my books, the kitchen will become your
three worlds. Have you had news of him?’
‘Yes, from Kushari moshai. Ananda will be coming in a few days
and then we’ll all go together to Gangamati. We’ll stay there for a
while.’
‘Won’t that be embarrassing for you?’
Rajlakshmi laughed ruefully and shook her head. ‘They don’t know
that I cut off my hair and nose and turned myself into a clown. My
hair has grown quite long and I’ve managed to stick my nose on with
glue. Besides, you’ll be with me.’ She paused for a moment and
continued, ‘I hear Malati is back in Gangamati with her new husband.
I’ll give her a gold necklace as a wedding present.’
‘That’s a good idea. But if Sunanda catches you again—what
then?’
‘There’s no fear of that. I’ve come out of her spell. That girl and her
religion, Ma go, Ma! I caught the infection so badly that I nearly died
of it. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. It’s a blessing I didn’t go mad.’
She laughed and went on, ‘Your Lakshmi is not as soft and gullible
as you think. Once she sees a thing is wrong, she can stand firm
against it. No power on Earth can sway her. Not even Sunanda.’ She
thought for a while and continued, ‘I feel as if I’ve come home after a
long and perilous journey. My body and soul are at rest. If this isn’t
God’s will why do I feel engulfed in a sea of bliss and wish the same
for everyone in the world? I wish it so intensely that I pray for it day
and night. That is why I’ve sent for Ananda Thakurpo. I’m going to
help him in his work from now on.’
 ‘Do that,’ I said softly.
A long silence followed. Rajlakshmi was trying to work out
something in her mind. I saw that clearly. Suddenly she said, ‘I often
think of Sunanda! I’ve never met anyone as straightforward, honest
and truly austere in temperament as her. But she rates herself too
high on account of her learning. It has become useless to her and to
everyone else, in consequence. She needs to tone down her ego a
little.’
‘Sunanda isn’t proud and egoistic.’
‘Not as the vulgar masses are—not in the least. She is truly
educated in the best sense of the word. Yet there is a deficiency
somewhere. There must be, otherwise all that she taught me
couldn’t have proved such a failure. Have you noticed that everyone
who comes in contact with her is made unhappy in some way or
another? Compare her with her sister-in-law. She’s a simple,
unlettered woman but her heart is full of love and pity for everyone
around her. So many families depend on her for their day-today
living. But no one knows of it—not even her husband. It was she who
wept and implored till her husband agreed to give the weaver’s
widow her due. Sunanda could never have achieved what her sister-
in-law did because her learning has taught her the art of shattering
relationships—not mending them. Every crack in her life becomes a
chasm. She hasn’t learned the wisdom of bridging. She didn’t
hesitate one moment before defaming the brother-in-law who had
been a father to her husband, before calling him a liar and a cheat to
his face. Is this the true teaching of the Shastras? I’m a simple,
uneducated village woman laut I’m convinced that until she learns to
accept a human being as human with human failings—a compound
of good and bad, vice and virtue, avarice and generosity—she’ll
never understand anyone. Her book-learned morality will become a
source of pain to everyone around her. It will hurt and oppress—not
nurture and cherish.’
 Her reasoning took me by surprise. ‘Who taught you all this?’ I
asked.
‘I can’t tell. You—maybe. You never express a wish, make no
demands and never force anyone to do anything against their will.
That is why one doesn’t learn from you. One receives.’ She sat silent
for a while, then sighed and said, ‘I neglected Kushari ginni sadly on
my last visit. I must make up for it this time. We’ll visit her as soon as
we reach Gangamati. Shall we?’
‘What about my job in Burma?’
‘Didn’t I tell you I’m not letting you take up a job?’
‘You have a lovely nature, Lakshmi. You never express a wish,
make no demands and never force anyone to do anything against
their will. You’re a model of Vaishnavite tolerance and self-denial.
You’re incomparable!’
‘People can’t always be allowed to do as they like. There are
others to be considered.’
‘What about Abhaya? If she hadn’t taken me in when I had every
symptom of the plague, would I be here today to consider you? Can’t
she claim a right to consideration?’
Rajlakshmi’s face softened with gratitude and compassion. ‘You
stay,’ she said gently. ‘I’ll go to Burma myself with AnandaThakurpo
and bring them back with me. Some means of living can surely be
found for them, here where they belong.’
‘Abhaya is very sensitive. She may not come if I don’t go to fetch
her.’
‘She’ll come. She’ll know, in her heart, that my going to her is the
same as yours.’
‘Can you stay away from me that long?’
‘I don’t drink I can. But I’ll worry about that later. Let’s go to
Gangamati first and spend a few days.’
‘Do you have some work in Gangamati?’
‘Yes. Kushari moshai has written to say that the adjacent village,
Porhamati, is on sale. I’m thinking of buying it. And I must enlarge
and improve the house. You weren’t very comfortable last time for
lack of space.’
‘Any discomfort I may have suffered was not due to lack of space.
There were other reasons.’
Rajlakshmi ignored this comment and went on, ‘I’ve noticed that
your health improves in Gangamati. That is why I want to take you
there, away from the city, as soon as possible.’
‘If you have to worry about my broken health, day in and day out,
you’ll never get any peace, Lakshmi.’
‘That is good advice but if you were to give it to yourself instead of
to me, we would both be better off. Learn to look after yourself. I may
get some peace if you do.’
This was an oft repeated argument that I didn’t care to take up for
it would be, as it always was, an exercise in futility. Rajlakshmi would
never understand, could never accept the fact that I was sickly by
constitution. She herself enjoyed radiant health and thought I would,
too, if I didn’t neglect myself. I said, instead, ‘I don’t care about the
city. I liked Gangamati and would have liked to stay on. Only—’
‘I know, dearest, I know. I’ll never forget that phase of my life as
long as I live.’ She smiled and continued, ‘Last time you felt an alien,
an intruder in Gangamati. This time it will be different. I’ll change
everything—not only the house and its furnishings but myself and my
ways. I’ll change you too. I’ll break you into a thousand pieces and
build you up again. My Natun gosain will be mine alone. Kamal Lata
Didi will not dare to claim you as her fellow traveller to Vrindavan.’
‘You’ve been planning and scheming quite a bit, I see.’
‘Why not? I’ll take you from her but I’ll pay the price. Besides I, too,
came into the world as other humans do. I wasn’t borne in by the
tide. Shall I leave no trace, no token of my presence here when I go?
Shall I carry the burden of my unfulfilled body and soul with me to
the other world? Never.’
I gazed into her face, my heart melting with love. ‘Love between
man and woman is such an ordinary tiling,’ I thought. ‘It has existed
since the beginning of time, and will go on—unchanging, continuous,
without pause or rest. Yet the same, sometimes, on rare occasions,
becomes a thing of divine beauty—eternal and infinite. It enriches
and elevates generations of men but never consumes itself.’ Aloud I
said, ‘What will you do about Banku?’
‘He doesn’t need me. He would be quite happy to be rid of me.’
‘Don’t forget that he’s a very close relation. You’ve brought him up
as your own son.’
‘I have and that is all that will remain between us. He is not a close
relation and never will be.’
‘You can’t deny the relationship.’
‘I would never have denied it if—’ She thought for a few moments
and asked, ‘You don’t know the true circumstances of my marriage,
do you?’
‘I was away from the village at the time but I’ve heard some
strange stories.’
‘Nothing stranger has ever been heard since God created Man.
Nothing as cruel either. My father deserted my mother in my infancy.
I have no memories, at all, of that time. My maternal uncle took us in.
That is how we came to be living in your village. I was a sickly child.
You remember what I looked like?’
‘I do.’
‘I used to suffer from bouts of malaria that went untreated for
years. But I didn’t die. Not in the ordinary way at least. News came
that the Brahmin cook in the household of the Dattas was a Kulin like
my uncle and, therefore, the ideal match for my sister. That he was
sixty years old and my sister twelve was, of course, no
consideration. The villagers warned Mama that if he missed this
opportunity he might never get another and his niece would remain a
spinster all her life. Mama offered the groom a deal—my sister and
myself for fifty rupees. The groom demanded a hundred. Mama
begged and pleaded, arguing that though the man was taking two
wives he was doing it at one ceremony—the effort and energy
expended being equal to taking one. The groom came down to
seventy-five rupees. He wouldn’t take a paisa less. “Moshai,” he
said, “you’re getting a Kulin match for two nieces at one go. Won’t
you give me the price of a pair of rams?” The sampradan* was to
take place just before the onset of dawn. Didi stayed awake but I
was carried in, a sleeping bundle, and given over to our future lord
and master. The sun rose. Arrangements were made for the
kushandika** but the groom flatly refused to participate till the twenty-
five rupees were handed over. Mama suggested that the kushandika
be performed on credit but the groom announced that a contract was
a contract and he didn’t believe in debit and credit. He left the house
hoping, no doubt, that Mama would go after him with the money and
beg him to complete the rituals. But the days went by. Mama couldn’t
raise the money. He begged the Dattas to intervene and was told
that their cook had left their service. Inquiries were made in his
village but he wasn’t there, either. Ma wept and cursed us
incessantly; the neighbours sniggered and nudged one another
whenever they saw us. Some said we were born under an evil star
and others that we were doomed to bring ruin to whoever befriended
us. Didi huddled in a corner of the house, not daring to show her
face. Six months later she was brought out of it—to be taken to the
burning ghat. And another six months later news came from a
Calcutta hotel that the groom had died of a strange fever while
cooking in their kitchen. The kushandika never took place so the
marriage was not valid.’
‘Buy a bridegroom for twenty-five rupees and this is what you get,’
I declared solemnly.
‘What did I buy you for? A string of bainchi. Even that wasn’t paid
for. I picked them off the bushes and put them together.’
‘My string of bainchi is priceless because it has no price. Show me
another man with a treasure like mine.’
‘Do you mean it—really and truly?’
‘Can’t you see it in my face?’
 ‘No, I can’t,’ she laughed and went on. ‘I swear I can’t—except at
night when you are asleep. But, tell me, has an incident like this ever
occurred in any other part of the world? Can you quote a single
example? Yet, thousands of girls in our country suffer the same
torture and humiliation day in and day out. We treat our women
worse than animals!’ She paused to take a breath and continued,
‘You may think I’m exaggerating; you may argue that our case is a
freak one. I could counter-argue that, even if it is, it is a terrible slur
on our people and our culture. But I shan’t. I’ll say that it isn’t a freak
case. There are many instances of persecution akin to ours. Would
you like to come with me to my widow’s home in Kashi? If you were
to talk to the women you would find that all of them are victims of
gross cruelty and criminal neglect.’
‘That explains your concern—’
‘You would be concerned too if you saw them from the inside. I’ll
show you everything, one by one, from now on.’
‘I’ll keep my eyes shut. I’ll refuse to see.’
‘You won’t succeed. My burdens will fall on your shoulders when I
go. You may deny the whole world but you can’t deny them.’ She
was silent for a while then, suddenly, she reverted to her earlier
subject. ‘Tyranny and oppression!’ she exclaimed. ‘What else can
you expect in a country where a man is robbed of his religion for
failing to marry off his daughters? Loss of caste, loss of face, loss of
prestige—all because a girl, be she blind, deaf, dumb or orphaned, is
unwed! What is a man to do? Didi might have been alive today but
for these terrifying options before my uncle. And I? You couldn’t have
been mine as you are now—not in this life at least. Yet, why not?
You would have had to come to me from wherever you were, at
whatever point of time, and take me away with you. You couldn’t
escape me.’
I was contemplating a reply when a voice called, ‘Mashima!’
‘Who is that?’ I exclaimed, startled.
‘It’s the boy next door. Mejo Bou’s son. Come up, Kshitish.’
 The next moment a pleasant looking youth of about sixteen or
seventeen entered the room. He seemed surprised to see me at first,
but collected himself soon enough and brought his hands together in
a namaskar. Then, turning to Rajlakshmi, he said, ‘We’ve put down
twelve rupees against your name, Mashima.’
‘Twelve rupees it shall be. But be careful in the water. There must
be no accidents.’
‘Don’t worry, Mashima. We’re all good swimmers.’
Rajlakshmi unlocked her almirah and took out the money. Taking it
from her the boy said, ‘Ma told me to tell you that Chhoto Mama will
come with the estimate the day after tomorrow.’
‘What estimate?’ I asked as the boy ran nimbly down the stairs.
‘The house needs repairs. Besides, the second floor was just
begun when I bought the house. I’ll have to complete it.’
‘How do you know all these people?’
‘Why, they’re our neighbours! They live next door.’ She rose
saying, ‘It’s time I started cooking or your meal will get delayed.’ And
she hastened down to the kitchen.
 13

SWAMI BAJRANANDA ARRIVED EARLY ONE MORNING. RATAN,

WHO HAD NO knowledge of Rajlakshmi’s summons, came up to my
room and announced glumly. ‘That sadhu from Gangamati is here.
God only knows from where he got the address. Now we have him
on our hands for heaven knows how long.’ Ratan disliked and
distrusted ascetics as a rule. He hated Rajlakshmi’s gurudev and
took no trouble to conceal the fact. ‘I wonder what that rogue of a
sanyasi is up to this time,’ he said after a pause. ‘He’s after Ma’s
money, I’ll warrant. These holy men have a hundred ways of fleecing
women.’
‘Ananda is a rich man’s son,’ I replied. ‘He’s a qualified doctor. He
doesn’t need money for himself.’
‘Humph! A rich man’s son indeed! Why should a man with money
turn himself into a sanyasi?’ And, with this triumphant conclusion,
Ratan walked out of the room, his chest heaving with indignation.
Ratan couldn’t bear the thought of anyone fleecing his mistress—
barring himself, of course.
A minute or two later, Ananda burst into the room with a hearty
greeting. ‘Namaskar, Dada! Here I am, once again. What’s the
news? Where’s Didi?’
‘She’s in her prayer-room, I believe. She couldn’t have heard of
your arrival, yet.’
‘I’ll go to her myself in a minute and send her down to the kitchen.
Her prayers can wait. Where’s that son of a barber? Why doesn’t he
put the kettle on for tea?’ He bellowed out Ratan’s name a couple of
times and walked away in the direction of the prayer-room.
A few minutes later, Rajlakshmi and her sanyasi brother made an
appearance. ‘Off load some money, Didi,’ Ananda said with his usual
aplomb. ‘Five rupees at the least. A morning stroll through the
Sealdah bazaar is indicated.’
 ‘There’s a very good bazaar much nearer at hand. Besides, why
should you go? I’ll send Ratan.’
‘Ratan? He’ll pick up stale fish and rotting vegetables deliberately
to spite—’ His sentence was left in mid-air as Ratan entered the
room. Ananda’s handsome features twisted in comic dismay as he
said with exaggerated humility, ‘Ratan, don’t take offence, my son. I
didn’t know you were in the house. I thought you were philandering
in the neighbourhood. I called several times, you see.’
Rajlakshmi and I burst out laughing but Ratan took no notice. ‘Ma,’
he said, maintaining an air of stern dignity, ‘I’m going to the bazaar.
Kishen has put the kettle on for tea.’ And with that he walked out of
the room.
‘Ananda and Ratan aren’t the best of friends,’ Rajlakshmi
commented, the smile still on her lips.
‘I don’t blame him, Didi. He’s a well-wisher of yours. He doesn’t
like rogues and parasites hanging around you. But I’d better seek his
company or my lunch will be ruined. I haven’t had a decent meal in
months.’
Rajlakshmi hurried to the veranda and called out to the departing
Ratan, ‘Take a few more rupees with you and buy a big sized rui,
Ratan. Make sure it’s fresh.’ Then, addressing herself to Ananda,
she said, ‘Go wash your face and hands while I make the tea.’ And
she hurried down to the kitchen.
‘Why the urgent summons, Dada?’ Ananda asked.
‘You expect me to provide the answer?’
‘You’re still nursing your anger,’ Ananda smiled. ‘I hope you aren’t
planning to disappear again. Goodness! What a storm you stirred up
that time in Gangamati. The whole village invited and the master of
the house absconding. Ratan ready to drive out the guests and Didi
weeping and beating her breast. And I running from pillar to post like
a distracted hen. You’re really impossible, Dada!’
I smiled with him. ‘I’ve got over my annoyance. You needn’t worry
anymore.’
 ‘I can’t help worrying. Quiet, seclusion-loving people like you
frighten me to death. I often wonder why you allowed yourself to
become a family man.’
‘Destiny!’ I said to myself. Aloud I said, ‘That means you think of
me sometimes. You haven’t forgotten me.’
‘It isn’t easy to forget you. Or to understand you. And it is
impossible not to love you. I had only known you for a day or two but
I was ready to weep and beat my breast, like Didi, the day you
disappeared. If I weren’t a sanyasi, trained in the art of stoic self-
control, I would have done just that. Ask Didi if you don’t believe me.’
‘That must have been out of sympathy for your Didi. You came all
the way at her request.’
‘That is true. For me a request from her is like a mother’s call. I
couldn’t resist it. My feet started moving in spite of myself. I’ve
sheltered in so many homes, I’ve seen so many women—but not
one like her. You, too, have travelled a lot, seen a lot. Have you seen
another like her?’
‘Many,’ I answered shortly.
‘Many? Many what?’ Rajlakshmi entered the room with Ananda’s
tea. Putting it down she looked up inquiringly. Ananda stiffened a
little as if anticipating an unpleasant scene.
I answered quickly, ‘Your accomplishments. Ananda expressed
some doubts regarding their number and I objected indignantly,
“They are many,” I said.’
The tea spluttered in Ananda’s mouth and some of it spilled over
onto the floor as he laughed and coughed by turns. ‘Dada,’ he said
as soon as he was able to speak. ‘Your presence of mind is
admirable. How neatly you turned the tables on me.’
Rajlakshmi laughed too. ‘He has made up stories for so long now
that he’s become a master of deception.’
‘You don’t trust me?’ I asked in mock dismay.
‘Not a bit.’
 ‘Then you are no less a mistress of deception!’ Ananda exclaimed.
‘You said “Not a bit” without batting an eyelid.’
‘I’ve learned a little from him—in self-defence. Drink up your tea
and get ready for your bath, Ananda. You must be tired and hungry.
You haven’t eaten anything on the train. I can see that in your face.
And—’ Rajlakshmi dimpled and her mouth curved upwards. ‘Don’t
make the mistake of asking him to list my virtues. You’ll be stuck
here for a week.’
Ananda looked at her retreating back and smiled. ‘You’re a
wonderfully compatible pair. God took a lot of trouble matchmaking
for you. I noticed it first under that tree in Sainthia station. After that
—I haven’t seen another couple like you.’
‘Ah! Ananda. Why do you always say these nice things behind her
back?’
With Ananda’s arrival, Rajlakshmi’s excitement knew no bounds.
She was busy day and night, cooking for Ananda, chatting with
Ananda and planning all the things they would do together in
Gangamati. I heard only snatches of their conversation but I
gathered that among the projects they would undertake was the
opening of two primary schools—one for boys and one for girls.
There was some talk, too, of a dispensary for the people of
Gangamati.
Ananda was a man of action. He had tremendous enthusiasm and
energy and the capacity to carry out whatever he undertook to a
successful conclusion. He was, therefore, the ideal man for
Rajlakshmi in her present mood. If Ananda ever sought my
assistance or advice, Rajlakshmi stopped him with a laugh. ‘Don’t
drag him into it. Your work will be ruined if you depend on him.’ She
understood my incapacity for action, my retiring nature that shrank
from anything positive—however deep my feelings. But I couldn’t let
her comment pass without contradiction.
‘Only the other day you said there was a lot for me to do, to
achieve,’ I grumbled.
 ‘Forgive me, gosain.’ She brought her hands together in mock
humility. ‘I’ll never make the mistake of saying anything so foolish
again.’
‘Does that mean I’m never to do anything?’
‘Oh, no! Do all you can. Only, don’t fall ill and frighten me to death.
I’ll be obliged to your forever.’
‘You mollycoddle him too much, Didi. You’re turning him into a
weakling,’ Ananda said.
‘I don’t have to turn him into anything, bhai. God has done that for
me. Besides,’ she laughed embarrassedly, ‘that astrologer in
Muraripur has made me so nervous, I don’t dare let him out of my
sight for a minute.’
‘Astrologer? What astrologer? What did he say?’
I answered for Rajlakshmi. ‘He said I was going through a bad
phase, that it was a matter of life and death.’
‘Do you believe all this nonsense, Didi?’
‘Of course she does,’ I answered for her once more. ‘“Have you
never seen anyone going through a bad phase?” she asks me, time
and again. “Have you never known accidents to happen?”’
‘Anything may happen to anybody at any time,’ Ananda said
gravely. ‘But is it written on one’s palm?’
‘I can’t answer your question, Ananda. I can only say that I quake
in terror at the thought. God has given me so much! He won’t snatch
it all away and drown me in sorrow. That is the only thought that
gives me comfort.’
Ananda looked at her, in silence, for a while. Then he changed the
subject.
The construction of the second floor was to commence. Cartloads
of lime and cement, fancy doors and slatted windows arrived.
Rajlakshmi seemed determined to transform the house into a palace.
One evening, Ananda said to me, ‘Let’s go out for a while, Dada.’
‘At this hour?’ Rajlakshmi exclaimed. ‘It will be dark by the time
you return and he’ll be sure to catch a chill.’ The prospect of my
venturing out of the house alarmed Rajlakshmi these days.
‘People are panting with the heat and you’re worried about chills.
You’re impossible, Didi!’
I wasn’t feeling too well that day. I said, ‘I won’t catch a chill. But I
don’t feel like going out today, Ananda.’
‘That’s simple inertia. If you keep sitting at home, evening after
evening, you’ll become a fossil.’
Rajlakshmi hastened to my rescue. ‘Kshitish brought my new
harmonium over day before yesterday. I haven’t had the time to try it
out as yet. Why don’t the two of you listen while I take the name of
the Lord?’
‘What does that mean? Can you sing, Didi?’
‘A little.’ She waved a hand in my direction and continued, ‘I took
lessons from him as a child.’
Ananda was thrilled. ‘Dada!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re a genius at
hiding your talents. Looking at you no one would dream that you
could sing.’
Rajlakshmi laughed merrily at the success of her joke but I
couldn’t join in with equal abandon. I knew Ananda would insist on
my rendering a song and would dismiss my entreaties as the humble
self-negation of the true artiste. He might even take offence. I knew
the song the blind Dhritarashtra had sung over his dead son’s body,
but Ananda wasn’t expecting a comic interlude.
The harmonium arrived. Rajlakshmi sang a few traditional verses
in praise of the Lord and then one Vaishnav padavali after another.
Ananda was amazed. He asked, during a pause in her singing,
‘Have you learned all these songs from Dada?’
‘Not all. No one can teach you everything, Ananda.’
‘That’s true.’ Then, turning to me, he said, ‘Now you must take
over. Didi is tired.’
‘No, bhai. I don’t feel up to it.’
‘You turn down my request? Remember that I’m your guest.’
‘I feel really unwell, Ananda.’
 Rajlakshmi kept a straight face for as long as she could. Then she
burst out laughing. Ananda understood, at last. He turned to her,
‘Who was your teacher? You must tell me.’ Then, after a pause, he
said, ‘I know something of music. I learned a little but had to give it
up. I got too busy and couldn’t find the time. But, now I’ve found you,
I’ll take it up again. Won’t you sing some more, Didi?’
‘Not today, Ananda. It’s time I went down to the kitchen. You must
both be hungry.’
Ananda said, ‘People like you, on whom so many depend, have
little time to spare. But I’ll claim the privilege of a younger brother
and insist that you teach me whatever I’m capable of learning. When
I’m weary and lonesome, in strange out-of-the-way places, I’ll use
your gift to comfort myself.’
Rajlakshmi’s face softened with love. ‘I’ll teach you all I know,
Ananda. In return you must promise to keep an eye on this sick
brother of yours all your life.’
‘Don’t you ever think of anything else, Didi?’
There was no answer. Ananda glanced briefly at her bent head
and turned to me. ‘A fate like yours is to be envied. I haven’t seen
another like it.’
‘You haven’t seen weakness and vulnerability as pitiful as mine,
either, have you, Ananda? God makes us what we are but He
doesn’t abandon us. He has, out of His great love, sent someone in
my life with an arm strong enough to steer my boat safely to the
shore. It would have drifted away otherwise or been shattered by the
rocks. God balances the strong and weak, the rich and poor, the
good and evil—thus. And so His creation survives.’
Rajlakshmi fixed her eyes on my face for a long while after I said
these words. Then she rose and left the room.
The construction work began. Rajlakshmi started her preparations
for leaving Calcutta. All the things she wouldn’t be taking with her
was stowed away in one room. The old durwan, Tulsidas, was to
remain and supervise the work. The day we were to leave,
Rajlakshmi handed me a postcard with the words, ‘This is the
answer I get to my eight-page letter. Read it.’ I glanced at the two or
three lines written in a shaky, female hand.
It was from Kamal Lata. ‘I’m well, bon,’ she wrote. ‘My Radha
Govinda, to whose service I’ve dedicated myself, will never abandon
me. My welfare is in their hands. I trust you are well and happy. Bara
gosainji sends his Anandamayee his deepest regards. I end—Sri Sri
Radha Krishna Charanasrita—Kamal Lata.’
She hadn’t mentioned my name even once but, as I sat with the
postcard in my hand, all that she had left unwritten was before me in
an instant. I scanned the lines, once again, to see if a tear marred
their evenness but I couldn’t find any. I glanced out of the window at
the sunlit sky flashing between the fronds of two tall coconut trees
that grew in our neighbour’s garden. And, suddenly, out of that hot
blue sky, two faces swam to the surface. One was Rajlakshmi’s,
clear and strong and beautiful. The other was Kamal Lata’s, vapoury
and blurred, a little strange, a little unreal, like a face seen in a
dream.
‘It’s time for your bath, Babu,’ Ratan’s voice broke into my reverie.
‘Ma sent me to remind you.’ Even my bath hour was regulated.
There was no escaping Rajlakshmi’s vigilance.
We arrived at Gangamati early one morning. Everything was the
same as on that earlier visit. Only, this time, Ananda was an invited
guest—not a stray passenger picked up from the station. The house
was full of people, all smiling, all welcoming us.
Sunanda came out of the kitchen, touched our feet and said, ‘You
don’t look too well, Dada.’
‘When has he ever looked well?’ Rajlakshmi cried impatiently. ‘I’ve
failed miserably with him. I admit it. That’s why I’ve brought him over
to Gangamati. Now that you all will have the caring of him, do the
best you can.’
‘Rest assured, Ma,’ Kushari ginni answered for her sister-in-law in
a voice melting with motherly love. ‘The climate here is dry and fine
and the air and water pure. He’ll get back his health in a few days.’
The only person who wasn’t worried was myself. I didn’t feel very ill
and I couldn’t understand why the others thought I was.
Rajlakshmi and Ananda took up their tasks with the inexhaustible
energy that was characteristic of them. But I grew more and more
listless as the days went by. This may have been ‘simple inertia’ as
Ananda had described it or it may have been the first symptom of the
disease that was feeding on my life force slowly and imperceptibly. I
was grateful for one thing. No one disturbed my peace for no one
expected anything of me. There was a tacit understanding among all
the people surrounding me that I was weak and sickly, that I hadn’t
long to live. But I didn’t feel ill. I ate and drank and slept and awoke
and ate and drank again. Ananda would look sharply at me,
sometimes, ask me questions and prescribe diets and medicines. At
these times, Rajlakshmi would draw him gently away. ‘Leave him
alone, Ananda. Who knows what will lead to what? If anything
untoward happens we’ll all have to suffer.’
‘Suffering is inevitable, the way you’re going about it. If at all, it
might be intensified. I’m warning you, Didi.’
‘I know, bhai. God set it down in my fate the moment I was born.’
What argument was possible after that?
I passed my days in reading and gazing out of the window at the
hard blue sky and dun-coloured fields. Sometimes, I wandered about
by the side of the canal or stood for a moment on the rickety bridge.
But, more often, I sat at my table and put down on paper the strange
and varied events of my life. I knew myself. I had little drive and less
ambition. All the things men hankered after in the world—money,
power, status, privileges—all seemed dreamlike and unreal to me. It
was enough for me to be allowed to live. Sometimes, shamed by the
energy and enthusiasm of the others, I would try to rouse myself, to
break out of the inertia that had settled on me like a cloud. But,
before I knew it, I was back again within its enveloping folds and was
my weary, half-conscious, half-dying self again. Yet those same
senses, which not all the shoving and pushing in the world could
awaken, would burst into exuberant life whenever I remembered my
ten days’ stay at the akhra in Muraripur. I would hear Kamal Lata’s
voice, not wraithlike and insubstantial, but living and vibrant, in my
ears. ‘Natun gosain, will you crimp this border for me? Ma go, what a
mess you’ve made! I’ll never make the mistake of asking you again.
Where’s that good-for-nothing Padma? Why doesn’t she put the
kettle on? Doesn’t she know it’s time for your tea?’
She wanted to leave the ashram and would do so, sooner or later.
She would resume the journey that had started from Nabadweep,
walking the path on her solitary way, singing as she went, till her
journey’s end was in sight. Whenever I thought of her like that—
alone, unprotected, begging for a living—I couldn’t stop the tears
from gushing out of my eyes. In my helplessness I turned, more
eagerly than ever, to Rajlakshmi—my strong, beautiful Rajlakshmi,
my goddess of bounty, ever losing, ever giving. She worked from
early dawn till late into the night—her hands busy in the service of
others. Compassion rained from her eyes and the smile never left
her lips. A flood of love welled up in my heart at every thought of her
and my soul floated on a sea of divine content.
She hadn’t forgotten that phase of her life when, led astray by
Sunanda’s irresistible influence, she had driven me away from her.
The thought never ceased to torture her. Out of that pain and guilt
she had found herself again, had become the old Rajlakshmi she
had always been.
Even now, she whispers in my ear, time and again; ‘You were
cruel, cruel! Whoever dreamed that my heart, my soul and all my
senses would rush away from me and follow you on the path you
took the moment you were gone? What a terrible affliction that was! I
shudder even to think of that time. It’s a wonder my heart didn’t
burst.’
It is impossible, these days, to find fault with Rajlakshmi’s
treatment of me. Despite the innumerable pressures on her, one eye
and one ear are ever alert to my smallest needs. She comes into my
room a hundred times a day. Sometimes she pushes my book away
and says, ‘Lie down and shut your eyes. Let me stroke your
forehead for a while. You’ll get a headache if you read so much.’
Ananda’s voice booms from outside, ‘I’ve something to ask you,
Didi. Can I come in?’
‘Of course. Since when do you have to take permission?’
Ananda walks into the room and, taking in the scene, asks in a
surprised voice, ‘Are you putting him to sleep? At this hour?’
‘What if I am? He’s not going to take the cows in your pathshala
out grazing even if he stays awake, is he?’
‘You’ll be the ruin of him.’
‘What else can I do? The only alternative is ruining myself and my
work.’
‘You’re both going mad,’ Ananda announces dramatically and
leaves the room.
One day, a letter arrived for me. It had been redirected from our
Calcutta address and had travelled through many post offices, to
judge by the number of postmarks on it. It was from Nabin and
contained the news that Gahar was dying and wanted to see me.
The letter was a week old.
Rajlakshmi looked thoughtful. ‘You’ll have to go, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come too.’
‘Where will you stay? Don’t forget, it’s a house of mourning.’
Rajlakshmi nodded. I thought she would suggest staying at the
akhra but she didn’t. She said, instead, ‘Ratan is down with fever
since yesterday. Whom shall I send with you? Shall I ask Ananda?’
‘No. He’s not a coolie to bear my loads.’
‘Take Kishen with you, then.’
‘I will, if you insist. But it isn’t necessary.’
‘You must write to me every day.’
‘If I get the time—’
 ‘No. No excuses. The day I don’t get a letter I’ll come over to you
myself.’
I had to agree. Promising to send her a daily bulletin of my health,
I left Gangamati. As I took my place in the bullock-cart, I saw
Rajlakshmi standing at the door, her face pale and tense with
anxiety. ‘Promise me you’ll look after yourself,’ she said for the last
time, wiping her eyes with the end of her sari.
‘I promise, dearest.’
‘You’ll come back as soon as—’
‘I will.’
Late one afternoon, in the month of Asadh* I stood outside
Gahar’s door. Nabin heard me come and, rushing up to me, threw
himself at my feet, his body shaking with sobs. The big, strong man’s
unrestrained grief told me all I needed to know. I looked at Nabin
with new eyes. His grief was as vast and deep as it was true and
sincere. I saw, in a flash of intuition, that although no mother had
wept over Gahar’s body, no wife or sister either—he had not left the
world unloved, unmourned, in rags like a beggar. He had travelled
like a king to that other world. Nabin had seen to that.
‘When did Gahar die?’ I asked when, exhausted with weeping,
Nabin sat up and wiped his eyes.
‘The day before yesterday. We buried him yesterday, at dawn.’
‘Where did you bury him?’
‘By the river, under the mango trees. He had wished it so.’ Nabin
looked up at the sky as if he sought something there and went on,
‘He returned from his cousin’s house burning with fever. It never left
him.’
‘Did you send for the doctor?’
‘We did everything that was possible here. But nothing worked. He
knew he was dying.’
‘Didn’t Bara gosain come over from the akhra?’
‘Once or twice. His gurudev has arrived from Nabadweep. So he
couldn’t come very often.’
 I wanted to ask about one other person but couldn’t bring myself to
do so at first. Then I said with a kind of desperation, ‘Did no one else
come over from the akhra?’
‘Yes. Kamal Lata Didi.’
‘When did she come?’
‘She came every day. She didn’t go back at all the last three days.
She sat by Babu’s bedside and didn’t leave it even once—not even
to bathe and eat.’
I didn’t ask any more questions. I had heard all that I wanted to
hear.
‘Are you going to the akhra, Babu?’
‘Yes, Nabin.’
‘Wait a minute.’ He went inside and came out with a tin box in his
hands. Giving it to me, he said, ‘Babu told me to give you this.’
‘What is in the box, Nabin?’
‘Open it and see.’ He handed me a key. I opened the box and
found a pile of notebooks tied with string. It was Gahar’s Ramayana.
On a piece of paper, on top of the pile were written the words:
Srikanta, I couldn’t complete my Ramayana. I didn’t get the time. Give
the manuscript to Bara gosain and tell him to keep it in the ashram. It
mustn’t get lost.

There was another, smaller bundle tied with a red cloth. Opening it
I found wads of notes of different denominations. There was another
letter for me. It read:
Bhai Srikanta, I think I’m dying. I doubt I’ll ever see you again. I’m
leaving this money in your care. Give it to Kamal Lata if she ever needs
it. If she refuses—do what you like with it. May the blessings of Allah be
with you—Gahar.

Not a hint of pride or complacency marred the nobility of his

gesture. No flattery or servility, either. He had expressed his dying
wish and invoked the blessings of Allah for the childhood friend he
loved. He had had no doubts, no fears in the face of death. He had
not struggled against it or drowned himself in self-pity. He was a
poet, the inheritor of a tradition of Mussalman Sufism that his fakir
forefathers had carried in their blood. He had taken up his pen with a
quiet determination and written his last composition in a few, choice,
simple words. My eyes had been dry all this while but now tears
sprang up in them and rolled down my cheeks in large drops.
The long day of Asadh was on the wane. A mass of jewel-blue
clouds loomed over the western horizon, then swept across half the
sky. And, from out of a crevice of the cloud cover, the setting sun
burst out like a flame. Its beams irradiated the tips of the dying rose-
apple tree by the wall—the same rose-apple that had inspired Gahar,
and to whose blighted branches the madhavi and the malati vines
had clung with desperate life. It had been spring then and the vines
newly in bud. Now, nurtured by the new falling rain, they were laden
with clusters of flowers. So many had been swept away by the wind,
so many had fallen to the ground. I remembered Gahar’s desire to
give me some flowers and his frustration at the sight of the wood
ants that had crawled all over the trunk. I bent down and picked up a
handful and felt that it was my friend’s last gift—given to me with his
own hands.
Nabin said, ‘Come, Babu. Let me take you to the akhra.’
‘Can you open up the room in which I slept when I was here last,
Nabin? I wish to see it once before I leave.’
Nabin unlocked the door and I went in. Everything was the same—
the wooden cot with bedding rolled up at its head, the holes in the
floor, the gaping window. A sheet of paper lay on the table with
Gahar’s pencil beside it. It was here, in this room, that Gahar had
sung verses from his Ramayana—the tragic episode of Sita’s
captivity. I had eaten and slept here so often in my childhood; I had
played within these walls. I had fought and sparred with Gahar and
heard stories from his mother. No one was left to share those
memories. My roots were being cut away from me but there was no
one, today, to shed a tear.
 On our way to the akhra, Nabin gave me the details of Gahar’s
will. The bulk of his estate was to be divided up among his maternal
cousins but a part of it had been put aside, in trust, to pay for the
maintenance of a mosque his father had got built. A bundle of notes,
similar to the one in the trunk, had been left for Nabin’s sons.
On reaching the ashram, I found it crammed with people. Bara
gosain’s gurudev sat in state, surrounded by throngs of disciples.
Looking at them it was easy to see that every luxury the akhra could
afford was being lavished on them and that they were not likely to
leave in a hurry. Dwarika Das came forward to greet me. He
expressed grief at Gahar’s death but there was something in his face
I had never seen before: a dazed, withdrawn look—as if he was not
quite comfortable talking to me. I presumed it was the strain of
playing host to so many strangers for such a long period of time at a
stretch.
Padma heard of my arrival and came to see me. But her face was
unhappy, her eyes furtive. Far from being thrilled at my coming she
seemed anxious to escape.
‘Your Kamal Lata Didi is very busy. Isn’t that so, Padma?’
‘No. Shall I send her to you?’ Padma hurried away from the room
without waiting for an answer. I had never seen her behave so oddly.
And Bara gosain’s manner had been strange, to say the least. I grew
alarmed.
Kamal Lata came in after a little while. ‘Come to my room, gosain,’
she said. ‘We can talk there.’
I had left my bedding at the station. I only had my bag with me and
Gahar’s tin box. Handing them to her I said, ‘Keep the box carefully.
There’s a lot of money in it.’
‘I know.’ She pushed it under the bed and turned to me. ‘You
haven’t had your tea yet, have you?’
‘No.’
‘When did you arrive?’
‘In the afternoon.’
 ‘I’ll go and bring it.’ She left the room taking the servant with her.
Padma brought me water to wash but didn’t stop or speak a word. I
wondered, again, what the matter was. Kamal Lata brought my tea
and some sweets and fruits—Govindaji’s morning prasad. I hadn’t
eaten all day so I fell to with a will. As I ate I heard the blowing of
conches and the ringing of bells that signalled the commencement of
the evening arati.
‘Shouldn’t you be at the shrine’ I asked, surprised.
‘No. I’ve been forbidden to enter it.’
‘Forbidden to enter it? Why? What does that mean?’
Kamal Lata smiled a wan smile. ‘Forbidden means forbidden,
gosain. I’ve been commanded to keep away from Govindaji’s
temple.’
‘Who commanded you?’
‘Bara gosain’s gurudev. And all those who’ve come with him.’
My appetite vanished. I pushed my thala away. ‘Why?’ I asked.
‘They think I’m unchaste, impure. They say God will be polluted by
my touch.’
‘Unchaste! You?’ The truth dawned upon me in a flash. ‘Is it—was
it—anything to do with Gahar?’ I asked wonderingly.
‘Yes.’
I knew nothing about Gahar and Kamal Lata but a denial, born out
of an innate conviction rose swiftly to my lips. ‘Impossible!’ I
exclaimed.
‘Why is it impossible, gosain?’
‘I don’t know why. I only know that there’s no bigger lie in the
world. This is your reward, Kamal Lata, for nursing your dying friend,
for making his last moments endurable. The world in which we live
values your goodness thus.’
Her eyes swam with tears. ‘I have no regrets, gosain. Not
anymore. I wasn’t afraid of God for He can look into my soul. I was
only afraid of you. I’m so relieved—I could die, this moment, quite
happily, gosain.’
 ‘There are so many people in the world, Kamal Lata,’ I said in a
wondering voice. ‘Yet you feared no one—only me?’
‘Yes. Only you.’
We sat, as though frozen in our places for a long while. Then I
roused myself and asked, ‘What does Bara gosain say?’
‘What can he say? If he allows me into the shrine, no Vaishnav will
ever set foot in the akhra again.’ She thought for a moment or two
and murmured to herself, ‘I knew I would have to go some day. But I
never thought it would be like this.’ Then, fixing her dark eyes on
mine, she said, ‘I’m worried about Padma. The poor child will weep
her eyes out for me. She’s an orphan. Bara gosain picked her up
from the streets of Nabadweep. Look after her, gosain, if you can. If
she doesn’t wish to stay on in the akhra after I’m gone, take her
away with you. Raju will look after her.’
Another silence followed. ‘And Gahar’s money?’ I asked. ‘Won’t
you take it?’
‘No. I’m a Vaishnavi. I beg for a living. What would I do with all that
money?’
‘You may need it someday.’
Kamal Lata laughed. ‘I had a lot of money, once. Was it of any
use? Still, if I ever need any, I’ll take it from you. Why should I take
money from strangers?’
I stared at her. I didn’t have a word to say.
‘No, gosain,’ she took up the subject again. ‘I don’t need anyone’s
money. I’ve surrendered myself in the hands of one who will never
cast me off. All my needs will be fulfilled. Don’t worry about me.’
Padma appeared at the door. ‘Where shall I serve the prasad?’
she asked Kamal Lata.
‘Bring it here. Have you fed the servant?’
‘Yes.’ But Padma wouldn’t go. She stood at the door, hesitating.
‘Won’t you eat anything, Didi?’ she asked.
‘I will, bon, I will. You’ll push it down my throat if I don’t, won’t you?’
Padma looked relieved and went off to bring the prasad.
 I looked out for Kamal Lata the next morning but she was nowhere
to be seen. Padma informed me that she spent her days away from
the akhra and returned only in the evening. But the news gave me
little comfort. I remembered her words of the night before and was
tortured by the thought that she may have gone and that I might
never see her again.
I took Gahar’s Ramayana to Bara gosain and told him of my
friend’s last request. Bara gosain accepted it with the words, ‘His
wish shall be respected, Natun gosain. I shall keep the manuscript,
carefully, with the other books of the akhra.’
I waited a few moments before saying, ‘This scandal about Kamal
Lata and Gahar—do you believe it?’
‘No.’ Dwarika Das raised his eyes and held mine.
‘Yet she’s being compelled to leave the akhra.’
‘I’m leaving too, gosain. I can’t drive out an innocent woman and
stay within these walls myself. I chose this path out of all others so
that I may live a life of truth. If I abandon it now, all my years of
service to Radha Govinda will cease to have any meaning.’
‘You are the master of the akhra. You can take your own
decisions. You can ask her to stay.’
‘Guru, guru, guru.’ Bara gosain hung his head and shut his eyes. I
understood that this was his guru’s command and he couldn’t
disobey it.
‘I’m leaving today, gosain,’ I said, rising. He lifted his head. Tears
poured down his cheeks. He brought his hands together in a
namaskar. I did the same. Then I left the room.
The afternoon melted into evening and then dusk. Night fell but
there was no sign of Kamal Lata. Nabin sent a man to take me to the
station. Kishen had everything packed and ready and was in a hurry
to leave. But Kamal Lata didn’t return. Padma insisted that she
would come but, as the hours passed, my doubts increased till I
knew, for a certainty, that she wouldn’t. Avoiding the stress of a last
farewell, she had run away, without any clothes to change into. She
had said that she was a beggar woman, a Vaishnavi who sang for a
living. Her words, only words till yesterday, had become an
accomplished fact.
Padma came to the door as I was leaving. She burst out weeping
in the loud, bewildered voice of a lost child. I gave her my address
and said, ‘Your Didi left you in my care. You must write to me and
ask me for anything you wish.’
‘I can’t write very well, gosain.’
‘Write as you can. I promise to read every word.’
‘Won’t you meet Didi before you go?’
‘We’ll meet some other time.’ And, with these words, I walked out
of the akhra.
 14

I STRAINED MY EYES IN THE DARK, LOOKING FOR HER, ALL THE

WAY TO THE station. But the moment I stepped on the platform I saw
her, standing a little apart from the crowd. She came forward on
seeing me, and said in a normal, everyday voice, ‘You must buy me
a ticket, gosain.’
‘You’re really leaving us all, Kamal Lata?’
‘What else can I do?’
‘Doesn’t it hurt?’
‘Why do you ask, gosain? You know.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘To Vrindavan. But you needn’t buy a ticket for all the way. I’ll get
off somewhere and—’
‘And beg as you walk till you reach your destination. That’s the
idea, isn’t it? You don’t want to be too deeply in debt—even to me.’
‘It’s not the first time, gosain. I’ve walked—’ She glanced up at my
face and said simply, ‘Buy me a ticket to Vrindavan, then.’
‘Let’s go together.’
‘Are you going the same way?’
‘No, but I’ll go with you as far as I can.’
We took our places in the train. I dusted the bench and made a
bed for her with my own hands.
‘What are you doing, gosain?’ Kamal Lata said agitatedly.
‘I’m doing that which I’ve never done for anyone before. I’m doing
it so that I may never forget this journey.’
‘Do you really wish to remember it all your life?’
‘I do, Kamal Lata. Only, no one will know of it. Only you and I.’
‘But it is not right for me—’
‘It is. Sit in peace and let me do what I must.’
She obeyed. The train passed through many villages and towns,
green fields and stretches of wasteland. They revived many
memories which Kamal Lata shared with me in her low, sweet voice.
She spoke of her many pilgrimages to Vrindavan, Mathura,
Govardhan and Radha Kundu and her experiences with sadhus and
Vaishnavs. And, then, her meeting with Dwarika Das which had
brought her to the akhra. I remembered my conversation of the
morning and cried eagerly, ‘Do you know, Kamal Lata? Bara gosainji
believes that you are innocent.’
‘He does?’
‘Yes. He wept when I took leave of him and said, “I can’t drive out
an innocent woman and stay within these walls. My years of service
to Radha Govinda will cease to have meaning, if I do.” He’s leaving
the akhra too. Our little ashram, so simple and sweet, will fall to
pieces.’
‘No, it won’t. God will show a way.’
‘If you are ever called back—will you go?’
‘No.’
‘If they are genuinely repentant? If they truly need you?’
‘Not even then.’ She thought for a moment and added, ‘I’ll go back
only if you want me to. Not for anyone else in the world.’
‘But where can I find you?’
She didn’t reply. There was a long silence.
‘Kamal Lata!’ I called and saw that her eyes were shut and her
head rested on the window. ‘She’s fatigued with the strain of the last
few days,’ I thought, and let her go on sleeping. Then, I don’t know
when, I fell asleep myself.
‘Natun gosain!’ Someone was shaking me awake. ‘You’ll have to
get off. The train has arrived at Sainthia station.’ I sat up and rubbed
my eyes. Kishen came in from the next compartment and took down
my bag and bedding. I found the sheet and pillow with which I had
made a bed for Kamal Lata, neatly rolled up and put away with the
rest of my luggage.
‘It was such a small thing, Kamal Lata. Yet you returned it.’
‘I’ll have to walk mile after mile. I can’t carry a load.’
 ‘You don’t even have a change of clothing with you. Shall I give
you a dhoti?’
‘You don’t understand, gosain. Your dhoti will look strange on a
beggar.’
‘Perhaps it will,’ I sighed. ‘But even beggars must eat. You have
two days of travel ahead of you. Will you keep the food I brought or
shall I throw it away before I go?’
Kamal Lata burst out laughing. ‘Ma go! How angry you are! I’ll
keep the food and eat a huge hearty meal after you leave.’
The interval between arrival and departure drew to a close. It was
time to descend. As I rose to do so, Kamal Lata came up to me and
whispered, ‘There’s no one around. Give me the dust of your feet,
quickly, before anyone sees us.’ She bent and touched my feet for
the first time.
It was still dark when I stepped off the train and stood on the
platform. I looked up at the sky. Even as I did, a thin band of pearly
light appeared in the middle and spread upwards and outwards,
slicing away the darkness in two halves. A crescent moon—pale and
worn with thirteen nights of waning—gleamed dully from one end
and, from the other, the first haze of dawn appeared, shimmering like
a mist. I remembered the time I had gone picking flowers with the
Vaishnavi. The hour had been the same but the feelings—how
different!
The whistle blew. The guard waved his green light and gave the
signal. Kamal Lata put out her hand from the window and, for the
first time in our acquaintance, she took mine and held it close. ‘I’ve
never asked anything of you, ever, gosain,’ she said in a voice,
humble and pleading. ‘Will you do something for me?’
‘I will.’
‘I know how much you love me! How you suffer for me! Don’t—
anymore. Put your faith in Him. Surrender me in His hands and be
free.’
 The train moved with a jerk. Her hand was still in mine. I walked a
few paces holding it. ‘I surrender you, Kamal Lata,’ I said. ‘May He
have the caring of you and may the path you’ve chosen be wide and
free. I shall not insult you by calling you mine—ever again.’
The train moved away. Our hands fell apart. The lights of the
station flashed into her face, one by one, through the window in
which it was framed. Then all was dark and empty but I thought I
saw her waving her hand in a last farewell.
 Glossary

BARUI: Those who grow betel leaves.

BAURI: A socially backward caste, usually
palanquin-bearers.
BHARATVARSHA: This was a journal to which Saratchandra
contributed regularly.
BOSHTOM/BOSHTOMI: Colloquial corruption of Vaishnav and
Vaishnavi.
DOM: A person whose caste duty was to
cremate the dead and therefore was
considered an ‘untouchable’.
DURBASHA MUNI: One of the ancient rishis, reputed to have
a violent temper.
GANGAJAL: Women in Bengal formed lasting
friendships by using symbolic names for
each other, such as Sai, Moner Katha,
Gangajal, etc.
GOALA: The cowherd caste order.
JALACHAL: The caste order considered to be low,
therefore water touched by them was not
acceptable to Brahmins.
KAIBARTA: The caste order which consists of
peasants.
KAMAR: Colloquial corruption of Karmakar.
KARMAKAR: The caste order of blacksmiths.
KAYASTHA: A Hindu caste considered lower than the
Brahmins in nineteenth-century Bengal.
KULIN: Of the lineage of Brahmins on whom an
 order of honour was bestowed by King
Ballal Sen of ancient Bengal.
KUMAHAR: The caste order of potters.
KUMBHAKARNA: One of the brothers of King Ravana. His
capacity for eating and sleeping are
legendary.
KURMI: A socially backward caste of rural Bengal.
NABASAKH: The potter, weaver, milkman, barber, spice
dealer, garland-maker, blacksmith,
confectioners and those who grow betel
leaves, collectively make up the Hindu
caste order of Nabasakh; literally, ‘nine
branches’.
NEELKANTH: One of the many names of Shiva. The
legend goes that when the asuras and
devas were churning the ocean for the life-
giving amrita, they churned up a very
destructive poison. Shiva took in the
poison to prevent it from destroying the
universe—but instead of swallowing it,
held it in his throat. Thus, his throat turned
blue, and he was called Neelkanth, i.e.,
‘blue-necked’.
SADGOPE: The milkman caste order.
SONAR BENE: A person belonging to the caste order of
goldsmiths.
SUNRI: A person belonging to the caste order of
wine distillers.
TILI: A person belonging to the caste order of
oil crushers.
DEVDAS
 1

IT WAS A SCORCHING SUMMER AFTERNOON. THE SUN BLAZED

DOWN relentlessly and the heat lapped around in waves. Devdas of
the Mukherjee household sat in a corner of the schoolroom, on a
worn, old mat with a slate in hand and a bored expression written all
across his face. He closed his eyes, opened them again, stretched
his legs, yawned and pondered over the available options. In a
minute he decided that it was pointless wasting the entire afternoon
sitting around in the schoolroom instead of roaming the fields and
flying kites. In his fertile mind a plan seemed to take shape. He stood
up, slate in hand.
It was lunch break in the school. With hoops, yells and vigorous
gesticulations, a bunch of boys were playing marbles under the tree
nearby, Devdas glanced at them once. He wasn’t allowed to go out
for lunch because Govinda Master, the teacher, had noticed that
Devdas wasn’t inclined to come back into the schoolroom if he ever
left it. His father had also placed an embargo on his going out. It had
been decided that Devdas would spend the lunch hour under the
supervision of the class monitor.
The only people in the room at this point were the teacher (who lay
with his eyes closed, catching his forty winks after lunch), and Bhulo
the class monitor who sat on a broken bench in one corner of the
room, pretending to be the teacher and casting the occasional
contemptuous glance towards the boys at play and sometimes at
Devdas and Parvati. Parvati had been in the school for a month or
so. Perhaps she had grown really attached to the teacher and so she
sat there, intently sketching his sleeping figure on the last page of
her alphabet book; like an earnest artist she looked up now and then
to check how close her portrait was to the original. It wasn’t much of
a likeness, but for what it was worth, Parvati seemed to derive great
satisfaction from it.
 Devdas stood up, slate in hand, and addressed Bhulo. ‘I can’t get
the sums right.’
With a solemn face, Bhulo asked calmly, ‘Which one?’
‘Rithmetic.’
‘Let me have the slate.’ Bhulo’s manner was that of the erudite
teacher who only had to get his hands on the slate in order to sort
the problem out. Devdas handed him the slate and stood close to
him. Bhulo began to read aloud as he wrote, ‘If one maund of oil
costs fourteen rupees, then—’
At this juncture something happened. The class monitor had
maintained his seat upon the broken, wobbly bench for the last three
years, in keeping with his elevated status. Behind him stood a stack
of lime. Govinda Master had procured it for a song at some point in
the past with the intention of using it to plaster the walls. When the
time would present itself was still unknown. But he took great care of
this stack of white powder. Just so that some callous, unwise young
fellow may not get to ruin even a grain of it, he had entrusted it to the
care of Bholanath, the class monitor, who was relatively older and
quite the favourite. Hence Bhulo had taken up his seat at that
precise spot.
Bhulo wrote, ‘If one maund of oil costs fourteen rupees, then …
oh, oh, my God, he—lp …’ and then all hell broke loose. Parvati
shrieked loudly, stood clapping her hands, and finally rolled on the
ground, giggling. Govinda Master, who had just drifted into a sound
sleep, roused himself, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He saw that the
boys who had been playing under the tree were now shouting and
screaming as they headed away from there. At the same time he
saw that a pair of legs was dangling about behind the bench and the
stack of lime looked fairly ready to burst. He shouted, ‘Hey, hey, what
… what is it?’
There was just Parvati who could have told him anything. But she
was in no condition to do so, since she was rolling on the ground,
giggling and clapping. The teacher’s question remained
unanswered.
And then the snow-white Bholanath pushed his way out of the lime
and stood up. The teacher shouted once again, ‘You stupid oaf, that
was you in there?’
‘Yeah—ah—ah—’
‘Stop that!’
‘It was Deva, that bastard—he pushed—’rithmetic—’
‘Don’t start again, you oaf …’
By now the teacher had understood the whole sorry tale. He sat
down and spoke in a solemn tone, ‘So Devdas pushed you into the
lime and fled, did he?’
Bhulo whimpered and nodded.
There was much shaking and brushing off to be done; but the
white on his dark skin did make the class monitor look a little eerie
and his sobs showed no signs of abating.
Govinda Master said again, ‘So Devdas pushed you and ran off,
eh?’
Bhulo said, ‘Yeah … yeah …’ and whined some more.
Govinda Master said, ‘I won’t let him get away with this.’
Bhulo said (with more sobs), ‘Yeah … yeah …’
Govinda Master asked, ‘Where has the boy …?’
The group of boys burst in, panting and red-faced. ‘We couldn’t
catch him. Ooh, the way he hurls those stones—’
‘Couldn’t catch him?’
Another boy repeated, ‘Ooh, the stones—’
‘Shut up.’
He gulped and moved to one side. The teacher, in his thwarted
fury, yelled a bit at Parvati to start with; then he took Bholanath by
the hand and said, ‘Come, let’s go and speak to Mukherjee-babu.’
This meant that he would now go and lodge a complaint to
Narayan Mukherjee, the zamindar, about his son’s behaviour.
 It was around three in the afternoon. Narayan Mukherjee was
seated outside, smoking on his hubble-bubble, and a servant was
fanning him gently. He was taken aback by the sudden arrival of the
teacher and his pupils, and exclaimed, ‘Hello, Govinda.’
Govinda was a kayasth by caste. He bowed low before the
brahmin zamindar and offered his respects. Then he pointed to
Bhulo and narrated everything in great detail. Mukherjee-babu was
irritated. He said, ‘Well really, Devdas seems to be beyond control.’
‘Please tell me what I should do.’
The zamindar laid down the pipe and asked, ‘Where has he
gone?’
‘How do we know? He hurled stones at the boys that tried to catch
him.’
For a while both were silent. Finally Mukherjee-babu said, ‘I will do
the needful once he gets back home.’
Govinda Master led his students back to the schoolroom and
terrorized everyone with his fearsome expressions. He vowed that
he wouldn’t let Devdas into the schoolroom again, although he was
the zamindar’s son. That day school was let off a little early. On their
way back the boys were full of chatter.
One said, ‘Oof, did you see what a thug he is?’
Another said, ‘It serves Bhulo right.’
‘Oh, the way he hurls those stones!’
Another one was on Bhulo’s side, ‘He will take revenge, just you
wait and see.’
‘Oh but Devdas won’t ever come to school again. So how will
Bhulo take his revenge?’
Straggling behind this small bunch of boys, Parvati was also on
her way home. She caught hold of one of the boys nearest to her
and asked, ‘Moni, will they really not allow Dev-da to come to school
ever again?’
Moni said, ‘No, never.’
Parvati moved away. She hadn’t liked that.
 Parvati’s father’s name was Nilkantha Chakravarty. He was the
zamindar’s neighbour, meaning that his small and ancient house
stood next to the zamindar’s huge, palatial mansion. He owned
some land, had a few clients in whose homes he did the puja, and
then there was kindness from the zamindar household—all in all, it
was a comfortable life that he led.
On the way home, Parvati ran into Dharmadas. He was a servant
in Devdas’s house. For the last twelve years, ever since his infancy,
Devdas had been looked after by Dharmadas. He dropped him off to
school every morning and then picked him up again at the end of the
day. This was his daily routine; he was on his way to the school right
now. When he saw Parvati he asked, ‘Paro, where is your Dev-
dada?’
‘He ran away …’
Immensely surprised, Dharmadas said, ‘What do you mean, ran
away?’
Parvati recalled Bholanath’s predicament once again and burst
into giggles, ‘Dhamma, you know, Dev-da—hee hee hee—in the lime
stack—hoo hoo hoo—Dhamma, he fell on his face …’
Dharmadas couldn’t make out all of what she was saying. But he
shared in her laughter. Then he sobered up and asked again, ‘Tell
me Paro, what happened?’
‘Dev-da pushed Bhulo into the stack of lime and ran away—hee
hee hee—’
Now Dharmadas got the whole picture and grew really worried. He
said, ‘Paro, do you know where he is now?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You do know … please tell me. Poor thing, he must be hungry by
now.’
‘He must be … but I won’t tell you.’
‘Why not?’
‘He will beat me up. I can go and give him the food.’
 Dharmadas was appeased and said, ‘Fine, you do that then. And
mind you, see that he gets home before dark.’
‘I will.’
Parvati came back home and found that her mother and Devdas’s
mother had both heard everything. She was grilled once again. She
tried to repeat as much of the story as she could, holding her
laughter in check. Then she tied up some puffed rice in the anchal of
her sari and set off for one of the many mango groves owned by the
zamindar. This one was close to her house; at one end of it lay a
bamboo clump. She knew that Devdas had cleared up a space in
that clump, in order to smoke his hubble-bubble in peace. Whenever
he needed a hideaway, this was the place that served him best.
When she got there, Parvati found Devdas sitting in the middle of
the bamboo clump holding a small hookah and smoking like a wise
old man. His face looked sombre and bore the traces of much
concern. He was delighted to see Parvati, but he didn’t show any of
his pleasure. He continued to smoke and solemnly said, ‘Come.’
Parvati came up to him and sat down. Immediately Devdas
spotted what she had bundled up in her anchal. Without saying
another word, he untied it and began to munch. Then he said, ‘Paro,
what did the master say?’
‘He has complained to your father.’
Devdas put his hookah down, his eyes wide with surprise, and
said, ‘He has gone to Father?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘They won’t let you go into the school ever again.’
‘And I don’t want to go there either.’
By now Devdas’s stock of puffed rice was almost at an end. He
looked at Parvati and said, ‘Give me the sweets.’
‘I haven’t brought any.’
‘Then give me some water.’
‘Where will I find water?’
 Irritated, Devdas said, ‘If you don’t have anything, then why have
you come? Go and fetch me some water.’
Parvati didn’t like his tone. She said, ‘I can’t go again. Why don’t
you come and drink it yourself?’
‘How can I go there now?’
‘Are you planning to stay here for good?’
‘At least for now. Later, I’ll go away …’
Parvati felt miserable. She felt like crying at this show of apparent
disinterest from Devdas. She said, ‘Dev-da, I’ll come too.’
‘Where? With me? Are you crazy?’
Parvati shook her head and said, ‘I will too.’
‘First go and get me the water.’
‘No. You will run away.’
‘I won’t.’
But Parvati couldn’t trust him and so she continued to sit there.
Devdas ordered her once again, ‘Go, I tell you.’
‘I cannot go.’
Angry, Devdas grabbed her hair and commanded, ‘Go.’
Parvati was silent. Then a hard fist landed on her back. ‘Won’t go,
eh?’
Parvati burst into tears, ‘I will not go.’
Devdas walked away. Parvati, sobbing hard, left the mango grove.
She walked and walked, till she found herself right in front of
Devdas’s father. Mukherjee-babu was very fond of Parvati. He said,
‘Paro, child, why are you crying?’
‘Dev-da has beaten me.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He was smoking his hookah, sitting in the bamboo grove.’
Mukherjee-babu was already upset by the complaint lodged by the
teacher and this fresh piece of news made him see red. He said,
‘Has Deva taken to smoking?’
‘Yes, he does. Every day. He hides his hookah in the bamboo
grove …’
 ‘Why have you never told me?’
‘Because he will beat me.’
This wasn’t entirely true. She had kept quiet because she didn’t
want Devdas to be punished. If she had spilled the beans today it
was only because she was so mad at him. She was barely eight
years old—too young to rein in her temper. But she was by no
means immature.
At home she hit the bed and wept for a long time before finally
drifting off to sleep. She didn’t have any dinner.
 2

THE NEXT DAY DEVDAS GOT THE HIDING OF HIS LIFE. HE WAS
LOCKED UP the whole day. Finally, when his mother wept her heart
out, he was let off. The following day he ran to Parvati’s house, stood
beneath her window and called, ‘Paro, Paro.’
Parvati opened her window and said, ‘Dev-da.’
Devdas gestured for her to come down quickly. When they stood
together, he asked, ‘Why did you tell them about the smoking?’
‘Why did you hit me?’
‘Why didn’t you go and get the water?’
Parvati was silent.
Devdas said, ‘You are a fool. Don’t ever do that again.’
Parvati shook her head—she wouldn’t.
‘Let’s go then, and carve out some fishing rods. Today we must go
fishing.’
There was a dead tree near the bamboo clump. Devdas climbed it.
With great effort he bent a nearby bamboo stem, handed it to Parvati
and said, ‘See that you don’t let go, or I’ll fall.’
Parvati held onto it for dear life. Devdas used it for support,
climbed onto a dead limb and began to cut himself a fishing rod.
Parvati asked, ‘Dev-da, won’t you go to school?’
‘No.’
‘Uncle will see that you go.’
‘Father himself has said I won’t go there anymore. A master will
come home to teach me.’
Parvati grew a little worried. Then she said, ‘Since yesterday
school starts early in the morning, for summer. I will have to go now.’
Devdas looked down at her, breathing fire and said, ‘No, you don’t
have to go.’
Parvati was a little absent-minded and the bamboo branch slipped
out of her grasp and shot up in the air. Devdas fell to the ground. It
wasn’t that high up and so he wasn’t hurt, but he was badly bruised.
In anger, he picked up a dry stick and lashed out blindly at Parvati. It
fell randomly on her back, her cheeks, everywhere. He bellowed,
‘Go, get out of here.’
At first Parvati was ashamed at her carelessness; but when the
stick began to lacerate her, she was filled with angry hurt. Her eyes
burned fire as she promised, ‘I am on my way to Uncle—’
Devdas became even more angry and hit out at her once more.
‘Go on, tell him right now,’ he screamed. ‘As if I care.’
Parvati went away. When she had gone some distance, Devdas
called out, ‘Paro.’
Parvati heard him but pretended not to; she just walked on faster.
Devdas called again, ‘Oh Paro, come here and listen to me.’
Parvati didn’t answer. Irritated, Devdas shouted, half to himself,
‘Oh, go to hell.’
After she left Devdas managed to cut himself a few fishing rods.
His heart wasn’t in it, though.
Parvati came home in tears. The stick marks lay visible and blue
on her pale cheeks. Grandma saw her first. She screamed, ‘Oh my
God, who has beaten you so hard, Paro?’ Parvati wiped her eyes
and said, ‘The school master.’
Grandma pulled her onto her lap and vehemently said, ‘Come on,
let’s go to Narayan and get this Master fixed. You poor thing, he’s
beaten you half to death.’
Parvati hung onto her grandma’s neck and said, ‘Let’s go.’
When they arrived before Mukherjee-babu, Grandma called the
teacher and his forefathers some choice names; the old lady’s
curses didn’t bode well for the teacher’s future. Finally she stopped
for breath and then started afresh, ‘Narayan, just look at the fellow’s
guts. He’s a half-caste and he dares to raise his hand on a brahmin
girl. Just see how he’s beaten her.’ Grandma began to trace the blue
bruises on Parvati’s tender cheeks with great sorrow.
Mukherjee-babu asked Parvati, ‘Who has beaten you, Paro?’
 Parvati was silent. Grandma had to shout at the top of her voice
again, ‘Who else? That bastard of a Master, that’s who.’
‘Why did he beat you?’
Again, Parvati didn’t say a word. Mukherjee-babu realized that she
must have been beaten for some offence. But this violence was
uncalled for and that’s what he said aloud too. Then Parvati showed
her back and said, ‘He beat me here too.’
The marks on the back were fiercer, more visible. So both the
adults got very upset. Mukherjee-babu said he’d summon the
teacher and look into the matter. And it was decided that there was
no point in sending the child to such a school.
Parvati was thrilled with the decision and she happily clambered
into Grandma’s arms and came back to the interior of the house. But
there she had to face her mother’s inquisition. She took her to task,
‘Tell me, why did he beat you?’
Parvati said, ‘For no reason at all.’
Mother boxed her ears well and truly and said, ‘No one beats
people up for no reason at all.’
Luckily, Grandma was passing by. She stepped over the threshold
and said, ‘My dear, as a mother you can box her ears for no reason
at all, and you mean to say that lout cannot?’
Mother said, ‘I’m sure there was a reason. She’s a quiet girl—she
must have done something and so he beat her up.’
Irritated, Grandma said, ‘Fine, that may be so. But I will not let her
go back to that school.’
‘But she should study.’
‘What’s the point? If she can write a few letters and read a few
lines of the Ramayan and the Mahabharat, it is more than enough.
Your Paro is hardly likely to study law or become a barrister.’
Defeated, Mother fell silent.
That day Devdas tiptoed into the house with great fear in his heart.
He had no doubt that Parvati had come and told everyone about his
behaviour in the meantime. But when he came home, he saw no
sign of trouble. Instead, he heard from his mother that Govinda
Master had beaten Parvati severely and so she wouldn’t go to school
anymore.
Thrilled to bits, Devdas could barely stop to finish his meal. He
managed to eat a few mouthfuls and then ran to Parvati. He was
panting as he asked her, ‘You won’t be going to school anymore?’
‘No.’
‘How did this happen?’
‘I said the Master has beaten me.’
Devdas grinned from ear to ear, patted her on the back and said
that she was the brightest girl in the whole wide world. Then he
slowly examined the purple bruises on Parvati’s cheeks, sighed
deeply and said, ‘Poor thing.’
Parvati smiled as she looked up at him, ‘What is it?’
‘It must have hurt like hell, right Paro?’
Parvati nodded.
‘Oh dear, why do you do that then? It makes me so angry and then
I hit you.’
Parvati’s eyes filled with tears; she wanted to ask, ‘Do what?’ But
she couldn’t.
Devdas stroked her hair and said, ‘Don’t do it ever again, okay?’
Parvati shook her head and said, ‘I won’t.’
Devdas patted her back once again and said, ‘Fine. I too won’t hit
you ever again.’
 3

THE DAYS PASSED BLISSFULLY. THE TWO CHILDREN WERW HAVING

THE TIME of their lives. They roamed the fields all day long, came
home late to be scolded and beaten, and next morning they were off
again. They slept like babies at night, tired as they were. In the
morning they ran to each other, and started their games afresh. They
had no other friends and neither did they need any. The two of them
were enough to kick up a ruckus in the entire neighbourhood.
That day, soon after sunrise they waded into the water with their
fishing rods. It was late afternoon by the time they came back home
with bloodshot eyes, after having stirred up the entire pond and
caught fifteen minnows, which were divided equally between them
with due ceremony. Parvati’s mother gave her a sound thrashing and
locked her up in a room. Devdas’s fate was not known, because he
seldom revealed these facts. But when Parvati was weeping in her
room in the afternoon, he did come up to her window and call out
softly, ‘Paro, Paro.’ Parvati probably heard him. But she was so
angry that she didn’t deign to answer. He spent the rest of the day
sitting on a champak tree nearby. It took much coaxing from
Dharmadas at dusk to get him to come down.
The next morning Parvati waited eagerly for her Dev-da. But
Devdas didn’t come. He had gone to a nearby village with his father
to honour an invitation. When Devdas failed to show up, Parvati
broodingly walked out of the house all by herself. The previous day,
before wading into the pond, Devdas had handed three rupees to
her, in case he lost them in the water. They were tied securely in the
anchal of Parvati’s sari. She whirled her anchal around, whirled
herself around and whiled away some time. She couldn’t find any of
her friends because they were all at school. So she set off for the
other end of the neighbourhood. Manorama lived there. Manorama
was a little older than Parvati and she went to school too, and they
were friends. Parvati hadn’t met her for quite a while. Today, since
she had the time, she walked into their house and called, ‘Mano, are
you home?’
Manorama’s aunt came out. ‘Paro?’
‘Yes. Where is Mano, Aunty?’
‘She has gone to school. Haven’t you gone, my child?’
‘I don’t go to school. Neither does Dev-da.’
Manorama’s aunt laughed and said, ‘Oh, that is wonderful. Neither
you nor Dev-da goes to school, eh?’
‘No. We don’t go.’
‘Well, that’s fine. But Mano has gone to school.’
Aunty asked her to wait, but Parvati shook her head and started
back. On the way back, near Rasik Pal’s shop, she ran into three
Vaishnavis—minstrel-women of the Vaishnav sect. They had sandal
paste on their foreheads and musical instruments in their hands.
They were on their way to seek alms. Parvati called out to them and
said, ‘O Boshtomis, do you know any songs?’
One of them turned around and sad, ‘Sure we do, my child.’
‘Will you please sing?’
At this all three of them turned around. One of them said, ‘We
can’t sing like this, my dear; you’ll have to give us alms. Come, let us
go to your home.’
‘No. Sing right here.’
‘But you’ll have to give us money, child.’
Parvati pointed to her anchal and said, ‘I have some rupees.’
When they saw the money tied up in her anchal, they moved away
from the shop and sat down. Then they began to play and sing. The
songs, their meaning, all passed Parvati by; she couldn’t have
followed them even if she had tried to. But at the sound of the music
her heart and soul rushed towards her Dev-da.
The Vaishnavis finished their song and said, ‘Well child, give us
what you want to give.’
 Parvati untied the knot in her sari and handed them the three
rupees. Surprised, the three of them stared at her.
One asked, ‘Whose money is this, child?’
‘Dev-da’s.’
‘Won’t he beat you?’
Parvati thought for a moment. ‘No,’ she said unsurely.
The Vaishnavis said, ‘Bless you, my child.’
Parvati laughed and said, ‘It’ll be easy to divide it between the
three of you, right?’
They nodded happily and said, ‘That it will. May Radharani bless
your kind heart.’ They prayed that this generous girl wouldn’t suffer
the consequences of her kindness.
That day Parvati got home early. She met Devdas the next
morning. He held a kite spool in one hand, but didn’t have the kites.
He would have to buy them. When Parvati came up to him, he said,
‘Paro, give me the money.’
Parvati’s face fell. She said, ‘I don’t have it.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘I gave it to the Boshtomis. They sang songs.’
‘And you gave them all of it?’
‘Yes. There were only three rupees.’
‘Stupid. You shouldn’t give away all of it.’
‘Oh, but there were three of them. If I didn’t give three rupees, how
would they split it up between them?’
Devdas grew serious and said, ‘If I were you, I’d have given them
two rupees.’ He used one end of the spool to scratch out the figures
on the ground and then said, ‘They would have each got a little
under eleven annas.’
Parvati thought for a while and then said, ‘They don’t know their
maths as well as you do.’
Devdas had studied his arithmetic with great difficulty and Parvati’s
comment flattered him. He said, ‘That’s true.’
 Parvati took his hand and said, ‘I thought you would beat me,
Devda.’
Devdas fell from the sky. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Those Boshtomis said, you might beat me.’
Devdas happily leaned on her shoulder and said, ‘Do I ever beat
you when you haven’t done something wrong?’
Perhaps according to Devdas this action of Parvati’s lay outside
his penal code. After all, three rupees did split up quite nicely
between three people, especially for women who had never gone to
school or studied arithmetic. If they were handed two rupees instead
of three, it may indeed have been unfair on them. Devdas took
Parvati’s hand and began to walk towards the small market to buy
some kites. On the way, they hid the spool in a nearby bush.
 4

ONE WHOLE YEAR PASSED IN THIS MANNER. BUT THINGS

COULDN’T STAY the same forever. Devdas’s mother was getting very
upset. She called her husband and said, ‘Deva is growing into an
unlettered bumpkin—please do something.’
Mukherjee-babu pondered over it and said, ‘Let him go to
Calcutta. He can stay in Nagen’s house and finish his studies.’
Nagen-babu was Devdas’s mother’s brother.
Soon everyone had come to know of this decision. Parvati was
shocked to hear the news. When she got him alone, she hung onto
Devdas’s arm and said, ‘Dev-da, you are going to Calcutta?’
‘Who says that?’
‘Uncle said so.’
‘Rubbish … I’ll never go.’
‘And if he forces you to go?’
‘Force?’ Devdas made a face at that; it was obvious to Par vati
that there wasn’t a soul who could force him to do anything. That
was exactly what she had wanted to know. Delighted at this turn of
events, she hung on his arm again, turned this way and that, gazed
on his face and said with a little laugh, ‘Just see that you don’t go
away, Dev-da.’
‘Never.’
But he wasn’t able to honour this promise. His father, after much
scolding and cajoling, managed to send him off to Calcutta,
accompanied by Dharmadas. On the day he left, Devdas felt very
sad. He didn’t feel an ounce of curiosity or excitement about the new
place he was to see.
Parvati refused to leave him alone for a second that day. She wept
and wept, but no one took any notice. She then refused to speak to
Devdas. But he called her and said, ‘Listen Paro, I’ll be back soon. If
they don’t let me come, I’ll run away.’
 A little mollified, Parvati unburdened her tiny heart to him. Then he
picked up his portmanteau and with his mother’s blessings and her
tears glowing fresh on his brow he mounted the buggy and drove
away.
Parvati was heartbroken. The tears streamed down her cheeks
and her heart was fit to burst from grief. That’s how the first few days
went by. Then one morning, she woke up to find that she had
nothing to do all day. Until then, since the day she had quit school,
the entire day used to be spent in getting up to all kinds of mischief
with Devdas; she had felt there was so much to do and so little time.
But now she had a lot of time and hardly anything to do. Some days
she’d wake up and sit down to write a letter. Ten o’clock would roll
around and Mother would get irritated. Grandma would say, ‘Poor
thing, let her write. It’s better to do some reading-writing in the
morning than to run around all over the place.’
On the days that a letter from Devdas arrived, Parvati would look
like she had grasped the moon in her hands. She would sit on the
threshold of the staircase and read the letter over and over, all day
long. Finally, when a couple of months passed, the frequency of the
letters grew less and less; interest seemed to have waned a little on
both sides.
One day Parvati went up to her mother and said, ‘Mother, I want to
go to school again.’
Mother was quite surprised, ‘Why, child?’
Parvati nodded and said, ‘Yes, I most certainly want to go.’
‘Fine then. When have I ever stopped you from going to school?’
That afternoon Parvati dug out the old and tattered books and the
long-forsaken slate and, holding onto the maid’s hand, she walked to
school. She went up to her old place and took her seat, calmly and
patiently. The maid said, ‘Master, don’t beat her up again. She has
come back of her own free will. Let her study when she wants to and
let her go when she wants to go.’
 The teacher said to himself, ‘As you wish.’ He said aloud, ‘Fine by
me.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her why they didn’t send
Parvati to Calcutta as well. But he pulled himself up. Parvati saw that
the class monitor, Bhulo, sat in his old place on the bench. For a
moment she nearly giggled. But then her eyes filled with tears. She
felt very angry with Bhulo. He seemed to be the sole culprit behind
Devdas’s leaving home.
Several months passed. Devdas came back home after a long
spell. Parvati ran out excitedly to meet him. They talked a lot. She
didn’t have much to say, or even if she did, she couldn’t say much.
But Devdas talked a great deal. Most of it was about Calcutta. Then
the summer holidays came to an end. Devdas went back to Calcutta.
This time the tears streamed, but their flow seemed weaker than
before.
In this manner four years went by. In these few years Devdas had
changed so much that it made Parvati shed a lew tears in private.
The rustic traits in Devdas had vanished completely with his sojourn
in Calcutta. Now he sported foreign shoes, bright clothes, a walking
stick, gold buttons, a watch—without these accessories he felt
bereft. He never felt like taking a walk by the river anymore; instead
he would rather take his gun and go hunting. Instead of the tiny
minnows, he now wanted to hook the big fish. That wasn’t all. He
talked of politics, meetings, organizations, cricket, football and so
much more. Woe betide Paro and their village, Talshonapur.
Sometimes the odd memory of his childhood drifted into his mind all
right, but the excitement of other things soon drove those thoughts
from his head.
Yet another summer vacation came along. The previous year
Devdas had gone abroad for his vacation. This year both his parents
wrote to him, asking him to come home. Quite unwillingly he packed
his bags and headed for his village. The day he arrived, he wasn’t
feeling too well. So he couldn’t go out. The next day he went to
Parvati’s house and called out, ‘Aunty.’
 Parvati’s mother welcomed him in and said, ‘Come in, son.’
He spent some time talking to her and then asked, ‘Aunty, where
is Paro?’
‘Probably upstairs.’
Devdas went upstairs and found Parvati lighting the evening lamp;
he called, ‘Paro.’
She was startled at first. Then she touched his feet respectfully
and stood aside.
‘What’s all this, Paro?’
There was no need for words. So she was silent. Devdas felt shy
too. He said, ‘I’ll be off then; it’s nearly dark outside. I’m not too well
either.’ He walked away.
 5

ACCORDING TO GRANDMA, PARVATI HAD JUST TURNED THIRTEEN. IT

WAS THE age when the teenaged body suddenly bloomed and came
to life. The family suddenly woke up one day to the fact that their
little girl was all grown up. Now there was a rush to get her married.
This had been the topic of discussion in the Chakravarty household
for the last few days. Mother was very sad; she kept telling her
husband, ‘True, we can’t hold on to Paro any longer.’
They were not wealthy. But fortunately the girl was very attractive.
If beauty was worth anything in this world, Parvati wouldn’t cause
them a day’s concern. Another fact needs to be mentioned. Till that
time, in their household, only sons’ weddings were a cause for worry,
not that of a daughter. The custom was to take a bride-price for a
girl’s marriage and to give it for a boy’s marriage. Even Nilkantha-
babu’s father had taken a bride-price for his daughter’s marriage. But
Nilkantha-babu abhorred this practice. He had no intention of selling
Parvati and making money on the transaction.
Parvati’s mother was aware of this. So she often rushed her
husband about their daughter’s marriage. Until then, Parvati’s
mother had indulged in a distant fantasy that she could somehow
marry her daughter off to Devdas. It didn’t seem like such an
impossible idea after all. She had hoped that a broad hint dropped
gently might help. Perhaps that was why Parvati’s grandma tried to
broach the subject to Devdas’s mother, saying, ‘Your Devdas and my
Paro—they are so close to each other; it’s a rare sight, really.’
Devdas’s mother said, ‘And why not, Aunty? They’ve grown up
together like a brother and sister.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s why I feel—just look at the way she cried and
cried when Devdas went off to Calcutta. And she was barely eight
years old. One letter from Devdas and her day would be made. We
have known all along, you see.’
 Devdas’s mother understood all the veiled hints. She smiled to
herself. There was more pathos than derision in that smile. She had
seen it all too, and she also loved Parvati. But the Chakravartys’ was
a trading household. And they lived right next door. Oh shame.
She said, ‘You know Aunty, Devdas’s father is very definite about
not getting him married at this age, when he is still studying. He has
always said to me, it was a big mistake getting my eldest son,
Dwijodas, married at an early age. He didn’t get to complete his
education.’
Parvati’s grandma was very embarrassed. But she still went on,
‘That may be so, my child. But you know, Paro—God bless her—has
shot up and she’s really filling out and so, if Narayan has no
objection …’
Devdas’s mother stopped her and said, ‘No Aunty. I can’t bring
myself to say this to him. If I propose a marriage for Devdas at this
time, he’d be very upset.’
The matter seemed to end there. But women can never keep
secrets. At dinnertime Devdas’s mother brought up the subject
before her husband. ‘Today Paro’s grandma was talking about
getting her married.’
Mukherjee-babu looked up. ‘Yes, she seems to have grown a lot. It
would be sensible to get her married quickly.’
‘That’s why she broached it today. She said if Devdas—’
He frowned and asked, ‘What did you say?’
‘What could I say? The two of them are very close. But I can’t
bring home a bride from a trading family like theirs. And they are our
neighbours too. Shame.’
Mukherjee-babu was happy. He said, ‘Exactly. We can’t become a
laughing stock. Don’t pay any attention to all this talk.’
His wife smiled wryly, ‘No, I won’t. But you don’t forget about it
either.’
Gravely her husband brought the morsel to his mouth and said, ‘If
I were to do that, this huge zamindari would have vanished into thin
air long ago.’
God would keep his zamindari intact for many years to come. But
let us take a look at Parvati’s misery. When talk about this proposal
and its rejection reached Nilkantha-babu he called his mother and
scolded her, ‘Mother, why did you have to go and do this?’
Grandma was silent.
Nilkantha-babu continued, ‘We don’t have to beg people to get our
daughter married. In fact it’s the other way round. My daughter isn’t
bad looking. I tell you—within this week I shall fix up her marriage.
It’s not a problem at all.’
But it was the end of the world for Parvati. From her childhood she
was sure that she had some claims on her Dev-da. No one had
handed those rights to her on a platter. At first it wasn’t even very
clear to her that she thought of Devdas in this way. But over the
years her mind had staked its claim so gently and so surely, that
though she may not have felt its presence tangibly until then, at all
this talk of losing him, a storm broke loose in her heart.
But the same couldn’t be said of Devdas. He had enjoyed all his
rights over Parvati as a child. But once he went to Calcutta and
discovered other interests and pleasures, he had sort of let go of her.
He had no idea that Parvati, in her mundane, rustic existence, bore
his face in her heart day in and day out.
Parvati felt that the one person who had always seemed to be
hers and hers alone, who had always indulged her every wish, was
hardly likely to slip away the minute her childhood ended and youth
arrived. At the time who gave marriage a thought? Who knew that
the ties of childhood could never be permanent unless they were
renewed by marriage vows? The news that marriage between them
was impossible crashed within her heart and seemed to tear away at
every wish, every desire she had ever nurtured there.
But Devdas had his homework in the mornings and the afternoons
were too hot; he could only stroll around in the evenings. So he often
dressed up, took his walking stick and walked out to the meadows.
Parvati wiped her eyes and gazed on him from her window.
Thoughts clamoured in her head. She knew they had both grown up
and after the prolonged separation, they both felt shy of each other.
The other day Devdas had just walked off, too shy to even speak to
her properly.
Devdas had similar thoughts. Sometimes he wanted to talk to
Parvati, to take a good look at her. But immediately he’d think, ‘How
would that look?’
Here, in the village, the hustle-bustle of Calcutta, the excitement,
the entertainment were all missing and so he was often beset by
thoughts of his childhood. That Paro who had been his playmate
now looked like this—a grown woman. Parvati too often thought of
the fact that Dev-da was now Devdas-babu. These days he seldom
went to their house. Sometimes, after dusk, he’d stand in the
courtyard and call out, ‘Aunty, what’s up?’
Aunty would say, ‘Come in, son.’
Immediately he would say, ‘Oh no Aunty, not now. I’m going for a
walk.’ Sometimes Parvati would be upstairs and some days she’d be
right before him. As he talked to Aunty, she would slowly move away.
At night the lamp in Devdas’s room would be lit. Parvati would spend
many an hour gazing at that lighted window—but nothing else was
seen.
Parvati was a proud girl. She didn’t want anyone to get wind of the
kind of hell she was going through. Besides, what was the point?
She wouldn’t be able to take their pity and as for the criticism—she
was better off without it.
Manorama had got married the previous year. But she still hadn’t
gone to her husband’s home. So she came round sometimes. Earlier
the two friends often discussed marriage and the like. The topic still
came up sometimes, but Parvati never joined in. She kept silent or
changed the subject.
Parvati’s father had gone to fix a match for her. He came back one
night, having done the deed. The groom was none other than
Bhuvan Chowdhury, the zamindar of Hatipota village, some twenty
miles away in the Burdwan district. Apparently he was very well off
and below forty years in age. He had lost his wife the year before—
hence the desire to marry again. The news wasn’t welcomed by
everyone in the house. In fact most people were unhappy. But the
fact remained that nearly two to three thousand rupees was to come
from Bhuvan Chowdhury, one way or another, and so the women
were silent.
One afternoon as Devdas sat down to lunch, his mother came and
sat beside him and said, ‘So, Paro is getting married.’
Devdas looked up and asked, ‘When?’
‘This month. Yesterday they came and saw the bride. The groom
came himself.’
Devdas was a little surprised, ‘But I don’t even know anything,
Mother.’
‘How would you know? The groom is a widower—quite old. But I
believe he is well to do; Paro will live a good life.’
Devdas looked down and continued with his meal. His mother
went on, ‘They had wanted to fix her marriage in this household.’
Devdas looked up, ‘And?’
Mother laughed, ‘Oh no, that’s not possible. They are lower in
status, a trading family and our immediate neighbours to boot—
shame.’ Mother wrinkled her nose. Devdas watched her in silence.
After a few minutes’ pause, Mother spoke again, ‘I did speak about
it to your father.’
‘What did he say?’
‘What could he say? He won’t be able to drag the family name in
the mud—that’s what he told me.’
Devdas didn’t say another word.
That afternoon Manorama and Parvati were having a chat.
Parvati’s eyes were full of tears and Manorama seemed to have just
wiped them away. The latter asked, ‘So, what are your options?’
 Parvati wiped her eyes again and said, ‘What options? Was your
husband your choice?’
‘That was different. He may not have been my choice, but neither
did I dislike him; so I didn’t suffer at all. But you seem to have
brought your misfortune upon yourself.’
Parvati didn’t answer. She just mused in silence.
Manorama did some thinking of her own and then asked, ‘Hey
Paro, how old is the groom?’
‘Whose groom?’
‘Yours.’
Parvati did some calculations and said, ‘Perhaps nineteen.’
Manorama was quite taken aback. She said, ‘But … I heard he is
almost forty.’
This time Parvati laughed a little. She said, ‘Mano-didi, I really
don’t know how many grooms are nearly forty. But I do know that my
groom is around twenty years old.’
Manorama gazed at her face and asked, ‘What’s his name?’
Parvati laughed again, ‘Don’t you know?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You don’t? Fine, then, let me tell you,’ with a slight smile she
sobered up quickly, brought her lips to Manorama’s ears and
whispered, ‘Don’t you know—Sri Devdas—’
At first Manorama was startled. Then she pushed her away and
said, ‘Don’t make fun of me. Say it now, while you are not married to
him and can still take your husband’s name—’
‘But I just said it.’
Manorama was upset, ‘If he really is called Devdas, then why are
you crying your heart out?’
Suddenly the light went out of Parvati’s eyes. She thought for a
while and said, ‘True. I shouldn’t cry anymore.’
‘Paro?’
‘What is it?’
 ‘Why don’t you tell me everything, little sister? I can’t understand
anything.’
Parvati said, ‘But I just told you everything.’
‘But I couldn’t understand a word of it.’
‘And you wouldn’t ever understand.’ Parvati turned away.
Manorama felt Parvati was hiding things, she had no intention of
opening her heart to her. She felt very hurt and said, ‘Paro, if
something makes you sad, let me share it with you. All I want is that
you be happy. If you have some secrets that you don’t want to share
with me, that’s okay. But please don’t make fun of me.’
Parvati was also upset. She said, ‘I haven’t made fun of you, didi. I
have told you all that I know. I know that my husband’s name is
Devdas and he is nineteen or twenty years old—that’s what I have
told you.’
‘But I just heard that your marriage has been fixed elsewhere?’
‘What is fixed? For whom? Obviously Grandma won’t be getting
married now. If anyone does get married it’ll be me and I haven’t
heard any such news.’
So Manorama made as if to tell Parvati all that she had heard.
Parvati stopped her and said, ‘Oh that—I have heard all that.’
‘So then? Has Devdas—’
‘Has he what?’
Manorama hid a smile and asked, ‘So are you planning to elope?
Have you made all the arrangements in secret?’
‘Nothing has been arranged so far.’
Manorama was wounded, ‘I really don’t understand what you are
saying, Paro.’
Parvati said, ‘So, I’ll ask Dev-da and explain it all to you, will I?’
‘What will you ask him? Whether he’ll marry you or not?’
Parvati nodded her head. ‘Yes.’
Manorama could hardly speak, so bewildered was she. ‘What is
this, Paro? You’ll be able to ask him this yourself?’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
 Manorama was still stunned. ‘I can’t believe it. You yourself?’
‘Of course, I, myself. Who else will put this question to him?’
‘Won’t you be ashamed?’
‘No. Did I feel ashamed saying it to you?’
‘I am a girl, your friend—but he is a man, Paro.’
Parvati laughed, ‘You are a friend, you are my near one … and is
he so very distant? If I can say something to you, can’t I say it to
him?’
Manorama stared at her in stunned surprise.
Parvati smiled at her, ‘Mano-didi, you wear the sindoor in your hair,
but you don’t know what a husband is. If he wasn’t my husband,
beyond all my shame and embarrassment, I wouldn’t be in this state
today. Besides didi, when someone is ready to kill herself, does she
consider if the poison is bitter or sweet? I am not ashamed of him.’
Manorama looked at her face. A little later she said, ‘What will you
say to him? Please let me be at your feet?’
Parvati nodded her head and said, ‘That is exactly what I’ll say,
didi.’
‘And if he refuses?’
Parvati was quiet for a long time and then she said, ‘I don’t know
what I’ll do then.’
As she walked home, Manorama thought, ‘Amazing grit. That is
some courage. I would rather die than speak like that.’
This was the truth. Parvati was right—there were women like
Manorama who wore their sindoor and their iron bangles, marks of a
marriage, to no real purpose.
 6

IT WAS ALMOST ONE O’CLOCK AT NIGHT. A FAINT MOONSHINE

CLUNG TO the sky. Parvati wrapped herself in swathes of bedsheets
and came down the stairs very softly. She looked around—not a soul
was awake. She opened the door and walked into the street quietly.
On the village roads there wasn’t a soul around, nothing stirred and
she had hardly a chance of running into someone. She came and
stood before the gate of the zamindar’s house. On the threshold the
old guard, Krishan Singh, lay on his charpoy reading the Ramayan.
He spotted Parvati and without looking up he asked, ‘Who is that?’
‘It’s me.’
The guard could tell it was a woman. He thought it was a maid and
he went back to reading his book. Parvati went on her way. It was
summer and some servants were lying in the courtyard. Some were
asleep and some were half awake. In that state even if they saw her,
they came to the same conclusion as the guard and didn’t say
anything. With nothing to stop her, Parvati entered the house and
took the stairs. She knew each room, every corridor of this house.
She had no problems finding Devdas’s room. The door was open
and a lamp burned within. Parvati entered the room and found
Devdas fast asleep. In his hands a book lay open. It looked as if he
had just fallen asleep. She stoked the lamp and sat down at his feet.
The wall clock ticked away noisily. Besides that, all else was silent,
fast asleep.
Parvati touched Devdas’s feet and softly called, ‘Dev-da.’
Devdas heard someone calling him in his sleep. He didn’t open his
eyes, but he answered, ‘Hmm?’
‘O Dev-da.’
This time Devdas rubbed his eyes and sat up straight. Parvati’s
face was uncovered and the lamp burned brightly; he had no trouble
recognizing her. But at first he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then he
said, ‘Who is that—Paro, is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
Devdas glanced at the clock. His surprise knew no bounds, ‘At this
time of night?’
Parvati didn’t answer. She just sat with her head bent low.
Devdas asked, ‘Have you come here all alone, so late in the
night?’
Parvati said, ‘Yes.’
Devdas shuddered with apprehension, ‘Weren’t you scared?’
Parvati smiled shortly and replied, ‘I have never really been afraid
of ghosts.’
‘Maybe not ghosts, but you should certainly fear people. Why are
you here?’
‘Right now, I don’t fear people either,’ Parvati thought to herself.
‘How did you come inside? Has someone seen you?’
‘The guard saw me.’
Devdas’s eyes widened, ‘The guard? Anyone else?’
‘The servants are sleeping outside. Some of them may have seen
me too.’
Devdas jumped out of bed and shut the door. ‘Did someone
recognize you?’
Parvati showed the least concern as she said, ‘They all know me
by sight. Perhaps some of them did.’
‘What? Why did you do this, Paro?’
Parvati thought, ‘How would you know that?’ But she didn’t say a
word and just sat there, a little embarrassed.
‘So late … shame on you. How will you face everyone tomorrow?’
Parvati kept her head bent low as she replied, ‘I have the strength
for that.’
Devdas wasn’t angry, but he was very upset as he said, ‘Oh, the
shame of it—are you still a child? Didn’t you feel any shame coming
here like this?’
 Parvati shook her head and said, ‘No.’
‘Tomorrow won’t you feel very ashamed?’
At this question Parvati shot him a sharp yet sorrowful glance and
then replied quite easily, ‘I would have felt ashamed if I wasn’t sure
that you would do everything to shield me from it.’
Devdas was stunned. ‘I? But I would be equally ashamed.’
Parvati replied in the same unwavering tone as before, ‘You? But
how does it affect you, Dev-da?’ After a slight pause, she said, ‘You
are a man. Sooner or later they’d all forget about your disgrace; very
soon no one would care to remember when and how the unfortunate
Parvati had cast away her shame and come to rest her head at your
feet.’
‘What is this, Paro?’
‘And I—’
As in a trance, Devdas said, ‘You what, Paro?’
‘If you speak of my disgrace, I have none. If I am disgraced
because I came to you in secret, it won’t leave the slightest mark on
me.’
‘Paro—are you crying?’
‘Dev-da, there’s so much water in the river—will it not be enough
to drown my disgrace?’
Suddenly Devdas grasped her hands. ‘Parvati.’
Parvati laid her head at his feet and spoke tearfully, ‘Let me be
here, Dev-da.’
Then both of them fell silent. A handful of teardrops rolled off
Devdas’s feet and stained the unsoiled bed.
Much later, Devdas raised her Face and said, ‘Paro, am I your
only salvation?’
Parvati was silent. She laid her head on his feet again. In the silent
room her tearful sighs heaved and shuddered. The clock struck two.
Devdas called out, ‘Paro.’
Parvati spoke through her tears, ‘What is it?’
‘You must know that my parents are dead against this?’
 Parvati nodded—she knew.
She didn’t say a word more. After what seemed like an eternity,
Devdas heaved a sigh and said, ‘So then, why?’
Parvati clung on to his feet the way a drowning man clings to a
straw and refuses to let go, at all costs. She looked at his face and
said, ‘I don’t want to know anything, Dev-da.’
‘Paro, should I go against my parents?’
‘Why not?’
‘Where would you live?’
Parvati sobbed, ‘At your feet—’
They sat together silently. The clock struck four. It was a summer
night and very soon the dawn would streak the sky pink. Devdas
gripped her hands and said, ‘Come, I will take you home—’
‘You’ll come with me?’
‘Why not? If someone sees us and there’s a scandal, there may
be a way out for us yet.’
‘Let’s go.’
The two of them walked out of the room softly.
 7

THE NEXT DAY DEVDAS HAD A SHORT CONVERSATION WITH

HIS FATHER.
Father said, ‘You’ll never give me a moment’s peace till the day I
die. So I shouldn’t be surprised to hear you talk like this.’
Devdas sat there, silent and sheepish.
Father said, ‘I won’t be a part of all this. You and your mother can
do whatever you like.’
Devdas’s mother heard this and wailed, ‘Oh God, I had to live to
see this day.’
The same day Devdas packed his bags and left for Calcutta.
When Parvati heard this, a stony smile played on her already rigid
face. She did not say a word. No one had spotted them the previous
night and she hadn’t told anyone. But Manorama came and asked
her, ‘Paro, I hear Devdas has left?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, what will he do about you?’
Parvati didn’t know the answer to that herself. She had thought of
nothing else for the last few days. But she simply couldn’t figure out
how hopeful she should be, or how hopeless. But it’s true that in
such circumstances, when we swing between hope and fear and feel
so thoroughly lost and confused, we tend to lean more towards
hope. Willy-nilly, we look towards the positive with expectation in our
eyes. In her present state Parvati hoped that the previous night and
all that it held would not go in vain. If it did, she had no idea what she
would do. So she thought, Dev-da would return, he’d call her and
say, ‘Paro, as long as there is breath left in me, I cannot see you
marrying someone else.’
But a few days later Parvati received the following letter:
Parvati,
I have thought of you for the last two days. Neither Father nor Mother
wants us to get married. If I want to make you happy, I’d have to inflict a
 wound on them that is beyond my capacity. Besides, how would we even
go about doing this against their wish? I do not know when I will ever
write to you again. So I must explain everything in this letter. Your family
as you know is not high-born. Mother refuses to seek an alliance with a
trading family and she thinks an alliance with one’s neighbours is quite
indecent. As for Father … well, you know all about that.
The other night is causing me a lot of pain—I know what it takes to
drive a proud soul like you to that kind of drastic action.
Another thing: I had never ever felt that I love you tremendously—
even today, I cannot feel any deep well of sorrow in my heart for you. I
just feel bad that you will suffer on my account. Try to forget me … I pray
that you succeed.
Devdas

Until Devdas dropped the letter in the post-box, he was in one

frame of mind. But the minute it left his hands, he began to feel
something else altogether. Once the arrow had shot out of the bow,
he began to gaze at it with deep consternation. An indecipherable
fear was beginning to clutch at his heart slowly but surely.
How would this arrow he had dispatched go and hit her, he
thought. Would it hurt a lot? Would she survive? As he walked back
from the post office, he thought only of the way she had placed her
head on his feet and wept that night. Had he done the right thing?
Above all else he thought, why did his parents object to her when her
birth wasn’t her fault in any way? With age and an understanding of
life which he had gained from his stay at Calcutta Devdas had come
to believe that it was wrong to destroy an individual’s life in order to
preserve a status that was in any case a product of narrow minded
thought. If Paro were to give up her life, if she rushed to the riverside
with that intent, wouldn’t it be a thorn in his, Devdas’s, conscience for
all time to come?
He came back to his room. These days he lived in a mess, a
shared accommodation. He had left his uncle’s place a while ago—it
didn’t suit him at all. In the room next to Devdas’s, a youth called
Chunilal had been staying for the last nine years. His prolonged
sojourn at Calcutta was given to passing his BA exam—he hadn’t
succeeded so far and so he was still in the mess. Chunilal was out
for the evening; he’d come back only at the crack of dawn. There
was no one else in the house. The maid came and lit the lamps.
Devdas shut the door and lay down.
One by one, all the inhabitants of the mess began to come back.
At dinnertime they all called Devdas, but he didn’t get up. Chunilal
never came back home at night and this day was no exception. It
was nearly one in the night now. Devdas was the only soul awake in
the house.
Chunilal stepped into the house, stopped in front of Devdas’s door
and noticed that although the door was shut, the lamp was burning
within. He called out, ‘Devdas, are you awake?’
Devdas replied from inside, ‘I am. How come you’ve returned so
early?’
Chunilal smiled a little and said, ‘Yes, I’m not feeling too well,’ and
he walked away. He came back in a short while and said, ‘Devdas,
could you open the door?’
‘I can, but why?’
‘Do you have any tobacco?’
‘I do.’ Devdas opened the door. Chunilal began to fill up his
hookah as he said, ‘Why are you up still?’
‘Can you sleep every single night?’
‘Can’t you?’ Chunilal was a little sarcastic. ‘And here I thought
good boys like you have never ever looked midnight in the face. This
is new to me.’
Devdas was silent. Chunilal smoked his hookah peacefully and
spoke, ‘Devdas, ever since you’ve come back from home, you don’t
seem too well. You look pretty upset.’
Devdas was a little preoccupied. He didn’t answer.
‘You’re not too happy, are you?’
Suddenly Devdas sat up on his bed. He looked at Chunilal eagerly
and asked, ‘Tell me, Chuni, are you never upset?’
Chunilal laughed at that. ‘Never.’
 ‘Have you never suffered in your whole life?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘I just want to know.’
‘Let’s leave that for another day’
Devdas said, ‘Chuni, where do you spend your nights?’
Chunilal smiled softly. ‘Don’t you know that?’ he said.
‘I do, but not exactly.’
Chunilal’s face lit up with enthusiasm. Over the years he had even
lost the sensibility that such discussions, if nothing else, might
contain an element of shame. He shut his eyes in ecstasy and said,
‘Devdas, if you really want to know, you’ll have to see for yourself.
Will you come with me tomorrow?’
Devdas thought about this. Then he said, ‘I’ve heard the place you
go to is full of fun and mirth and you never ever feel sad there. Is that
the truth?’
‘The absolute and unvarnished truth.’
‘If that is so, then please take me there—I’ll come with you.’
The following day Chunilal came into Devdas’s room a little before
dusk and found him packing his case feverishly. Surprised, Chunilal
asked him, ‘Hey, aren’t you going?’
Devdas spoke without looking around, ‘Of course I’m going.’
‘Then what is all this?’
‘Getting ready to go.’
Chunilal laughed and thought, ‘Not bad.’ He said aloud, ‘Are you
going to take all your things there?’
‘Where else will I leave it all?’
Chunilal was puzzled. ‘Where do I leave my things? They stay
right here in the room.’
Devdas seemed to wake up suddenly. He looked up shamefacedly
and said, ‘Oh no—Chuni, I am going home today.’
‘What? When will you come back?’
Devdas shook his head. ‘I will not come back.’
 Chunilal stared at him in amazement. Devdas continued, ‘Take this
money; pay off all my debts with this. If there is any left over, feel
free to give it to the maids and servants of the house. I will not come
back to Calcutta ever again.’
To himself he muttered, ‘I have lost a lot, too much, by coming to
Calcutta.’
Today he could see through the mist that had settled over his eyes
in the first rush of youth. He found himself gazing back at his
childhood—those half-forgotten, often-scoffed-at days in the village
suddenly seemed more precious, much dearer than all the chiselled
sophistication of Calcutta. He looked at Chunilal and said, ‘Chuni,
education, learning, knowledge, success—all they achieve is a false
feeling of happiness; however you look at it, they are only meant to
pander to your own happiness …’
Chunilal stopped him and exclaimed, ‘So, you aren’t going to study
any more?’
‘No. I have lost a lot because of my studies. Had I known before
that I would only go so far in my studies, I would never have come to
Calcutta.’
‘What is the matter with you?’
Devdas gave this some thought. Then he said, ‘I will tell you
everything if we ever meet again.’
It was almost nine o’clock at night. Everyone, including Chunilal,
looked on in amazement as Devdas loaded all his belongings onto
the buggy and left the mess for good. Once he was gone, Chunilal
walked back in and exclaimed angrily, ‘You never can tell with these
wet-behind-the-ears sorts!’
 8

IT IS THE CUSTOM OF THE WISE AND CAUTIOUS NOT TO

PRONOUNCE judgement on anything hastily, or to jump to
conclusions without considering the full implications of the matter.
But there are human beings who are the exact opposite. They do not
have the patience to reflect over anything or follow a matter through
to its logical end. On the spur of the moment they decide that a thing
is either good or bad. They make faith do the work of thorough soul
searching. It isn’t that such people aren’t cut out for this world—in
fact they often work out very well. If luck is with them, they can often
be found at the pinnacle of success. But if luck doesn’t favour them,
they can be found in the deepest dregs of misery, wallowing in its
murky depths, unable to get up, to rise above their circumstances.
There they lie like lifeless, inanimate objects. Devdas belonged to
this class of men.
The next morning he was back home. Mother was surprised to see
him. ‘Deva, has the college closed down again?’ she asked.
Devdas threw an absent minded ‘Hmmm’ at her and walked away.
He dealt with his father’s queries with a similar brush-off. Father,
quite puzzled, questioned his wife in turn. She used her common
sense and replied, ‘They must have closed again since it is too hot.’
Devdas spent the next couple of days in restless frustration. He
wasn’t able to have what he wanted—a few minutes alone with
Parvati. Two days later, Parvati’s mother bumped into him and she
said, ‘Now that you’re here, child, stay for Paro’s wedding.’
Devdas said, ‘All right.’
In the afternoon, after lunch, Parvati went to the river every day to
fetch water. That day, too, she was there with the brass pot hitched
on her waist. She found Devdas sitting under a berry tree, fishing rod
in hand.
 For a moment Parvati considered going back. Then she thought
she would fill the pitcher quietly and slip away. But in her
nervousness, she could do neither. As she placed the pot on the
stone steps, it must have made a sound. Devdas quickly looked up.
He waved to her and called, ‘Paro, come here.’
Slowly, Parvati went and stood beside him. Devdas looked up for
an instant. Then he went back to staring into space, at the unbroken
monotony of the flowing river, for several seconds.
Parvati said, ‘Dev-da, do you want to talk to me?’
Devdas spoke without looking around, ‘Hmmm. Sit.’
Parvati didn’t sit. She stood there, looking down. But when there
were no words spoken for a long time, she began to inch back to the
steps slowly. Devdas looked up, just once. Then he turned back to
the river and said, ‘Listen.’
Parvati came back to him. But when Devdas still couldn’t bring
himself to say anything, she retraced her steps again. Devdas sat
there, seemingly turned to stone. A little later he turned to find
Parvati ready to go back, her pot now filled. He wound up his fishing
rod and came and stood by the steps and said, ‘I have come.’
Parvati merely set the pot down again; she didn’t say a word.
‘I have come back, Paro.’
Parvati was silent for a long time. Finally she asked, very softly,
‘Why?’
‘You asked me to come back, don’t you remember?’
‘No.’
‘What is this, Paro? Don’t you remember the other night?’
‘I do. But all that is pointless now, isn’t it?’
Her voice was calm, but her tone rude. The significance escaped
Devdas. He said, ‘Please forgive me, Paro; I didn’t know then.’
‘Oh, please be quiet. I don’t even want to hear all this.’
‘I will get my parents to agree, by hook or by crook. You just …’
Parvati shot him a fierce glance and said, ‘You have parents, and I
don’t? Their consent is not important?’
 Devdas was disconcerted. ‘Of course it is, Paro, but they have
already given it—you just—’
‘How do you know they have given their consent? They haven’t.’
Devdas made a vain attempt to smile, ‘Oh no, they have no
objections, I know that. Only you must—’
Parvati broke into his words shrilly, ‘I must—with you? For shame!’
Devdas’s eyes burned with retribution as he turned on her and
said, ‘Paro, have you forgotten me?’
At first Parvati was a little startled. But she collected herself
immediately and spoke calmly but coldly. ‘No. How could I? I’ve
known you since childhood and my earliest memories are of fearing
you … So, have you come to threaten me once again? But what
makes you think—have you forgotten me?’ She raised fearless eyes
at him and stood up straight.
Devdas was struck speechless. Slowly, he spoke, ‘You have
always feared me—and nothing else?’
Parvati’s voice was firm, ‘No, nothing else.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Yes, it is. I have no faith in you. The man I am going to—he is
wealthy, wise—calm and patient. He is a religious man. My parents
want the best for me; so they would never have me fall into the
hands of someone as ruthless, reckless and unwise as you. Now,
please let me go.’
Devdas hesitated for a fraction of a second; he even made as if to
let her pass. But the next instant he stood his ground firmly and said,
‘Such arrogance.’
Parvati said, ‘And why not? If you can be arrogant, so can I. You
may be good looking, but you have no virtues—I have both virtues
and good looks. Your family may be wealthy, but my father is no
beggar. Besides, in a few days I will be richer than you.’
Devdas was stunned into silence.
Parvati continued, ‘You must be thinking that you can do me a lot
of harm; well, I know that you can do me some if not a lot of harm.
Fine—go ahead. But do let me go now.’
Devdas was dumbfounded. He asked, ‘How would I harm you?’
Instantly Parvati replied, ‘By dishonouring my name. Well, go
ahead and do your worst!’
Devdas looked at her with eyes full of hurt. All he could say was,
‘You think I would drag your name in the mud?’
Parvati smiled a crooked smile laced with bitterness. She said, ‘Go
on, give me a bad name; go ahead and tell everyone that I went to
you all alone that night. I’m sure it’ll give you a lot of satisfaction.’ Her
proud mouth quivered in pain.
Devdas felt a volcano of wrath and humiliation erupt within him. He
muttered to himself, ‘So you think I would give you a bad name and
get satisfaction out of it?’
The next moment he had turned the fishing rod around; holding
the thick end up, he said, ‘You know Paro, so much beauty is not
right for a person to have. It only makes you vain.’ He lowered his
voice and continued, ‘Isn’t it obvious—the moon is marked because
it is so beautiful; the black bee hovers over the pristine beauty of the
lotus. Come, let me mar your face and spoil its perfection.’
Devdas was not in his senses. He held the fishing rod firmly,
swung it around and aimed a glancing blow at Parvati’s brow.
Immediately, her face was awash with blood. She had a jagged gash
that started at the hairline and came down to her left eyebrow. She
crumpled to the ground and screamed, ‘Dev-da, how could you do
this!’
Devdas was snapping his fishing rod into tiny bits and throwing the
pieces into the river; the bits of bamboo floated on the water. He
replied with studied calm, ‘It’s not much—just a gash, that’s all.’
Parvati wailed with renewed misery, ‘Oh God, Dev-da!’
Devdas tore off strips from his thin cotton shirt, soaked them in the
water and began to bandage her head as he said, ‘Why are you
scared, Paro? This wound will heal soon—just the mark will remain.
If anyone ever asks, lie to them; or you could always tell them the
truth and reveal your own shame.’
‘Oh no, oh God—’
‘For shame, Paro—do be quiet. I have merely left a mark for you
to remember our last meeting. You will glance at that pretty face in
the mirror every now and then, won’t you?’ He seemed ready to
leave, not needing an answer.
Parvati wept miserably, ‘Oh Dev-da—’
Devdas came back; a tear glistened in a corner of his eye. ‘What
is it, Paro?’
‘Please don’t tell anyone.’
Instantly, Devdas leaned forward, brushed her hair with his lips
and said, ‘How can I—you are no stranger to me, Paro. Don’t you
remember, in our childhood, how often I boxed your ears when you
pulled a prank?’
‘Dev-da, please forgive me.’
‘You don’t even have to ask. Paro, have you really forgotten me?
When was I ever mad at you for long? When did I not forgive you?’
‘Dev-da—’
‘Paro, you know I am not good with words. Neither do I look before
I leap. I just leap and think later.’ Devdas placed his hand on her
head. ‘You have chosen wisely. You would not have found happiness
with me. But one thing, your Dev-da would have held heaven in his
left hand if you had been with him.’
They heard voices headed their way around the bend. Parvati
slowly walked down the steps into the water. Devdas walked away.
When Parvati returned home, it was evening. Grandma spoke to
her without looking up, ‘Paro, child, did you dig up the pond first and
then fetch the water?’ But then her words died on her lips. She had
looked at Parvati’s face. A scream rose to her lips, ‘Oh my God, how
did this happen?’
The wound was still bleeding and the strips of cloth were dripping
blood. Grandma cried, ‘Oh God, Paro, and you are about to be
married …!’
Parvati calmly set the pot down. Mother came running at the
commotion. Seeing Parvati, she wailed, ‘Oh dear, Paro, how did this
happen?’
Quite coolly, Paro replied, ‘I slipped and fell on the steps. The
bricks hit my head and I cut myself.’
They all began to ply her with care and concern. Devdas was right
—it wasn’t a deep gash. It dried up in a week.
Nearly ten more days passed. Then one evening the zamindar of
Hatipota village, Sri Bhuvanmohan Chowdhury, arrived at the
Chakravartys’ house dressed in the groom’s finery. It was a simple
ceremony. Bhuvan-babu wasn’t an idiot—he wasn’t going to make a
spectacle of himself in his second marriage.
The groom was well above forty, fair, plump and stodgily built with
a salt-and-pepper moustache and a rapidly receding hairline. Some
people laughed in their sleeves, while others preferred to stay silent.
A trifle apologetically, Bhuvan-babu took his place at the wedding
mandap. The women refrained from their usual teasing banter. The
groom’s grave visage did not exactly make for mirth. When the
moment came for the bride and the groom to set eyes upon each
other for the first time, Parvati stared at Bhuvan-babu fixedly, a tiny
smile playing on her lips. Bhuvan-babu looked down with overt
modesty. The neighbourhood women burst into giggles.
Nilkantha-babu, Parvati’s father, was running around supervising
everything. He was a little out of his element with this middle-aged
son-in-law he had acquired. Narayan Mukherjee, Devdas’s father,
was playing host for the day. A seasoned man, he didn’t let a single
hitch come up in the whole ceremony. The happy event concluded in
peace and harmony.
The next morning Bhuvan-babu handed over a box of ornaments
to Nilkantha-babu. Within minutes they were glittering and sparkling
on Parvati. The sight made her mother quietly wipe her eyes with the
end of her sari. The zamindar’s wife stood nearby. She reproached
her lovingly, ‘Don’t spoil the day with tears, sister.’
A little after dark Manorama took Parvati aside into a room and
blessed her, saying, ‘It is all for the better. Just see if you’re not as
happy as anyone can be in the years to come.’
Parvati smiled and said, ‘Of course I will be happy. I met my ruin
for a few minutes yesterday.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Time will reveal all.’
Manorama changed the subject and said, ‘I wish I could drag
Devdas here and show him this beautiful vision.’
Parvati seemed to come out of a trance. ‘Can you?’ she said. ‘Isn’t
it possible to bring him here, just once?’
Her tone sent a chill down Manorama’s spine. ‘Why, Paro?’
Parvati twirled the bracelet on her wrist and said, ‘I would touch his
feet for the last time, before I leave.’
Manorama pulled her into her arms and the two girls had a good
cry. Dusk had fallen. Grandma pushed at the door from outside and
shouted, ‘Oh Paro, oh Mano, come on outside, you two.’
That night Parvati left for her husband’s house.
 9

AND DEVDAS? HE SPENT THE NIGHT ON A BENCH IN EDEN GARDENS

IN Calcutta. He didn’t feel terribly sad or tortured. But his chest grew
heavy with a sense of cold foreboding: it was as if a part of his body
had suddenly succumbed to paralysis, and when he found it
unresponsive, his bemused mind refused to accept the fact that the
familiar limb of his would no longer answer his call. Gradually
comprehension dawned—it was no longer his to call upon. As the
night wore on, the realization dawned on Devdas that the very
meaning of his life had suddenly fallen, paralysed, by the wayside,
and left him bereft for all times to come. No amount of ranting and
raving would bring it back. It would be wrong to even recall it as a
right he once had.
Dawn was creeping in on him slowly. Devdas stood up and
thought, ‘Where to go?’
Suddenly he remembered the mess—Chunilal lived there. Devdas
began to walk. On the way he tottered a few times, stumbled and
fell. His hand bled—he even keeled over and lurched on to someone
who called him a drunkard and pushed him away. It took him a whole
day’s wandering before he finally came and stood at the door of the
mess where he once lived. Chunilal was all dressed up and on his
way out. ‘Hello there, isn’t it Devdas?’ he said, recognizing him.
Devdas looked at him mutely.
‘When did you arrive? You look tired, haven’t you eaten? Hey, hold
on, what—’ Devdas, feeling dizzy, was about to squat on the road
when Chunilal took his hand and dragged him inside. He sat him
down on his own bed, calmed him a little and asked, ‘What is the
matter with you?’
‘I came into town last night.’
‘Last night? So where were you all day? And what about all night?’
‘At Eden Gardens.’
 ‘Are you crazy? Tell me what has happened.’
‘What is the point?’
‘Okay, don’t tell me. But have something to eat. Where are all your
things?’
‘I didn’t bring anything.’
‘Fine. Now sit down and eat something.’
Chunilal forced him to eat up. Then he ordered him to lie down
and as he shut the door, he said, ‘Try to get some sleep. I’ll come
back at night and wake you up.’
He left. He was back by ten o’clock and found Devdas sleeping
like the dead. He didn’t wake him; instead he pulled out a mat, laid it
out on the floor and went to sleep. Devdas didn’t wake up all night
and even the morning found him fast asleep. He sat up in his bed at
ten in the morning and asked, ‘Chuni, when did you come back?’
‘Just now.’
‘So, I haven’t put you to any trouble then?’
‘Not at all.’
Devdas stared at his face for a while and asked, ‘Chuni, I have
nothing. Will you support me?’
Chunilal smiled. He knew that Devdas’s father was an
exceptionally rich man. He said, ‘Me and support you—that’s a good
one. You can stay here as long as you like, don’t worry.’
‘Chuni, what is your income?’
‘Friend, my income isn’t much. There is some property in the
village. I have placed it in my brother’s care and he sends me
seventy rupees every month. That will do nicely for the two of us.’
‘Why don’t you ever go home?’
Chunilal turned away, ‘That’s a long story.’
Devdas didn’t press any further. Soon they were summoned for
lunch. When they had bathed and eaten, they came back to the
room. Chunilal asked, ‘Devdas, have you fought with your father?’
‘No.’
‘With someone else?’
 Devdas shook his head again, ‘No.’
Suddenly Chunilal remembered, ‘Oh right, you aren’t even married
yet.’
At this Devdas turned away and lay down. Within minutes Chunilal
realized that he had drifted off to sleep.
Devdas spent all of the next two days sleeping off his fatigue. On
the morning of the third day he sat up feeling reasonably better. The
dark shadow of gloom seemed to have receded from his expression.
Chunilal asked, ‘How do you feel today?’
‘I guess I’m much better. Chuni, tell me, where do you go at night?’
Today Chunilal had the grace to feel embarrassed. He said, ‘Um,
well, yes, I go to—but what about it?’
‘Tell me, why have you stopped going to college?’
‘I dropped out.’
‘Oh no, how could you? The exams start in a couple of months.
You have studied off and on. Why don’t you give it a try?’
‘No. I have given up.’ Chunilal fell silent.
Devdas asked again, ‘Where do you go—tell me. I want to go with
you.’
Chunilal gazed into his face and said, ‘You know, Devdas, the
place I go to isn’t very nice.’
Devdas seemed to mumble to himself, ‘Nice or not nice, what
does it matter?’ Aloud he said, ‘Chuni, won’t you take me with you?’
‘I can. But you shouldn’t go there.’
‘No, I must go. If I don’t like it there, perhaps I won’t go again.
There’s something about the place that makes you anticipate your
visit with joy all day long—whatever it is, Chuni, I will go with you.’
Chunilal looked away and smiled a little; he thought to himself,
‘He’s in for it—that’s what happened to me too.’ Then he looked at
Devdas and said, ‘All right, come with me tonight.’
In the afternoon Dharmadas arrived with Devdas’s things. When
he saw Devdas he burst into tears, ‘Deva, Mother has been crying
her eyes out these last few days—’
 ‘Why?’ he said.
‘You left without saying a word.’ Dharmadas took a letter from the
folds of his shawl and handed it to Devdas, ‘Letter from mother.’
Chunilal looked on curiously, eager to know the lie of the land.
Devdas read the letter and kept it aside. Mother had begged and
ordered him to come back home. She was the only one in that whole
house who seemed to have gauged the reason for his
disappearance. She had also smuggled some money to him through
Dharmadas. He handed it to Devdas and said, ‘Deva, come back
home.’
‘I won’t go. You go back home.’
That night the two friends dressed up to the nines and went out.
Devdas wasn’t too keen on this, but Chunilal refused to go out in
simple clothes. At nine o’clock a hired buggy came to a stop before a
two-storied house in Chitpore. Chunilal took his hand and pulled him
into the house. Its owner was called Chandramukhi—she came out
to greet them.
Suddenly Devdas felt totally repulsed. He hadn’t been aware how,
in the past few days, unconsciously, he had grown to hate the very
shadow of womankind. The moment he set eyes on Chandramukhi,
the hatred within him flared into life and threatened to consume him.
He looked at Chunilal with a frown and asked, ‘Chuni, what is this
hideous place you have brought me to?’
Both Chunilal and Chandramukhi were flabbergasted by his
acrimonious tone and the glare in his eyes. But Chunilal gathered
himself quickly, took his hand and spoke softly, ‘Come, come on, let’s
go and sit inside.’
Devdas didn’t say anything more. He entered the room and sat
down on the mattress with a sickened expression. Silently,
Chandramukhi took a seat in another corner of the room. The maid
prepared a silver-rimmed hookah and brought it forth, but Devdas
didn’t even touch it. Chunilal sulked in another corner. The maid, not
knowing what was expected of her, handed the hookah to
Chandramukhi and left the room. As she puffed on it a few times
Devdas looked at her and finally burst out with great venom, ‘How
terribly rude! And what an ugly sight indeed!’
Chandramukhi had seldom been robbed of speech. Catching her
on the wrong foot was next to impossible. But this harsh exclamation
of genuine disgust from Devdas, for some reason, cut her to the
quick. For an instant she was dumbfounded. The hookah still
blubbed a few times, but Chandramukhi forgot to exhale the smoke.
She then handed the hookah to Chunilal and sat there in stupefied
silence, gazing at Devdas. None of the three people in the room
spoke a word. Only the hookah kept blubbing intermittently, but even
its sound seemed hesitant. It was like the sudden stillness that falls
after a squabble between friends, where each sits mulling over the
issue, taking great offence and thinking, ‘So, that’s how it is!’
No one seemed comfortable. Chunilal kept the hookah aside and
went downstairs, presumably for lack of anything else to do. The two
others sat in the room. Devdas looked up and said, ‘Do you take
money?’
Chandramukhi was lost for words. She was twenty-four years old
and in the last ten years or so she had come to know various kinds
of men quite intimately. But she had never ever set eyes upon so
strange a being. After a moment’s hesitation she said, ‘Well, since
you have deigned to visit …’
Devdas didn’t let her finish. ‘It’s not a question of my deigning—do
you or do you not take money?’
‘Well, of course I do. How else can we live?’
‘Enough, I don’t want to hear about all that.’ He fished out a note
from his pocket, pressed it into Chandramukhi’s palm and made as if
to leave, never even glancing at how much he had given away.
With undue humility, Chandramukhi said, ‘Are you leaving
already?’
Devdas didn’t answer—he went and stood in the corridor.
 Chandramukhi had half a mind to return his money; but she was
gripped by a strange sense of awkwardness. Perhaps she was a
trifle scared too. Moreover, her kind was used to tolerating much
humiliation and many a volatile tantrum; so she stood at the door,
still and silent. Devdas descended the stairs and went out into the
streets. On his way down he bumped into Chunilal. Surprised, he
asked, ‘Where are you off to, Devdas?’
‘Home.’
‘Hey, why?’
Devdas walked a few more step. Chunilal said, ‘I’ll come with you.’
Devdas traced his steps back, took his hand and said, ‘Let’s go.’
‘Wait just a moment. I’ll be right back.’
‘No. I’m leaving. You come later.’ Devdas went away.
Chunilal came upstairs and found Chandramukhi still standing at
the door, motionless as before. When she saw him, she asked, ‘Did
your friend leave?’
‘Yes.’
Chandramukhi showed him the money and said, ‘Look at this; if
you wish, you may take this back and give it to your friend.’
Chunilal said, ‘He gave it of his own free will, why should I take it
back for him?’
After a long time, Chandramukhi was able to smile a little, but it
was a mirthless smile. She said, ‘Not of his own free will, but with
great disgust … because we take money. Chuni-babu, is this man
out of his mind?’
‘Not at all. But I do believe he has been very upset for the last few
days.’
‘Why is he upset? Do you know anything about it?’
‘No. Maybe it’s something at home.’
‘So why did you bring him here?’
‘I didn’t want to. He insisted on coming.’
Now Chandramukhi was truly amazed. She said, ‘He insisted?
Knowing everything?’
 Chunilal gave it some thought and said, ‘Well, of course. He knew
everything. I could hardly fool him into coming with me.’
Chandramukhi was quiet for a while, dunking. Then she said,
‘Chuni-babu, will you do me a favour?’
‘What?’
‘Where does your friend stay?’
‘At my place.’
‘Could you bring him here another day?’
‘Perhaps not. He has never come to this sort of a place before and
probably never will again. But why do you ask?’
Chandramukhi gave a wan smile, ‘Chuni-babu, by hook or by
crook, get him to come here just once more.’
Chunilal laughed. He winked and said, ‘Have you developed a
liking for his hatred?’
Chandramukhi laughed too, and said, ‘Don’t you get it—he shells
out money without a second glance!’
Chunilal knew Chandramukhi better than to take her at her word.
He shook his head and said, ‘Oh no, that’s a different sort—that’s not
you. But tell me the truth, what is it?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘It’s true—I do feel attracted to him.’
Chunilal didn’t believe her. He laughed and said, ‘You’ve fallen in
love in just these five minutes?’
This time Chandramukhi joined him in his laughter, ‘Whatever.
Bring him again once when he isn’t so upset—I’d like to see him
again. Would you, please?’
‘I can’t promise.’
‘For my sake, please?’
‘I’ll try.’
 10

PARVATI ARRIVED IN HER HUSBAND’S HOUSE—IT WAS A

HUGE MANSION, not newfangled and stylish, but built on old
money. Outer courtyards, inner chambers, puja rooms, visiting
rooms, guest apartments, office rooms, a battalion of maids and
servants—Parvati looked on in wonder. She had heard that her
husband was wealthy, he was a zamindar. But she had no idea the
wealth was on this scale. If there was a lack in the house, it was of
people. The huge inner chambers fairly echoed with emptiness. The
new bride was immediately proclaimed the lady of the house. There
was an old aunt who welcomed her into the home. Besides her,
there were only servants and maids.
Just before dusk, a handsome young man of about twenty came
and touched her feet. He stood some distance away and said,
‘Mother, I am your eldest son.’
Parvati glanced at him through her veil, but kept quiet. He saluted
her once again and said, ‘Mother, I am your eldest son—I seek your
blessings.’
Now Parvati raised her long veil all the way to her brow and spoke,
‘Come, my son, come here.’
The lad was called Mahendra. He stared at Parvati in wonder for a
few minutes. Then he began to speak in mild and hushed tones. ‘We
lost our mother two years ago. These two years have been quite
difficult. Now that you have come … bless us Mother, so that we may
all be happy again.’
Parvati spoke without any hesitation; when you suddenly became
the lady of the house, you needed a reservoir of strength and calm.
The quirks of circumstances had forced Parvati to mature beyond
her years. Besides, she was never one for uncalled-for coyness and
redundant pomposity. She asked, ‘Where are all my other children,
son?’
 Mahendra smiled and said, ‘I’ll tell you—your eldest daughter, my
younger sister, is in her husband’s house. I did write to her, but
Yashoda couldn’t come.’
Parvati was saddened; she asked, ‘Couldn’t come or didn’t wish to
come?’
Embarrassed, Mahendra said, ‘I’m not sure, Mother.’
But from the look on his face Parvati knew that Yashoda was
miffed and hence had refused to come. She asked, ‘And what about
my youngest son?’
Mahendra said, ‘He will be here soon. He is in Calcutta and he’ll
come as soon as his exams finish.’
Bhuvan Chowdhury managed the affairs of the estate himself. The
rest of his days, until about eleven at night, were filled with all kinds
of charity work, looking after his guests (mostly hermits and saints),
keeping a fast and performing the household deity’s puja with his
own hands, and so on. His new marriage did not bring about much of
a change in his daily routine. Some nights he came indoors and on
other nights he was unable to come. Even when he did come in,
there was very little conversation to be had. He’d lie down, pull the
long bolsters close to him, shut his eyes and say, ‘So, you are now
the mistress of the house. Look upon everything as your own; you
must know how to find your way around the place …’
Parvati would nod and say, ‘All right.’
Thus it went on. One night Bhuvan-babu said, ‘Um … the children
… well, they are all yours from now on—’
Parvati’s eyes crinkled in amusement at this display of
nervousness from her husband. He laughed a little and went on,
‘Yes, and Mahen, your eldest son, he’s just passed his BA—such a
good boy, such a kind heart—you know, take good care of him—’
Parvati held her laughter in check and said, ‘Yes, I know, he is my
eldest …’
‘Of course you know that. Such a good boy is a rare sight indeed.
And my daughter, Yashoda, she is pretty as a picture. She’ll come,
sure she will. She has to come and see her old father—so when she
comes, just …’
Parvati went closer and laid her soft palms on his balding pate.
Softly, she murmured, ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll send someone to fetch
Yasho, or Mahen will go himself.’
‘He will, he will. It’s been so long since I saw her. Will you really
send for her?’
‘Certainly. She is my daughter. Why shouldn’t I send for her?’
At this the old man sat up in excitement. Forgetting the
relationship between them, he placed his hand on her head and
blessed her, ‘You will fare well. I give you my blessings—you’ll be
happy—may God bless you with a long life.’ Suddenly, many
memories thronged his mind. He lay down again and mumbled to
himself, ‘My eldest daughter, my only daughter—she loved me a lot
—’ A single tear rolled down to his salt and pepper moustache;
Parvati gently wiped his cheek with her anchal.
He said in a dreamy whisper. ‘Oh, they will all come, the whole
household will be bustling … that’s how it used to be earlier, you
know. Oh for those days: the children, the wife, all the people, the
fun and laughter ringing in the house. Then one day it was all gone.
The sons went away to Calcutta, Yasho’s in-laws took her away and
then it was just a lonely graveyard—’ The tears began to roll again,
soaking the pillows now. Parvati wiped them tenderly and asked,
‘Why didn’t you get Mahen married?’
The old man said, ‘Oh, that was my dream, that’s what I wanted.
But God knows what he has on his mind, he just refuses to get
married. That’s why at this age … the house seemed so empty,
devoid of a woman’s touch … the spark was gone. That is why—’
Parvati felt very sad. She tried to force a laugh to her lips as she
said, ‘If you are old, I’ll age quickly too. It doesn’t take long for a
woman to grow old.’
Bhuvan Chowdhury sat up, took her face in his hands and gazed
into it for a long time. He felt like the craftsman who, after finishing
the perfect idol, tilts it this way and that and gazes on with pride and
a respectful affection. Unknown to himself, a sigh escaped his lips,
‘Oh no, you didn’t deserve this …’
‘What didn’t I deserve?’
‘I just thought—you don’t belong here—’
Parvati laughed and said, ‘Of course I do. What else could I have
hoped for?’
Bhuvan-babu lay back and said, ‘I know, I know. But, you will be
happy. God will look out for you.’
A whole month went by. In the: meantime, Nilkantha-babu had
come to take his daughter home once. Parvati sent him away. She
told her father, ‘Baba, the house is a mess. I’ll come home later.’
He smiled to himself. Such was a woman’s heart, he thought.
Once he left, Parvati called Mahendra and said, ‘Son, go and fetch
my eldest daughter.’
Mahendra hesitated. He knew Yashoda would refuse to come. He
said, ‘It’ll be better if Father went.’
‘For shame—how would that look? Instead, let us, mother and
son, go and fetch her.’
Mahendra was surprised, ‘You will go?’
‘What’s wrong with that? My pride doesn’t get in the way; if my
going there can bring Yashoda home, if it soothes her ruffled
feathers, it’s not too difficult a task.’
The following day Mahendra left by himself to fetch Yashoda
home. No one knows what persuasive powers he used there, but
four days later Yashoda arrived at the Hatipota house. Parvati was
decked in a variety of priceless jewels that day. Bhuvan-babu had
got them from Calcutta a few days ago. So Parvati sat there, wearing
them all. On her way home Yashoda had rehearsed many dialogues
of accusation and anger. But the sight of the new bride took her
breath away. She scarcely remembered any of the bitter words she
had carefully rehearsed. Barely parting her lips, she breathed, ‘Well.’
 Parvati took her by the hand and led her to her own room. She sat
her down, took the fan in her hand and gently fanning her, she
asked, ‘Mother, I do believe you are angry with your daughter?’
Mortified, Yashoda blushed. Parvati began to take off her items of
jewellery, one by one, and started putting them on Yashoda.
Stunned, Yashoda asked, ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing, just a whim of your daughter’s.’
Yashoda didn’t mind wearing the ornaments and when Parvati was
done, a smile played around her lips. Now, bereft of all jewels,
Parvati asked again, ‘Mother, are you still angry with your daughter?’
‘No, no, not angry—why, anger—’
‘Of course you are, Maa. But this is your father’s house—such a
huge mansion, so many servants—I am nothing more than just
another one, you know. You really shouldn’t be angry with a mere
serf.’
Yashoda was older than Parvati in age, but in word games, Parvati
was years ahead of her. Yashoda could merely stare in wonder. As
she fanned her, Parvati went on, ‘I am a poor girl and you’ve been
kind enough to give me shelter. There are so many hapless,
unfortunate souls who get refuge here, under your roof. I am just one
of them, a refugee.’
Yashoda had been listening, spellbound. Now she was overcome
and dropped at Parvati’s feet. ‘Oh Mother, please, I beg of you—’
she said in a choked voice.
Parvati quickly raised her. Yashoda said, ‘Please forgive me.’
The next day Mahendra took Yashoda aside and said, ‘Well, is
your anger appeased?’
Yashoda quickly touched his feet and said, ‘Dada, in the heat of
the moment—oh dear, the things I said. Please, don’t let anyone
hear of it.’
Mahendra began to laugh. Yashoda asked, ‘But Dada, how can a
stepmother be so kind, generous and loving?’
 A few days later Yashoda came to her father and said, ‘Baba,
please write to them that I will stay here for the next couple of
months.’
A little surprised, Bhuvan-babu said, ‘Why, what’s the matter?’
Yashoda smiled bashfully and said, ‘I am not too well—I’d like to
stay with Mother for a while.’
Tears of joy welled up in the old man’s eyes. In the evening he
called Parvati and said, ‘You have saved me a lot of embarrassment.
Bless you, be happy.’
Parvati said, ‘What is this all about?’
‘I cannot explain all of it. Oh God, such humiliation, such guilt I
have been spared today.’ In the falling light, Parvati failed to see the
tears swimming in her aged husband’s eyes.
Vinodlal, Bhuvan-babu’s youngest son, also came home after his
exams; he never went back to his studies.
 11

DEVDAS ROAMED THE STREETS IN VAIN FOR THE NEXT FEW

DAYS, A LITTLE out of his mind really. Dharmadas went up to him to
say something and Devdas bared his teeth and scolded the living
daylights out of him. Getting the picture, even Chunilal didn’t venture
too close. Dharmadas wept bitterly, ‘Chuni-babu, why did this
happen?’
Chunilal asked, ‘What has happened, Dharmadas?’
It was like the blind leading the blind. Neither of them knew the
truth of the matter. Dharmadas wiped his tears and said, ‘Chuni-
babu, just do your best to send Deva back to his: mother. If he won’t
study anymore, what’s the point of staying here in Calcutta?’
This was true. Chunilal pondered over the suggestion. A few days
later, again at dusk, just as Chunilal was leaving the mess, Devdas
appeared from nowhere and took his hands in his own. ‘Chuni, are
you going there?’ he asked.
Diffident, Chunilal said, ‘Yes—but if you don’t want me to go, I’ll
stay.’
Devdas said, ‘No, I won’t stop you. But tell me something—what
do you expect to gain there?’
‘There are no expectations. Just a way of whiling away the hours.’
‘But do they? While away? The hours, I mean. They don’t for me. I
do so want them to.’
Chunilal looked at him intently, trying to gauge his thoughts from
the look on his face. Then he said, ‘Devdas, what is the matter with
you—won’t you tell me everything?’
‘Nothing is the matter with me.’
‘You won’t tell me?’
‘No, Chuni, there is nothing to say.’
Chunilal was quiet for a few moments and then he asked
sheepishly, ‘Devdas, will you do me a favour?’
 ‘What?’
‘Will you go there once more? I have promised.’
‘That place where we went the other day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh no, I hated it.’
‘I’ll see that you like it this time.’
Devdas mulled over this for a while absentmindedly and then said,
‘All right, let’s go.’
Chunilal had held the ladder for Devdas to make his descent into
the murky depths and then quietly moved away.
Now Devdas sat alone in Chandramukhi’s room. She sat in one
corner, looking on wretchedly. Once, she spoke from concern,
‘Devdas, don’t drink any more.’
Devdas placed the glass on the floor, frowned bitterly and asked,
‘Why?’
‘You have taken to drink very recently, you won’t be able to bear it.’
‘I don’t drink in order to bear it. I only drink because I am here.’
Chandramukhi had heard this before. Sometimes she wanted to
hit her head on the wall and bleed to death. She was in love with
Devdas.
He hurled the glass away. It hit the wooden chair and shattered
into bits. He lay back against the pillows and spoke incoherently, ‘I
don’t have the strength to get up and go, that’s why I stay here—I
am senseless, that’s why I look at you and talk. But Chandra, still I
don’t lose my sense completely—a little remains—I cannot touch you
—I feel repulsed.’
Chandramukhi wiped her eyes and said, ‘Devdas, so many people
who come here never touch alcohol.’
Devdas’s eyes widened and he sat up. He flailed his arms about
deliriously and said, ‘Never touch it? If I had a gun I would have shot
them. They are worse sinners than me, Chandramukhi.’
He stopped and seemed to drown in his thoughts. Then he said, ‘If
I ever give up drinking—though I never will—then I will never come
here again. I may be saved yet, but what of them?’ he paused briefly
and then went on, ‘I have taken to drink from much misery—our
friend in times of trouble—I can never let you go …’
Devdas began to chafe his face on the pillow. Chandramukhi
came close and held his face up. Devdas frowned and said, ‘Ahh,
don’t touch me—I still haven’t lost my senses. Chandramukhi, you
don’t know—only I know how much I hate your kind. I’ll always hate
you—but still, I’ll come, sit and talk—I have no choice. Will you ever
understand? Ha ha—people choose to sin under the cover of
darkness and I come here to drown my sorrows in drink: there
couldn’t be a better place for this. And you all …’
Devdas focussed his eyes to rest on her poignant face and said,
‘We—ll, the very soul of forbearance. You are the prime example of
how much humiliation and assault, how many jibes and insults a
woman can stand.’
He lay down flat on his back and whispered, ‘Chandramukhi
claims she loves me—I don’t want it—never—people act on stage,
don their makeup, dress like a thief, a beggar, a king or a queen—
and they love, they speak of so much love, weep such tears, as if it
were all true. My Chandramukhi loves to act and I watch … but she
comes to mind … how did it all go so wrong? In an instant we parted
… Now my life is one long act. One desperate drunk and this one, a
wh—… oh fine, so be it. No hopes, no faith, no joy and no desires …
brilliant.’
Devdas turned away and continued to mutter. Chandramukhi
couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore. Very soon he dropped
off to sleep. Chandramukhi came and sat beside, him. She wiped his
face with her sari and changed the soaked pillow. She fanned him for
a while and continued to sit there despondently. When it was nearly
one at night, she blew out the lamp, shut the door and left the room.
 12

MANY OF THE VILLAGERS, AND THE TWO BROTHERS DWIJODAS AND

DEVDAS, performed the last rites of the zamindar Narayan Mukherjee
and came back home. Dwijodas wept like a child out of control—it
took a few men to hold him in check. Devdas sat beside a pillar, calm
and collected. Not a word escaped his lips and not a tear came to his
eyes. No one held him, no one even tried to console him. Just once,
Madhusudan Ghosh tried to approach him, saying, ‘Fate, my child
…’
Devdas raised his arm, indicating Dwijodas, and said, ‘Over there.’
Ghosh-babu backed off, embarrassed, muttering, ‘Yes, well, he
was a great man …’ No one else ventured close. When it was past
noon, Devdas went and sat at his mother’s feet where she lay in a
faint. Some women sat around her; Parvati’s grandmother was also
present. Her voice broke as she addressed the bereaved widow,
‘Child, look who is here—it’s Devdas.’
Devdas called out, ‘Mother’ She opened her eyes and merely said,
‘Son.’ Then the tears began to roll from the eyes shut tight. The
assembled women broke out into loud wails.
Devdas laid his face on his mother’s feet. Then he got up slowly
and walked away. He went into his dead father’s room. His eyes
were dry and his body was cold as a statue. He squatted on the floor
and raised his bloodshot eyes to the roof. The very sight of him now
would have driven anyone cold with fear. His veins stood out in his
temples and his hair stood on end. His fair skin was now a burnished
copper shade, what with all the excesses in Calcutta and then the
sleepless nights following his father’s death. Those who had seen
him a year ago would perhaps not even recognize him now.
A little later Parvati’s mother came looking for him. She pushed the
door open and called, ‘Devdas.’
‘What is it, Aunty?’
 ‘This won’t do, my son.’
Devdas stared at her, ‘What have I done, Aunty?’
Parvati’s mother knew the answer, but it wouldn’t escape her lips.
She pulled his head onto her lap and said, ‘Dev-ta, child.’
‘What is it?’
‘Devtacharan, son …’
At last he hid his face in her bosom and shed a single tear.
Even a bereaved family’s days pass swiftly. A new day dawned,
the weeping and wailing was less intense. Dwijodas was himself
again. His mother had also roused herself and went about her
chores, wiping her eyes frequently. Two days later Dwijodas called
Devdas and asked, ‘How much should be spent on Father’s last
rites?’
Devdas looked at his elder brother, ‘Whatever is deemed
necessary.’
‘But brother, it is no longer my decision alone. You have grown up
and your opinion is important too.’
Devdas asked, ‘How much cash is there?’
‘There is a lakh and half in Father’s account. I feel ten thousand
would be a good amount to spend.’
‘How much is my share?’
Dwijodas hesitated, ‘You’ll get half. If we spend ten thousand, then
you and I will get seventy thousand each.’
‘What will Mother have?’
‘She doesn’t need cash. She is the mistress of the house—we will
look after her.’
Devdas thought for some time and then said, ‘I think we should
spend five thousand from your share and twenty-five from mine. Of
the remaining fifty thousand in my name, half should be kept in
Mother’s account and half can be handed over to me. What do you
think?’
At first Dwijodas seemed a little embarrassed. But then he said,
‘Excellent. Actually, you know, since I have a family—weddings,
education and so on—you know how it is. This would be the best.’
After a brief pause he said, ‘If you could just put it on paper—’
‘Is that really necessary? It doesn’t look good. At such a time—I
think all this money-talk should be just between us.’
‘That’s true. But you know …’
‘Okay, I’ll put it in writing.’ The same day Devdas made out the
requisite papers.
The next day, as he climbed down the stairs he spotted Parvati
standing in a corner and stopped in his tracks. Parvati was staring at
him, as if she could hardly recognize him. Devdas walked up to her
and in his calm and serene voice he asked her, ‘When did you get
here, Paro?’
That same voice. They were meeting after three years. Abashed,
Parvati looked at her feet and said, ‘This morning.’
‘It’s been a long time. Are you all right?’
Parvati nodded.
‘How is Chowdhury-babu? And the children?’
‘They are all fine.’ Parvati stole a glance at his face. But she
simply couldn’t bring herself to ask how he was, what he was doing.
At that moment she had run out of questions all of a sudden.
Devdas asked, ‘Will you be here for a while?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well then—’
He walked away.
The last rites were performed in due course. The day after, Parvati
took Dharmadas aside and handed him a gold chain. ‘Dharma, this
is for your daughter.’
Dharmadas’s eyes grew moist as he said, ‘It’s been so long since
we saw you. Is everything all right, Didi?’
‘Everything’s fine. And your family?’
‘They’re fine, Didi.’
‘How are you?’
 Dharmadas sighed deeply and said, ‘How do you think? Master
has gone, now I wish to go as well.’ Dharmadas looked like he would
pour out his heart. But Parvati stopped him. She hadn’t gifted him
the chain for nothing. She asked, ‘Don’t talk like that, Dharma, if you
go who will look after Dev-da?’
Dharmadas struck his brow and said, ‘Oh, I’ve looked after him
enough when he was a child; now I wish I didn’t have to see him.’
Parvati edged closer to him, ‘Dharma, will you give me an honest
answer?’
‘Why not, Didi.’
‘Then tell me the truth—what does Dev-da do nowadays?’
‘Rubbish and nonsense, what else?’
‘Dharmadas, do tell me.’
He struck his brow again and said, ‘What is there to tell, Didi,
there’s nothing left to tell. Now that Master’s gone and Deva has
come into a lot of money, things can only get worse.’
Parvati’s face fell. She had heard some rumours. Apprehensively
she asked, ‘Really, Dharma?’
She had got a whiff of something from Manorama’s letters, but she
hadn’t believed it. Dharmadas shook his head and went on, ‘No food,
no sleep, just the bottle and nothing else. He stays away for days on
end. He’s blown so much money away—I’ve heard that he has given
that woman jewellery worth many thousand rupees.’
Parvati shivered from head to toe. ‘Is this all true, Dharmadas?’
He mumbled to himself, ‘He may listen to you—please stop him.
Look at the state his health is in—at this rate his days are numbered.
Who can I talk to about this? This is not something you can say to
his parents or his brother.’ Dharmadas banged his head on the wall,
and wailed, ‘Sometimes I want to die, Paro.’
Parvati left. She had hastened back when she heard of Narayan-
babu’s death. She had thought that she should be at Devdas’s side
in these troubled times. But what had become of her beloved Dev-
da? Memories crowded her mind. If she directed one criticism at
Devdas, she hurled a thousand curses at herself. If she had been
there, would things have come to such a pass? She had already cut
her nose to spite her face, but now the joke was truly on her. Here
was her Dev-da, wasting away, rotting in fact … and she was busy
setting up someone else’s home. She was doling out charity
everyday, drawing strangers to her bosom, and the one person who
meant everything to her—he was almost starving to death. Parvati
promised herself that she would go and talk to Devdas.
It was a little before dusk when Parvati entered Devdas’s room. He
was sitting on the bed studying some accounts. He looked up as she
entered. Slowly, Parvati shut the door, bolted it and sat on the floor.
Devdas looked at her with a smile on his lips. His face was sad, yet
calm. Suddenly, he said, ‘What if I dragged your name in the mud?’
Parvati shot him a quick, pained glance from her bright eyes and
lowered them immediately. That look made it very clear that the
comment would always be lodged in her heart as a painful reminder.
She had come with so much to say, but her mind went blank now.
Every time she came near him, she seemed to lose her powers of
speech.
Devdas laughed again, ‘I know, I know, you’re feeling shy, right?’
But she still couldn’t talk. He went on, ‘Don’t be. So, okay, we
made a mistake, the fault was on both ends—now look at the mess
we are both in. You spoke in anger and haste, I wounded you on the
brow—I suppose that makes us even.’
His words were devoid of sarcasm or derision; he spoke of the
past with a pleasant, contented look. But Parvati felt her heart was
ready to burst. She covered her face, held her breath and said to
herself, ‘Dev-da, that wound is my salvation, my only hope. You
loved me and so you were kind enough to inscribe our sweet
memories on my brow. It is no shame to me, no disgrace—but a
matter of pride.’
‘Paro.’
She answered through the cover of her sari, ‘What is it?’
 ‘I often feel very angry with you—’
At last, his voice took on a bitter edge. ‘Father is gone, it is a
difficult time in my life; but if your were with me, I wouldn’t feel it so.
You know my brother’s wife, and my brother’s nature too. What am I
to do with Mother now? And I simply do not know what will become
of me. If you were here, I could happily drop it all in your lap and …
what’s that, Paro?’
Parvati was sobbing helplessly.
Devdas said, ‘Are you crying? Then I have to stop talking.’
Parvati wiped her eyes and said, ‘No, go on.’
In an instant Devdas cleared his voice of all emotion and asked,
‘Paro, I believe you have turned into an expert homemaker? A
proper wife, are you?’
Inwardly Parvati bit into her lips and thought, ‘Not really. What’s
the point if the flower is never laid at the feet of the deity?’
Devdas laughed out loud, ‘I think it’s really funny. You were this
tiny little thing, and now look at you. Big house, large estate, grown
children—and Chowdhury-babu, everything suitably aged … what
are you laughing about?’
Chowdhury-babu was a great amusement to Parvati; whenever he
came to mind, she wanted to smile. Even in this tearful state, she
grinned.
Devdas assumed a fake air of gravity and asked, ‘Could you do
me a favour?’
‘What?’
‘Are there any nice girls in your part of the land?’
Parvati gulped, choked and spluttered, ‘Nice girls? Whatever for?’
‘I could marry one. I feel like settling down, just for once.’
Parvati donned a straight and sweet face, ‘She has to be very
beautiful, right?’
‘No more than you.’
‘And she has to be a good soul?’
 ‘No, not too much of that—perhaps a little playful—someone who
can squabble with me like you used to do.’
Parvati thought, no one else can do that, Dev-da. For that she’d
have to love you as much as I do. But instead, she said, ‘Well, that’s
easy. Thousands like me would be honoured to call you their own.’
Devdas jested merrily, ‘For the moment, just one will do. Can you
get me one?’
‘Dev-da, would you really marry?’
‘I just told you.’ But he didn’t tell her that she was the only woman
he would ever be interested in, for as long as he lived.
‘Dev-da, can I ask you something?’
‘What?’
Parvati collected her wits and asked him, ‘Why did you suddenly
start drinking?’
Devdas laughed, ‘That doesn’t take a lot of practice, does it?’
‘All right, but why did you make it a habit?’
‘Who told you this, Dharmadas?’
‘That doesn’t matter. Isn’t it true?’
Devdas didn’t deceive her. He said, ‘Yes, to some extent.’
Parvati sat there in shocked silence. After a while she asked, ‘And
have you given this woman a few thousand rupees’ worth of
jewellery?’
Devdas laughed again, ‘I haven’t given them to her, but I have got
them made. Do you want them?’
Parvati stretched out her palm, ‘Why not? Look, I have no
ornaments.’
‘Chowdhury-babu didn’t give you any?’
‘He did. But I gave it all away to his eldest daughter.’
‘Don’t you want any?’
Parvati shook her head and dropped her gaze.
Now Devdas truly wanted to weep. He could well imagine the
despair that would drive a woman to give away her ornaments. But
he held his tears in check and spoke slowly, ‘It’s all a lie, Paro. I do
not love another woman and I have not given her any jewels.’
Parvati heaved a great sigh and I said to herself, ‘I thought as
much.’
They were both silent for many minutes. Finally Parvati said, ‘But
promise me, you’ll never touch liquor again.’
‘I can’t do that. Could you promise never to think of me again?’
Parvati was quiet. Someone blew on the conch outside, heralding
the dusk. Devdas glanced at the window anxiously and said, ‘It’s
getting late, Paro; go home now.’
‘I won’t go. Promise me first.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not everyone can do everything.’
‘I’m sure they can if they want to.’
‘Really? Can you run away with me tonight?’
For a split second Parvati’s heart forgot to beat. Bemused, she
mumbled, ‘That’s impossible.’
Devdas edged away on the bed and commanded, ‘Paro, open the
door.’
Parvati moved a little to cover the door with her back and said,
‘Promise me.’
Devdas stood up and spoke with calm deliberation, ‘Paro, is there
any point in forcing a promise? Today’s promise may be broken
tomorrow. Why would you have me marked faithless?’
Again, many minutes passed in utter silence. Suddenly a clock
chimed somewhere, signalling nine o’clock. Devdas came to life at
that. ‘Oh Paro, open the door, quick—’ he said.
Parvati didn’t speak.
‘Paro …’
‘I won’t go,’ Parvati broke down and fell to the ground. She wept
bitterly.
 It was pitch dark inside the room and nothing was visible. Devdas
could merely guess drat Parvati lay on the floor, weeping. He called
softly, ‘Paro.’
Parvati sobbed, ‘Dev-da, I am miserable.’
Devdas edged closer. He too had tears in his eyes, but his voice
was still steady. ‘Don’t I know it?’ he said softly.
‘Dev-da, I feel like death. I could never get to take care of you—I
always wanted to—’
In the dark, Devdas wiped his eyes. ‘There’s time yet for that,’ he
said.
‘Then come home with me. There’s no one to look after you here.’
‘If I go to your home, will you take real good care of me?’
‘I have always wanted to. Dear God, please make this wish come
true. After that, I wouldn’t even mind if I died.’
Now Devdas’s tears flowed.
Parvati spoke again, ‘Dev-da, come home with me.’
Devdas tried to wipe his tears away and said, ‘All right, I will.’
‘Will you? Swear on me?’
Devdas aimed somewhere at her feet and said, ‘I will never forget
this promise: if it makes you happy to take care of me, I will come. If
it’s the last thing I do, I’ll come to you.’
 13

DEVDAS STAYED AT HOME FOR SIX MONTHS AFTER HIS

FATHER’S DEATH, then he grew quite restless. Life seemed to drag
on—there was no peace, no joy. Moreover he was constantly
plagued with thoughts of Parvati. These days she came to mind ever
so often. His brother Dwijodas and his nagging wife made life even
more difficult for him.
His mother was in the same state. With her husband’s death all joy
seemed to have gone out of her life. The house became unbearable
to her, she felt like she was living in a cage. She considered moving
to Varanasi; but she couldn’t go without getting Devdas married first.
She told him, ‘Devdas, get married; let me see you settled—then I
can die in peace.’ But it wasn’t so easy. The period of mourning was
still on and they would also have to find a suitable girl. These days
she felt a little sad—sometimes she felt that perhaps it would have
been for the best if they had got him wedded to Parvati when the
matter had come up.
One day she called Devdas to her and said, ‘Devdas, I can’t stand
this any more. I want to go to Varanasi.’ Devdas was of the same
mind. He said, ‘I agree with you. Go there for six months and then
come back.’
‘Yes, my son, make the arrangements. After I return we can
complete his annual rites, I can get you married and then move back
to Varanasi for good.’
Devdas agreed. He went and left his mother in Varanasi and then
returned to Calcutta. Back in the city, he spent three or four days
hunting for Chunilal, but apparently he had moved out and gone
somewhere else.
Then one evening Devdas remembered Chandramukhi. He could
look her up, couldn’t he? In all these days he had never once
thought of her. He felt a trifle abashed. That evening he hired a
buggy and arrived at Chandramukhi’s house. After much calling and
hollering, a voice spoke from within, ‘Not here.’
There was a gas lamp close by. Devdas went and stood below it
and shouted, ‘Could you tell me where that woman has gone?’
Someone opened a window and stared at him for a while. ‘Are you
Devdas?’ a woman’s voice said.
‘Yes.’
‘Wait, I’ll open the door.’
She opened the door and said, ‘Come in.’
He felt the voice was familiar, but couldn’t quite place it. It was
quite dark as well. Suspiciously, he asked, ‘Could you tell me where
Chandramukhi has gone?’
The woman smiled, ‘I could. Please come upstairs.’
Now Devdas recognized her, ‘You.’
‘Yes, it’s me. Devdas, did you forget me so easily?’
When he went upstairs, Devdas saw that she was dressed in a
black bordered plain white sari which looked quite worn. There were
two bangles on her wrists and no other jewellery besides that. Her
hair was dishevelled. Taken aback, he asked, ‘What happened?’ He
noticed that she had lost a lot of weight. He asked, ‘Have you been
ill?’
Chandramukhi laughed and said, ‘Not physically, no. Have a seat.’
Devdas sat on the bed and noticed that the room had changed a
fair bit. Like its mistress, it looked worn out and frayed. The furniture
was gone; there was just the bed. Even the sheets were shabby. The
pictures on the wall were gone; the nails on which they had hung
stuck out. Some of them still had bits of thread hanging from them.
The wall clock was still there, but it had fallen silent. Spiders had
woven their webs to their heart’s content all around it. A lamp burned
in one corner and gave enough light for Devdas to take in the new
look of the room. A little shocked, a little outraged, he asked,
‘Chandra, how did this disaster happen?’
 Chandramukhi smiled wanly and said, ‘You call it a disaster? I’d
call it a stroke of luck.’
Devdas was puzzled. ‘Where are: all your ornaments?’ he asked.
‘I’ve sold them.’
‘The furniture?’
‘Sold those too.’
‘Have you sold the paintings as well?’
This time she giggled and pointed to the house across the road. ‘I
gave them away to the maid.’
Devdas gazed at her for some time. ‘Where is Chuni?’ he asked
finally.
‘I don’t know. He squabbled with me a couple of months ago and
left. Never came back.’
Even more surprised, Devdas asked, ‘Why the squabble?’
‘Don’t they happen?’
‘They do—but why?’
‘He was touting and so I threw him out.’
‘What was he touting?’
Chandramukhi smiled, ‘Jute.’ Then she said, ‘Don’t you know
what? He brought along a rich man, two hundred rupees a month,
hordes of jewellery and a guard at my door, do you understand?’
The penny dropped and Devdas laughed, ‘But I don’t see all that
anywhere?’
‘You would have if they were here. I showed them the door.’
‘What were they guilty of?’
‘Nothing. I just didn’t like it.’
Devdas mulled over the matter for a long time, ‘And since then no
one has been here?’
‘No. Not just since then, but since the day you left, no one has
been here. Only Chuni-babu came and sat around sometimes. But
for the last two months even that has stopped.’
Devdas lay down on the bed. He was quiet, in a world of his own.
Slowly he asked, ‘Chandramukhi, have you closed down the
business?’
‘Yes—I went bankrupt.’
Devdas hedged, ‘But how will you survive?’
‘Didn’t I just tell you, I have sold my jewellery.’
‘That can’t be much.’
‘True. I have about eight or nine hundred rupees. I have kept the
money with a grocer. He gives me twenty rupees a month.’
‘But earlier, that wouldn’t have sustained you?’
‘No, and it doesn’t do very well now either. I still have three
months’ rent to pay. So I think I’ll just sell these two bangles, pay off
all my debts and move away somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Somewhere cheap—maybe a village—
where twenty rupees would be enough for me.’
‘Why haven’t you gone yet? If you really don’t need anything more,
why did you let the debts pile up over all these months?’
Chandramukhi lowered her eyes, trying to sort out her thoughts.
For the first time in her life, she was embarrassed to speak. Devdas
asked, ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’
Chandramukhi sat on the edge of the bed hesitantly and spoke
with great trepidation, ‘Don’t get angry—I had hoped to see you once
before I go. I wished you’d come back, just once. Now that you have
come, I’ll make my arrangements tomorrow. But, could you tell me
where I should go?’
Staggered, Devdas sat up in bed. ‘Just to see me? But why?’
‘Just a whim. Perhaps because no one had ever rejected me in
that way. You hated me fervently. I don’t know if you remember, but I
remember it well—the day you came here for the first time I felt
attracted to you. I knew you were the son of a wealthy man; but that
wasn’t what drew me to you. So many men had come and gone
before you, but I had never sensed such boldness in them. You
came and you wounded me—an unprovoked assault—strangely
appropriate—and yet so, so unfair. You turned away from me in
revulsion and finally, almost in jest, you threw some money at me.
Do you remember?’
Devdas was silent. Chandramukhi continued, ‘Since then, I had
eyes only for you. Not for love, nor hatred. I couldn’t forget you, the
way it is difficult to forget a novelty, I suppose. When you’d come, I
used to be tense and fearful, but when you didn’t come, nothing
seemed right. And then, I don’t know what went wrong—but
everything started looking very different. I changed so much that the
earlier “I” could no longer recognize myself. You had taken to the
bottle. I hate alcohol. I always hated it when someone got drunk in
my house. But when you got drunk, I never felt anger. I only felt
misery.’
Chandramukhi touched Devdas’s feet. There were tears in her
eyes as she said, ‘I am a sinner, please forgive me. The more you
hurled insults at me, the more you pushed me away, the more I
wanted to draw you closer. Finally, whenever you fell asleep …
anyway, let all that be. You might fly into a rage again.’
Devdas didn’t say a word. These new sentiments were very
distressful to him. Chandramukhi wiped away her tears and said,
‘One day, you spoke of how much we tolerate, the insults, the
assaults—I felt very hurt. The very next day I stopped it all.’
Devdas sat up. ‘But what about survival?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘I just told you.’
‘What if the grocer cheats you out of all your money?’
Chandramukhi didn’t look troubled. Quite calmly she replied, ‘That
won’t be unusual. I have thought of that too. If I am in real trouble, I’ll
beg some money from you.’
Devdas thought about this. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘But for now,
make your plans and move somewhere else.’
‘I’ll start the arrangements tomorrow. I’ll sell my bangles and then
go and meet the grocer.’
Devdas fished into his pocket, brought out five hundred-rupee
notes and tucked them under the pillow. ‘Don’t sell the bangles, but
meet the grocer for sure. Where would you go, on a pilgrimage?’
‘No, Devdas. I am not a great one for faith. I won’t go too far from
Calcutta—some nearby village perhaps.’
‘Do you want to work as a maid with some genteel family?’
Chandramukhi’s eyes filled with tears again. She wiped them and
said, ‘I don’t want to do that. I would like to live independently and
comfortably. Why should I slave? I have never done a day’s hard
labour in my life and I won’t be able to do it now. If I submit my body
to much more, it might fall apart.’
Despondent, Devdas smiled at that. He said, ‘But if you live close
to the city, you may be tempted again. You can never trust the
human mind.’
Chandramukhi smiled. She said, ‘That is very true indeed. But I
will never be tempted again. I do accept that women can be tempted
by very little. But since I have given up all the temptations of my own
free will, I am not afraid. If it had been a momentary whim, I may
have been in danger of going back to it all. But in all these days,
there hasn’t been a moment when I have regretted my decision. I am
really quite happy.’
Devdas still shook his head, ‘Women are very restless, very fickle.’
Chandramukhi came and sat very close to him and took his hand,
‘Devdas.’
He looked at her, but couldn’t bring himself to say, ‘Don’t touch
me.’
Chandramukhi pulled his hands on to her lap, looking at them
lovingly, eyes widened with bliss, and said, ‘This is the last day—
don’t be angry with me. I have always wanted to ask you something.’
Her eyes scanned his face for a while and she asked quietly, ‘Did
Parvati hurt you very badly?’
Devdas frowned, ‘Why do you ask?’
Chandramukhi didn’t falter. In a calm and confident tone, she said,
‘I need to know. Very honestly speaking, I feel the pain whenever
you are hurt. Besides, I probably know a lot about this. Sometimes,
when you were dead drunk, you’ve said a lot and I have listened. But
still, I don’t believe Parvati has cheated you. Instead, I feel, you have
cheated yourself. Devdas, I am older than you, I have seen much of
the world. Do you know what I think? I feel quite sure that you are in
the wrong. I feel women do not deserve all their reputation for being
whimsical and fickle. It’s you, men, who praise them no end—and
then it’s you who blame them and pull them down from their
pedestal. You are able to speak your mind with ease. They cannot
express themselves so easily. Even if they do, few understand them,
because what they say is mumbled, easily drowned out by your loud
voice. What happens in the end is that nobody sees the women’s
point of view—they are simply badmouthed.’
Chandramukhi paused, cleared her throat and went on, ‘I have
traded in love many times in my life, but only once have I truly loved.
It is a very precious thing. I have learnt a lot from it. Do you know
that love is one thing and desire another? The two are often
confused—and it’s men who confuse them the most. I believe
women are less inclined to be blinded by looks, and hence we don’t
get carried away as easily as you do. When you come and tell us of
your love, in so many ways, means, words and gestures, we are
silent. Sometimes we don’t wish to hurt you, or we are unsure. Even
when we hate the very sight of your face, we are perhaps too shy to
say it. Then there starts an act—a pretense at loving. One day, when
the performance ends, men are furious and they say, “treachery”.
Everyone listens to them, pays them heed—and we still hold our
tongue. There’s so much hurt, such misery, but who cires about all
that?’
Devdas was silent. Chandramukhi looked at him long and hard
before going on, ‘Sometimes a woman takes pity on a man, and,
mistakenly, feels that is love. She goes about her duties, supports
you staunchly in times of trouble—and you praise her to the skies.
But perhaps she is still a novice at the game of love. Then, if at an
unfortunate moment her heart shatters and she bares her feelings to
you in unbearable pain, then,’ she glanced at Devdas and said, ‘then
you all call her a faithless creature.’
Suddenly Devdas placed his fingers against her lips and said,
‘Chandramukhi, what …’
Chandramukhi moved his hand away from her mouth slowly and
said, ‘Don’t worry Devdas, I wasn’t talking of your Parvati.’ She fell
silent.
Devdas was lost in thought for some time. Then he said, ‘But there
are customs, there are social norms.’
Chandramukhi said, ‘Of course they are there. And that is why
Devdas, whoever is truly in love, simply bears his pain. If one can
feel the satisfaction of just loving someone, deep in his heart, then
he wouldn’t want to disrupt the rhythm of society and its rules. But
where was I … for sure, I feel that Parvati hasn’t cheated you one bit
and you have done it all by yourself; I know you do not have the
capacity to understand this today. But if the time ever comes, you will
know that I spoke the truth.’
Devdas’s eyes brimmed with tears. For some strange reason,
today he began to feel Chandramukhi was right. She saw his tears,
but didn’t try to wipe them away. She said to herself, ‘I have seen
you often in many different moods. I know you well. You would never
be able to offer your heart the way ordinary men do. But beauty—ah
well, everyone falls for beauty. But could you sacrifice all your pride
just for the sake of beauty? No. Parvati may be very beautiful, but
even so, I believe she loved you first, she spoke of it first. I can feel
it.’
As she talked to herself, she spoke aloud the last sentence, ‘I can
tell from myself how much she must love you.’
Devdas sat up on the bed, ‘What did you say?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘Nothing. I was just saying that she couldn’t
have fallen for your looks. You may be handsome, but that wouldn’t
make her fall for you. Not everyone can appreciate this aggressive,
brash charm of yours. Those who do, of course, can never call their
heart their own again.’ She heaved a sigh and said, ‘Only someone
who has loved you knows how charming you are. There isn’t a
woman on this earth who would deny herself this heaven.’ After a
few minutes’ silence, she spoke softly and slowly, ‘It’s a beauty that
seldom meets the eye. It casts its shadow on the very depths of the
heart and then, when the day ends, it burns in the pyre and turns to
ash.’
Devdas looked at Chandramukhi with a glazed expression. ‘What
are you saying, Chandramukhi?’ he said quietly.
Her slight smile held a bit of mockery. ‘There’s no greater
predicament, Devdas,’ she said, ‘than when the one you do not love
speaks to you of love for you. But I really spoke for Parvati, not for
me.’
Devdas made as if to rise. ‘I must go now,’ he said.
‘Please sit. I have never had your company when you weren’t
drunk, I have never held your hands and talked—oh, what joy.’ She
burst out laughing.
Surprised, Devdas asked, ‘Why do you laugh?’
‘Nothing. Just something I remembered—it’s nearly ten years ago,
when I first fell in love and left my home. I used to feel my heart
swelling with the power of love then—I used to feel that I could the
for it. Then, one day, we fought over a piece of jewellery and never
ever saw each other’s faces again. I told myself he hadn’t really
loved me, if he had he would have given the ornament away to me.’
She laughed again. The next instant her face grew calm and somber.
‘Jewels, my foot. Little did I know that one can be sometimes willing
to lay down one’s life even to get rid of a simple headache. I didn’t
know the pain of the saints, or the anguish of the virtuous. Devdas,
just about everything is possible in this world, isn’t it?’
Devdas couldn’t find an answer. He stared at her, lost for words;
then he said, ‘I must go—’
‘What’s the problem? Go a little later. I don’t want to hold on to
you; those days are gone. Now I hate myself just as much as you
are repulsed by me. But Devdas, why don’t you marry?’
At last, Devdas seemed to breathe; he laughed and said, ‘I know I
should. But I don’t have the inclination.’
‘Still, you must. The sight of your children can bring you great
happiness. Besides, my problems would also end. I could easily be a
maid in your house.’
Devdas laughed out loud, ‘Fine then, I’ll send for you when I
marry.’
Chandramukhi didn’t seem to notice his laughter. She said,
‘Devdas, I want to ask you one more question.’
‘What?’
‘Why did you sit and listen to me for so long?’
‘Is there a problem with that?’
‘I don’t know. But it’s certainly different. You never used to look at
my face unless you were senseless, in a drunken stupor.’
Devdas avoided the question and spoke glumly, ‘I cannot drink
now, for a year after my father’s death.’
Chandramukhi looked at him with sad eyes and asked, ‘Do you
want to go back to drinking?’
‘I can’t say.’
She pulled his hands closer and spoke through the tears clogging
her throat. ‘If it’s possible, don’t take it up again. Don’t bring such a
beautiful life to an end before its time.’
Suddenly Devdas got up and said, ‘I must go. Wherever you go,
keep me posted—il you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask
me.’
Chandramukhi touched his feet and said, ‘Bless me and wish me
happiness. And … one more thing: God forbid, but if you ever need
someone to attend to you … please think of me.’
‘I will.’
Devdas left. Chandramukhi held her face in her hands and
sobbed, ‘Dear God, please let me meet him just once more in this
lifetime.’
 14

TWO YEARS HAD PASSED. PARVATI WAS A LITTLE RELAXED NOW,

AFTER SHE had got Mahendra married. Jaladbala, his wife, was
intelligent and efficient. She had taken over many of the household
chores.
So Parvati had time to turn to other things. She had been married
for five years now. Since she was childless, she felt greatly drawn to
other people’s children. She took up all expenses for the children
who came from all the families who lived nearby, the poorest of the
poor as well as those who had limited means of subsistence. In
addition, she spent her days in the puja room, and in serving the ill
and aged as well as the guests in her homestead. She had got her
husband to open up another set of guest rooms where the homeless
could stay as long as they wished. They were cared for and provided
for by the zamindar’s household.
Parvati did something else in secret—even her husband wasn’t
privy to it. She helped out poor but decent families financially,
drawing on her own resources. Whatever she got from her husband
every month towards her own upkeep was spent in meeting these
costs. This didn’t remain a secret from the clerks and officers of the
estate though. They talked among themselves. The maids whispered
back and forth about how the household expenses had nearly
doubled. The vaults were empty, there were no savings, the rumour
went. The superfluous expenses were seemingly causing the
servants grave concern. Jaladbala often heard them talking about it.
One night she asked her husband, ‘Are you a nobody in this house?’
Mahendra said, ‘Why do you say that?’
She said, ‘The servants can see it all, and you can’t? Father may
be besotted by his new bride, he won’t say anything. But you should
protest.’
 Mahendra didn’t quite get it, but he was interested. ‘Protest about
what?’
Jaladbala grew serious and began to advise her husband, ‘Our
new mother doesn’t have children—so she isn’t interested in the
family savings. She spends money like water, can’t you see that?’
Mahendra frowned, ‘How so?’
Jaladbala said, ‘You would see it if you had a pair of eyes in your
head. These days the household expenses have doubled—all these
fasts and ceremonies, charities, and no end of guests and saintly
beggars. She may be doing it all to benefit her in her afterlife. But
you are going to have children—what will they eat? If you give away
all your wealth, are they going to go begging?’
Mahendra sat up on the bed, ‘Who are you talking of—Mother?’
Jaladbala said, ‘Oh God, hapless am I that I have to spell it out
thus.’
Mahendra said, ‘And so you have come to me with a complaint
against Mother?’
Jalad was indignant, ‘I have no use for complaints and quarrels. I
have just told you how things are, or you might blame me some day.’
Mahendra was silent for some minutes and then he said, ‘Your
father’s household scarcely gets two square meals a day. What
would you know of the expenses in a landlord’s house?’
Now Jaladbala was furious. ‘And pray tell me, how many guest
rooms are there in your Mother’s house?’
Mahendra didn’t want to go in for a squabble. He just lay there
quietly. In the morning he went to Parvati and said, ‘What a match
you have chosen for me, Mother. I can’t live with her. I’m leaving for
Calcutta.’
Surprised, Parvati asked, ‘Why, son?’
‘She speaks ill of you—I disown her.’
Parvati had observed Jaladbala for some time; she evaded the
issue and laughed, ‘Shame on you, my son. She is a gem of a girl.’
 Parvati then called Jaladbala into her room and asked, ‘Child,
have you and Mahendra fought over something?’
Jaladbala had noticed her husband’s preparations for Calcutta
with some trepidation all morning; at her mother-in-law’s words she
burst into tears and said, ‘My fault, Mother. But these maids keep
talking about the expenses.’
Parvati sat and heard her out. She felt contrite as she wiped her
daughter-in-law’s tears, ‘Child, you have spoken well. You see, I am
not good at accounts and so I lose track of the expenditure.’
She called Mahendra to her and said, ‘Son, don’t be angry—you
are her husband and your benefit comes before all else for her. She
is a good wife.’
From that day on Parvati curbed her generous impulses. The
guests didn’t get such lavish care as before; many of the homeless,
maimed and ill who showed up had to be turned away. When
Bhuvan-babu heard of this, he sent for Parvati and asked her, ‘Have
we gone through our coffers—are we out of money?’
Parvati laughed, ‘Charity isn’t everything. For a while we should
also try to save a bit. See how our expenses have shot up.’
‘That’s all right. My days are drawing to a close. We should do
some good deeds and take care of our afterlife, shouldn’t we?’
Parvati laughed, ‘That is very selfish. You think of yourself, and
what about the children? Let’s just go easy for some time and then it
can all begin again. Charity never comes to an end.’
Bhuvan-babu didn’t pursue the matter further.
Parvati had less to do these days and so there was more time on
her hands, to think and to think. But thoughts come in patterns.
Those who have hope in their heart think in one way. And those who
have no hope think in quite a different manner. The thoughts of the
hopeful are full of sparkle, joy, expectation, gratification, anxiety and
sorrow; the cavalcade tires the soul and can’t go on for long. But the
hopeless have no joy, no sorrow, no anxiety and no expectation. It’s
not that there aren’t tears any more, or even new realizations about
life, but fresh insights don’t make one sit up and take notice any
longer. The thoughts float around like weightless clouds. They stop
short where the wind stands still, and when the breeze stirs they
move away again. The rapt mind remains occupied with a string of
unruffled thoughts without really thinking a thought through. That
was how it was with Parvati these days. As she sat for her puja, her
restless mind sped away and made a rushed survey of the village of
Talshonapur which she had left behind so long ago, glossing over
the bamboo clump, the schoolroom, the riverside. And suddenly it
would hide itself in places where she couldn’t find herself. Earlier, a
smile may have played on her lips at the thought of the past; now, a
teardrop glistened on her palm.
Still, the days passed. They passed in carrying out chores, in
making sweet gestures towards others and providing service to the
poor and needy; and sometimes they passed in a hermit-daze, when
Parvati was lost in a meditative trance. Some called her a goddess in
the flesh, a form of Annapurna, the providing deity. Some called her
the absent-minded dryad. But for the last few days Parvati seemed
to have undergone a transformation—she seemed to have become a
trifle sharp, a little harsh. The tide seemed to be waning in the river
of contentment. No one knew the cause for this—she had got a letter
from Manorama, and this was what it said:
Parvati,
It’s been a long time since we wrote to each other and I think the fault
lies with both of us. I want to make up with you—let’s just both admit to
our fault and move on, shall we? I am older than you, so I thought I
would break the silence and write first; I hope you’ll reply soon. So, my
news—I came home to the village last month. How am I? Well, we
middle class women, we aren’t very good at talking about how we are,
are we? Either someone is dead and gone or, if they’re alive, they’re
doing fine. So I too am doing fine, I suppose. That’s all as far as my
news is concerned, really—pretty boring, you will say. But then I didn’t
have anything much to say …
I did want to tell you something actually—I’ve been thinking whether to
tell you or not. If I do, you will be hurt and if I don’t, I’ll feel terrible. It’s a
no-win situation. Well, it’s about Devdas. I know you’ll be upset hearing
about him, but I feel just as bad thinking of your misery. I’d say you have
had a lucky escape; if you had fallen into his hands, with the kind of
pride you have, by now you’d either have poisoned yourself or drowned
in the river. Well … what I have to tell you is not a secret—sooner or
later you’d have come to hear of it anyway—the whole world knows.
He has been here for the last week or so. I guess you know, his
mother has moved to Varanasi and Devdas has been living in Calcutta.
He has come home merely to pick a fight with his brother and to take
some money. I hear that he comes here quite often these days, and
stays for as long as it takes to get the money. With the cash in hand, he
goes away.
It is now two and a half years since his father died. You’ll be surprised
to know that he has gone through half his inheritance in this short time. I
believe Dwijodas is a cautious man and hence he held on to his father’s
estate—or it would have gone to the dogs by now. Devdas is drowning
himself in alcohol and consorting with prostitutes—who can save him
now? Death stands very close—he doesn’t have long to live. Mercifully,
he hasn’t married.
I feel so sad for him. His looks, that fair skin, the bright sparkle in his
eyes—they’re all gone; he seems to be someone else now. Unkempt
hair flying in the wind, eyes sunken deep, his prominent nose sticking
out of hollowed cheeks—I can’t describe how uncouth he looks. He
strikes fear and revulsion in the heart. All day long he roams the
riverside with his gun, shooting birds. If his head spins in the hot sun, he
sits under the berry tree, head tucked into his chest. At dusk he goes
home and drinks. The nights—who knows if he sleeps or roams the
streets.
One evening I had gone to the river to fetch water; I saw him walking
along the bank with his gun, looking like death. He recognized me and
came closer. I was scared stiff. There wasn’t a living soul around—I was
beside myself with fear. But by God’s grace, he behaved himself. Like a
harmless boy, he asked me, ‘Mano-didi, how are you?’
What could I do? I nodded nervously.
He heaved a sigh and said, ‘Be happy, didi. The sight of you all
gladdens the heart.’ I picked up my pot and ran like the devil was behind
me. Oh God. Thank goodness he didn’t grab my hand or something.
Enough of him—talking of such depraved souls will do us no good.
Did I hurt you terribly, Paro? If you haven’t forgotten him still, it will
hurt. But what’s the choice;? And, if I have offended your dear soul,
please find it in your generous heart to forgive your Mano-didi.
 The letter had arrived the day before. Parvati called Mahendra and
said, ‘I need two palanquins and thirty-two bearers. I want to go to
Talshonapur right now.’
Astounded, Mahendra asked, ‘I can easily arrange for those. But
Mother, why two?’
Parvati said, ‘You will come with me, son. If I die on the way, I’ll
need my eldest son to do the last rites.’
Mahendra held his counsel. The palanquins arrived and the two
set off.
When Bhuvan-babu heard of it, he questioned all the maids and
servants. But no one could give him a satisfactory answer about the
reason for this trip. So, wise man that he was, he sent forth five more
guards and servants in their wake. One of the guards asked, ‘If we
meet them on the way, should we fetch them back?’
Bhuvan-babu considered this and said, ‘No, don’t do that. Just go
along with them and see that they reach safely.’
That evening the palanquins arrived at Talshonapur shortly after
dusk. But Devdas wasn’t there. He had left: for Calcutta at noon that
day. Parvati struck her brow and blamed her fate. She did, however,
meet Manorama.
Manorama said, ‘Paro, did you come to see Devdas?’
Parvati said, ‘No, I didn’t come to see him. I came to take him
home with me. There’s no one to care for him here.’
Manorama was truly surprised, ‘What? You wouldn’t feel
ashamed?’
‘Why? What is there to be ashamed of—I will take back what is
rightfully mine.’
‘Oh, shame—don’t even talk like that. You are not even related to
him.’
Parvati’s smile was wan, ‘Mano-didi, the words that have lodged in
my brain ever since I learnt to think, have a habit of slipping out
sometimes. You are like a sister to me, and so you have heard
them.’
 The following morning Parvati touched her parents’ feet and got
into the palanquin once more. They headed back to Hatipota.
 15

FOR THE LAST TWO YEARS CHANDRAMUKHI HAD LIVED IN

ASHATHJHURI village, named after an ancient peepul tree that had
let its hanging roots flow into the ground in a large area around itself.
On the banks of the river, on a slight gradient, stood Chandramukhi’s
ramshackle hut. Adjoining it was a shed where a black, healthy cow
was tethered. There were two rooms—one a kitchen-cum-store-
room and the other the bedroom. The yard was swept and wiped
clean—Rama Bagdi’s daughter did that every day. Thorny bushes
fringed the yard; a berry tree stood in the middle and a tulsi plant had
its pride of place in one corner. Chandramukhi had got some men to
cut down the palm trees and make some steps from her hut down to
the river. She was the only one who used those steps. When the
rains came, the banks overflowed and the water lapped around her
doorstep. The villagers came running with shovels and spades and
dumped some soil to raise the level of the ground. There were no
genteel folk in this village, just farmers, some lower castes, a
smattering of milkmen and a few cobbler families.
After Chandramukhi had settled in the village, she had written to
Devdas. With his reply he had sent some money. Chandramukhi
loaned out this money to the villagers. When in trouble, they all
rushed to her, borrowed a small sum and went home. She didn’t
charge any interest on the loans. Instead, they gifted her the odd
vegetables from the fields or milk or grains. She never asked anyone
for the money back. Whoever could, returned it; a lot of others didn’t.
Chandramukhi would only laugh and say, ‘I’ll never give you money
again.’
The villagers went down on their knees and pleaded, ‘Mother, pray
that we have good rains this year.’
Chandramukhi prayed. But then the crops weren’t as good as
expected, or the villagers were pressed for taxes, and they came to
her again and once again she gave them what she could. Smiling to
herself, she said, ‘May God grant him a long life—I don’t have to
worry about money as long as he’s there.’
But where was Devdas? For the last six months there had been no
news of him. Her letters went unanswered. Registered letters came
back undelivered. Chandramukhi had helped a milkman’s family to
build near her hut, paid their son’s dowry and bought them some
farm implements. They were dependent on her and extremely loyal.
One morning Chandramukhi called the milkman, and said, ‘Bhairav,
do you know how far Talshonapur is from here?’
Bhairav scratched his head, ‘Their estate lies at the end of two
meadows from here.’
Chandramukhi asked, ‘Does the landlord’s family live there?’
Bhairav said, ‘Yes, all of this area belongs to them. The old
zamindar went to heaven three years ago. All the villagers ate hearty
meals for a month then … Now his two sons run the estate—they’re
rich, like kings.’
Chandramukhi said, ‘Bhairav, could you take me there?’
Bhairav said, ‘Certainly, Mother, any day you wish.’
Chandramukhi was eager, ‘Then let’s go today, Bhairav.’
Bhairav was taken aback. ‘Today? Then he glanced at her face
and said, ‘Mother, in that case you finish your cooking as fast as you
can and I’ll bundle up some puffed rice for myself.’
Chandramukhi said, ‘I won’t cook today, Bhairav; you get ready.’
Bhairav went home, wrapped up some puffed rice and sweet
molasses in a cloth, slung it over his shoulder, picked up a walking
stick and returned in two minutes. He asked Chandramukhi, ‘Won’t
you eat something, Mother?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘No, Bhairav, I haven’t yet finished my daily
puja. If there is time, I’ll do all that once we reach.’
Bhairav led the way. Chandramukhi toiled away behind him,
walking the narrow ridges between the rice fields. Her tender feet,
unused to such hardship, were soon lacerated and bleeding; her
face grew hot and flushed in the blazing sun. She hadn’t bathed or
eaten. But she went on and on, walking across the endless fields.
The farmers working the fields stared at her in speechless wonder.
She wore a red-bordered white sari and two bangles on her wrists;
half her face was veiled with her anchal. When the sun was a few
minutes from setting the two of them arrived at the village.
Chandramukhi smiled and asked, ‘Bhairav, have the two meadows
ended at last?’
The sarcasm was lost on Bhairav as he spoke with simple
candour, ‘Mother, we are here. But do you think your delicate
disposition will allow us to go back tonight?’
Chandramukhi thought, ‘Forget tonight, I doubt if I’ll be able to
walk back even tomorrow.’ She said aloud, ‘Bhairav, can’t we hire a
cart?’
Bhairav said, ‘But of course, Mother. Should I get a bullock cart?’
Chandramukhi ordered him to do just that and entered the
zamindar’s mansion. Bhairav went the other way, to arrange for a
cart.
In the inner chambers, the daughter-in-law, now the mistress of
the house, sat on the veranda upstairs. A maid led Chandramukhi to
her. Both of them looked each other over thoroughly.
Chandramukhi folded her palms in greeting. Dwijodas’s wife was
covered in ornaments and her eyes sparked with arrogance. Her lips
and teeth were blackened by the juice of betel nuts. Her cheek was
still puffed up on one side, probably stuffed with tobacco and paan.
Her hair was pulled back and tied into a knot, almost on top of her
head. On her two ears she wore some twenty to thirty rings and tops.
A diamond glittered on her nose and the other nostril had a big hole
too—perhaps she had had to wear a nose ring in the days of her
mother-in-law. Chandramukhi noticed that the lady was quite stout
and plump, dark in complexion, with large eyes and a round face—
she wore a black-bordered sari and a brocade blouse.
Chandramukhi felt repulsed at the very sight of the woman.
 The lady noticed that although she was past her prime,
Chandramukhi’s beauty defied description. They were perhaps the
same age, but of course she would rather have died than admitted
that. In this village, she had never seen such beauty, except of
course on Parvati. Quite stunned, she asked, ‘Who are you?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘I am one of your subjects. I owe some taxes
and I have come to pay.’
The lady was pleased. ‘But why here?’ she said. ‘Go to the estate
office.’
With a slight smile Chandramukhi said, ‘Mother, we are poor and
hapless, we can’t pay all the taxes at once. I’ve heard you are the
very soul of generosity. Hence I’ve come to you—if you could let off
some of it.’
This was a first for the lady. To be told that she was the soul of
generosity, that she could forfeit taxes—Chandramukhi became her
favourite person in a minute. She said, ‘Well, child, we have to forfeit
so much money every day, so many people come begging to me. I
cannot say no. The master gets so angry. So, how much do you
owe?’
‘Not much, Mother, just two rupees. But to us, that’s as good as a
fortune. I have walked all day to get here.’
The lady said, ‘Oh you poor soul, we must show some mercy. Oh
Bindu, take her outside and tell the head-clerk that I have asked him
to let her off the two rupees. So, child, where do you live?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘On a corner of your land—Ashathjhuri
village. Mother, both the masters are heirs now, aren’t they?’
The lady said, ‘Hardly. The younger one is as good as gone.
Shortly, we’ll be the sole heir.’
Chandramukhi was anxious, ‘Why Mother, is the younger master
in debt?’
The lady smiled spitefully, ‘All is pledged to me. He has gone to
the dogs. Drink and whores, that’s all he’s into in Calcutta. He has
gone through a stupendous amount of money already.’
 Chandramukhi’s face fell. She paused and then asked, ‘So,
Mother, doesn’t he even come home?’
The lady said, ‘Of course he comes home, everytime he needs
money. He takes loans, writes off parts of his property and goes
away. Just a couple of months ago he came and took twelve
thousand rupees. He doesn’t even have the will to live … horrible
disease all over his body … what shame …’
Chandramukhi shuddered. With a drawn face she asked, ‘Where
does he live in Calcutta, Mother?’
The lady struck her brow and smiled, ‘Dear me, does anyone
know that? Where he eats, in some roadside shack, and then whose
house he sleeps in, only he knows. And death does too, I suppose.’
Suddenly Chandramukhi rose, ‘I must go now—’
The lady was a little surprised, ‘You’ll go? Oh, Bindu—’
Chandramukhi stopped her, ‘It’s all right, milady, I’ll be able to find
my way out and to the office.’ She walked away slowly. Outside, she
found Bhairav waiting for her, the bullock cart ready. Chandramukhi
came back home that same night.
The following morning she called Bhairav and said, ‘I am going to
Calcutta today. You won’t be able to come. So I’ll take your son with
me, shall I?’
‘As you wish. But why Calcutta, Mother, is there some pressing
need?’
‘Yes, Bhairav, it is urgent.’
‘When will you come back, Mother?’
‘I can’t say. I may be back soon, or I may be late. And if I never
come back, my house and everything else belongs to you.’
Bhairav was speechless. Then his eyes brimmed with tears, ‘What
are you saying, Mother? If you don’t come back, the folks of this
village will die.’
Chandramukhi’s eyes were moist too. ‘What is this, Bhairav?’ she
said. ‘I’ve been here only two years, weren’t you all alive before
that?’
 The dense Bhairav couldn’t answer that one, but Chandramukhi
knew that there was some truth in what he had said. She was taking
Bhairav’s son, Kebla, with her. When all her things were loaded on to
the cart and she was ready to leave, all the villagers gathered round
to see her off. They wept bitterly. Chandramukhi couldn’t contain her
tears either. What was there in Calcutta? If it hadn’t been for Devdas,
Chandramukhi would never have turned away from so much love
and gone away, not even if she had been offered the crown.
The next day she arrived in Calcutta. Other people now lived in
her old place. Khetramani, her neighbour, was surprised to see her,
‘Didi, where were you all these days?’
Chandramukhi glossed over the truth and said, ‘In Allahabad.’
Khetramani took in all the details of her appearance, from head to
toe, and asked, ‘Where is all your jewellery, didi?’
Chandramukhi smiled and answered briefly, ‘It’s all there.’
The same day she met the grocer and asked, ‘Dayal, how much
money do I have?’
Dayal was caught unawares, ‘Well, child, about seventy rupees. I
can give it in a day or so.’
‘You don’t have to give me anything, if you do a few things for me.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s about two days’ work. You must rent a good place in this area,
all right?’
Dayal laughed, ‘As you say.’
‘A good place with a nice bed, clean sheets, lights, paintings, two
chairs, a desk—got it?’
Dayal nodded.
‘Buy a mirror, combs, two colourful saris, blouses … and, do you
know where to get some fake jewellery?’
Dayal rattled off the address.
Chandramukhi said, ‘I need a set of those as well. I’ll come with
you and select them.’ She laughed and said, ‘You know all that we
need, right? I must have a good maid too.’
 Dayal said, ‘When do you want all this done?’
‘As soon as possible. Within a few days would be nice.’
Chandramukhi tucked a hundred-rupee note into his palm and said,
‘Get the best of everything, don’t cut corners.’
On the third day she moved into the new place. She spent the
entire day getting Kebla to arrange things to her satisfaction and in
the evening, she sat down to dress herself. She washed her face
with soap and dusted it with powder, coloured her feet red, chewed
some betel leaf and tinged her lips with red too. Then she decked
herself in her new blouse, a colourful sari and the jewellery. After
years, she tied her hair and wore a bindi. She studied herself in the
mirror and smiled to herself, ‘Let’s see what else fate has in store for
me.’
Kebla, the rustic village boy, was stunned to see this novel way of
dressing up and he asked timidly, ‘What’s this, didi?’
Chandramukhi laughed, ‘Kebla, today my groom will be coming.’
Kebla stared at her in bemused wonder.
After dusk, Khetramani came over. She asked, ‘Didi, what is all
this?’
Chandramukhi gave a covert smile, ‘These are all needed again,
you see.’
Khetramani stared at her for some minutes and then said, ‘As you
grow older, didi, you seem to grow more beautiful.’
After she left, Chandramukhi sat down by the window, like in the
evenings years ago. She stared down at the street fixedly. This was
what she was here for; as long as she stayed here, this was what
she’d do. Some new people did come around; they wanted to come
in and they pushed and shoved at the door. As if by rote, Kebla
repeated from inside, ‘Not here.’
Sometimes an old acquaintance dropped in. Chandramukhi
welcomed them in and smiled and talked to them. In the course of
the conversation she asked about Devdas. But they knew nothing,
and she got rid of them at once. In the dead of night she roamed the
streets, went from house to house, eavesdropping, trying to hear
something—but the name she wanted to hear was never spoken.
Suddenly a stranger with a covered face would reach for her, and
she would have to move away hastily.
In the afternoons, she visited her old friends. As they chatted, she
asked, ‘Do you know Devdas?’
‘Who is Devdas?’
Eagerly, Chandramukhi described him, ‘Fair, a headful of curls, a
mark on the left brow, very rich—spends money like water, do you
know him?’
No one did. Chandramukhi had to return home disappointed,
downcast every day. She stayed up till all hours, staring out of the
window. The advent of sleep only irritated her. She chided herself, ‘Is
this a time to sleep?’
Slowly, a month went by. Kebla grew restless. Chandramukhi, too,
began to wonder if Devdas was in the city at all. Still, she kept at her
vigil, prayed fervently and took it one day at a time, always in hope.
Nearly one and a half months after her arrival in Calcutta, one
night fate smiled on her. It was nearly eleven at night, she was
returning home disconsolately when she suddenly noticed a man
sitting by the wayside, in front of a house, and muttering to himself.
Her heart leaped—she knew the voice. She could tell that voice from
a thousand others. It was dark here, and the man lay flat on his face,
dead drunk. Chandramukhi went near him and shook him lightly,
‘Who are you, lying here like this?’
The man sang the garbled words, ‘Hear me friend, I don’t have a
love; if Krishna were my husband—’
Chandramukhi was certain now. She called, ‘Devdas?’
Without moving a muscle, he answered, ‘Hmmm?’
‘Why are you lying here? Will you go home?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
 ‘Yes,’ he nearly fell on her in his eagerness. Arm around her neck,
he asked, ‘Such a good friend—who are you?’
Tears flowed down her cheeks. Devdas stumbled and lurched and
stood up with her support. He stared at her face and said, ‘Well, well,
nice looking face.’
Chandramukhi smiled through her tears and said, ‘Yes, pretty nice;
now try to hold on to me and move forward. We need a buggy.’
‘Of course we do.’ As they walked, Devdas asked in slurred tones,
‘Hey pretty lady, do you know me?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘Yes.’
He leaned against her all the way back home in the buggy. At the
door he fished in his pocket, ‘Pretty lady, you may have picked me
up, but my pockets are empty.’
Chandramukhi quietly dragged him in by the hands, took him to
the bedroom and pushed him on to the bed. ‘Sleep,’ she said.
Still slurring his words, Devdas said, ‘Are you up to something?
Didn’t I just tell you, my pockets are empty. It’s no use, pretty lady.’
The pretty lady knew that. She said, ‘Pay me tomorrow.’
Devdas said, ‘Such faith—it’s not good. Tell me the truth—what do
you want?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ and she went into the
next room.
When Devdas awoke, it was late morning. The room was empty.
Chandramukhi had bathed and gone: downstairs to prepare lunch.
Devdas looked around—he had never come to this room, he didn’t
know a single object here. He didn’t remember anything of the
previous night, except that someone had taken care of him ever so
tenderly. Someone had brought him here lovingly and put him to
bed.
Chandramukhi walked into the room. She had changed her earlier
attire. She still wore the jewels, but the colourful sari, bindi, and the
betel leaf stains on her lips were all gone. She came in wearing an
ordinary sari. Devdas looked at her and laughed, ‘From where did
you burgle me in here last night?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘I didn’t steal you away, just picked you up.’
Suddenly Devdas grew serious, ‘Be that as it may. But what is all
this with you again? When did you come here? You’re fairly glittering
with jewellery—who gave you all this?’
Chandramukhi looked at him sharply and said, ‘Don’t.’
Devdas laughed and said, ‘All right, can’t I even joke about it?
When did you come?’
‘About one and a half months ago.’
Devdas did some calculations in his head and said, ‘So you came
here soon after you went to my house?’
Surprised, Chandramukhi asked, ‘How did you know I went to
Talshonapur?’
Devdas said, ‘I went back there soon after you left. A maid—the
one who escorted you to my sister-in-law—told me: yesterday a
woman came here from Ashathjhuri village, she’s very beautiful.
That said it all. But why did you get all these ornaments made
again?’
‘I didn’t have them made—these are all fake. I bought them here in
Calcutta. Just look at the waste though—I spent all this money for
your sake. And you didn’t even recognize me yesterday when you
saw me.’
Devdas laughed, ‘I may not have recognized you, but the caring
was familiar. I do remember thinking, who could be so caring but for
my Chandramukhi?’
She wanted to weep for joy. After a few moments’ silence she
asked, ‘Devdas, you don’t hate me quite as much now, do you?’
Devdas said, ‘No, but I do love you.’
In the afternoon as he prepared for his bath, she noticed a piece of
flannel tied around his stomach. Frightened, she asked, ‘Why have
you tied that?’
 Devdas said, ‘I get an ache there sometimes. But why are you so
scared?’
Chandramukhi struck her brow and said, ‘Have you gone and
ruined yourself—is your liver infected?’
Devdas laughed and said, ‘Chandramukhi, perhaps that’s what it
is.’
The same day the doctor came and examined Devdas for a long
time. He was most concerned. He prescribed some medicines and
advised that the utmost care was needed, or things could come to a
fatal pass. They both understood the upshot of this advice. Word
was sent home and Dharmadas arrived; some money was drawn
from the bank for the treatment. Two days passed smoothly after
dus. But on the third day Devdas had fever.
He sent for Chandramukhi and said, ‘You came at the right
moment, or you may have never set eyes on me again.’
Chandramukhi wiped her tears and began to tend to him in right
earnest. She prayed with folded hands, ‘God, never in my dreams
did I imagine I would come in so handy at such a crucial hour. But
please let Devdas get well.’
Devdas was bedridden for nearly a month. Then he slowly began
to recover. The malady was contained.
One day Devdas said, ‘Chandramukhi, your name is really long—I
can’t say it all the time. Shall I shorten it?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘Sure.’
Devdas said, ‘So from now on I’ll call you Bou.’
Chandramukhi laughed, ‘Bou? You mean “wife”? But why?’
‘Does everything have to have a reason?’
‘No … If that’s what you want, go ahead. But won’t you tell me why
you have this wish?’
‘No. Don’t ask me the reason.’
Chandramukhi nodded, ‘All right.’
Devdas was silent for several minutes. Then he asked gravely,
‘Tell me, Bou, what am I to you that you are caring for me like this?’
 Chandramukhi was neither a bashful, blushing bride, nor a
gauche, naïve girl; she looked at Devdas serenely and her voice
dripped compassion, ‘You are my everything—don’t you know that
yet?’
Devdas was staring at the wall. He didn’t take his eyes off it as he
spoke slowly, ‘I do, but it doesn’t bring much joy. I loved Paro so
much, she loved me so much—and yet, there was such pain. After
that torment I vowed never to set foot in this trap again; and I didn’t,
at least not by choice. But why did you do this? Why did you get me
involved like this?’ After a while he said, ‘Bou, perhaps you will also
suffer like Paro.’
Chandramukhi covered her face and sat down on the edge of the
bed.
Devdas continued, ‘You two are so unlike each other, but still
similar. One proud and haughty, the other gentle and restrained. She
has little patience and you are so forbearing. She has a good name,
respect, and you live in shame. Everyone loves her, but nobody
loves you. But I love you, yes, of course I love you.’ He heaved a
great sigh and spoke again, ‘I do not know what the judge of sin and
virtue up above is going to make of you, but if we ever meet after
death, I will never be able to part from you.’
Chandramukhi wept in silence and prayed fervently, ‘Dear God, if
ever, in a future life, this sinner is granted pardon, let that be my
reward.’
A couple of months passed. Devdas was healed, but he wasn’t
fully recovered. He needed a change of air. The following day he
was headed westwards, accompanied only by Dharmadas.
Chandramukhi begged, ‘You will need a maid too, let me come
with you.’
Devdas said, ‘Impossible. Whatever I may do, I cannot be so
shameless.’
Chandramukhi was robbed of speech. She wasn’t stupid and she
understood him well. Come what may, she could not have a place of
pride in the world. She could help Devdas regain his health, she
could give him pleasure, but she could never give him respectability.
She wiped away her tears and asked, ‘When will I see you again?’
‘Can’t say. But as long as there s life in me, I will not forget you; I’ll
always yearn for a sight of you.’
Chandramukhi touched his feet and stood aside. Quietly, she said,
‘That’s enough for me; I never wanted more than that.’
Before leaving, Devdas gave two thousand rupees to
Chandramukhi and said, ‘Keep the money. You can’t trust life and
death. I don’t want you to be helpless and destitute.’
Once again, Chandramukhi got the message. So she held out her
hand and took the money. ‘Just tell me one thing before you go …’
she said.
Devdas glanced at her, ‘What is it?’
Chandramukhi said, ‘Your sister-in-law told me that you have
contracted unmentionable diseases. Is that true?’
Devdas was hurt at that. ‘I must say that woman is capable of a
lot,’ he said. ‘If I had such a disease, wouldn’t you know? Is there
anything about me that you aren’t aware of? In this respect you know
me better than even Paro.’
Chandramukhi dashed away her tears and said, ‘Thank goodness.
But still, be careful. You are not in the best of health; don’t make any
more mistakes and make it worse.’
In response Devdas merely smiled.
Chandramukhi said, ‘Another request—if you feel even a bit
unwell, send for me.’
Devdas looked into her eyes and said, ‘I’ll do that, Bou.’
She touched his feet once more and ran away into the next room.
 16

AFTER LEAVING CALCUTTA, DEVDAS LIVED IN ALLAHABAD FOR

SOME TIME. From there he wrote to Chandramukhi, ‘Bou, I had
decided never to love again. For one thing, it is very painful to love
and lose, and on top of that, falling in love again would be the
biggest folly, I think.’
But as the days passed, Devdas often wished that Chandramukhi
could have been with him. The very next moment he’d back off
apprehensively, ‘Oh no, that won’t be good—if Paro ever came to
know of it …’
Thus it was Paro one day and Chandramukhi’s turn the next,
presiding over his heart. Sometimes he had visions of both, side by
side, as if they were the closest of friends. In his mind the two had
become linked in the strangest of ways. Sometimes, late at night, the
thought would come to him that both of them must have fallen
asleep. At the very thought that they were unreachable, his heart felt
bereft and a lifeless discontentment echoed around it in vain.
Thereafter, Devdas travelled to Lahore. Chunilal was working
there; he heard of his old friend’s arrival and came to meet him. After
a long time, Devdas tasted liquor again. He thought of
Chandramukhi, who had forbidden him to drink. He could see her—
ever so bright, so calm and collected; she had so much love for him.
Parvati had now gone to sleep where he was concerned. She only
flared up from time to time, like the wick of a lamp about to go out.
The climate here didn’t suit Devdas. He fell ill often and his
stomach ached frequently. One day Dharmadas was almost in tears,
‘Deva, you are falling sick again. Let’s go somewhere else.’
Devdas answered distractedly, ‘Let’s go.’
Usually Devdas didn’t drink at home. He did if Chunilal came over,
but usually he went out of the house and drank. He came home late
at night—and some nights he never came back. For the last two
days there had been no sign of him. Weeping, Dharmadas refused
to touch food or drink. On the third day Devdas came back home, his
body burning with fever. He lay down and couldn’t get up again.
Three or four doctors came and began to attend to him.
Dharmadas said, ‘Deva, let me write to Mother in Varanasi—’
Devdas stopped him hastily, ‘Clod forbid—how can I stand before
Mother in this state?’
Dharmadas protested, ‘Anybody can fall sick; you shouldn’t keep it
from your mother in these difficult times. There’s nothing to be
ashamed of, Deva, let’s go to Varanasi.’
Devdas turned away, ‘No Dharmadas, I can’t go to her like this.
Let me get well, then we’ll go and visit her.’
For an instant Chandramukhi’s name came to Dharmadas’s lips;
but he hated her so much that he couldn’t bring himself to utter it.
Devdas also remembered her frequently. But he didn’t feel like
talking about it. News hadn’t been sent out to his mother or to
Chandramukhi; naturally, no one came over.
Devdas began to recover slowly over a period of time. One day he
sat up in bed and said, ‘Dharmadas, come on, let’s go somewhere
else now.’
He packed his things, bade Chunilal goodbye and returned to
Allahabad; he felt much better now. After some months, he asked,
‘Dharma, can’t we go to a new place? I have never seen Bombay;
shall we go there?’
He was so excited that Dharmadas agreed, though reluctantly. It
was the month of May and Bombay wasn’t very hot. Devdas
recovered some more after arriving there.
Dharmadas asked, ‘Can we go back home now?’
Devdas said, ‘No, I’m doing fine. I want to stay here for some more
time.’
A year passed. One morning in August Devdas came out of a
hospital in Bombay, leaning on Dharmadas for support, and got into
a buggy. Dharmadas said, ‘Deva, I suggest we go to Mother.’
 Devdas’s eyes filled with tears; for the last few days, as he lay on
the hospital bed, he had thought that he had everything and yet
nothing. He had a mother, an elder brother, Paro who was more than
a sister to him—and then there was Chandramukhi. He had
everyone, but no one had him.
Dharmadas also wept. He asked, ‘So then Deva, are we going to
Mother?’
Devdas looked away and dashed away his tears, ‘No Dharmadas,
I don’t feel like going before Mother like this—I don’t think the time
has come.’
The aged Dharmadas howled in misery, ‘But Deva, your mother is
still alive!’
They both understood just how much that statement revealed.
Devdas really wasn’t doing too well. His liver was badly infected and
he was racked with coughs and ran a frequent fever. The dark
shadow of pain loomed over his face and his body was all bones. His
eyes were sunken and shone with an unnatural brightness. His hair
was rough and taut—the strands of hair could almost be counted off.
His fingers were repulsive, emaciated and marked by ugly sores.
At the station Dharmadas asked, ‘I shall buy tickets to go where,
Deva?’
Devdas considered this carefully and replied, ‘Let’s go home first;
the rest can come later.’
They bought tickets for Hooghly and boarded the train.
Dharmadas stayed close to Devdas. Before dusk Devdas’s eyes
stung and the fever had him in its grip again. He called Dharmadas
and said, ‘Dharma, today I feel as if even getting home will be
difficult.’
Dharmadas was scared, ‘Why, Deva?’
Devdas tried to smile and simply said, ‘I have fever again,
Dharma.’
When they were passing Varanasi, Devdas was comatose with
fever. He came to when they were close to Patna. ‘Oh no, Dharma, I
suppose I wasn’t fated to see Mother,’ he said.
Dharmadas said, ‘Deva, let’s get off at Patna and see a doctor.’
Devdas answered, ‘No, let it be Let’s just go home.’
It was the early hours of dawn when the train stopped at Pandua.
It had rained all night. Devdas stood up. Dharmadas was fast asleep
on the floor. Very softly Devdas touched his brow—he felt too shy to
wake him. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. The train
left, as Dharmadas slept on peacefully.
Shivering, Devdas came out of the station. He beckoned to the
coachman of a buggy and asked, ‘Hey there, could you take me to
Hatipota village?’
He looked at Devdas, then looked around him and said, ‘No Babu,
the roads are not good. My horses can’t go all that way.’
Alarmed, Devdas asked, ‘Could I get a palanquin?’
The coachman said, ‘No, Babu.’
The ground seemed to be slipping away from under his feet and
Devdas sat down quickly. Wasn’t it meant to be then? His face
mirrored his imminent death, there for all to see. The coachman took
pity on him, ‘Babu, shall I get you a bullock cart?’
Devdas asked, ‘How long will it take to reach there?’
‘Roads are not good, Babu, perhaps a couple of days.’
Devdas calculated mentally, ‘Will I live a couple of days?’ But he
had to go to Paro. His numerous taunts to her, all the mischief he
had played on her came to mind. But he had to make his last
promise to her come true. He didn’t have long to go—that was the
problem.
Sitting in the bullock cart, he thought of his mother and the tears
flowed. One more face, pure and innocent, floated into his
consciousness—it was Chandramukhi’s. He had spurned her all his
life—she led a life of sin, he had thought. Today, when her face took
its pride of place beside his mother’s, his tears flowed like never
before. He’d never see her again; she may not even get the news
until much later. But still, he must visit Paro. He had promised to see
her one last time. He felt it was a promise he was bound to honour.
The roads were bad. The rainwater had collected in places and
some parts of the road were in bad shape. The bullock cart clattered
on slowly. At times the cart had to be pushed and at times the
bullocks had to be thrashed mercilessly—but the sixteen-mile-long
journey had to be completed somehow. The chilly wind blew
relentlessly and after dusk Devdas’s fever came on again. Uneasily,
he asked, ‘Coachman, how much longer?’
‘Another eight to ten miles, Babu.’
‘Make it quick, my friend. I’ll give you a very hefty tip.’ He fished
out a hundred-rupee note from his pocket and said, ‘I’ll give you a
hundred—please hurry.’
Thereafter, Devdas had no inkling of how the night sped by and
the miles were covered; he lay unconscious. When he came to in the
morning he asked, ‘Hey there, how much longer? Will this ever end?’
The coachman said, ‘Six more miles to go, Babu.’
Devdas heaved a sigh, ‘Please try to go faster, friend—there isn’t
much time.’
The coachman didn’t understand, but he began to whip his
bullocks and swear at them with renewed vigour. The cart moved
faster and faster as Devdas grew restless within. All he could think
was, ‘Shall we meet? Will I reach?’
At noon the coachman stopped the cart and fed his bullocks, ate
his own lunch and then resumed the journey. He asked, ‘Babu, won’t
you eat something?’
‘Oh no, but I am very thirsty. Could I have some water?’
The coachman fetched some water from a wayside pond. In the
evening, shaking with the fever, Devdas had blood streaming from
his nose. He grasped on to his nose for dear life. Then he realized
his gums were bleeding too and he was having trouble breathing.
Gasping for breath, he croaked, ‘How much more?’
 The coachman replied, ‘About two more miles to go, Babu. We
should be there around ten in the night.’
With great difficulty Devdas raised his eyes to the road ahead and
breathed, ‘Dear God.’
The coachman asked, ‘Babu, why are you panting?’
Devdas couldn’t even answer.
The cart sped on, but instead of ten, it was almost midnight when
it came to a stop under the huge peepul tree before the house of the
zamindar of Hatipota. The coachman called out, ‘Babu, we’ve
reached. Come down now.’
No answer came.
He called again, and still there was no answer.
He brought the lamp close to his passenger’s face apprehensively
and asked, ‘Babu, are you sleeping?’
Devdas’s eyes were open; his lips moved, but no sound came
forth. The coachman called again, ‘Babu.’
Devdas wanted to raise his arms, but he couldn’t; two teardrops
rolled down his cheeks.
The coachman had the presence of mind to lay a makeshift bed of
hay on the stone platform that ran around the peepul tree. Then he
heaved and hoisted, and moved Devdas from the cart and onto the
bed. There wasn’t a soul in sight; the zamindar’s house lay in deep
slumber. Devdas struggled to take the hundred-rupee note from his
pocket and handed it to the driver. By the light of the lantern the
coachman saw that the babu stared at him, but was unable to speak.
He guessed how critical his condition was and quietly tied the money
into the end of his shawl. Devdas’s body was wrapped up in his own
shawl. The lantern burned bright and his new friend sat at his feet,
lost in thought.
The first rays of dawn touched the sky. People from the zamindar
household came out and saw a novel sight. A man lay dying under
the tree—a gentleman; he had on a shawl, expensive shoes, rings
on his fingers. One by one many people gathered around. Word
reached Bhuvan-babu soon. He sent for the doctor and came around
himself. Devdas looked at each one of the visitors in turn; but he had
lost his voice. He couldn’t say a word. Only the tears kept rolling
down his cheeks. The coachman told them all that he knew, but it
wasn’t much. The doctor came and pronounced, ‘Last moments—
he’ll go any time now.’
Everyone said, ‘Poor soul.’
Parvati heard about the dying man too, sitting in her room upstairs,
and said, ‘Poor soul.’
Someone took pity on him and poured a drop of water into his
mouth, as was customary for the dying. Devdas looked at him
piteously and then closed his eyes. He drew a few more tortured
breaths and then it was all over.
There were debates over who would cremate him, who should be
touching him, what caste he was etc. Bhuvan-babu sent word to the
nearest police station. The inspector came and took a look: death by
cirrhosis of the liver, blood on the nose and mouth. Two letters were
found in his pocket. One was from Dwijodas Mukherjee of
Talshonapur to Devdas of Bombay: ‘It’s impossible to send any more
money now.’
The second was from Harimati Devi in Varanasi, writing again to
Devdas of Bombay: ‘How are you?’
On his left wrist the first letter of his name was tattooed. The
inspector declared that the man was indeed Devdas.
A blue stone set in gold on his ring finger: worth approximately a
hundred and fifty rupees. An expensive but worn out shawl:
approximately two hundred rupees. The inspector made a note of his
clothes and all his belongings. Both Bhuvan-babu and Mahendra
were present there. When he heard the name Talshonapur,
Mahendra said, ‘Mother’s home town—if she could take a look—’
His father brushed him aside, ‘Do you want her to come and
identify the corpse now?’
The inspector laughed in agreement, ‘Question doesn’t arise.’
 Although it was now established from the letters that it was a
brahmin’s corpse, no one in the village wanted to touch it. So the
pyre-burners (the lowest of the low castes) came and picked up the
body. They did a hash job of burning it beside some godforsaken
pond and threw the charred cadaver to one side; crows and vultures
perched on it, dogs and wolves snatched at it.
All those who heard about it said, ‘Poor soul.’ Even the maids and
servants were full of it, ‘Poor man, decent family, rich too. Two
hundred rupee shawl, a hundred and fifty rupee ring, all now in the
inspector’s custody—and the letters too.’
Parvati had heard the news in the morning, but because she
couldn’t focus on anything for too long these days, she hadn’t really
taken it all in. But since everyone could talk of little else all day long,
Parvati called a maid to her room just before dusk and asked,
‘What’s the matter? Who has died?’
The maid said, ‘Oh dear, no one knows, Mother. It must’ve been
fate that he came all this way to die here. He lay there in the damp
and cold since last night and died only at around nine this morning.’
Parvati sighed and asked, ‘Did they find out who it was?’
The maid said, ‘Mahen-babu knows all about it; I don’t know
much.’
She sent for Mahendra. He said, ‘It’s a Devdas Mukherjee, from
your village.’
Parvati came very close to him and looked at him sharply, ‘Who
—? Dev-da—? How do you know?’
‘There were two letters in his pocket, Mother; one was from
Dwijodas Mukherjee—’
Parvati broke in, ‘Yes, his elder brother.’
‘The other was from Harimati Devi of Varanasi—’
‘Yes, his mother.’
‘His initial was tattooed on his wrist—’
Parvati said, ‘Yes, he got that done when he went to Calcutta for
the first time—’
 ‘There was a blue stone set in a ring—’
‘His uncle gave that to him at the time of his thread-ceremony. I
must go—’ Parvati dashed down the stairs.
Stunned out of his wits, Mahendra said, ‘Mother, where are you
going?’
‘To Dev-da.’
‘He isn’t there any more. They took him away.’
‘Oh no—dear God, help me,’ Parvati sobbed as she ran.
Mahendra darted forward and blocked her way, ‘Have you lost your
mind, Mother—where will you go?’
Parvati stared him down indignantly, ‘Mahen, do you really take
me for a madwoman? Let me go.’
Mahendra looked at her eyes and moved aside, silently following
in her wake. Parvati went outside. The officers and clerks were still
at work and they looked up, surprised. Bhuvan-babu looked up over
his glasses and asked, ‘Who’s there?’
Mahendra said, ‘Mother.’
‘What? Where’s she going?’
Mahendra said, ‘To see Devdas.’
Bhuvan Chowdhury screamed, ‘Have you all lost your collective
minds—go, go and fetch her. She’s mad. Oh, Mahen, oh Parvati.’
Then the maids and servants gathered around and caught Parvati
as she fell in a faint; they took her into the house. The next day she
regained consciousness, but she didn’t speak a word. She just called
one maid and asked, ‘He came in the night, didn’t he? All night long
…’
And then she fell silent.
I have no idea what has become of Parvati now, after so many
years. Neither do I want to find out. But sometimes I do feel sorry for
Devdas. After you’ve read this story, maybe you’ll feel the same way
as I do. There is just one thing that I can say. If ever you happen to
come across a hapless, unruly rascal like Devdas, please pray for
his soul. Pray that, whatever happens, he shouldn’t meet with the
kind of unfortunate death that Devdas did. Death is inevitable, but at
the final moment at least one loving touch should brush his brow;
one caring, yearning face should bid him goodbye for ever—he
should die with the sight of one teardrop shed in his memory.
PARINEETA
 1

IF A THUNDERBOLT HAD STRUCK HIM DOWN, HE WOULD HAVE

UNDOUBTEDLY experienced searing pain. But the agony reflected on
Gurucharan’s visage was probably far greater when, right in the
morning, he was brought the news that his wife had safely delivered
their fifth girl child.
Gurucharan was a petty bank clerk with a salary of sixty rupees.
He had the appearance of a man who was all shrivelled up, whose
mind had withered away. His demeanour too seemed to reflect an
impassive and uninvolved attitude. Even then, this ominous good
news froze the hookah in his hand and all that he could do was to
lean back weakly on the ancient pillow. There was no energy in him
to even release the pent up deep sigh.
The joyful news had been heralded by his ten-year-old daughter
Annakali. She said, ‘Baba, won’t you come and take a look?’
Looking up at his daughter, Gurucharan said, ‘Just fetch me a
glass of water, dear.’
Annakali left to get the water. As she went out, Gurucharan’s mind
raced through all the expenses involved in the delivery. Then, in the
manner of train passengers of the third class who with all their
belongings of various shapes and sizes cause a stampede in their
efforts to bustle in through the door—innumerable worries and
problems began to flood in. He remembered that the previous year,
on the auspicious occasion of his second daughter’s marriage, this
two-storeyed house of his in Bowbazar had been mortgaged and
that the interest for the last six months was also overdue. Only a
month or so remained before the festive season started and gifts
would have to be sent to the in-laws of yet another daughter.
Yesterday in the office, in spite of working till 8 p.m., he had been
unable to balance the debit and credit columns in the ledger; and it
was mandatory to send the accounts to England by noon. Further,
his superior had laid down the stern injunction that dirty and unkempt
clothes could not be worn to office on pain of a fine. But since last
week, the washerwoman had presumably disappeared—along with
half the clothes of the household.
Now, Gurucharan felt as if he did not have the strength to even
lean back against the pillow. Raising the hookah aloft he crumpled
onto the bed. He thought to himself, ‘Dear God, so many people are
crushed to death in the traffic of Kolkata every day; in your eyes are
they even greater sinners than I am? Almighty, show some mercy
towards me, can’t some vehicle run over me?’
None in the family noticed the deep-rooted agony of the careworn,
battered man, overburdened and aged beyond his years.
Handing him the water Annakali said, ‘Baba, get up, here is the
water.’
Sitting up, Gurucharan gulped clown the water in one breath and
said, ‘Ahh! Go on, dear, take away the glass.’
Once she left, Gurucharan lay back on the pillow again.
Entering the room Lalita said, ‘Mama, I have brought tea, get up.’
On hearing that tea had been brought, Gurucharan sat up once
again. Looking at Lalita, he felt soothed and half his problems
seemed to melt away. Affectionately Gurucharan said, ‘You have
kept a vigil all night, come and sit here, next to me.’
Lalita said with a soft smile, ‘I did not stay awake all night, Mama.’
Gurucharan answered, ‘That does not matter, come close to me.’
Lalita sat down beside him, and Gurucharan placing his hand on
her head suddenly remarked aloud, ‘If only I could marry this blessed
child of mine into an appropriately prosperous family, it would be a
truly worthwhile achievement.’
With bowed head Lalita poured the tea as Gurucharan continued,
‘My dear, you have to labour very hard all the time in your poor
Mama’s household, don’t you?’
Lalita shook her head, ‘Why do you feel that only I work all the
time, Mama? Everybody works and so do I.’
 Now Gurucharan smiled, ‘So, Lalita, tell me, who will be taking
care of the cooking today?’
Looking up she answered, ‘Why Mama, I will manage!’
Surprised, Gurucharan could only respond, ‘How will you manage,
my dear? Do you even know how to cook?’
‘I do know, Mama. I have picked up everything from Mami.’
Putting down the tea cup Gurucharan said, ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes! Mami has often shown me what to do and, having learnt
so much from her, I have done the cooking on so many occasions,’
saying which Lalita lowered her head once again. Laying his hand on
her head, Gurucharan silently blessed her. One giant burden
regarding the running of the house seemed to lift from his mind.
Gurucharan’s room opened on to the alley. Sipping tea and
looking out, he suddenly called out loudly, ‘Shekhar, is that you? Just
step in for a moment.’
A tall, handsome and well-built young man came in.
Gurucharan said, ‘You have heard what your Khurima has done
this morning?’
Smiling gently Shekhar answered, ‘What has she done? You are
referring to the birth of your daughter, aren’t you?’
Sighing heavily, Gurucharan responded, ‘You too talk about this so
casually, Shekhar; only I know what this really means.’
‘Don’t talk in that manner, Kaka, Khurima will be very upset.
Besides, whomever the Almighty has sent should be welcomed with
joy.’
After remaining silent for a while, Gurucharan replied, ‘I also know
that one ought to celebrate! But, young man, even God has not been
very fair. I am poor, why so much bounty in my household? Even this
very house has been mortgaged to your father—but that does not
matter, it does not upset me in the least. But, just think of this—this
orphan, this Lalita of mine—this golden child is only fit for royalty.
How do I give her away in marriage to just anybody? If innumerable
jewels like the Kohinoor that grace the crown were heaped together,
they would still fall short when compared to my child. However, who
will appreciate that? Sheer penury will force me to give away this
rare gem to someone who is unworthy of her. Tell me, doesn’t it tear
one’s heart apart to think of such circumstances? She is all of
thirteen years old and I do not have thirteen coins to my name to
even look for a suitable match for her.’
Gurucharan’s eyes brimmed over with tears. Shekhar remained
silent. Gurucharan said once again, ‘Shekharnath, just look around
in your circle of friends. Maybe something can be done for this girl. I
have heard that there are some boys who don’t think so much of
money or dowry, but take into consideration only the girl herself. If
somehow you could find someone like that … I am telling you
Shekhar, my blessings will make you the king of kings. What else
can I say? It is because of your family’s patronage that I live in the
neighbourhood. Your father looks on me as a younger brother.’
Shekhar nodded in agreement.
Gurucharan continued, ‘Don’t forget, my boy, keep it in mind. Ever
since she turned eight Lalita has been studying and growing up
under your guidance. You have seen for yourself what an intelligent,
sensitive and disciplined girl she is. Just a slip of a child and from
today it is she who will be doing all the cooking, serving—everything
is in her hands.’
At this moment Lalita looked up once and lowered her eyes
immediately. Her lips quivered slightly. Gurucharan continued with a
sigh, ‘Did her father earn any less! But he gave away all his property
in such a manner that nothing remains, even for this one child.’
Shekhar did not say anything. Yet again Gurucharan spoke aloud,
‘But then, how can I say he did not leave her anything? The
blessings of the people whose miseries he helped wipe away have
all seeped deep into her. Or else, how could such a young child
assume the form of a Bountiful Mother! Is that true or not, Shekhar?’
Smiling, Shekhar did not respond.
 On seeing him about to leave Gurucharan asked, ‘Where are you
off to so early?’
Shekhar answered, ‘To the barrister—there is a case.’ As he stood
up, Gurucharan reminded him once again, ‘Just keep what I have
said in mind! She is a bit dark, but such a pretty face and so much
love and caring cannot be found in a person anywhere else on
earth.’
Nodding, Shekhar left with a smile. He was about twenty-five.
Since the completion of his Master’s degree he had been teaching,
and only the previous year had qualified as an attorney. His father,
Nabin Roy, who had made millions in the jaggery trade, had given up
active business and now concentrated on money lending from the
house itself. His elder son was Abinash the attorney; Shekharnath
was the younger one. Their gigantic three-storeyed house stood at
the head of the street and a large open terrace allowed easy access
and communication between his house and Gurucharan’s; hence an
intimacy had rapidly grown between the two families. The women of
the household often used this route to communicate and keep in
touch.
 2

A MATRIMONIAL ALLIANCE FOR SHEKHAR HAD BEEN

PROPOSED FROM A wealthy family of Shyambazar; the matter had
been under discussion for some time now. The other day, the
prospective bride’s family had come over for a visit and today they
wanted to appoint an appropriately auspicious day in the coming
winter for the marriage. Naturally, it was up to Shekhar’s parents to
confirm their interest first. Shekhar’s mother Bhuvaneshwari,
however, did not consent. She sent word with the maid-servant,
‘Only when the boy chooses a bride for himself will I get my son
married and not otherwise.’
Nabin Roy was unhappy with this complicated logic of his wife. He
was focussed only on the monetary benefits of this alliance and was
irked that his wife should have such a flippant outlook. ‘What sense
does that make?’ he said irritatedly. ‘We have already had a look at
the girl. Let us confirm an engagement—and the formalities can then
be finalized on an appropriately auspicious day.’
Bhuvaneshwari knew that her husband was displeased. Still, she
refused to consent to a formal engagement. In a display of anger,
Nabin Roy had his meal very late that day and even took his
afternoon siesta in the outer room.
One evening, about five to six days later, Lalita entered the plushly
decorated room that belonged to Shekhar. He was standing in front
of the large mirror, preparing himself to go out for the inspection of a
prospective bride. Silently looking on for a while, she asked, ‘Are you
going out to choose a bride?’
Turning around, Shekhar said, ‘Ah, there you are! Help me to
dress such that my bride chooses me!’
Lalita laughed and responded, ‘I don’t have time today, Shekhar
da—I have just come for some money.’ She then proceeded to take
the keys of his cupboard from under the pillow, and opening the
drawer, took some notes which she tied to one end of her sari,
saying to herself, ‘I am taking money whenever I need it, but how will
it all be repaid?’
Carefully brushing his hair into a particular style, Shekhar replied,
‘It will not be repaid Lalita, on the contrary it is being repaid.’
Not understanding, Lalita looked on blankly.
‘You don’t understand?’
Lalita shook her head, ‘No!’
‘Grow up a little more and you will,’ saying which Shekhar put on
his shoes and left.

That night Shekhar was stretched out on the couch when his mother
entered the room. He sat up quickly. Sitting at one end of the couch
she asked, ‘And how did you find the girl?’
Looking at his mother affectionately, Shekhar answered, ‘Fine!’
Bhuvaneshwari was nearly fifty, but had kept herself so well that
she did not look a day over thirty-five. Further, the maternal heart
that beat in her bosom was evergreen and ever tender. She came
from a rustic background; she had been born and brought up in a
village—but even in an urban setting she did not appear out of place
for even a day. Just as easily as she accepted the vibrant, pulsating
life of the city, she also kept in touch with the calmness and
sweetness of her birthplace. Just how proud Shekhar was of such an
outstanding mother, perhaps Bhuvaneshwari herself did not have
any idea. The Almighty had blessed Shekhar with a lot—sturdy good
health, good looks, youth and intelligence; but it was being his
mother’s son that he regarded wholeheartedly as being the biggest
boon of all.
Presently his mother said, ‘Wonderful, you remain silent after
making such a remark!’
Once again with a smile Shekhar responded, ‘Well, I did answer
your question.’
 Bhuvaneshwari too smiled and said, ‘What sort of answer was
that? Tell me, is she dark or fair? Whom does she resemble? Our
Lalita?’
Looking up Shekhar replied, ‘Lalita is dark, this girl is fairer.’
‘And her features?’
‘Not bad.’
‘Then, should I talk to your father?’
Shekhar remained silent.
Looking at her son for a couple of minutes, Bhuvaneshwari finally
asked, ‘What about her education? How far has she studied?’
‘I did not think of asking,’ Shekhar replied.
His mother exclaimed, ‘You did not think of asking! You did not ask
about a matter which has become the most important factor these
days?!’
Shekhar laughed and said, ‘No Ma, the thought did not even occur
to me.’
Amazed at her son’s reply, Bhuvaneshwari stared at him for a
while and then, laughing aloud exclaimed, ‘That means you have no
interest in marrying her!’
Shekhar was about to say something but seeing Lalita enter the
room, fell silent. Lalita walked in steadily and took a post behind
Bhuvaneshwari’s chair. Extending her left hand Bhuvaneshwari
brought her forward and asked, ‘What is it, my dear?’
Quietly Lalita answered, ‘Nothing, Ma.’
Earlier Lalita used to address Bhuvaneshwari as ‘Mashima’, but,
one day forbidding her to do so Bhuvaneshwari had said, ‘I am no
aunt of yours, Lalita, I’m your mother’ Ever since, Lalita had
addressed her as ‘Ma’.
Pulling her even closer, Bhuvaneshwari affectionately asked,
‘Nothing at all? Then I suppose you have come just to have a look at
me!’
Shekhar questioned, ‘Has come to see you? But isn’t she
supposed to be cooking in her Mama’s house?’
 ‘But why should she cook at all?’ asked his mother.
Surprised, Shekhar responded, ‘Who else will do the cooking in
that house? Even her uncle said the other day that she would have
to see to the cooking and all the housework now.’
Bhuvaneshwari laughed aloud, ‘Her uncle! What he said then is
hardly relevant. She is not even married as yet—who will eat what
she has cooked? She need not get bothered by all that. I have sent
over our Brahmin cook, that lady will see to everything. Your sister-
in-law is doing our cooking, so there’s no need to worry about food
and such matters.’
It was apparent to Shekhar that his mother had taken on herself
the responsibility of easing the heavy burdens of their poverty-
stricken neighbours; he released a sigh of relief.

A month passed by. One day as Shekhar lay stretched out on his
couch Lalita entered his room. Extracting the bunch of keys, she
rather noisily opened the cupboard drawer. Without raising his eyes
from the book, Shekhar asked, ‘What?’
Lalita answered, ‘I am taking money.’
‘Hmm!’ said Shekhar and continued to read. Knotting the money at
one end of her sari Lalita stood up. She had made quite an effort in
dressing up that day and wanted Shekhar to notice. She said, ‘I have
taken ten rupees, Shekhar da.’
‘Fine,’ said Shekhar, without looking up from his book. Having
failed in attracting his attention, Lalita pottered about with this and
that, delayed without cause—but that too yielded no result, she had
to leave perforce. But she could not leave now, without speaking to
Shekhar. She was supposed to go to the theatre with some others in
a short while; she stood and waited for Shekhar’s permission to go.
Lalita did not take a single step without Shekhar’s permission. No
one had instructed her to do so, nor was there any reason for this. It
was just that she had always taken his permission; that was how
things had been, for a long time, and never had she ever questioned
or argued with this unspoken rule even once in her mind. With the
intelligence that comes naturally to any human being, Lalita was
conscious of the fact that while others could do as they pleased, go
where they wanted to, she could not. Lalita was not independent,
and the permission of her uncle and aunt would not suffice either.
From behind the door she gently said, ‘Er, we are going to the
theatre.’
Her mild tones did not reach Shekhar, so she received no reply
from him.
Lalita then raised her voice slightly and said, ‘They are all waiting
for me!’
He must have heard her this time, for now Shekhar put aside his
book and asked, ‘What is the matter?’
Slightly aggrieved, Lalita responded, ‘At last you hear me! We are
going to the theatre.’
Shekhar asked, ‘Who is “we”?’
‘Annakali, Charubala, Mama and I.’
‘Who is this Mama?’
Lalita answered, ‘His name is Girin Babu; he came here about five
days back; he has come from Munger to study for his graduation
from here—a fine person!’
‘I see—you are already friends with him, are very familiar with his
name and profession etc! Now I understand why there has been no
sight or sound of you for the last four to five days. Busy playing cards
I suppose?’
Lalita was a bit taken aback and scared at Shekhar s manner of
speaking. She had not even thought that he could ask her such a
question so she was at a loss for words.
Shekhar continued, ‘You have been playing a lot of cards these
days, isn’t that true?’
Swallowing nervously, Lalita quietly answered, ‘But Charu said …’
‘Charu said? What did she say?’ Suddenly noticing that she was
quite dressed up, Shekhar said, ‘I see that you have come all
dressed—all right, go.’
But Lalita found it difficult to leave and stood there in silence.
Charubala was her next-door neighbour and best friend. Her
family belonged to the Brahmo sect. Besides Girin, Shekhar knew
them all. It was seven years since Girin had last: visited their
neighbourhood. He had been a student at Bankipur in the interim
and there had been no need for him to come to Kolkata. Hence
Shekhar was not acquainted with him. Observing Lalita still standing
there he said, ‘Why are you waiting here senselessly? You can
leave,’ and immediately held the book up to his face.
After standing silently for another five minutes or so, Lalita once
again quietly asked, ‘Shall I go?’
‘I told you to, didn’t I, Lalita?’
Observing Shekhar’s mood, Lalita was no longer in any frame of
mind to go to the theatre; but it was also going to be very difficult to
cancel plans. It had been decided that she would bear half the
expenses and that Charu’s uncle would be responsible for the rest.
Lalita was well aware that everyone was waiting for her impatiently
and that their impatience would surely increase in proportion to the
time they were being forced to wait. She could visualize all this, yet
could not think of what to do. It was out of the question to go without
permission. Remaining silent for a couple of minutes, she said, ‘Only
this one time, Shekhar da, may I go?’
Putting the book aside, Shekhar said harshly, ‘Lalita, if you want
to, please go; you are old enough to decide what to do. Why ask me
all this?’
Lalita was startled. It was nothing new to be scolded by Shekhar;
in fact, she was used to it. But in the last two to three years she had
heard nothing like this. Obviously, he was displeased with the idea of
this outing. But her friends were still waiting for her and she too had
come all dressed; it was only now, when she had come to get the
money, that the problems had arisen. Now, what could she possibly
tell them?
 So far Lalita had never been forbidden by Shekhar to go
anywhere. Having come to take his agreement almost for granted,
she had got all dressed up today for a trip to the theatre. But now,
not only was that liberty so abruptly curtailed, but the reason behind
it was a cause of such shame that Lalita had never experienced in all
her thirteen years; she felt it with every iota of her being. She stood
there a few minutes more in hurt silence and then silently left, wiping
eyes brimming over with tears. On reaching home, she sent for
Annakali through a maid and handing her the money said, ‘I am not
well at all Kali, tell my friend that it is impossible for me to go with
you.’
Annakali asked, ‘What is the matter, Lalita di?’
‘My head aches, I feel nauseous … very sick,’ saying which Lalita
turned over to face the wall. Charu then turned up and tried
unsuccessfully to persuade her by whatever means; she even got
her aunt to put in a word, but to no avail at all. The ten rupees in her
hand made Annakali thoroughly restless and raring to go. Afraid that
the programme itself would be cancelled in all this furore, she called
Charu aside and showing her the money said, ‘If Lalita di is all that
ill, she might as well not go, Charu di! She has given me the money;
let us all go.’ It was apparent to Charu that despite being the
youngest, Annakali was by no means lacking in intelligence. She
agreed soon enough and all of them left together—without Lalita.
 3

CHARUBALA’S MOTHER, MANORAMA, LIKED NOTHING BETTER THAN

TO PLAY cards. But, she was not as good at the game as she was
obsessed with it. This handicap was rectified when Lalita was
present as her partner, since the latter was an extremely adroit
player. Ever since the arrival of Manorama’s cousin Girin, there had
been marathon card sessions in Manorama’s room throughout the
afternoon. Girin played well so Lalita was an absolute necessity if
Manorama wanted to match her cousin evenly.
The day after the trip to the theatre, finding her absent at the
scheduled time for the card session, Manorama sent the maid-
servant over to Lalita’s house. Lalita was translating from an English
text into Bengali and refused to leave her books.
When Lalita’s friend also failed in persuading her, Manorama
herself came over. Casting aside Lalita’s books, she said, ‘You need
not break your back over these books Lalita, for you will be no
magistrate once you grow up; rather, play a good game of cards.
Come along!’
Lalita felt herself hemmed in; tearfully she reiterated that it was
impossible for her to go that day, she would surely do so the next
day. Manorama refused to listen to reason and informing Lalita’s
aunt, forcibly left with Lalita. Hence, that day too she had to sit
opposite Girin and play cards. But the game was not much fun that
day. Lalita just could not concentrate in any way; she remained tense
all the while and as soon as dusk fell, she left. Girin took the
opportunity to remark, ‘You sent over the money yesterday, but did
not accompany us; why don’t we go again tomorrow?’
Shaking her head, Lalita mildly replied, ‘No, I was very sick.’
Smiling, Girin said, ‘You have recovered now, tomorrow is an
absolute must.’
 ‘No, no, tomorrow I will have no time,’ Lalita made a rapid exit. It
was not just Shekhar’s anger that had distracted her that day, she
herself had been overcome by an acute sense of embarrassment by
what Shekhar had implied.
Like Shekhar’s house, she was used to moving in and out of
Charu’s house too; she mixed with everyone comfortably as if she
was a member of the household. Hence she had no compunction
about meeting or talking to Charu’s uncle Girin Babu. However, that
day, throughout the entire card session, she could not help
remembering Shekhar’s remarks and think that in spite of knowing
her for a very short period, Girin looked on her with more interest
than was warranted. That a man’s admiring glance could be so
shameful, she had never imagined.
For just a while she stopped by at home, and then went directly to
Shekhar’s house and started work right away. Since childhood she
was the one to see to all the small chores of his room—clearing
away the clutter of books, keeping the table neat and tidy and seeing
to it that pens were clean and ink kept ready for use; no one else did
all this—this was Lalita’s prerogative and responsibility. She started
the process of tidying up immediately, so as to be done before
Shekhar returned.
Whenever she got the opportunity, she would hover about the
house and because she looked on everyone as her own family, she
too was treated as such by everybody. On losing her parents at the
age of eight, Lalita had become a part of her uncle’s household;
since then, like a younger sibling, she had moved in an orbit around
Shekhar and progressed in her studies under his tutelage.
All were aware that she held a very special place in Shekhar’s
affections, but none knew the depths to which that affection had
reached, least of all Lalita herself. Since childhood everyone had
seen Shekhar showering her with so much fondness that nothing
seemed out of place or unseemly. Perhaps because it did not,
neither did the possibility that she might one day take her place as a
young bride of the household ever dawn on anyone. No one in
Lalita’s family had drought about it, nor had the thought ever
occurred to Bhuvaneshwari.
Lalita had planned on completing her chores and leaving before
Shekhar appeared; however, she was so involved in tidying up his
room that she lost track of time. Suddenly the sound of footsteps
alerted her and she immediately stood aside.
As soon as he saw her Shekhar remarked, ‘There you are! So,
how late did you return yesterday?’
Lalita did not answer.
Leaning back comfortably in an armchair, Shekhar continued, ‘At
what hour did you come back? Two? Three? Why aren’t you
replying?’
Lalita remained silent.
Irritated, Shekhar dismissed her, ‘Go downstairs, Mother wants
you.’
Bhuvaneshwari was organizing a light meal. Lalita went up to her
and asked, ‘Ma, did you want me?’
‘No, why?’ Looking up at Lalita she asked, ‘Why are you looking
so wan and washed out? Haven’t you eaten as yet?’
Lalita shook her head.
Bhuvaneshwari said, ‘All right, you carry this upstairs to your Dada
and come back down to me.’
A little later, Lalita went upstairs with Shekhar’s meal and
observed that he was still sitting in that armchair with his eyes closed
—he had not changed out of his office clothes, neither had he
washed up. Coming close, she said softly, ‘I have brought your food.’
Shekhar did not even look up at her. He simply said, ‘Keep it
somewhere and leave.’
Instead of doing so, Lalita continued to stand there, holding the
tray in silence.
Even without opening his eyes Shekhar was aware that Lalita had
not left and was still standing there; after remaining silent for a
couple of minutes he said, ‘How long will you keep standing? I will
take some time. Just put it down and go.’
Standing quietly, Lalita was steadily getting irked. In soft tones she
said, ‘It does not matter if it is late, I don’t have any work downstairs.’
Looking up at her Shekhar smiled and said, ‘Some words at long
last! There might be no work below, but surely in the other house?
Even if there is nothing in your house, there must be some work for
you in some neighbour’s house? After all, you do not have just one
household to think about, do you, Lalita.’
‘Definitely not!’ she retorted, and banging down the tray in anger
stormed out of the room.
Shekhar called after her, ‘Come and see me in the evening.’
‘I cannot keep moving upstairs and downstairs,’ she muttered and
left.
When she reached Bhuvaneshwari’s room, she was told, ‘You took
your Dada’s meal up, but what about the paan?’
‘I am very hungry, Ma; I just cannot do any more. Let someone
else take it up, please?’ And Lalita sat down emphatically.
Looking at her agitated face, Bhuvaneshwari smiled a bit and said,
‘You sit down and have your meal then, I’ll send the maid up.’
Without another word, Lalita obeyed.
She had not gone to the theatre the day before, yet Shekhar had
scolded her. Piqued, she didn’t show her face to Shekhar for five
days, but went to his room in the afternoons—when he was away at
the office—and did all the chores. Shekhar, realizing his mistake,
sent for her a couple of times, but she still did not turn up.
 4

ONE MORNING, A FEW DAYS LATER, LALITA WAS IN A QUANDARY.

THERE WAS a certain beggar who used to frequent the locality
periodically, and whenever he materialized, he would call out to
Lalita, addressing her as Mother. According to the man, Lalita had
been his mother in a previous birth and no sooner had he seen her
than he had recognized her. Lalita had a great fondness for him and
would always give him a rupee. The impossible blessings that he
would shower on her, promising her the most improbable good
fortunes, would thrill her no end. The beggar appeared that morning
and called out in loud tones, ‘O Mother, where are you?’
His call embarrassed Lalita somewhat. Shekhar was having a
conversation with her uncle just then, so how could she venture into
the room to fetch money? Looking this way and that, she finally
approached her aunt. Having just emerged from a verbal battle with
the maid, Lalita’s aunt had grimly begun cooking; Lalita decided that
it would be unwise to approach her at such a moment, and peeped
out, only to find the mendicant firmly ensconced by the door. Never
having sent him away empty-handed, she just could not bring herself
to set a new precedent.
The man called out once again.
Annakali came running up and said, ‘Lalita di, that “son” of yours is
here.’
Lalita said, ‘Kali, run an errand for me, please. I don’t have a
minute to spare right now. Please run to your Shekhar da and ask
him for a rupee.’
Annakali ran off and in a little while came running back and
handing Lalita a coin said, ‘Here you are.’
Lalita asked, ‘What did Shekhar da say?’
‘Nothing! He told me to take the money from his coat pocket,
which I did.’
 ‘He didn’t say anything else?’
‘No, nothing,’ said Annakali shaking her head, and left to play.
Lalita performed her charitable deed, but did not wait to listen to all
the effusive blessings the beggar had in store for her; she just did
not feel like it today.
The afternoon sessions of card-playing had been continuing full
spate the past couple of days; but that afternoon Lalita excused
herself on pretext of a headache. It was not entirely false though;
she truly felt melancholic. In the evening, sending for Annakali she
asked, ‘Don’t you go to Shekhar da these days to get your lessons
explained?’
Annakali nodded, ‘Why, yes!’
‘Doesn’t Shekhar da enquire about me?’
‘No! Oh, yes, yes, he did so the day before yesterday—whether or
not you played cards in the afternoon.’
Anxiously Lalita enquired, ‘What was your answer?’
Annakali replied, ‘I said that you played cards at Charu didi’s
house in the afternoon. Shekhar da then asked, “Who are the other
players?” I told him that Manorama aunty, Charu didi, her uncle Girin
Babu and you were the players. Tell me, Lalita di, who is a better
player—you or Charu didi’s uncle? Aunty always insists that you are
the best; is that true?’
But Lalita was highly irritated. Not responding to Annakali’s
question, she snapped, ‘Why did you have to talk so much? You
must meddle in everything. In future I will never ever give you
anything!’ She left in a huff.
Annakali was amazed. She just could not grasp the reason for
Lalita’s sudden change of mood.
Manorama’s card sessions ground to a halt over the next two
days. From the very beginning Manorama had suspected that Girin
had become greatly attracted to Lalita and in Lalita’s absence her
suspicions were now confirmed.
 These past two days Girin had been somewhat restless and
absentminded. In the evenings he would not go out for a stroll as
was his normal routine; all of a sudden he would enter the house and
wander about purposelessly from room to room. He turned up that
afternoon and said, ‘Didi, today too there will be no game?’
Manorama answered, ‘How is it possible, Girin? Where are the
participants? Oh well, we three might as well play together …’
Somewhat unenthusiastically Girin responded, ‘Is a game possible
with three people, Didi? Why don’t you send for Lalita?’
‘She will not come.’
Mournfully Girin asked, ‘Why won’t she? They have forbidden her
to come, I suppose?’
Manorama shook her head, ‘No, her uncle and aunt are not people
of that ilk. It is her own choice not to turn up!’
In sudden cheer Girin spoke up, ‘Then, surely if you go one more
time personally, she definitely will!’ Then, suddenly conscious of his
eagerness for Lalita’s company, he immediately felt embarrassed.
Manorama laughed, ‘Fine, then that is what I will do!’ She left and
returning with Lalita some time later sat down for a game of cards.
Because there had been no play for two days, the session warmed
up very soon. Lalita and her partner were winning.
About an hour or two later Annakali appeared all of a sudden and
beckoned Lalita, ‘Lalita di, Shekhar da is calling, hurry up!’
Lalita’s face paled; she stopped dealing out the cards and asked,
‘Hasn’t Shekhar da left for office?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he has returned,’ said Annakali and left.
Lalita put aside the cards and looking apologetically at Manorama
said, ‘I must go.’
Grasping her hands Manorama said, ‘What’s that! Why don’t you
continue for a couple more games?’
In a flurry, Lalita merely said, ‘That’s impossible—it will really
anger him,’ and rushed off.
Girin asked, ‘Who is this Shekhar da, Didi?’
 Manorama answered, ‘He lives in that large house with the gates
—that house which stands at the head of the street.’
Nodding, Girin responded, ‘Oh, that house! So Nabin Babu is their
relative?’
Manorama exchanged glances with her daughter and smiled,
‘Some relative! That wily old man is just waiting for a chance to
usurp even the little land that Lalita’s family owns.’ Girin looked on in
astonishment.
Manorama then told him how the previous year, Gurucharan’s
second daughter’s marriage had been stuck because of financial
constraints, and how Nabin Roy had lent him the money at an
appalling high rate of interest, and in lieu got the house mortgaged to
him. It would be impossible for Lalita’s uncle to ever repay the
money and ultimately Nabin Roy would possess the house.
After revealing all the facts, Manorama opined that the old man
craved to completely raze to the ground Gurucharan’s dilapidated
house and build a grand house for the younger son, Shekhar; one
house each for a son, not a bad idea at all.
An overwhelming sense of distaste overcame Girin. He asked,
‘But Didi, Gurucharan Babu also has other daughters, how will he
marry them off?’
Manorama could only answer, ‘Not just his own, there is Lalita too.
She has no parents, the entire responsibility of her marriage too lies
with that poor man. She is growing up fast and will somehow have to
be married off this year. In their Brahmin society there is none to help
them—all have a fixation about caste. We Brahmos are much better
off, Girin.’
Girin had nothing to say and she continued, ‘The other day, her
aunt started weeping in my presence as she spoke about Lalita. She
didn’t have any idea of what could be arranged or how. Just worrying
about her, Gurucharan Babu can barely bring himself to eat. Girin,
isn’t there anybody amongst your group of friends in Munger, whose
only consideration in a marriage will be the girl? It truly is very
difficult to find a gem of a girl like Lalita.’
Dismally and with the bare vestiges of a smile Girin responded,
‘Where will I garner friends from, Didi? But I can help out with
money.’
As a doctor, Girin’s father had amassed a lot of money and
property—and Girin was the sole inheritor.
Manorama asked, ‘You will lend them money?’
‘Would it be lending? If he so desires Gurcharan Babu can return
the sum; if not, that is fine too.’
This amazed Manorama. ‘But Girin … what do you stand to gain
by giving them so much money? Neither are they our relatives, nor
do they belong to the same caste. Who is charitable these days
without reason?’
Girin looked at his sister and then, laughing, said, ‘They may not
be from the same social strata, but they are Bengalis, aren’t they?
He is in dire need and I have plenty—why don’t you broach the
subject, Didi? If he is willing to accept, I am ready to give the money.
Lalita is nobody of theirs and nobody of ours either; what does it
matter if I bear the entire expenses of her wedding?’
Manorama was not particularly pleased with his reply. True, she
did not stand to gain or lose in any way by this transaction; but the
idea of one person giving another large sums of money without
asking for anything in return displeases many a female deeply.
Charu who was quietly listening to the conversation now piped up,
absolutely thrilled, ‘Please do that Mama, let me go and give Lalita’s
aunt the news.’
She immediately received a chiding from her mother for her
interference, ‘Stop it, Charu! Children should have no part to play in
such conversations! If anything is to be said, I will do the needful.’
Girin responded, ‘You do that, Didi. The day before yesterday I
met Gurucharan Babu by the roadside and talked for a very short
while with him. He seems to be quite a simple man, what do you
say?’
Manorama replied, ‘I quite agree. Husband and wife, both are
simple people. That is what is so sad, Girin—a man like that might
be rendered homeless and shelterless. Haven’t you witnessed that
for yourself, Girin—didn’t you see the way Lalita ran when Shekhar
Babu called? It is as though the entire household is in bondage to
them. But, no matter what services are rendered, once in the
clutches of Nabin Roy, there is not much hope of being rescued from
that plight.’
Girin asked, ‘Then, will you broach the subject, Didi?’
‘All right, I will. If you can help by being charitable, so be it.’
Smiling a bit, Manorama questioned, ‘Anyway, why are you so
concerned, Girin?’
‘What other interest could I have, Didi? It’s an act of kindness to
help out someone in distress,’ and Girin departed in a somewhat
embarrassed manner. No sooner had he left, than he returned once
again.
His sister enquired, ‘Now what?’
With a smile Girin commented, ‘All these tales of woe—perhaps
everything is not true.’
Surprised, Manorama asked, ‘Why do you say that?’
Girin explained, ‘The manner in which Lalita spends money is not
at all like one poverty stricken. The other day we had gone to the
theatre. Lalita did not accompany us, but sent ten rupees through
her sister. Why don’t you ask Charu about the manner in which she
spends freely; her personal expenses are nothing less than twenty-
five rupees a month.’
Manorama found it impossible to believe all this.
Charu said, ‘True, Ma; but all that is Shekhar Babu’s money. It is
not just now that this is happening—ever since her childhood she
has always opened Shekhar da’s almirah and taken money, nobody
says anything.’
 Looking at her daughter Manorama asked suspiciously, ‘Does
Shekhar Babu know about her taking money?’
Charu nodded vigorously, ‘Yes, she opens the drawer and takes
money in his very presence. Last month, who do you think gave so
much money at Annakali’s doll’s wedding? It was Lalita who bore all
the expenses!’
Pondering on the matter Manorama could only say, ‘I really do not
know what to think. But it is certainly true that the boys are not tight-
fisted like their father; they have taken after their mother and have a
kind disposition and are religious minded too. Besides, Lalita is
supposed to be an extremely nice girl. She has been brought up in
close proximity to them throughout her childhood; she looks on
Shekhar almost as her own brother—probably that is why they are
all so fond of her. Charu, you are always in touch with them. Isn’t
Shekhar supposed to be getting married this winter? I believe the old
man will collect a huge amount of dowry!’
Charu responded, ‘Yes Ma, this winter—everything has been
settled, I heard.’
 5

GURUCHARAN BABU WAS THE KIND OF PERSON WHOM

PEOPLE OF ALL AGES found it easy to get along with. On a mere
two-to-three days’ acquaintance, an easy friendship had sprung up
between him and Girin. Gurucharan loved to argue, though he had
no firm convictions of his own, and in the same manner, he in no way
took umbrage at being vanquished in battle either.
He would invite Girin over for a cup of tea in the evening. The day
would be all but over by the time Gurucharan got back from office.
While washing up he would ask, ‘Lalita, can I have a cup of tea,
dear? Kali, go on and ask your Girin Mama to drop by.’ Then,
endless arguments would begin over innumerable cups of tea.
Sometimes Lalita would sit quietly by her uncle and listen to the
conversation. On those days Girin would virtually spew forth
arguments and counter-arguments. Quite often the debate would be
against the ills of modern society. The heartlessness of society,
illogical persecution and torture—all these were aspects that were
heatedly discussed by the two men.
Though there was virtually nothing concrete to support their
statements, Girin’s thoughts found an echo in Gurucharan’s turbulent
and worry-ridden heart. Ultimately he would nod and say, ‘You are
right, Girin. Who does not want to see his daughter married well at
the right time? But then, how does one do so? According to the
dictums of society, if a girl has grown up, get her married. But, do
they help with the arrangements? Take my example, Girin, this very
house has been mortgaged in the process of arranging for a
daughter’s wedding. In a short while I will have to take to the streets
with my family. Society will then not say, “Come, take shelter in my
house.” What do you say?’
If Girin wanted to reply to this question, he wouldn’t be given a
chance, for Gurucharan would provide all the replies himself. ‘Very
true!’ he would say. ‘It is best that caste disappears from society.
Then, whether we eat or not, at least we can live in peace. A society
that does not sympathize with the poor, does not help in moments of
crisis and can only threaten and punish—such a society is not for
me, or for those who are poor like me; it is a society for the rich.
Fine, let the rich remain, there is nothing in such a society for us.’
And, having spoken his mind out so boldly, Gurucharan would fall
silent.
Lalita did not merely listen with rapt attention to all the arguments,
but at night would try to logically understand all that had been said,
thinking them over till she fell asleep. Lalita loved her uncle, so
whatever Girin said in support of her uncle’s viewpoint seemed to be
the veritable truth to her. Her uncle was becoming so agitated
primarily because of her; he was almost forgetting to eat or drink—so
overburdened was he; her peace-loving Mama, he was in such
turmoil only because he had taken her under his wing! If he did not
get her married off soon, he would become a social outcast, for
harbouring an overage unmarried woman. But if I marry and return
home a widow, Lalita thought, then there will be no shame. But,
where is the difference between a widow and a spinster! Why should
giving shelter to one be shameful, while giving shelter to the other
was perfectly acceptable?
The daily conversations that she heard were obviously leaving a
deep impression on Lalita’s mind. An echo of Girin Babu’s comments
would emerge when she was alone, and once again, thoroughly
analysing them, Lalita would think to herself, ‘Truly, all that Girin
Babu says is extremely logical,’ and fall asleep.
Lalita could not but have a high o pinion of or be in absolute
compliance with anyone who tried to understand her uncle’s
problems and reach out to him. At present that person was Girin and
she began to worship him in earnest.
Gradually she too, like Gurucharan, began to look forward to the
tea sessions in the evening.
 Initially Girin used to address Lalita rather formally. But
Gurucharan forbade him to do so, and requested him to treat her
normally. Ever since, Girin had progressed to a casual intimacy.
One day Girin asked, ‘Don’t you have tea, Lalita?’
Lowering her eyes, Lalita shook her head; Gurucharan replied,
‘Her Shekhar da has forbidden it. He does not like women drinking
tea.’
It was clear to Lalita that the reply did not please Girin.
On Saturdays, the tea session used to go on till much later than
usual and it was a Saturday that day. They had finished with drinking
tea; Gurucharan had not been able to participate all that
wholeheartedly in the discussions that had been initiated by Girin
today—every once in a while he would lose his concentration and
become absentminded.
Girin noticed this and asked, ‘Perhaps you are not feeling very well
today?’
Removing the hookah from his mouth, Gurucharan responded, ‘I
am absolutely fine.’
Hesitantly and somewhat awkwardly Girin prodded gently, ‘Then
perhaps something at the office …’
‘No, it’s not even that,’ Gurucharan looked at Girin with a certain
degree of surprise. He was such a simple soul that he had no idea at
all that his inner turmoil was leaving an external imprint in his
manner.
Earlier Lalita might not have intervened, but she had recently
begun participating in the discussions once in a while. She said,
‘Yes, Mama, today you are seeming out of sorts.’
Gurucharan laughed aloud, ‘Oh, it’s like that, is it? Yes, you are
right, I am not in a very positive frame of mind.’
Both Girin and Lalita gazed at him.
Gurucharan continued, ‘In spite of being aware of my
circumstances, Nabin da chose to be extremely insulting towards me
today, that too, in full public view. But, one cannot really blame him
either—it’s been over six months and I have not been able to pay
back even a bit of the interest, let alone the capital.’
Knowing the delicacy of the issue, and gauging the true extent to
which her uncle was overcome by helplessness, Lalita became
extremely anxious to change the subject at any cost. In fear that her
uncle would wash all the dirty family linen in front of an outsider, she
quickly said, ‘Don’t worry Mama, all that can come later.’
But Gurucharan did not say anything explicitly as Lalita has
feared. Rather, he smiled wanly and said, ‘What can happen later,
dear? You see, Girin, this daughter of mine is like a mother to me—
she does not want her aged son to worry about anything at all. The
difficulty, Lalita, is that outsiders do not even want to acknowledge
that your poor Mama has any problems!’
Girin asked, ‘What did Nabin Babu have to say, today?’
Lalita, being unaware that Girin already knew all the facts, steadily
grew more and more angry at this unwarranted curiosity of the guest.
Gurucharan revealed all. Apparently Nabin Roy’s wife had been
plagued by a stomach ailment for a very long time. Recently it had
begun to act up to such a degree that the doctors had advised a
complete change of environment. Money was needed and so Nabin
Babu had demanded payment of all the interest that was due to him,
as well as some of the capital.
Girin remained silent for a while. And then mildly remarked, ‘There
is something that I have been meaning to say, but felt hesitant; if you
do not object, allow me to do so today.’
Gurucharan laughed aloud, ‘Nobody ever hesitates about telling
me anything. What is it, Girin?’
Girin answered slowly, ‘Didi tells me that Nabin Babu charges very
high rates of interest. There is a lot of my money just lying fallow—
why not use it to pay off the debt?’
Both Gurucharan and Lalita were astounded. Girin continued
awkwardly, ‘At the moment I do not have much use for money; if it
can come of use to you I suggest you take it now and return it at any
point of time in the future which is convenient to you. I am all right
with it …’
Gurucharan asked slowly, ‘You will pay the entire sum of money?’
Girin very diffidently said, ‘Yes, if that will ease you of some of your
burdens …’
Gurucharan was about to make some sort of response, when
Annakali came rushing in, ‘Lalita di, hurry, Shekhar da had told us to
get ready; we will all be going to the theatre.’ She: then rushed out in
the same manner that she had entered. Her fervent enthusiasm
made Gurucharan laugh. Lalita stood unmoving.
Annakali returned in a flash, impatiently asked, ‘You haven’t yet
gone in, Lalita di? We are all waiting!’
In spite of the renewed appeal Lalita showed no signs of
movement. She wanted to know her uncle’s final decision; but
Gurucharan looking at Annakali smiled and said to Lalita tenderly,
‘Go on then, dear, don’t delay—they are all waiting for you.’
Lalita thus had no option but to leave. As she turned to leave she
cast a look of deep gratitude at Girin, which the latter had no
difficulty in perceiving.
About ten minutes later, after having got ready, Lalita silently
entered the room once again on the pretext of handing out some
mouth fresheners.
Girin had left. Gurucharan lay with a thick pillow supporting his
head and tears running down his face. It was apparent to Lalita that
these were tears of joy. Hence, she went out of the room just as she
had silently tiptoed in.
A little later when she appeared in Shekhar’s room, Lalita’s eyes
too were brimming over with tears. Annakali was not there; she had
been the first to seat herself in the car. Shekhar had been waiting
(probably for Lalita) all alone in his room; and looking up at her, he
noticed her tear-filled eyes.
Not having seen Lalita for about ten days, he had grown steadily
more and more irritable. But, presently, he forgot all that and greatly
concerned, solicitously enquired, ‘What is the matter, why are you
crying?’
Lalita lowered her head, and shook it vigorously.
Having her out of sight for several days had brought about a
distinct change in Shekhar; he suddenly drew closer and holding her
by the shoulders, forced Lalita to look up, ‘Why, you truly are
weeping, what has happened?’
Lalita could no longer control herself, she sat down where she was
and, burying her face in the end of her sari, began to sob copiously.
 6

AFTER COUNTING OUT THE NOTES GIVEN TO HIM AS FULL

PAYMENT FOR both capital and interest, Nabin Roy returned the
mortgage papers and asked, ‘So, who gave you the money?’
Gently, Gurucharan responded, ‘Don’t ask me that, it is a secret.’
Nabin Roy was not at all pleased at getting back the money—he
had not wanted the loan to be repaid, nor was he expecting it.
Rather, he had planned that by harassing Gurucharan and
pressurizing him incessantly, he would manage to drive the poor
man out of his mortgaged house. That would pave the way for Nabin
Babu to demolish the present building and construct a massive
house in its place. Making a barbed remark he said, ‘But of course,
now it is a secret! The fault is not yours, but mine. It was wrong of
me to have asked for the money back, wasn’t it? Look at the times
on which we have fallen!’
Hurt, Gurucharan responded, ‘What kind of talk is that, Dada? It is
merely the money that you had lent that I have returned, I still remain
indebted to you for your great kindness.’
Nabin Babu smiled. He was extremely worldly wise, or else it
would have been impossible for him to have amassed such wealth.
He continued, ‘If you had really believed that, you would not have
rushed to repay me in this hurried and unseemly fashion. So what if I
reminded you once about the money—and that too for my ailing wife,
not for myself. But tell me, for how much have you mortgaged the
entire house?’
Gurucharan shook his head and said, ‘It has not been mortgaged
and neither has there been any talk of interest.’
This was hard for Nabin Babu to believe, ‘What, so much money
just on trust?!’
‘Yes indeed, something of the sort. The boy is very nice and
extremely kind.’
 ‘Boy? Who is this boy?’
Gurucharan fell silent. He should not have revealed even the little
that he already had.
Gauging his trend of thought, Nabin Babu smiled and said, ‘Since
it is forbidden to reveal the name of your benefactor, let me not
bother you any further. But I have seen a lot of the world and let me
give you fair warning. This do-gooder—let him not cause you even
greater distress in these attempts to provide succour.’
Without making any response to that remark, Gurucharan bade a
polite farewell and left with the papers.

Every year at about this time, Bhuvaneshwari spent some time in the
west. It helped in providing some relief to her ailing stomach, though
her condition was nothing very grave. Nabin Babu had grossly
exaggerated the state of affairs when he was speaking to
Gurucharan the other day, in order to achieve his own ends. Be that
as it may, arrangements were being made for the journey.
One morning, Shekhar was arranging his essentials in a suitcase.
Annakali entered the room and asked, ‘Shekhar da, you all will be
leaving tomorrow, won’t you?’
Looking up Shekhar said, ‘Kali, just call your Lalita di—let her put
in now whatever she wants to take.’ Every year Lalita accompanied
them, taking care of all Bhuvaneshwari’s needs and comforts, so it
was natural for Shekhar to presume that she would be travelling with
them this time too.
Shaking her head, Annakali replied, ‘This year Lalita di will not be
able to go.’
‘Why not?’
Annakali answered, ‘How can she? She will be getting married this
winter. Baba is in search for a groom for her.’
Shekhar stared into space unblinkingly in silence.
Annakali, in all her enthusiasm, was blissfully unaware of his
reaction and now came forward to whisper to him all that she had
heard being discussed in the house, ‘Girin Babu has said, no matter
how much money is needed, a good groom must be found for Lalita
di. Baba will not be going to the office today—he is visiting some boy
somewhere for Lalita di; Girin Babu will be accompanying him.’
Shekhar heard all that was being said in silence and reasoned to
himself that this was why Lalita had been reluctant to appear before
him in the past few days.
Annakali continued, ‘Isn’t Girin Babu a very good man, Shekhar
da? At the time of Mejdi’s marriage, our house was mortgaged to
Uncle; Baba was sure that within two to three months we would have
no other option other than begging on the streets. So, Girin Babu
provided the money. Yesterday Baba was able to return all the
money to Uncle. Lalita di has said that we need not be scared any
longer—that’s true, isn’t it, Shekhar da?’
Shekhar could not say a word in response but continued to stare
unseeingly into space.
Annakali asked, ‘What are you thinking about, Shekhar da?’
Coming back to his senses, Shekhar swiftly answered, ‘No,
nothing at all. Kali, quickly go and call your Lalita di—say that I want
her; run and fetch her.’
Annakali ran off to convey the message.
Shekhar sat there staring fixedly at the open suitcase. All that he
needed, all his requirements—they all seemed to have become
redundant to him.
On hearing that she had been called, Lalita came upstairs; but
before coming in she peeped through the window. Shekhar was
sitting very still and staring fixedly at a point on the floor. She had
never seen him look like this before. Lalita was a bit taken aback and
somewhat scared. No sooner had she silently entered than Shekhar
beckoned to her and stood up quickly.
Softly Lalita asked, ‘Did you send for me?’
‘Yes.’ Shekhar remained still for a while and then said, ‘I am
leaving with Mother by the morning train tomorrow. It might be a
while before we are back. Take the keys; the money for your
expenses is in the drawer.’
Looking at the open suitcase, Lalita couldn’t help remembering the
joyous anticipation with which she had packed the previous time,
and now, her Shekhar da was doing all the packing himself.
Both of them fell silent. Lalita realized that Shekhar had come to
know that this time she would not be accompanying them. Perhaps
he also knew of the reason; as she thought of this, Lalita seemed to
shrink into herself in embarrassment. Turning away from her,
Shekhar coughed once and clearing his throat said, ‘Take care, if
you are: in particular need of anything, get my address from Dada
and write me a letter.’ Then suddenly he said, ‘All right, you can
leave now, I have to get all this organized. It is getting late and I will
also have to stop by at the office.’
Lalita knelt down before the suitcase and said, ‘Go and have your
bath Shekhar da, I will complete the packing.’
‘That will be perfect,’ and leaving the keys with Lalita, Shekhar
was about to leave the room, when he came to an abrupt halt. ‘You
haven’t forgotten what all has to be packed for me, have you?’
Lalita began to examine the contents of the suitcase carefully and
did not say a word.
Shekhar went downstairs and confirmed from his mother that all
that Annakali had said was true. It was a fact that Gurucharan had
repaid his debt. And a groom was indeed being sought in earnest for
Lalita. Shekhar did not feel like asking any more questions; he
retired for his bath.
After about an hour or two, on completion of his bath and meal,
when Shekhar re-entered his room, he was amazed.
These two hours or so Lalita had done nothing at all; leaning
against the lid of the open suitcase, she had simply sat there in
silence. Startled into awareness at the sound of Shekhar’s footsteps,
she looked up and almost immediately lowered her eyes again. Her
eyes were bloodshot.
 But Shekhar appeared to notice nothing; changing into his formal
clothes, he said easily, ‘You will not be able to do it now, complete
the packing in the afternoon.’ He left for office. The reason for
Lalita’s turmoil was clear to him, but without giving careful thought to
all possibilities, he did not want to broach the subject with her or with
anyone else.
That evening in her house Lalita was all but overcome with waves
of embarrassment when she brought in the tea. Shekhar was seated
there along with Girin. He had come to take leave of Gurucharan.
Head bent, Lalita poured two cups of tea and placed them in front
of Girin and her uncle. Immediately Girin spoke up, ‘Where is the tea
for Shekhar Babu, Lalita?’
Not looking up, Lalita responded softly, ‘Shekhar da does not have
tea.’
Girin did not comment any further, he remembered what he had
heard. Shekhar did not have tea, and he did not approve of others
having it either.
Picking up his cup, Gurucharan broached the subject of the groom
Girin and he had been to see for Lalita. The boy was studying for his
graduation; after volubly praising him, Gurucharan said, ‘But, in spite
of all this, our Girin did not like him. Of course, the boy is not good-
looking, but what difference do looks make to a man? It suffices that
he is qualified.’ Gurucharan was keen to get Lalita married off by
some means or the other—it would relieve him of a huge
responsibilty.
Looking towards him with a smile Shekhar asked, ‘Why did Girin
Babu not like him? The boy is educated, is financially stable—all in
all, a good groom.’
Shekhar had simply asked for the sake of asking, though in his
heart of hearts he knew why the groom had not pleased Girin; he
also knew that no groom, in fact, would ever be considered suitable
as far as Girin was concerned! However, caught unawares, Girin
could not come up with a ready answer and became flushed with
embarrassment. Noticing this as well, Shekhar stood up and said,
‘Kaka, tomorrow I leave with my mother—don’t forget to intimate us
at the right time.’
Gurucharan answered, ‘How is that possible! You are all I have.
Besides, nothing can be done without your mother’s presence. After
all, she is mother to Lalita as well. What do you say, Lalita?’ Smiling,
he turned around and asked, ‘Eh, when did she leave?’
Shekhar said, ‘She escaped as soon as the topic was broached.’
Gurucharan said, ‘She is bound to do that; after all, Lalita is
becoming worldly-wise now.’ A deep sigh escaped him and he
continued, ‘My little one is a perfect blend of homeliness and
intelligence. Such a bride is hard to come by, Shekharnath.’ As he
spoke the words, such a sweet shadow of deep-rooted affection was
reflected on his gaunt and careworn face that both Girin and
Shekhar could not but help but salute this elderly man in silence.
 7

ESCAPING UNOBTRUSIVELY FROM THE TEA SESSION, LALITA

WENT STRAIGHT to Shekhar’s room and, pulling up his suitcase below
the powerful gas lights, was engrossed in folding and neatly putting
by Shekhar’s woollens, when she saw Shekhar enter the room. She
looked up and turned speechless in fright and amazement.
Just as a man who has lost all in a legal battle, emerges from the
court broken and defeated and seems to have no connection with
the hopeful, positive person that he was before: the verdict—
Shekhar too seemed to have turned into a virtual stranger for Lalita.
The stamp of one who had been rendered bereft of all was etched
on his face. In parched tones he asked, ‘What are you doing, Lalita?’
Not answering, Lalita came closer, grasped his hands and asked
tearfully, ‘What is the matter, Shekhar da?’
‘Why, nothing at all,’ Shekhar forced a smile. At Lalita’s touch he
seemed to revive a bit. Sitting down on the nearby couch, he
repeated his question, ‘What are you doing?’
Lalita answered, ‘I have come to put in this thick overcoat I had
forgotten.’ Shekhar looked at her in silence; Lalita continued, a little
more calmly, ‘Last time the train journey was very uncomfortable for
you; there were a lot of large coats, but none that were thick; so,
immediately after our return, I had one tailored to your
measurements.’ Lalita picked up a very thick overcoat and brought it
over to Shekhar.
Carefully examining it, Shekhar said, ‘But, you didn’t let me know a
thing. Why?’
Lalita laughed, ‘You all are fashionable gentlemen—would you
have permitted me to make such a thick coat? So, instead of telling
you, I had it tailored and stored.’ Putting it away in the suitcase, she
said, ‘It’s right on top, you’ll find it as soon as you open the suitcase
—don’t forget to put it on if you are cold.’
 ‘All right,’ muttered Shekhar, staring ahead unblinkingly. Suddenly
he spoke aloud, ‘No, this is impossible, it just cannot happen.’
‘What cannot happen? You will not wear it?’
Hastily he answered, ‘No, no, that’s not it, of course I will wear it.
This is another matter altogether. Tell me, Lalita, do you know if
everything else has been packed?’
Lalita answered, ‘Yes, it is; I organized everything in the
afternoon.’ And, after re-examining all the articles, Lalita locked the
suitcase.
Remaining silent for a while and looking in her direction, Shekhar
asked sombrely, ‘Can you tell me, Lalita, what my plight will be next
year?’
Looking up, Lalita asked, ‘Why?’
‘You know only too well why!’ As soon as he uttered the words, he
attempted to cover up the matter, so he smiled wryly and said,
‘However, before leaving for the house of another, explain and show
me where things are kept—or else, I will never be able to find
anything when I need it.’
Angrily Lalita said aloud, ‘Go on!’
Shekhar laughed at long last. ‘“Go on”. I understand it is a matter
of embarrassment for you to discuss your marriage with me, but tell
me honestly, what will my condition be? I have the desire to live well
all right, but no ability at all to put that into effect! These are not
things that a servant can do either; henceforth, I will have to become
like your uncle—make do with one change of clothes, somehow or
the other!’
Casting the bunch of keys on the ground, Lalita ran out.
Shekhar called after her, ‘Be sure to come tomorrow morning.’
She heard him call her name, but couldn’t bear to be there any
more, for shame. Rapidly she ran down the stairs.
In one corner of the roof of their house, she discovered Annakali
sitting in the moonlight with a pile of marigold flowers before her.
Approaching her Lalita asked, ‘What are you doing sitting out in the
cold, Kali?’
Without looking up Annakali answered, ‘Weaving garlands for my
daughter, Lalita di. Tonight is her wedding.’
‘You did not tell me earlier?’
‘Nothing had been fixed, Lalita di. But Baba looked up the almanac
and found that except for tonight, there is no other date for the rest of
the month. My daughter is growing up and I cannot keep her at
home any longer; I have to get her married tonight somehow or the
other. Lalita di, give me some money to arrange for a feast.’
Lalita laughed. ‘Only when you need money do you remember me!
Go and take some from under my pillow. But, Kali, can marigold
garlands be used for a wedding?’
Annakali responded solemnly, ‘Yes, when nothing else is available!
I have married off so many daughters, Lalita di! I know everything.’
She went off to organize the food.
Lalita sat there and started weaving garlands for Annakali’s doll’s
wedding.
Returning after a while, Annakali said, ‘Everyone has been invited,
only Shekhar da remains. I had better go and tell him, or else he will
be offended.’
To hear Annakali speak, one would think that she was not a
young, unmarried girl, but the most seasoned of housewives instead
—meticulous in the extreme in everything she did. After intimating
Shekhar, she came down and said, ‘He wanted a garland. Lalita di,
won’t you please go and hand it to him? I can then get on with
making all the arrangements here. There is so much to do, and not
much time left before the auspicious hour gets over.’
Shaking her head Lalita responded, ‘Impossible for me, Kali, you
go yourself.’
‘All right, I will. Hand me the large one.’
About to hand it over, Lalita changed her mind suddenly and said,
‘Never mind, I’ll take it across.’
 With studied gravity, Annakali answered, ‘That would be the best,
Lalita di, I am extremely busy and don’t have a moment to spare.’
Her way of speaking and expression made Lalita laugh and she
left with the garland. From the door she observed Shekhar intently
composing a letter; opening the door she came and stood behind
him but he still failed to notice her. After remaining silent for a while,
with the sole purpose of startling him, she quickly slipped the garland
around his neck and immediately hid behind the couch.
Initially startled, Shekhar called out, ‘You, Kali!’ The next moment,
seeing Lalita, he turned extremely grave and exclaimed, ‘What is this
you have done, Lalita!’
She got up and looking somewhat fearfully at him responded,
‘Why, what is the matter?’
Maintaining the same serious demeanour, Shekhar said, ‘Why,
don’t you know? Go and ask Kali what it means when garlands are
exchanged tonight at this auspicious hour!’
Lalita immediately understood and blushing crimson ran out of the
room exclaiming, ‘No, no, never!’
Shekhar called out, ‘No, Lalita, do not leave. There is something
particularly important I have to say.’
Lalita could hear Shekhar but could not even think of halting to
listen further. It was impossible for her to stop anywhere; she ran
straight to her room, and collapsing on the bed, lay there with eyes
shut tight.
These five to six years she had grown up in close proximity to
Shekhar, but had never heard anything like this from him! Till now,
the serious and solemn Shekhar had never joked with her and that
too on such an embarrassing topic—she couldn’t even imagine that
such words could be spoken by him. Curling up in embarrassment,
Lalita lay there for some twenty minutes and then sat up. She was
innately scared of Shekhar; he had asked her to stay because of
some particular work and he might get angry if she disobeyed him.
She sat up and pondered whether she should go across or not. The
maid-servant from the other house was heard calling out loudly,
‘Lalita Didi, where are you? Chhoto Babu is asking for you.’
Lalita came out and softly answered, ‘I am coming …’
Going upstairs and opening the door she found Shekhar still
engrossed in his letter. Standing silently for a long while, ultimately
she asked, ‘Why did you want me?’
Continuing to write Shekhar answered, ‘Come closer and I will tell
you.’
‘No, tell me from here.’
Smiling to himself, once again Shekhar reiterated, ‘Look what you
did on an impulse!’
Agitated, Lalita immediately responded, ‘Again you are …’
Turning around Shekhar said, ‘Is it my fault? You began it all …’
‘I have done nothing, you return that garland now!’
Shekhar answered, ‘That’s why I have sent for you, Lalita. Come
closer and I will return the garland. You have left half the gesture half
done, come closer and let me give it completion.’
Leaning against the door, Lalita was silent for a while and then
said, ‘I am seriously telling you, if you continue joking in this manner,
I will never come in front of you again. Please return that to me.’
Shekhar picked up the garland and said, ‘Come and take it.’
‘Throw it to me from there.’
Shaking his head, Shekhar said yet again, ‘You will not get it
unless you come close.’
‘Then I have no need for it,’ said Lalita angrily and left.
Shekhar called out, ‘But, half the ceremony remains undone!’
‘Fine, let it be!’ Truly taking umbrage now, Lalita would not return.
But she did not go downstairs either. Instead she went to the far
end of the open terrace on the east and holding on to the railing,
stood there staring straight ahead. By then the moon had risen in the
sky and the pale winter moonlight was flooding the surroundings.
The sky above was startlingly clear. Glancing once in the direction of
Shekhar’s room, Lalita looked upwards. Her eyes started smarting
with tears of hurt, shame and embarrassment. She was no longer
such a child as to remain oblivious of the nuances of what had
happened. Then, why had Shekhar joked so cruelly with her in this
manner? She was old enough to know just how lowly and
insignificant she was. She was fully conscious of the fact that
everybody was tender and caring with her only because she was an
orphan. There was no one Lalita could truly call her own and in
reality, nobody actually bore any responsibility for her. That was
probably why Girin, having no sort of ties with her, could propose to
rescue her as he had.
Closing her eyes, Lalita reflected on how much lower down the
rung her uncle stood in society, compared to Shekhar’s family. In
addition, she herself was only a ward of her uncle’s. As of this
moment, serious discussions were on about finding a suitable bride
for Shekhar from an affluent background; sooner or later such a
marriage would take place. Lalita had also heard Shekhar’s mother
speculating about how much money Nabin Roy was expecting from
this union.
Then why did Shekhar suddenly insult her in this manner! Lalita
was lost in these thoughts as she stared blankly into space—when
turning around suddenly she found Shekhar standing there, laughing
quietly! The strand of marigold that she had garlanded Shekhar with
miraculously adorned her own neck now. Her voice almost choked
and distorted by tears, she said, ‘Why did you do this?’
‘Why had you done it?’
‘I did not do a thing,’ said Lalita, and attempting to tear away the
garland from around her neck, looked up at Shekhar. She did not
have the courage to say anything further, but tearfully muttered,
‘Only because I have no one to call my own are you insulting me like
this!’
Shekhar had been smiling all this while, but Lalita’s words stunned
him. These were not childish words! He answered, ‘Wasn’t it rather
you insulting me?’
 Wiping away her tears, a little timorously Lalita asked, ‘How did I
do that?’
Standing still for a while, Shekhar said easily, ‘Now, if you think a
bit, you will have the answer. You were flying too high these days,
Lalita; before leaving on my journey, I have put an end to that.’ He
then fell silent.
Lalita no longer had anything to say and she remained standing
with head bowed. In the glistening moonlight, neither of them
seemed to find any words. Only the conch shells being repeatedly
sounded at Annakali’s daughter’s wedding reverberated all around.
After waiting mutely for a while, Shekhar spoke, ‘Don’t remain in
this chill any longer, go inside.’
‘I will.’ Lalita knelt at Shekhar’s feet to offer her respectful
salutations before she left. Then she enquired gently, ‘Now, tell me,
what am I to do?’
Shekhar smiled in response. He hesitated for a moment and then,
extending both hands, brought her close and bending a little,
touched his lips lightly to hers. ‘After tonight you will not have to be
told, you will know what to do, Lalita.’
A shiver of some unknown feeling ran through Lalita’s entire body.
Moving away, she asked, ‘Did you react in this manner simply
because I garlanded you?’
Smiling, Shekhar disagreed, ‘No, I have been reflecting on this for
a number of days, but could not come to any conclusion. Today I
took this decisive step because I realized that it was impossible for
me to live without you.’
Lalita answered, ‘But your father will be very angry when he hears
and Ma will be hurt. No, this is impossible, Shek—’
‘True, Baba will be angry, but Ma will be happy. Doesn’t matter,
what was inevitable has happened—neither can you ignore it, nor
can I. Go downstairs now and take Ma’s blessings.’
 8

ONE DAY, ABOUT THREE MONTHS LATER, A WAN-FACED GURUCHARAN

ENTERED Nabin Roy’s room and was about to sit down on the
mattress next to him, only to hear the latter shout out, forbidding him
to do so: ‘No, no, not there—take that stool. I cannot have a bath
again at this hour! You’ve forsaken your religion, haven’t you?’
Gurucharan sat on a stool some distance away, with his head bent
low. Four days ago, after going through all the rituals, he had
converted to the Brahmo creed. This morning, the news,
embroidered ably with colourful rumours, had reached the ears of
Nabin Roy, a staunch and diehard Hindu. Sparks seemed to emit
from Nabin Roy’s eyes, but Gurucharan remained mild as ever and
continued to sit there silently. Ever since he had taken the plunge
without consulting anybody, there had been no end to the tears and
unpleasantness at home.
Nabin Roy blazed forth, ‘Tell me, is it true or not?’
Gurucharan raised his tear-filled eyes and said, ‘Yes, it is.’
‘Why did you take this step? Your salary is only sixty rupees, you
—!’ A choleric outburst choked Nabin Roy’s voice.
Wiping his eyes and clearing his throat, Gurucharan said, ‘I was
not in my senses, Dada. I did not know if my problems would lead
me to putting a noose around my neck or whether I should surrender
to the Almighty—I did not know which way to go. Ultimately, instead
of committing suicide, I decided to submit to divinity … and so
converted.’
Gurucharan left, drying his tears.
Nabin Roy thundered aloud after him, ‘What an excellent decision!
You couldn’t commit suicide but strangled your religion instead. Get
out and never show your face to us again! Seek the company of the
likes of you. Get your daughters married off in any bedeviled
household!’ He turned away his face.
 In sheer anger, with his pride hurt, Nabin Roy felt like taking some
sort of revenge on Gurucharan, but could not figure out what to do.
The thought that Gurucharan had escaped completely from his
clutches and that it was highly improbable that he could be trapped
again in the near future agonized him not a little. Ultimately, not able
to hit upon any other solution, he called some workmen and got
them to build a massive barricade between the two adjoining
houses, blocking the easy access through the terraces.
Meanwhile, still away from Kolkata, Bhuvaneshwari got word of
Gurucharan’s conversion from Shekhar and burst into tears.
‘Shekhar, who could have possibly given him this idea?’
Shekhar had a very fair idea of who was behind the idea; however,
without going into it, he said, ‘But Ma, you would all have ostracized
him from society soon in any case! How would he have got all those
daughters married? As a Brahmo, at least he won’t have to pay their
dowries.’
Shaking her head, Bhuvaneshwari asserted, ‘Nothing ever
remains the same forever, Shekhar. If the question of dowries for
daughters became a reason for giving up one’s religion, many others
would have to do the same. The Almighty looks after all those whom
He has sent below.’
Shekhar remained silent. Wiping away her tears, Bhuvaneshwari
continued, ‘If I had brought my daughter Lalita along, I would have
had to find some solution to this problem, and I would definitely have
come up with something. I had no idea that Gurucharan did not allow
her to come with us because he had this move in mind. It seemed to
me that he was genuinely looking out for a suitable groom for her.’
Looking at his mother, Shekhar remarked somewhat awkwardly,
‘That’s all right, Ma, you can still do something about that on your
return! After all, it is not Lalita who has converted to Brahmoism, it’s
merely her uncle. She isn’t even part of his family, really; only
because Lalita is an orphan is she being brought up there.’
 Thinking it over, Bhuvaneshwari responded, ‘Yes, true, but your
father is not likely to agree to that. Perhaps he will not permit any
sort of contact with them at all now.’
Shekhar himself was quite concerned about this point; but he did
not want to continue the conversation, and left the room.
He now felt not the slightest desire to remain away from Kolkata
even a minute longer. After moving about restlessly, with an overcast
and gloomy face, over the next couple of days, he finally went to his
mother one evening and said, ‘This is no longer enjoyable, Ma, let us
return.’
Bhuvaneshwari immediately agreed, ‘I too am not liking it here at
all, Shekhar.’
On their return, mother and son found a boundary wall blocking
the common passage between the two houses. It was obvious to
both, even without a word being said, that the head of the Roy
household had no intention of keeping even a nodding acquaintance,
let alone form any sort of relationship, with Gurucharan’s clan.
While Shekhar was having dinner that night, his mother said,
‘They are talking of getting Lalita married to Girin. I had guessed as
much beforehand.’
Without looking up, Shekhar asked, ‘Who said so?’
‘Her aunt! While your father was taking a nap in the afternoon, I
went across to meet her. She has been weeping since Lalita’s uncle
converted and her eyes are now swollen and red.’ Remaining silent
for a while and wiping her own tears with the end of her sari,
Bhuvaneshwari said, ‘It is all fate, Shekhar, fate. No one can undo
what fate has in store—whom can I blame? At least Girin is a good
boy and well to do. Lalita will not suffer.’
Shekhar did not make any response but merely toyed with the
food on his plate. Soon after his mother left, he left his meal uneaten
and after washing up, turned in for the night.
The next evening, he set out for a walk. At that time, the evening
tea session was in full spate in Gurucharan’s outer room—to the
accompaniment of a lot of laughter and conversation. The sound of
the clamour reaching his ears, Shekhar hesitated for a moment and
then, entering the house, followed the sound and reached
Gurucharan’s room. Immediately the hubbub stopped and, looking at
his face, the expressions of all present underwent a change.
Nobody there except Lalita was aware of the fact Shekhar had
returned. That day, Girin and another gentleman were present; the
stranger gazed in astonishment at Shekhar, while Girin stared
gravely at the wall opposite. It was Gurucharan himself who had
been speaking the loudest—and now his face turned absolutely
ashen. Lalita sitting close by him was preparing the tea; she glanced
up once and then lowered her head.
Shekhar moved closer and respectfully greeting Gurucharan,
commented with a smile, ‘Why, all the lights seem to have dimmed!’
Gurucharan probably blessed him in mild tones, but his voice
could barely be heard. Shekhar could appreciate the other’s
dilemma at that moment and to give him some time, began to talk of
himself. He mentioned returning by the previous morning’s train,
talked of his mother’s recovery from her illness and described all the
places they had visited. After talking breathlessly of all this and who
knows what else, Shekhar ultimately glanced up at the face of the
unknown youth.
Gurucharan had somewhat recovered his equilibrium by then, and
introducing the young man said, ‘He is our Girin’s friend. They come
from the same place, they have studied together—and he is a very
good boy. Ever since we have been introduced, he drops in quite
frequently to meet me, though he lives in Shyambazar.’
Nodding, Shekhar said to himself, ‘A good boy, indeed!’
Remaining silent for a while, he then asked, ‘Kaka, is everything in
order?’
Gurucharan did not reply; he sat with his head lowered. Seeing
Shekhar get up to leave, he suddenly spoke up tearfully, ‘Please do
come by sometimes, don’t desert us completely. You have heard all
the news?’
‘Most definitely I have,’ saying which Shekhar moved towards the
inner sanctum of the house.
Soon after, Gurucharan’s wife’s wails could be heard; sitting
outside, Gurucharan wiped away his own tears with the end of his
dhoti. Girin, with the demeanour of a culprit, gazed silently out of the
window. Lalita had already left.
After a while, as he emerged from the kitchen and was about to
step into the courtyard from the veranda, Shekhar noticed Lalita
waiting behind the darkened doors. Respectfully touching his feet
she moved very close; raising her face in silence, she waited for a
while. Then, withdrawing, she asked quietly, ‘Why did you not reply
to my letter?’
‘What letter? I did not get any! What had you written?’
Lalita answered, ‘A lot, but it does not matter. You have heard
everything. Now, tell me, what is it that you wish me to do?’
In tones of amazement Shekhar asked, ‘What difference will my
saying anything make?’
Looking up at him in trepidation, Lalita asked, ‘Why do you say
that?’
‘But of course, Lalita, whom can I command?’
‘Why, me, who else?’
‘Why you, particularly? Even if I were to, why would you listen?’
Shekhar sounded grave and a little sad.
Now Lalita was greatly perturbed; coming close once more, she
tearfully asserted, ‘Go on, this is not the time for you to tease me. I
beg of you, tell me what will happen? I cannot sleep at night for
worry and fright.’
‘Fright of what?’
‘Honestly! Isn’t it scary? You were not here and neither was Ma.
Look at the absurd things Mama sometimes does! Now, what if Ma
refuses to accept me?’
 Shekhar fell silent for a while and then said, ‘Yes, true, Ma will not
want to accept you. She has heard that your uncle has accepted a
lot of money from another. Besides, now all of you are Brahmos and
we are Hindus.’
At this moment Annakali called out from the kitchen, ‘Lalita di, Ma
wants you.’
Lalita responded out loud, ‘Coming!’ Then, lowering her voice, she
reiterated, ‘It doesn’t matter what Mama’s religion is; whatever you
are, mat’s what I am. If Ma cannot discard you, she will not be able
to reject me either. You are talking about borrowing money from Girin
Babu? I will return all that. The money to pay off his debt will have to
be accepted sooner or later.’
Shekhar asked, ‘Where will you get all that money from?’
Looking up once at Shekhar and remaining silent for a while, Lalita
said, ‘Don’t you know where a woman gets money from? That’s
where I will get it from too.’
So far, though Shekhar had been speaking in a restrained manner,
a searing heat seemed to be cauterizing him internally; sardonically
he said, ‘But, your Mama seems to have sold you off!’
In the darkness Lalita could not see Shekhar’s face, but could
make out the change in his tone. Firmly she asserted, ‘That’s all a
lie. There is no one like my Mama, don’t mock him. You might not be
aware of his difficulties and problems, but the whole world knows.’
Then, swallowing hard and somewhat hesitantly she continued,
‘Besides, he took the money after I was married—so he has no right
to sell me off, and nor has he. Only you have that right. Of course,
you are more than capable of selling me off to avoid paying the
money—if you so wish!’
Not waiting for Shekhar’s reply, Lalita left hastily.
 9

THAT NIGHT SHEKHAR WANDERED ABOUT AIMLESSLY FOR A

LONG TIME, AND then, returning home, wondered how that chit of a
girl, Lalita, had learned to backchat in such a manner! How could
she argue with him in such a shameless fashion?
Today he had been greatly astonished and incensed by Lalita’s
behaviour. However, if he had paused for a moment to analyse the
cause of his anger, he would have clearly understood that it was not
directed against Lalita, but against his own self.
These past couple of months, while he was away from home and
without Lalita’s company, Shekhar had not seen beyond the balance
sheets of imagined joys and sorrows, material gains and losses, that
had occupied his mind. But now it had become clear to him what a
vital role Lalita had always played in his life, the indispensable part
she occupied in his future plans, how difficult it was to survive
without her, how painful—Shekhar brooded relentlessly on all this as
he lay stretched out on the bed. Perhaps because Lalita had grown
up as part of his family since childhood, Shekhar had never thought
of singling her out particularly from amongst his parents or brothers
and sisters. But there always had been a nagging concern in his
mind that perhaps he might not be able to marry Lalita. His parents
would not, in all possibility, consent to this marriage, perhaps she
would belong to another—his mind ran in continual circles around
this anxiety. Hence, before leaving Kolkata, he had tried to stem the
flood of his worries by garlanding Lalita at the auspicious hour.
The news of Gurucharan’s converting to another religion had filled
him with the greatest disquietitude and an overwhelming fear of
losing Lalita. He was familiar with this train of thought. But Lalita’s
plain words had abruptly put a halt to his line of thinking, and his
thoughts now flowed in another direction completely. His worries now
were not about winning her; instead he was concerned about
whether he would be able to give her up, if the need arose.
The marriage proposal from Shyambazar had not materialized.
Ultimately the family had backed off from the prospect of paying so
much dowry and neither had Shekhar’s mother really liked the girl.
Hence, Shekhar had escaped his cause of concern for the time
being; but Nabin Roy had not forgotten the prospect of getting ten to
twenty thousand rupees as dowry, and he had certainly not given up
efforts in that direction.
Shekhar couldn’t decide upon the course of action he had to take!
The fact that what had happened that night between them could
have such repercussions, that Lalita should so unwaveringly be
convinced that indeed her marriage had taken place and that in all
sanctity there could be no going back, were things Shekhar had not
foreseen. Though he himself had in the heat of the moment
asserted, ‘What was inevitable has happened—neither can you
ignore it, nor can I,’ at the time he had been in no position to give the
matter any serious thought, as he was able to do now.
That night, a glowing moon had graced the sky, moonlight had
flooded the surroundings, a garland had adorned his loved one and
there had been the thrill of the first physical proximity to his beloved;
there had been the intense intoxication of tasting the sweetness of
his sweetheart’s lips. Then, self interest and worldly practicalities had
not intruded upon the moment; the image of a money-minded,
avaricious father had not surfaced in his mind. Shekhar had
assumed that it would not be a problem to convince his mother who
was fond of Lalita. If only his brother would intervene and soften
matters with his father, perhaps the entire issue could be resolved
amicably. Besides, Gurucharan had not isolated himself then in this
manner. But now all hopes of a union with Lalita seemed annihilated.
The Almighty Himself seemed to have turned His face away.
Truly, there was not much that Shekhar could do. He was
absolutely sure that there was no way of convincing his father;
bringing his mother around was also an impossibility. There was no
point in even giving utterance to the thought.
Sighing deeply, Shekhar said aloud in a stifled voice, ‘What is to
be done?’ He knew Lalita only too well, having all but brought her up
himself; what she once decided was sanctioned by religion, she
would not go against under any circumstances. Lalita was certain
that religion recognized her as Shekhar’s wife; that was why she felt
she had the right to unhesitatingly approach him so closely in the
darkness and raise her face to his.
There was talk of her marriage to Girin, but it would be impossible
for anybody to get her to consent. It was just not feasible that she
remain silent! She would definitely reveal all. Shekhar’s face became
flushed. Truly! He had not only exchanged garlands, but pulling her
close had even kissed her! She had not prevented him, because she
felt that there was nothing wrong in this and he had a right to do
what he did. Now, whom could Shekhar answer to for his actions?
It was a fact that he could not marry Lalita without his parents’
consent. However, if the cause for her marriage to Girin not taking
place were made public, how would he be able to handle all the
gossip that would reverberate all around?
 10

HAVING DECIDED THAT IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM

TO MARRY LALITA, Shekhar gave up all dreams of her. He spent
the first couple of days tense and dreading that she would suddenly
appear, that she would reveal all, that he would have to answer all
the questions that would then be raised. But, no one raised any
questions. It was not apparent whether any revelations had been
made, but no one visited his house from Gurucharan’s. The open
terrace in front of Shekhar’s room commanded a full view of
Gurucharan’s terrace. For fear of a chance sighting, Shekhar
stopped going to the terrace altogether. However, when a month
went by without any confrontation, he breathed a sigh of relief and
told himself, ‘After all, any woman would naturally be embarrassed
about making such revelations.’ He had heard that women would
rather die than talk of such matters. Shekhar came to believe in this
and in his heart of hearts was deeply thankful to them for this
weakness. But why did peace continue to elude him? Even when he
was reassured about secrecy being maintained, why did his heart
overflow with an indescribable pain? Why did the very essence of his
being suffer tremors of hopeless panic and trepidation? He would
despondently wonder at times if Lalita would ever say anything at all.
Perhaps she would remain silent even when she was handed over to
the care of another. Why did the very thought of her marriage being
solemnized and her departing for her husband’s house seem to
infuriate him internally and at the same time sear him externally?
Previously, instead of going out in the evenings, Shekhar would
pace about on the open terrace outside his room. He now resumed
this routine. However, not for a day did he catch sight of anybody on
the other roof. Only once he caught sight of Annakali, who had come
there for something. No sooner had his eyes fallen on her than she
looked down and before Shekhar could decide whether or not to call
out, she had disappeared. It was then brought home to Shekhar
forcibly that even that child Kali had understood the meaning of the
blockade between the two terraces.
Another month went by.
In the course of conversation Bhuvaneshwari one day asked,
‘Have you ever seen Lalita all this while?’
Shaking his head Shekhar asked, ‘No, why?’
His mother answered, ‘Finding her on the roof after almost two
months, I called out—my daughter seems to have become a
different person altogether; thin, wan and old beyond her years. So
much gravity—one would never guess that the child is only fourteen
years old!’ Bhuvaneshwari’s eyes filled with tears; wiping them dry
she said, ‘What she was clad in was soiled and darned; I asked,
“Don’t you have other clothes, dear?” She said she did, but I don’t
believe her. She has never worn clothes given by her uncle; I used to
buy them for her and I haven’t given her anything these past six to
seven months.’ Bhuvaneshwari could not continue any further, she
wiped her eyes with the end of her sari; she truly loved Lalita as her
own daughter.
Shekhar remained silent, staring in another direction.
After a long time, Bhuvaneshwari continued. ‘Besides me, she
cannot ask anybody for anything. If she is hungry at an odd hour,
once again, she comes only to me. She would keep hovering around
me and just looking at her I could understand what she wanted. That
is the thought that keeps going around in my head, Shekhar; Lalita
moves about dispiritedly all the time, nobody understands or even
asks after her. She has only me to care for her physical comforts;
she not only addresses me as Mother, but also truly looks on me as
one.’
Shekhar did not have the gumption to look his mother in the eye.
He continued gazing in the direction he was staring into and said,
‘That’s all right, Ma, why don’t you just send for her and after finding
out her needs, make sure she is taken care of?’
 ‘Why would she accept anything from me now? Your father has
blocked even the common passage. What face do I have to give
anything at all? Gurucharan Babu, in the throes of sorrow, might
have blundered badly. We as people close to him, could have
organized a penance and helped him atone. But instead we isolated
him and cast him off totally! This much more I will also say, it is
because of your father that Lalita’s Mama has been forced to give up
his religion. Your father has been hounding him repeatedly for
payments—any man can over-react in disgust. I would say that
Gurucharan Babu has taken the right decision. That boy Girin has
proved much closer to him than we are—I am telling you, Lalita will
be happy if she marries him. The marriage is next month, I believe.’
Suddenly Shekhar turned around and asked, ‘Oh, is the ceremony
next month?’
‘That’s what I hear.’
Shekhar had no further questions.
Maintaining a silence for a while, his mother then said, ‘I heard
from Lalita that her Mama is not keeping too well either. How will he?
As it is there is no peace in his heart, and added to that a continual
spate of tears in the house. There is no calm there, even for a
minute.’ Shekhar listened in silence.

The lane in which they lived was so narrow that two cars couldn’t
pass each other. About ten days later, Shekhar was on his way back
from work when his office car was brought to a halt by a car parked
in front of Gurucharan’s house. Shekhar got down and upon asking
was told that the vehicle belonged to a doctor—a doctor had been
summoned.
As his mother had told him of Gurucharan’s ill health, Shekhar
made his way directly to Gurucharan’s bedroom instead of returning
home. What he had suspected turned out to be true. Gurucharan lay
on the bed, seemingly lifeless; on one side of the bed sat Girin and
Lalita, looking careworn; on the other side was the doctor, carrying
out his examination.
Gurucharan uttered some muffled words of welcome. Lalita,
pulling one end of the sari even closer, looked the other way.
The doctor belonged to the same locality and knew Shekhar. He
completed his tests, arranged for the medicines and left the room,
accompanied by Shekhar. As Girin followed them out and settled the
dues, the doctor emphasized that the disease had not become
virulent, and that a simple change of air would work wonders. Once
the doctor left, both returned to Gurucharan’s room.
Lalita gesturing to Girin began to have a hushed conversation with
him in one corner of the room; Shekhar sat in front of Gurucharan,
looking at him silently. Gurucharan now lay with his back towards the
door and was unaware of Shekhar’s sitting by his side.
After a while Shekhar got up and left. Even then, Girin and Lalita
remained in intimate conversation; neither had anybody asked him to
be seated, nor did anybody see him out. There was nobody to
address even a solitary remark to him or ask him a single question.
It was them that Shekhar realized only too definitely that Lalita had
been released from his onerous responsibility—that he could now
breathe a sigh of relief! There need no longer be any fear—Lalita
would not involve him in any imbroglio! As he changed into his
casual clothes in his room, Shekhar reminded himself innumerable
times that now it was Girin who was the true friend of the family, the
hope of all and provider of Lalita’s future shelter. Shekhar himself
was nobody at this moment of crisis. Lalita had no longer felt the
need of even some verbal assurances from him now.
Exclaiming aloud, ‘Oof!’ Shekhar collapsed onto a padded couch.
Seeing him, Lalita had withdrawn in a pointed manner that made it
only too clear that he was a total outsider, a mere acquaintance!
Further, in his very presence, Lalita had deliberately called Girin
aside and consulted him in low, intimate tones. Not so long ago, it
was in the company of this very man that Shekhar had forbidden
Lalita to pay a visit to the theatre!
At one point, Shekhar even tried to convince himself that Lalita
had behaved in that manner with Girin out of embarrassment
regarding her secret liaison with Shekhar—but, how could that be
possible? If that were the case, would she not have attempted by
some means or the other to speak to him about all these
complicated issues that had come to pass?
Suddenly his mother’s voice was heard outside, ‘What is the
matter, haven’t you washed up as yet? It’s getting on to be evening!’
Shekhar sat up in a rush, keeping his face averted at such an
angle as not to catch his mother’s attention, and quickly proceeded
with his evening ablutions.
These past few days his mind had continually pondered deeply on
many matters; but there was one thing Shekhar had glossed over—
whose fault was it really? Fully aware of the marriage plans for
Lalita, he had not spoken even one word of reassurance to her,
neither had he given her any opportunity to speak her mind. Rather,
he had let himself die a thousand deaths in apprehension that she
might make some untoward claims or revelations. He had marked
Lalita as the perpetrator of all crimes and judged her harshly; at the
same time, jealousy, rage, hurt and frustration were all but burning
him to a cinder. This perhaps is the manner in which all men pass
judgement, and this is how they are consumed inwardly by flames.
Shekhar had passed seven days burning in his own private hell
when, one evening, a noise at the door made his heart beat wildly!
Lalita, grasping Annakali firmly by the hand, entered his room and
sat down on the carpet. Annakali said, ‘Shekhar da, both of us have
come to take leave of you. We are going away tomorrow.’
Shekhar stared at nothing in particular, left speechless by this
sudden news.
Annakali continued, ‘We have done you a lot of wrong, committed
a lot of sins, please forgive it all.’
 It was clear to Shekhar that these were not her words, she was
merely repeating what she had been taught. He asked, ‘Where will
you be going tomorrow?’
‘To the west. All of us will be going to Munger with Baba—Girin
Babu has a house there. We don’t plan to return even after Baba’s
recovery. The doctor has said that climatic conditions here don’t suit
Baba.’
Shekhar asked, ‘How is he now?’
‘A little better.’ Annakali took out some saris and showed them to
Shekhar, saying Bhuvaneshwari had bought these for them.
Lalita had remained silent all this while. Getting up now and
putting a key on the table she said, ‘The key to the cupboard has
been with me all this while.’ Smiling a little she continued, ‘But there
is no money inside, everything has been spent.’
Shekhar said nothing to this.
Annakali said, ‘Come along Lalita di, it is almost night.’
Before Lalita could respond, Shekhar hastily spoke up, ‘Kali, just
run below and fetch me some paan, won’t you?’
Lalita caught Annakali’s hand and said, ‘You sit here Kali, I’ll fetch
it.’ She went downstairs and returned with the paan which she gave
to Annakali, who in turn handed them to Shekhar.
Shekhar sat in dumb silence, holding them in his hand.
‘We’ll have to leave now, Shekhar da,’ Annakali said, respectfully
bowing at his feet. Lalita bowed to the ground silently from where
she was. Then both left the room slowly.
Shekhar sat there with his sense of propriety and pride intact; he
sat in nonplussed silence, as though turned to stone. She had come,
said what she had to—and left forever. But Shekhar had not been
able to speak a word. The moment had passed by like he had no
lines to speak at all. Lalita had deliberately brought Annakali with her
to avoid any direct conversation with him—Shekhar was well aware
of this. His entire being seemed to painfully come to life now; head
spinning, Shekhar fell into bed with his eyes shut tight.
 11

GURUCHARAN’S DETERIORATING HEALTH DID NOT MEND

EVEN IN MUNGER. Within a year, casting away all earthly cares, he
left for his heavenly abode. Girin had truly come to love him and till
the very last nursed him to the best of his ability.
Before breathing his last, Gurucharan took both of Girin’s hands in
his own and, beseeching him never to sever ties with the family,
requested him to let their deep friendship deepen further into a more
intimate family bond. Failing health and rapidly passing time would
not permit him to witness the happy occasion, but even from above,
he would like to see the events come to pass. Girin, in utmost
happiness and with all his heart, gave Gurucharan his word.
The tenants who had leased Gurucharan’s house kept
Bhuvaneshwari in touch with all that was happening to them; they
conveyed the news of Gurucharan’s demise to her.
Not much later, a momentous disaster took place in her own
house. Nabin Roy passed away suddenly. Turning almost insane
with sorrow and grief, Bhuvaneshwari headed for Benares, leaving
the responsibility of the entire household to her daughter-in-law. She
promised that she would return to solemnize Shekhar’s marriage
which was scheduled for the following year.
This match had been fixed by Nabin Roy himself and the wedding
would have taken place much earlier, but his death had postponed
matters for a year. But now, the bride’s family did not want to delay
things any further—and they had come the previous day and
completed the engagement ceremony. The marriage was to take
place that very month. Shekhar was getting ready to go and fetch his
mother. As he brought out his things from the cupboard to pack,
Lalita came to his mind after a very long while. All these chores used
to be taken care of by her earlier.
 It was over three years since Lalita and her family had left—for a
long while there had been no news of them. He had made no effort
to trace them either—probably there was no desire to do so.
Gradually a kind of hatred had grown in his mind for Lalita. Today all
of a sudden he wished he could find out how they all were by some
means or the other. Of course, there was every reason for them to
have prospered—Shekhar was quite aware that Girin was well to do;
however, he wanted to know the details—when the marriage had
been solemnized, how they all were—all that.
The tenants of Gurucharan’s house were not there either—they
had shifted elsewhere. Shekhar had once thought of approaching
Charu’s father—they would definitely have kept track of Girin’s
whereabouts. For some moments, putting aside the packing, he
stared emptily through the window and brooded on these matters.
Suddenly their elderly maid called aloud from outside the door,
‘Chhoto Babu, Kali’s mother would like to see you.’
In astonishment Shekhar turned around and asked, ‘Which Kali’s
mother?’
The maid pointed out Gurucharan’s house and said, ‘Our Kali’s
mother, Chhoto Babu, they returned last night.’
‘I’m coming,’ Shekhar started out immediately.
The day was drawing to a close; no sooner had he stepped into
the house than a loud keening resounded all around. Going near
Gurucharan’s wife who was clad in the garb of a widow, Shekhar sat
down on the floor in front of her and silently swallowed his own tears.
Sorrow, not just for Gurucharan, but for his own father as well,
overwhelmed Shekhar all over again.
Lalita came into the room bearing lights when darkness had fallen
all around. She greeted Shekhar from a distance and after waiting
for a while left quietly. Shekhar could not bring himself to either look
at or address this wife of another, a seventeen-year-old woman now.
However a covert glance revealed a little, that Lalita had not just
grown up, but had become a lot thinner too.
 After weeping considerably, what Gurucharan’s widow had to say
amounted to this—all that she wanted to do now was to sell this
house and live under the shelter of her son-in-law in Munger.
Shekhar’s father had craved to buy this house; now her family
wanted to sell it to Shekhar’s family for the right price. This way, they
would feel that somehow they were still a part of it. They would not
feel any trepidation about selling off the house and should they visit
at any point of time in the future, she was sure that she’d be allowed
to spend a few days there. Once Shekhar had reassured her that he
would speak to his mother and do what he could, she wiped her
tears dry and asked, ‘Will Didi not pay us a visit now by any chance?’
Shekhar said that he was leaving that very night to fetch her. After
that, Gurucharan’s widow elicited other bits of information regarding
the date of Shekhar’s wedding, the amount of dowry the bride’s
family were offering, what jewellery had been bought, how Nabin
Roy had passed away, how Bhuvaneshwari had coped with his
death etc. etc.
When Shekhar was finally permitted to leave, the moon had risen.
At the time, Girin was coming downstairs, and was probably going
across to meet Charu’s mother—his sister. Observing this,
Gurucharan’s widow asked, ‘Shekharnath, are you not acquainted
with my son-in-law? There is no one comparable to him anywhere in
the world.’
Shekhar entertained no doubts about that at all; he said as much
and also giving her to understand that he was acquainted with Girin,
rapidly made an exit. But he was forced to come to a halt on entering
the outer room.
In the darkness, Lalita was waiting behind the door. She asked,
‘Are you going to fetch Ma tonight?’
Shekhar answered, ‘Yes.’
‘Is she very distressed?’
‘Yes, she had all but turned insane with grief.’
‘How is your own health?’
 ‘I am well,’ he said and left hastily.
Stepping out, Shekhar seemed to burn up in shame and disgust. It
seemed to him that by standing in proximity with Lalita, he too had
become sullied. On returning home he somehow managed to close
his suitcase; knowing that there was still plenty of time before the
train left, he stretched out on the bed and with the purpose of
burning to a cinder Lalita’s poisonous memories, fanned the flames
of disgust all through his heart. In the agony of being seared through
and through, he chided her in the harshest of terms; as a matter of
fact, he did not even hesitate to call her a fallen woman. Then he
recollected that Gurucharan’s wife had said, ‘That was a marriage of
convenience, not joy—so, no one had been informed or invited,
otherwise Lalita had said that your family ought to be intimated.’ This
sheer audacity of Lalita’s seemed to ignite the flames of Shekhar’s
wrath even further.
 12

WHEN SHEKHAR RETURNED WITH HIS MOTHER, THERE WAS STILL ABOUT
A fortnight to go before his wedding.
A couple of days later, one morning, Lalita was sitting with
Bhuvaneshwari and sorting and putting away some articles. Shekhar
was not aware of this, and was startled when upon entering his
mother’s room, he found Lalita there. He stopped in his tracks. Lalita,
with her head bowed, continued with the work.
His mother asked, ‘What is it, dear?’
Having forgotten why he had wanted to meet her, Shekhar
muttered a muffled ‘No, let it be for now,’ and quickly left the room.
He had not caught a glimpse of Lalita’s face, but his eyes had fallen
on her hands. Though they were not completely bereft of ornaments,
nothing other than a couple of glass bangles adorned each wrist.
Laughing sardonically to himself, Shekhar scoffed at this hypocrisy.
He knew that Girin was well to do and could think of no valid reason
for his wife being virtually ornamentless.
That very evening as Shekhar was rushing downstairs on his way
out Lalita was coming up the stairs. She immediately stepped aside,
but, as he was about to pass, she spoke aloud, ‘I have something to
say.’
Stopping momentarily, in tones of amazement, Shekhar asked, ‘To
whom? Me?’
Just as gently Lalita continued, ‘Yes, you.’
‘What could you possibly have to say to me?’ Shekhar made an
even more rapid exit.
Lalita remained there in mute silence for a while and then
releasing a little sigh, went her way.
Next morning Shekhar was sitting in the outer room and reading
the newspaper when he looked up and saw, to his great amazement,
Girin approaching. Greeting him, Girin pulled up a chair and seated
himself. Returning the greeting, Shekhar put aside the newspaper
and looked at him askance. While they had a nodding acquaintance,
the two did not really know each other and neither had evinced any
sort of desire to do so either.
Girin came to the point straightaway. He said, ‘I have come to
bother you on a certain matter of urgency. You know what my
mother-in-law wants—to sell her house to your family. Today she has
sent word through me to tell you that if the arrangements for the
purchase of our house could be made soon, they could return this
very month to Munger.’
Shekhar’s mind was in a turmoil ever since he had set eyes on
Girin and he did not care for the trend of the conversation at all.
Somewhat gruffly he responded, ‘All that is true, but in my father’s
absence it is Dada you will have to talk to.’
Responding with a pleasant smile Girin said, ‘Yes, we know that
too, but it would be the best if you approached him.’
Shekhar continued to respond in the same manner, ‘It might work
out if you talk to him too. You are now their guardian.’
Girin replied, ‘If required I can do so, but Lalita di was mentioning
yesterday that matters can be settled easily if you take a bit of
trouble.’
All this while Shekhar had been leaning against a thick pillow for
support. He suddenly sat up straight and asked, ‘Who was
mentioning?’
‘Lalita di. She was saying …’
Shekhar was absolutely dumbstruck with amazement. Not a word
of what Girin said after this penetrated his ears. Staring at him in
bewilderment he suddenly spoke aloud, ‘Please forgive me, Girin
Babu, but have you not married Lalita?’
Vastly embarrassed, Girin said, ‘No, they all know … you … Kali
and I …’
‘But, that was not what was supposed to happen?’
 Girin had come to know of everything from Lalita and said, ‘It is
true that that was not what had been planned. On his deathbed
Gurucharan Babu had made me promise not to marry elsewhere. I
too had given him my word. After his death, Lalita di explained to me
—of course, nobody else knows all this—that she was already
married and that her husband was alive. Perhaps someone else in
my place might not have believed what she said, but I did not
disbelieve a word. Besides, a lady cannot marry more than once,
can she—whatever is the matter?’
Shekhar’s eyes had misted over and now tears ran down his
cheeks. But he was not even aware of them; it did not even occur to
him that for a man to give vent to such a weakness in front of
another man was not an accepted norm of how matters were
conducted.
Girin stared at him in silence. He had had his own suspicions, now
the identity of Lalita’s husband was confirmed! Wiping dry his eyes,
Shekhar asked in a thick voice, ‘But, were you not very fond of
Lalita?’
The reflection of some buried sorrow cast a shadow for a second
on Girin’s face, but at the next instance he began to laugh! Softly he
said, ‘It is unnecessary to answer that question. Besides, no matter
what feelings might exist, nobody knowingly marries the wife of
another. Please don’t mind, I have no desire to discuss my elders in
this manner.’ Smiling once again Girin got up, ‘Let me take my leave
now, we will meet again.’
In his heart of hearts Shekhar had always felt a distaste for Girin,
which had in the course of time grown into acute disgust. But that
day when the young Brahmo boy left, Shekhar could not but offer his
heartfelt respectful salutations. For the first time Shekhar had
witnessed how a man can silently give up even the last vestiges of
self interest, how one can keep one’s word even in the most harsh
and trying circumstances.
 That evening, Bhuvaneshwari was sitting on the floor and with
Lalita’s help was sorting out the new clothes which were scattered all
around in piles. Entering the room Shekhar seated himself on
Bhuvaneshwari’s bed. Today, he did not hurriedly leave on seeing
Lalita. Looking towards him, his mother asked, ‘What is the matter?’
Shekhar did not respond and continued to look at them silently. A
little later he asked, ‘What are you doing, Ma?’
‘I am just trying to make a count of the people to whom the new
clothes are to be distributed. Probably some more have to be
bought, isn’t it, dear?’
Lalita nodded in agreement.
Smiling, Shekhar asked, ‘What if I do not marry?’
Bhuvaneshwari laughed, ‘That you can do, you are more than
capable of doing so!’
Shekhar too laughed, ‘That is what might yet happen, Ma.’
His mother turned grave, ‘What sort of talk is that? Do not talk in
that inauspicious manner!’
‘I have not spoken all this while, Ma, but it will be a grave sin if I
continue to remain silent.’
Not following him, Bhuvaneshwari glanced at him in concern.
Shekhar said, ‘You have forgiven your son a lot, Ma—pardon me
this time too. Truly, I cannot marry that girl.’
Her son’s words and demeanour truly concerned Bhuvaneshwari,
but glossing over it she said, ‘All right, it will be as you wish. Now go
Shekhar, do not pester me—I have a lot to do.’
Making another futile attempt to smile, Shekhar said in parched
tones, ‘No Ma, truly, this marriage cannot take place.’
‘What is this childish behaviour all of a sudden?’
‘It is not child’s play, which is why I am saying all this, Ma.’
Now genuinely scared, Bhuvaneshwari said angrily, ‘Explain to
me, Shekhar, what this is all about! I do not like these complications.’
Mildly Shekhar responded, ‘I will tell you another day, Ma, another
time.’
 ‘You will tell me another day!’ Pushing aside the pile of clothes,
Bhuvaneshwari said, ‘Then, send me back to Benares today itself. I
do not want to remain here even a moment longer under these
circumstances.’
Shekhar sat in silence with bowed head. ‘Lalita also wants to
accompany me tomorrow,’ Bhuvaneshwari said with even greater
impatience. ‘Let me see if she will be allowed to.’
Now Shekhar looked up with a smile, ‘You will be taking her Ma,
why do you have to ask permission for that from anybody? Who has
more authority over her than you?’
Seeing a smile on her son’s face Bhuvaneshwari was somewhat
reassured. Looking towards Lalita she remarked, ‘Did you hear what
he said? He thinks I can take you wherever I please! Don’t I have to
ask her Mami for permission?’
Lalita did not answer. The trend the conversation was taking was
making her feel acutely embarrassed and awkward.
Shekhar blurted out, ‘If you want to inform her, do so by all means
—that is as you wish. But whatever you say will be done, Ma. It isn’t
just me who thinks this way, but also the one whom you plan to take
—she too feels the same way, for she is your daughter-in-law!’
Bhuvaneshwari was stunned. What manner of joke was this for a
son to play on his mother! Staring at him fixedly she said, ‘What did
you say? What is she of mine?’
It was beyond Shekhar to raise his head, but he replied, ‘Just what
I said, Ma. This did not happen today, but four years ago—you are
truly her mother. I cannot say any more; ask her Ma, she will tell you
all.’ Shekhar noticed that Lalita had got up and was respectfully
bending down to touch his mother’s feet; getting up, he stood beside
her and both together completed this gesture, after which Shekhar
silently left.
Tears of joy streamed down Bhuvaneshwari’s face, she dearly and
truly loved Lalita. Opening the almirah and taking out all her
jewellery, she adorned Lalita in them with her own hands. Gradually
she got all the information from Lalita. After listening to the entire
account of what had happened, she asked, ‘Is that why Girin married
Kali?’
Lalita answered, ‘Yes Ma, that is why. Whether there is someone
else like Girin Babu in this world, I do not know. When I explained
the situation to him, he immediately accepted the fact that I was
married to another. Whether my husband acknowledged me or not
was up to my husband, but he definitely existed and that was
enough for Girin Babu to change his mind about marrying me.’
Bhuvaneshwari affectionately caressing her said, ‘Of course your
husband acknowledges you, my dear! May you both enjoy many,
many years together. Just wait a moment, let me go and inform
Abinash that the bride has been changed!’ Smiling, Bhuvaneshwari
moved away in the direction of her elder son’s room.
 Glossary

BABA : Father
BORO BOU MA : Elder daughter-in-law
CHHOTO BOU : Younger daughter-in-law
DI/DIDI : Elder sister
DA/DADA : Elder brother
KAKA : Younger uncle (paternal)
KHURIMA : Aunt
MAMA : Maternal uncle
MAMI : Maternal aunt
MASHIMA : Aunt, a general term
MEJ DI : Second eldest sister
 PALLI SAMAJ
(The Village Life)
 1

STEPPING INTO THE MUKHERJEE HOUSEHOLD, BENI GHOSAL

SPOTTED AN elderly lady and called out to her, ‘Mashi, do you have
any idea where Rama is?’
The lady to whom the question was directed was engrossed in her
prayers, but she had heard Beni and gestured towards the kitchen in
response. Beni moved in that direction and standing at the threshold
asked, ‘Well, Rama, have you decided what to do?’
Taking the sizzling pan off the: burning embers, Rama looked up
and asked, ‘What about, Barda?’
‘The funeral rites of Tarini Khuro! Ramesh arrived yesterday. It
looks as though he will make this ceremony quite a grand affair—do
you plan to attend?’
In amazement Rama cried out, ‘Me and go to Tarini Ghosal’s
house?!’
Somewhat embarrassed, Beni continued, ‘I do realize that, Rama!
No matter what, I know that you all will definitely not go across. But I
believe that the young boy is planning to go from house to house
issuing invitations; in scheming he surpasses even his father! How
will you respond if he actually does turn up here to invite you?’
Angrily Rama answered, ‘I will make no response—it is the guard
outside who will say what he has to.’
As soon as the salacious conversation reached the ears of the
elderly Mashi engrossed in her prayers, she quickly discarded what
she had been doing and sprang up. Rama had barely finished
speaking when like a piece of spluttering coal Mashi burst forth,
‘Why the guard—can’t I speak? I will give that wretched wastrel such
a dressing down that he will never dare to darken the doors of the
Mukherjees again with his presence. Tarini Ghosal’s son will enter
my house to extend an invitation?! I have forgotten nothing,
Benimadhab! Tarini had wanted to get his son married to my Rama.
My Jatin had not been born at the time—don’t you understand, my
dear, he had schemed to get hold of all of Jodu Mukherjee’s property
in this manner. When that did not materialize, he got Bhairav
Acharya to conduct some black magic on this poor girl so that within
six months of her marriage she was widowed. He came from a low
caste but had the audacity to seek the hand of Jodu Mukherjee’s
daughter in marriage! That scoundrel has died in as horrific a
manner as he deserved—even the last rites could not be undertaken
by his son and heir! Damnation to these lower castes!’ The widowed
aunt began panting as though she was nearing the end of a bout of
wrestling. Beni in the meanwhile had been growing increasingly
downcast and woebegone at the repeated mention of the Ghosals’
low caste because Tarini Ghosal was his uncle. Observing this,
Rama chided her aunt, ‘Mashi, why do you persist in referring to a
man’s caste? After all, no one has any control over the caste they
are born into. One has to make the best of what they are born with.’
With a somewhat embarrassed smile Beni acknowledged, ‘No,
Rama, Mashi is right. You belong to a high-caste Brahmin family,
how can we even dream of bringing you in as a bride? Chhoto Khuro
was wrong to have even thought of it. Further, if you are to talk of
black magic, that is also true. Chhoto Khuro and that wretched
Bhairav Acharya—nothing was beyond them! Apparently, that
Bhairav is Ramesh’s mentor these days.’
Mashi resumed her rant, ‘That is only to be expected, Beni! That
wretched boy has not been here for ten to twelve years—where has
he been all this while?’
‘How would I know, Mashi? We are only as well acquainted with
Chhoto Khuro as you are. I have heard that Ramesh had been in
Bombay or some place all this while. Some say that he is armed with
a doctor’s degree, others insist that he is a lawyer; there are others
still who claim that it is all a fraud and he is nothing but a drunkard!
His eyes were apparently absolutely bloodshot when he came
home.’
 ‘Really? Then he should not be permitted to even enter the house!’
Vigorously Beni nodded, ‘Definitely not! Rama, do you remember
Ramesh?’
Rama was just recovering from an extremely awkward feeling that
had overtaken her while her marital misfortune was being recounted.
She responded shyly, ‘Of course I do! He is not much older than I
am. Besides, we studied in school together. I also remember his
mother’s death. Khuri Ma used to love me a lot.’
Mashi was incited to anger once again, ‘Such love be damned! It
was only to achieve her own ends. Their motive had been to
somehow trap you.’
Beni agreed very knowledgeably, ‘There is no doubt about that,
Mashi. It’s true that Chhoto Khuri …’
Beni could not complete what he was saying, for Rama remarked
in a displeased manner to her aunt, ‘There is no need to dwell on the
past, Mashi.’
No matter what the discord between Ramesh’s father and Rama’s
father was, an unspoken pain always surfaced in Rama’s heart at
the mention of Ramesh’s mother. Even after such a length of time
had gone by, that indistinct pain still remained. Beni readily agreed,
‘Yes, of course! Chhoto Khuri was the daughter of a good man. My
mother weeps even today whenever Chhoto Khuri’s name is
mentioned.’
Observing that Rama’s mind was softening, Beni adroitly steered
the conversation in another direction. ‘Then, the decision has been
taken—Rama, you will not change your mind, I hope?’
Rama laughed, ‘Barda, my father used to say: always make fully
sure that the fire is out, the debt is paid, and the enemy vanquished.
Tarini Ghosal caused us no end of misery while he was alive—he
had even wanted to send my father to gaol! I have not forgotten any
of that, Barda, and never can as long as I live. Ramesh after all is
the son of that enemy! Besides, there is absolutely no way that I can
go. Though my father divided his property equally between his two
children, it is my responsibility to see that no harm comes to his
legacy. It is not just that I will not go, I also will not permit anyone
who is in close contact with our family to attend.’ Pausing to think,
Rama continued, ‘Barda, can’t it be so arranged that not a single
Brahmin goes over?’
Beni moved to one side and in a conspiratorial whisper said, ‘That
is exactly what I am trying to do! You leave it to me—there is nothing
more to worry about. My name is not Beni Ghosal unless I manage
to chase that Ramesh out of our Kuapur. And then, it will just be
Bhairav Acharya and me! Tarini Ghosal is no more—let us see who
can shield that rascal!’
Rama answered, ‘Ramesh Ghosal will be his protector. Let me tell
you, Barda, he will be no less an enemy.’
Beni moved even closer and glancing furtively this way and that,
squatted down, lowered his voice to a bare whisper and said, ‘Rama,
if you want to destroy his strength, this is the best opportunity—if you
let this chance slip by, it will just not be possible again, let me warn
you. He has not yet learned how to protect and safeguard his
property—this is the ideal time to uproot your enemy, which might
become difficult in the future. We always have to keep in mind that
he is Tarini Ghosal’s son, after all!’
‘I do understand that, Barda.’
‘How could you not? The Almighty was on the verge of creating a
boy when He changed His mind and fashioned you into a girl. We all
talk about how your ready wit and intelligence puts even seasoned
landlords to shame. Fine then, I will return tomorrow; it is getting late,
let me take my leave today.’ Extremely pleased with all the praise
that was being showered on her, Rama stood up and was on the
verge of uttering polite protestations, when her heart suddenly
quailed. From one end of the courtyard, a deep, manly voice was
heard calling out, ‘Rani—where are you?’
Ramesh’s mother used to address Rama in this manner in
childhood. After her death, Rama had almost forgotten this mode of
address. Glancing at Beni, Rama saw that he had almost turned
blue. The next moment Ramesh appeared at the door—wan,
barefoot, dishevelled and dressed in the white attire of mourning. No
sooner had he cast eyes on Beni than he spoke, ‘Ah Barda, so you
are here! That’s good—who else but you could do the needful? I
have been searching for you all through the village. Where is Rani?’
Ramesh now stepped forward. There was no means of escape, so
Rama waited with head downcast. Glancing once at her, in tones of
deep amazement he burst forth, ‘There you are! You have grown so
much—how are you?’
Rama remained silent; all of a sudden she found it impossible to
utter a word. Ramesh smiled a bit and said, ‘Do you recognize me? I
am your Rameshda.’
Rama still found it impossible to look up. But she said mildly, ‘How
do you do?’
‘I’m fine—but why do you address me so formally, Rama?’ Looking
at Beni and smiling somewhat sadly he said, ‘I have never been able
to forget those words of Rama’s, Barda! When my mother passed
away, this Rama was still a child. Even at that age she had wiped dry
my tears and said, “Rameshda, don’t cry, we will share my mother.”
You probably don’t even remember all that, do you, Rama? But tell
me, do you remember my mother?’
These words seemed to cause Rama even greater
embarrassment. She found it impossible to nod her head and
acknowledge that yes, she did remember her Khuri Ma vividly.
Ramesh continued to speak. ‘There is no more time—there are only
three more days left!’ he said addressing Rama. ‘Please do whatever
has to be done—I have come to you bereft of everything. It is
impossible to make any arrangement at all unless you take matters
in hand. I have come to you on my mother’s behalf.’
Rama’s aunt had in the meanwhile come and silently stood behind
Ramesh. When neither Beni nor Rama made any sort of response,
she moved ahead and looking at Ramesh, scathingly asked, ‘Aren’t
you Tarini Ghosal’s son?’
Ramesh had never seen this Mashi before. She had joined the
household after Ramesh had left the village, on the pretext of
nursing Rama’s ailing mother—but had not departed since. Ramesh
looked at her with some degree of surprise. Disregarding the fact
that she had not been introduced to Ramesh, Mashi continued, ‘How
else could one be so shameless? Like father like son! Don’t you
have any shame, just barging into a household in this manner and
bothering everybody?’
Ramesh stood there astounded, as though struck by a
thunderbolt.
‘I should be going,’ said Beni, and hurriedly left.
Rama had withdrawn inside the kitchen at her aunt’s outburst.
From there she said, ‘Mashi, what are you talking about! Why don’t
you go about your own work?’
The old lady assumed that she was privy to the private droughts of
her niece. So, injecting a little more venom into her tones she said,
‘Come on Rama, don’t drivel! I don’t shy away from speaking out
what must be said—unlike both of you. Why did Beni have to run
away in fright like that? He could have stayed to hear this as well.
Ramesh, we are neither your clerical staff nor your subjects that we
have to be present to help out! Tarini is dead—that is a boon to the
entire village. If Beni was a man he could have said so to your face,
instead of leaving the matter to us.’
Ramesh stood still, as though lifeless. Truly, all this was beyond
his worst nightmare. The lock on the kitchen door clanked loudly
from inside, but no one paid it any heed. Mashi east a look at
Ramesh’s wan and wilted visage and said again, ‘However, I do not
want to insult a Brahmin through servants and guards; just be a bit
more aware of the social norms. You are not a child that you can just
stroll in and make friends! Let me warn you beforehand, my Rama
will not enter your house even to wash her feet!’
 All of a sudden Ramesh seemed to awake from a stupor and a
heart-wrenching sigh arose from him in such a manner that inside
the kitchen, from behind the shelter of the door, Rama looked up.
Looking towards the kitchen door Ramesh said with some hesitation,
‘Since coming to my house is impossible for you, what more can I
say! But I was unaware of all these facts—won’t you forgive me for
that, Rani?’ And before anyone could say anything more, he turned
and quickly left the room.
There was absolutely no response from inside the kitchen.
Ramesh did not come to know that the person from whom he
begged forgiveness was staring at his retreating back. Beni returned
as soon as Ramesh was gone. He had merely hid himself outside
and waited. Meeting Mashi’s eyes, a smile spread right across his
face and he said admiringly, ‘What a lesson you taught him, Mashi! It
was beyond my powers to have talked to him in that manner. Is this
a task for servants and guards, Rama! I was waiting outside and saw
him leaving, looking like the overcast sky. That’s it—serves him
right!’
Not fully appeased, Mashi responded, ‘That may well be; but
instead of dumping the responsibility on two women, would it not
have been better to have told him so yourself, Beni! If that was
impossible for you, why couldn’t you at least wait and listen to all that
I had to say? You should not have run away like that.’
Beni’s smile vanished at the sting behind Mashi’s words. He could
not think of any appropriate answer. But he did not have to wait for a
very long time. Rama suddenly spoke from inside; she had remained
silent all this while. ‘Mashi, the best solution was for you to have
spoken,’ she said. ‘No matter what, there is none who can equal you
in spewing forth poison in that manner.’
Both Beni and Mashi were astounded. Turning towards the kitchen
Mashi asked, ‘What is it that you just said?’
‘Nothing! You’ve interrupted your prayers at least seven times—
why don’t you at least complete them? Is there no cooking to be
done?’ Rama emerged from the kitchen and without saying another
word to anyone entered a room at the other end of the courtyard.
Beni asked in dry tones, ‘What is the matter, Mashi?’
‘How will I know, my dear? Is it possible for mere menials like me
to understand the reason behind frayed tempers of royalty like her!’
Her face black with thwarted rage, Mashi took her seat before the
image of the deity and began to mutter something which may well
have been a holy chant. Beni made a hurried exit.
 2

IT BECOMES NECESSARY AT THIS POINT TO REVEAL A LITTLE

BEHIND THE history of Kuapur. Almost a hundred years ago, the
high-caste Brahmin Balaram Mukherjee, along with his friend
Balaram Ghosal, had left Bikrampur to settle down in Kuapur.
Mukherjee was not only a Brahmin, but an extremely intelligent man
as well. By dint of a suitable marriage, working for the royal family of
Burdwan and innumerable other activities, he had accumulated a
vast amount of property. Ghosal too had married in the same place,
but could do little more than pay off the debts his father had left. He
struggled to make a living and look after his family. It was apparently
on the occasion of his marriage that there was a falling out between
the two friends. Eventually matters came to such a pass that despite
living in the same village, neither of them spoke to or even looked at
each other any longer. Ghosal did not call on the Mukherjees even
on the day Balaram Mukherjee passed away. But, after his death the
amazing fact that was revealed was—all of Balaram Mukherjee’s
assets had been divided very precisely between his son and the
sons of his erstwhile friend. Since then Kuapur had virtually been
controlled by the Mukherjees and the Ghosals. They looked on
themselves as the local landlords and the villagers did not raise any
objection to this arrangement either.
In time, the Ghosal dynasty, too, had come to be divided. Tarini
Ghosal, the younger brother of Balaram Ghosal, had not been
allowed to wait for the outcome of all the cases that were pending in
court, and had been summoned to his eternal rest by the Almighty.
This caused quite a stir in the village of Kuapur. Beni Ghosal,
Balaram’s son, returned to Kuapur now, breathing a secret sigh of
relief. In every way he tried to arrange matters such that the funeral
rites of his uncle were totally disrupted. The nephew and uncle had
not looked on each other for over ten years. Many years ago, Tarini’s
household had lost its mistress; he had sent his son Ramesh to stay
with his maternal grandparents and Tarini himself had spent the
better part of his time with servants and innumerable pending
litigations. Ramesh, having been informed of his father’s demise at
Rourkee College where he was studying, had arrived in Kuapur the
previous evening, only to perform the last rites.
It was a house that was in a chaotic frenzy of chores to be
completed in time—the funeral obsequies had been scheduled for
Thursday. Some of the elders from the neighbouring villages put in
sporadic appearances. However, nobody turned up from his own
village, Kuapur—and Ramesh was beginning to believe that
ultimately no one might turn up at all. It was only Bhairav Acharya
and members of his household who had wholeheartedly joined in all
the activities. Though Ramesh did not expect the advent of any of
the Brahmins of their village, he was nevertheless making truly
grandiose arrangements.
He spent a lot of time in the house, seeing to all the arrangements.
Emerging outside for a while, he found a few elderly people gathered
in the living room, puffing away on their hookahs. He was on the
verge of humbly proffering his hospitality, when a sudden noise
made him turn around; a very elderly man accompanied by five or
six children had just entered the house. The man’s clothes were
somewhat shabby, and on his nose were perched a pair of round
spectacles—held back with a string. He had white hair and a white
moustache that was stained brown thanks to the sprinkling of
tobacco. He drew close and looking at Ramesh through his
fearsome spectacles, burst into tears without warning. Ramesh failed
to recognize this visitor, but anxiously moving closer, no sooner had
he grasped his hands, than the elderly man cried out in a rasping
voice, ‘My dear Ramesh, it is beyond imagination that Tarini would
make his escape in this manner, but that does not mean that we of
the Chatterjee dynasty will take recourse to falsehood. While on my
way to your house, I did not hesitate to tell that Beni Ghosal to his
face, “The kind of arrangements our Ramesh is making for the
funeral, nobody has ever seen before.”’ He paused for breath before
continuing, ‘A lot of scoundrels will come and malign me—but
Dharmadas only bows his head to the Almighty and nobody else.’
Thus having grabbed the attention of the gathering, the old man
wrested the hookah from Gobinda Ganguly, and after one vigorous
pull began coughing violently.
Dharmadas had not exaggerated in any manner. No one in Kuapur
had ever seen the likes of the kind of arrangements that were being
made. Cooks had been summoned from Kolkata—they had set up a
temporary kitchen at one corner of the premises, where a whole host
of young children crowded around. Bhairav Acharya was organizing
the clothes that were to be donated to the poor; a group of men also
jostled for place there. They occupied themselves by trying to
calculate the amount of money Ramesh was wasting in such
extravagances. Meanwhile, the poor from the neighbouring regions
had also begun flocking to Kuapur in great numbers. There were any
number of people in the house, squabbling pointlessly or creating a
furore just as senselessly. Dharmadas began coughing even more
violently seeing the manner in which money was being spent without
a care.
Ramesh was about to make some humble protest to Dharmadas’s
praise for his elaborate funeral arrangements; however, Dharmadas
gestured for him to stop and tried to speak, but was overcome by
another spate of coughing. As a result not a single word could be
distinguished.
Gobinda Ganguly had been the first to reach the Ghosal
household—hence it should have been his prerogative to say all that
Dharmadas had just voiced—after all, Dharmadas had only just
arrived; the fact that he had missed his cue was causing him no end
of discomfort. He did not lose the opportunity that presently befell
him. Addressing Dharmadas he spoke aloud, ‘Yesterday morning I
could not reach here in spite of setting out—Beni insisted on calling
out, “Gobinda Khuro come and smoke a pipe.” For a moment I
wanted to refuse, but then thought to myself, “Why not try and
assess what his feelings and intentions are?” Do you know what
Beni said, Ramesh? He said, “You are acting as Ramesh’s
spokesperson, but will people go and partake of a meal at his
house?” Why should I be the one to let him have the final word on
the matter? Whether you are wealthy or not, is my Ramesh second
to anybody? Nobody can even dream of a mouthful to eat in Beni’s
house! I responded, “Beni Babu, this is the path to his house—why
not go and see how the poor are fed? Ramesh is a young boy, but
look at the courage he has! I have been around for so long, but I
have not seen such flawless arrangements ever.” Even then, I will
still say—what could we possibly do? The man who is responsible
for all this is pulling the strings from above. Tarinida was a saint who
had strayed and was merely whiling away his time on earth.’
Dharmadas broke into another spate of coughing. Seeing Gobinda
Ganguly spouting forth such praise in such glowing terms, he
became increasingly agitated in his desire to say something even
more flowery.
Ganguly was now unstoppable; he continued, ‘You are no outsider
my dear, but someone very close to me. Your mother was cousin to
my very own distant cousin. The Banerjee family of Radhanagar—
Tarinida was well aware of all this. Hence he would always send for
me, whether it was regarding a matter of litigation or to stand witness
in some case.’
With great difficulty, Dharmadas somehow managed to suppress
his bout of coughing long enough to utter, ‘Why do you talk such
rubbish, Gobinda? Do I seem to be a callow youth of today? Have I
not seen what has happened in this village? The year Tarini wanted
a witness, you said, “I have no shoes; is it possible to go in this
manner?” Immediately he bought you a new pair—that was what you
wore to go and stand witness.’
Gobinda with bloodshot eyes asked, ‘Did I?’
 ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Get out, liar!’
‘It’s your father who is a liar!’
Gobinda jumped up brandishing his broken umbrella, ‘What, you
scoundrel!’
Dharmadas in an equally volatile manner produced his bamboo
baton, but was overcome by another violent fit of coughing. Ramesh
who had stepped forward to intervene between the two was stunned
into silence by their cheap behaviour. Laying down the stick and
continuing to cough, Dharmadas gasped, ‘That wastrel happens to
be younger than me and so he is taking advantage—look at him—
what sheer audacity!’
‘Oh! That scoundrel happens to be older than me and so …’
Gobinda Ganguly too rolled up his umbrella and sat down.
The cooks from the city stopped work and looked on at this scene
of allegations and counter-allegations with some amusement. All
those engaged in various chores gathered around for some fun at no
expense. The children stopped playing and enjoyed the
entertainment, and in the midst of it all, Ramesh stood in shamed
and stunned silence. Not a single word escaped his lips. What was
all this? Both these men—Gobinda and Dharmadas—were
venerable, elderly people and Brahmins at that! How could they
stoop to such ugly bandying of words for such a minor reason?
Seated on the veranda, Bhairav had seen and heard everything.
Now, getting up, he addressed Ramesh, ‘There are enough clothes
for four hundred people—do you want me to get some more?’
All of a sudden Ramesh found it impossible to say a word. Bhairav
smiled, observing Ramesh’s plight. Mildly he chided, ‘Shame on you
Ganguly Moshai, Babu is amazed! Do not take it amiss, Babu—all
this happens only too frequently. In a household where work is being
conducted along such mammoth proportions, bloody battles
sometimes do take place. Then, all is as before once again. Come
along Chatterjee Moshai, help me check on the clothes.’
 Before Dharmadas could make any response, Gobinda Ganguly
stood up with great enthusiasm and vigorously nodding his head
remarked, ‘Absolutely right! That is exactly what happens! Why, even
our scriptures say that no marriage can take place unless a million
words are exchanged! That year—do you remember, Bliairav, during
a ceremony that was organized by Jodu Mukherjee’s daughter Rama
some years ago—there was such a violent skirmish between
Raghav Bhattacharjee and Haran Chatterjee! But, Bhairav, my
friend, I really do believe that Babaji is not doing the right thing. It is
an absolute waste of money to spend so much on clothes for the
poor and downtrodden. Instead, I would say, distributing clothes
amongst the Brahmins and their male offsprings would be the best
policy to follow. What do you say, Dharmadas?’
Dharmadas nodded sagely in agreement. ‘Gobinda is not wrong
there, Babaji! No matter how much you give them, those ingrates will
never sing your praises. Why else does one call them lowly? You do
understand, Ramesh?’
Ramesh had been silent all the while. In the course of this
discussion regarding clothes to be distributed, he had felt as if he
had been mortally wounded. It was not the arguments for or against
the issue that concerned him; but the manner in which these
respectable men squabbled so shamelessly in front of the so called
lowly people without any compunction was what stunned him.
Seeing Bhairav waiting for an answer, Ramesh answered tersely,
‘Prepare another two hundred or so.’
‘How is everything to be managed?’ said Gobinda. ‘Bhairav, come
along—let me give you a hand; how much can you cope with alone?’
Not waiting for anyone’s consent or permission, he got up and took
his place amongst the pile of clothes. Just as Ramesh was about to
return to the house, Dharmadas called him aside and in lowered
tones talked at length on some matter quite secretively with him.
Ramesh nodded his consent and went inside. From where he was
seated, Gobinda Ganguly cast covert glances in their direction and
observed it all.
‘Where is he? Where are you, Babaji?’ A wizened, short Brahmin,
with a tonsured head entered. He, too, was accompanied by a
couple of children. The eldest, a girl, was the only one who was
somewhat dressed—she was clad in an extremely worn out old sari.
The two boys had only a loincloth to save themselves from total
nudity. Everybody present looked up. Gobinda greeted him,
‘Welcome, Dinuda, take a seat. We are very fortunate to be blessed
by your presence today. That boy is all on his own and quite lost, but
if you all stand by him …’
Dharmadas glared at Gobinda for having spoken first again. The
latter completely ignored Dharmadas and continued, ‘But, none of
you ever step in this direction, Dada.’ He then proceeded to hand
over the hookah to Dinu Bhattacharjee who seated himself and took
one or two meaningless puffs on the burnt-out hookah. He then said,
‘I have not been here all this while—went to fetch my wife from her
parental home. Where is Babaji? I believe that very elaborate
arrangements are being made? I heard in the marketplace of the
neighbouring village that not only would everybody be fed, but that
packets of food would also be handed over to the guests while
leaving.’
Gobinda lowered his voice, ‘Perhaps some clothing will be given
too!’ Then in a louder voice he exclaimed, ‘There you are, Ramesh! I
was just telling Dinuda—thanks to your parents’ blessings, the
arrangements are being conducted well, but Beni is wholeheartedly
making plans to spoil the show. He has already sent men to me
twice! Well, there’s no question which side I’m on—after all, I have a
very special bond with Ramesh. But even Dinuda or Dharmadasda—
can these people ever discard you? Dinuda came rushing here
immediately on hearing the news. Sasthicharan, come and light the
hookah for me! Ramesh, just come here, there is something that I
need to tell you.’ Gobinda then drew him aside and whispered, ‘Is
Dharmadas’s wife inside? Be careful, be very, very careful, my dear!
No matter what that wily Brahmin might say, never even think about
handing her the keys of the larder—half your supplies will just
vanish! Why do you have to worry? Let me return home, I will send
your aunt over. If she takes charge, not a grain of rice will go astray.’
Ramesh consented and then started wondering: how had Gobinda
gauged so accurately the fact that Dharmadas had secretively
mentioned that his wife would take charge of the larder? There was
no end to his amazement!
Two naked children ran up to Dinu Bhattacharjee and said
piteously, ‘Baba, we want some sweets.’
Glancing at Ramesh and Gobinda, Dinu asked, ‘Where will we get
all that?’
‘They are being prepared there—’ the children pointed out to
where the sweetmeats were being made.
‘We too, Dadamoshai …’ Some children surrounded the elderly
Dharmadas and they too started whining.
‘Fine! Fine!’ Ramesh said placatingly and hurried forward.
‘Acharya Moshai, the children set out in the morning and none of
them have eaten! You there, what is your name—bring the plates of
sweets in this direction.’
The moment the plates of sweetmeats arrived, the children fell on
them like hungry locusts. The impassive Dinanath’s eyes grew sharp
and moist at the sight of the children gorging on the food. ‘You,
Khedi, the manner in which you are eating—how do the sweets
taste?’
‘Fine, Baba!’ Khedi continued to eat with gusto. Dinu smiled
indulgently and nodding, said, ‘Your tastes! As long as it is sweet—it
suffices for you. But, you cooks out there, why do you stop? There is
still some light.’
The reply came promptly, ‘Definitely so! It is still a long time to go
for the evening prayers.’
 ‘Then, let Gobinda taste some of your fare—let us see what the
cooks in Kolkata are like! Why include me? All right then—make sure
you give me only half—fetch some water, let me wash my hands—’
On Satish’s instructions Sasthicharan immediately brought forth
plates from inside the house.
The plates and glasses of water were handed out and in a flash,
more than half of the enormous quantity of sweets was put away by
the three frail, elderly and ailing Brahmins.
‘Truly, they are experts! What do you say, Dharmadas?’ asked
Dinanath, heaving a deep sigh of contentment. Dharmadas had not
yet completed his meal; and though he found it impossible to give
voice to his thoughts through the layers of sweets crammed in his
mouth, it was quite obvious that in this matter, there was no
disagreement at all.
‘Yes indeed, these cooks are masters of their trade!’ declared
Gobinda, finishing last of all. He was on the verge of washing up,
when humbly the cook requested that some more sweets be tasted.
‘Some more? Bring them on!’
Yet more sweets were savoured and devoured, while Ramesh
continued to drink in the sight. Dinanath extended his hand towards
his daughter and said, ‘Here Khedi, hold on to these—’
‘I cannot eat any more, Baba.’
‘You can, you can! Just gulp them down with a glass of water.
Look at you, how frail you are. If you really find it impossible to eat
now, tie them to one end of your sari and partake of them tomorrow
morning. Yes, this is truly a royal feast—very well prepared! You
have had two types of sweets prepared?’
Ramesh got no opportunity to answer. The cook responded with
utmost enthusiasm, ‘Why no, there are many more varieties …’
‘What! But we have not tasted them.’
Looking at Ramesh’s bewildered face, Dinanath commented,
‘Now, the Boses of Radhanagar had put up really delectable fare.
The taste of their food seems to linger on the taste buds even today.
You won’t believe this, Babaji, but those are some of my favourite
sweets.’
Ramesh smiled a bit and nodded. To believe in the above
statement did not seem a particularly difficult task to him. Rakhal
was going out on some work, Ramesh called out and said, ‘Acharya
Moshai is probably inside; just go and ask him to send out some
more sweets.’
It was well past evening and yet the august and venerable
Brahmins continued to wait eagerly for the sweetmeats. Rakhal
returned with the message, ‘The larder will not be unlocked now,
Babu.’
Ramesh was irritated, ‘Go and tell Bhairav Acharya that I have
sent you …’
Gobinda Ganguly noting this displeasure immediately spoke up,
‘Dinuda, did you note Bhairav’s audacity? This is an outsider who is
showing more concern than the actual owner! That is why I say …’
Without waiting for him to continue, Rakhal interrupted, ‘What will
Acharya Moshai do? Ginni Ma has come from the other household
and locked the larder.’
Dharmadas and Gobinda were startled and chorused, ‘Who, Boro
Ginni?’
Ramesh asked in deep amazement, ‘Jethaima is here?’
‘Yes—and she has immediately locked up both larders.’
In stunned and pleasurable astonishment, Ramesh and went
inside without saying anything more.
 3

‘JETHAIMA?’
Bishheshwari emerged from the larder. Bern’s mother’s age ought
to have been nothing less than fifty considering that Beni himself
was much older than Ramesh, but she did not appear to be beyond
forty!
Ramesh stared at his aunt unblinkingly. Her fair complexion
seemed to be as radiant as ever. At one time, Bishheshwari’s beauty
had been widely acclaimed throughout the region; even now, its
exquisiteness had not abandoned her. Her hair was cropped short,
one or two stray locks fell on her forehead. The features of her face
seemed to have been fashioned by an artist’s hand. The most
amazing part about her whole arresting personality were her
beauteous eyes—gazing at them even for a short while seemed to
induce a kind of mesmeric stupor on the beholder.
At one point of time, Bishheshwari had greatly loved Ramesh and
his late mother. As young brides, when the children had not yet been
born and they were both persecuted by a harsh mother-in-law and
sisters-in-law, Ramesh’s mother and Bishlieshwari had forged deep
bonds of affection. Later, the storms of discord, legal battles and the
innumerable travails of separation had shaken the very roots of the
two families. In all the furore the bonds had slackened, but had not
been torn asunder. After all these years, to enter the Ghosal larder
and to see all the vessels and utensils that had been neatly and
lovingly arranged by her late sister-in-law, made Bishheshwari weep.
Her eyes still remained bloodshot and moist even after she had
wiped away her tears on Ramesh’s call. Ramesh gazed at her
anguished face in amazement. Bishheshwari was aware of this.
When she looked on the newly bereaved Ramesh, her heart cried
out in pain—but she controlled herself so that her pain was not
externally manifest. Rather, she merely smiled briefly and said, ‘How
are you, Ramesh?’
Ramesh’s lips quivered as he attempted to answer. After his
mother’s death, till he had been sent to his grandparents, it was
Bishheshwari who had taken the utmost care of Ramesh, not
wanting to let go of him. But Ramesh also remembered that when he
had gone to visit them the day he arrived, Bishheshwari had refused
to meet him on the pretext of Beni not being present. Then, the
confrontation at Rama’s house in Beni’s presence also came to mind
and Ramesh felt that Rama’s aunt’s harsh reprimand had made it
clear that there was no one in the village he could call his own.
Looking at him for a while, Bishheshwari said, ‘No, my dear, at such
times you have to be strong.’
Her tone did not appear to have even a vestige of tenderness.
Ramesh controlled himself. It was obvious to him that where hurt
feelings had no meaning, there was nothing more embarrassing and
awkward than a display of emotion. He said, ‘I am fine, Jethaima.
Why did you bother to come? I would have done what I could.’
Bishheshwari smiled, ‘You have not invited me, Ramesh, that I
have to answer to you. Listen to me, before all the obsequies are
over, I am not unlocking the larder and letting anything be taken out;
when I leave, I will hand over the key to you and when I return
tomorrow, I will collect it from you. But tell me, did you meet your
Barda the other day?’
Ramesh was put into a quandary by the question. He remained
uncertain as to whether the mother knew of the son’s behaviour.
Thinking for a while, he responded, ‘Barda was not at home at the
time.’
His Jethaima’s face had darkened with anxiety immediately on
asking the question; it was clearly visible to Ramesh that his
response had been appropriate for it seemed to have driven away
the shadows and she looked tranquil once again. Smiling, she
chided him affectionately, ‘That is just my fate! Is that what
happened? But just because you did not get to meet him, does it
mean you will not go again? I know that Beni is not very happy with
you; but you must do what should be done. Go and approach him
amiably once again, Ramesh! He is older than you and there is no
shame in being humble before him. Besides, this is such a time of
misfortune, my dear, that there is nothing to be ashamed about
seeking to make amends in all humility. My dear child, please go to
him once—I am sure that he is at home.’
Ramesh remained silent. The reason for this extreme enthusiasm
was not clear to him and neither were his doubts stilled.
Bishheshwari moved closer and said very mildly, ‘I know those who
are sitting outside far better than you do. Do not pay any attention to
what they say. Now, accompany me to your Barda.’
Ramesh shook his head and asserted, ‘No, Jethaima, that is not
possible. No matter what you might think of those sitting outside
might be, they are the only ones I have to call my own.’
He was on the verge of saying something further, but a sudden
glance at his aunt’s face stilled him. It seemed to him that all of a
sudden Bishheshwari’s face had become even more faded than the
greying dusk all around. After a while she sighed deeply and said,
‘All right, I will have to accept what you say; since going to him is
impossible for you, there is no sense in talking further about it. Never
mind, you do not have to worry about a thing, my dear! There will be
no problems. I am going now, but I will return very early tomorrow
morning.’ Bishheshwari then sent for her maid and left. It was
apparent to her that Beni and Ramesh must have met in the
meanwhile and that was when the seeds of discord must have been
sown. After gazing for a while at her retreating form, Ramesh
returned dejectedly once more to the area of activity. Gobinda asked
him fervently, ‘Babaji, Boro Ginni Ma had come, hadn’t she?’
Ramesh nodded, ‘Yes.’
‘I believe that she has locked the larder and taken the key with
her?’ Ramesh nodded as before. She had indeed locked all the
stores inside and taken the keys with her.
Gobinda responded, ‘Did you note, Dharmadas, it is just as I had
feared! Do you have any idea of the reason why, Babaji?’
A steady anger grew in Ramesh, but realizing that he could not
afford to offend those who were standing by him, he remained silent.
The poverty-stricken Dinu Bhattacharjee had not yet left. As he was
not all that worldly-wise, he found it impossible to leave without
lauding to the high heavens the person and his entire lineage thanks
to whom he and all his children had gorged themselves to satiety on
sweetmeats. He responded to Gobinda’s question, ‘What is so
difficult to understand about that? She has locked the larder to
prevent it from falling into the hands of the wrong people. She is well
aware of the situation here.’
Gobinda was irritated; he could not contain himself at the words of
the simple man and shouted, ‘Why do you persist in talking when
you understand nothing at all? What do you comprehend of all these
matters that you come to search for a meaning?’
This harsh chiding seemed to have a detrimental effect on Dinu.
He too grew agitated and responded heatedly, ‘Where is the need for
understanding here? Didn’t you hear that Ginni Ma herself has
locked the larder? Who can possibly question that?’
Gobinda was furious, ‘Why don’t you just return home,
Bhattacharjee? You and all your family have gorged yourselves to
the gills—the prime reason for which you came. Why wait any
longer? You can taste the other sweetmeats the day after tomorrow.
There will be nothing more today. Now you can leave, we have a lot
of work.’
Dinu was greatly embarrassed and shrank into himself. Ramesh
got all the more angry and embarrassed. Gobinda was about to say
something more, when all of a sudden Ramesh in calm and steely
tones questioned, ‘What is the matter with you, Ganguly Moshai!
Why do you persist in insulting others in this manner?’
 Initially Gobinda was somewhat startled at being chided in this
manner. At the next moment he smiled caustically and answered,
‘Whom did I insult, Babaji? Fine, why not just ask him and find out
whether what I am saying is true? If he is sharp, I am much more
wily. Dharmadas, did you see the sheer audacity of that Dinu?’
Only Dharmadas knew what he had observed, but Ramesh was
so taken aback by Gobinda Ganguly’s shamelessness that he lost
the purpose in arguing any further. Dinu himself looked towards
Ramesh and said, ‘No, Babaji, what Gobinda says is correct.
Everybody knows of my poverty—I do not have any wealth or
property like the others. It is by asking for alms in this manner that
we survive. The Almighty has not blessed me with the means to feed
my children with good food—it is on occasions like this that they can
eat to their fill. When Tarinida was alive, he loved to see that we
were fed. So, let me assure you, Babaji, that we have eaten our fill—
he must have observed this from above and must be very pleased.’
After this exposure of his true plight, Dinu’s grave and unemotional
visage visibly softened and tears welled up in his eyes. Ramesh
turned away to spare Dinu the embarrassment. Dinu wiped his eyes
dry with one end of his soiled and tattered shawl. ‘It is not merely I
who feel thus, Babaji; no one who ever approached Tarinida had to
return empty-handed. But who knows about all this, tell me? Tarinida
maintained a strict silence about all his charity and generosity! Let
me not bother you any longer. Come along children, how else can I
bless you any more, Ramesh, than by saying, may you be like your
father, may you live long!’
Ramesh drew close to Dinanath and emotionally said,
‘Bhattacharjee Moshai, please bear with me over the next couple of
days. It embarrasses me to say—it is a blessing to have you step
into the house.’
Hurriedly Dinu Bhattacharjee clasped both of Ramesh’s hands in
his own, ‘I am a poor man, Babaji! It embarrasses me when you
speak in this manner.’
 The old man and his brood of children left. Returning after seeing
them off, Ramesh reflected for a moment on his harsh words to
Gobinda Ganguly and attempted to say something mollifying to him.
He was immediately stopped by the latter who said, ‘This is my own
personal task, Ramesh. Even if I had not been invited, I would have
to come and shoulder the responsibility. That is why we are present
—Dharmadas and I did not wait to be called, we came of our own
accord.’
Dharmadas had just begun to puff away at the hookah. Leaning on
his stick he stood up and, doubling over in vain attempts to control
his bout of coughing, said, ‘Listen to us, Ramesh, we are not like
Beni Ghosal—there is no controversy about our birth.’
Ramesh was startled at this unnecessary reference to Beni’s birth,
but he did not get angry. In the short while he had spent in the village
he had come to realize that thanks to a certain lack in their education
and habits, these socially respectable people found no hesitation or
embarrassment in venturing to talk about the most delicate and
personal of issues.
Recollecting his aunt’s affectionate request to him to meet Beni
and her pained visage when he had refused, Ramesh felt a pinch of
guilt. After everybody had left, he got ready to go and call on his
Barda. When he reached Beni’s house, it was around eight in the
evening, and it sounded as though a battle was being waged inside.
Gobinda Ganguly’s voice rang out—the loudest of them all, ‘I can
wager that within a couple of days Ramesh will go to the dogs—or
else, you can change my name, Beni Babu. Have you heard about
all these lordly goings-on? Tarini Ghosal did not leave behind any
worldly assets, then why all this pomp? If the wealth is there, go
ahead and spend it—if not, who has even heard of anybody incurring
debts to perform the last rites of his father? I am assuring you, Beni
Babu, this fellow has definitely borrowed a substantial sum of money
from the Nandis.’
 Enthusiastically Beni said, ‘Then, one will have to verify the facts,
what do you say, Gobinda Khuro?’
Gobinda now lowered his voice and said, ‘Why don’t you wait,
Babaji? Let him make a proper entrance and. then the fun will begin
—who waits outside? Is that Ramesh Babaji? Why have you
bothered to come at this late hour? You could have sent for us.’
Ramesh did not answer Gobinda’s question and moving forward
said, ‘Barda, I have come to meet you.’
Beni was startled and could not reply. Gobinda immediately said,
‘Of course, that is very good of you, Babaji. This is your house. An
elder brother is just like one’s own father! That is just what we have
come to tell Beni Babu—let all the hostilities that you brothers
harbour for each other end with Tarinida’s death. Why prolong the
issue? You brothers unite and let us savour the sight, what do you
say, Haldar Mama? Why do you remain standing! Someone put out
a seat for him! No, Beni Babu, you are the elder brother. It won’t do if
you remain aloof. Besides, since Boro GinniThakrun has gone over
…’
Stunned, Beni asked, ‘Ma went over?’
Gobinda was quite pleased at this surprise he had managed to
spring. But, suppressing his actual feelings, he hypocritically lauded
all that had taken place. ‘She did not just visit!’ he said. ‘She has
taken charge of the stores and all the other work—it is she who is
now organizing everything. Isn’t it right that she should do that
anyway?’
Everybody was silent. Gobinda heaved a deep sigh and said, ‘Is
there anybody comparable to Boro Ginni Thakrun in the village? No,
Beni, it might seem like flattery if praises are showered directly, but if
there is a true lady anywhere in the village, it is your mother. Does
anyone know of another like her?’ Once again he sighed and was
appropriately grave. Beni remained silent for a long time and then
indistinctly murmured, ‘All right!’
 Gobinda asserted, ‘That won’t do, Beni Babu; you will have to go
and take over the supervision of all the arrangements for Tarinida’s
funeral—the entire responsibility is yours! Since everybody is
present, why not discuss the text of the invitation and also decide on
some sort of a menu? What do you say, Ramesh Babaji? Isn’t that
right, Haldar Mama? Dharmadas, why are you silent? You know
everybody who ought to be invited or left out!’
Ramesh stood up and in all humility addressed Beni, ‘If you can
grace the occasion with your presence …’
Solemnly Beni responded, ‘Since Ma has been there, what
difference does my going make … what do you say, Gobinda
Khuro?’
Before Gobinda could answer, Ramesh spoke up, ‘I do not want to
force you, Barda; but if you can find the time, please do come.’
Beni remained silent. Before Gobinda could open his mouth to say
something again, Ramesh turned on his heels and left the room.
Gobinda immediately craned his neck and, peering outside, said in a
whisper, ‘Did you note the manner in which he spoke, Beni Babu?’
But Beni was absent-mindedly reflecting on the various issues at
hand and did not answer.
On his way back home, Gobinda’s words came back to haunt
Ramesh and he shuddered in distaste. He retraced his steps and
entered Beni Ghosal’s house once again. The discussion in the
courtyard had reached a crescendo by then; but he did not have the
slightest desire even to listen. Entering, Ramesh called out,
‘Jethaima!’
Bishheshwari was sitting on the veranda in front of her room in the
dark, in solitary silence. She was quite taken aback at hearing
Ramesh’s voice at that hour of the night. ‘Ramesh? What is the
matter?’ she asked.
Ramesh went up to her. Flustered at this unexpected visit, his aunt
called out, ‘Just wait a bit, let me ask someone to fetch a light.’
 ‘There is no need, Jethaima, do not get up,’ Ramesh took his seat
in the darkness. Bishheshwari asked, ‘What is the urgency at this
hour of the night?’
Ramesh answered softly, ‘The invitations have not yet been sent
out and so I came to ask you, if you could help, Jethaima …’
‘Now, that can be a problem! What do they say—Gobinda Ganguly
and Chatterjee Moshai—?’
Ramesh interrupted abruptly, ‘I do not know and do not want to
know what these people suggest. Whatever you say will be done.’
Such heated words from Ramesh greatly surprised Bishheshwari.
She remained silent for a while and then said, ‘But, did you not say
Ramesh, only a short while back, that these people were truly your
own? Well, never mind, what good will a woman’s opinion do, my
dear? In this village, and why in this village—in every village—there
are groups and individuals who do not talk or eat with each other. On
occasions like this, there is no dearth to the acute anxiety that is
caused all around. There is no greater problem in a village than who
to include and who to leave out of the guest list on social and
religious occasions.’
Ramesh was not particularly surprised by what his aunt was
saying, for he had come to learn a lot in the past few days. Despite
that, he asked, ‘Why does it happen this way, Jethaima?’
‘There are a lot of things involved—you will understand only if you
stay here for a while. Some people are truly at fault, others are
falsely accused; besides, there are ongoing court cases and groups
of false witnesses. If I had gone to your place even two days earlier,
Ramesh, I would never have permitted matters to be organized on
such a large scale for the funeral feast. It worries me to think of just
what will happen on that day.’ Bishheshwari sighed deeply. Ramesh
could not gauge what she actually meant. Neither could he
understand what being ‘truly at fault’ meant or what the meaning
behind being falsely accused was. Rather excitedly he said, ‘But, I
have no connection with all that! I am almost a stranger so to speak
and have no enmity with anybody. So Jethaima, the best for me
would be not to make any judgement about any groups in any way; I
shall invite all the Brahmins and everybody else. But, nothing will be
done without your permission—you give the order, Jethaima!’
After reflecting silently on the matter, Bishheshwari said, ‘I cannot
give such a command, Ramesh, it will cause a lot of problems. But
neither am I saying that you are incorrect. However, this is not
exactly a matter of falsehood and truth, my dear. Those whom
society has made outcasts and kept apart cannot be drawn close so
easily. No matter what society’s rules are, they have to be respected.
Or else, there remains no power to do either good or ill—and that
cannot be permitted under any circumstance, Ramesh.’
If he had thought over this matter rationally, Ramesh would not
have rejected this logic; but he had witnessed the degrading and
scheming behaviour of the so-called heads of society only a few
minutes ago and the flames of disgust were still burning bright within
him. He burst forth in utter distaste, ‘By village society you mean the
likes of Dharmadas and Gobinda, don’t you? Isn’t it better that such
a society remains absolutely powerless, Jethaima?’
Bishheshwari took note of Ramesh’s heated frame of mind, but
remarked calmly, ‘It is not just them, even your elder brother Beni is
one of the heads of society.’
Ramesh remained silent. Bishheshwari resumed, ‘So I say, carry
out all the work after consulting them, Ramesh. It is not a good idea
to go against them immediately after stepping into the village.’
In his excitement, Ramesh did not realize at that point how far-
sighted Bishheshwari was being in her advice. Instead, he said,
‘Jethaima, you have just said that due to a variety of reasons there is
a lot of factionalism here. Probably personal likes and dislikes are
predominant. But I am not even aware of the misdeeds people are
accused of, whether they are true or false! So, it is impossible for me
to insult anybody by leaving them out.’
 Amused, Bishheshwari responded, ‘You impulsive child! I am older
than you, like your mother. It is also wrong of you to disobey me.’
‘What can I do, Jethaima? I have decided to invite everybody.’
His absolute determination displeased Bishheshwari; probably in
her heart of hearts she was thoroughly irritated. She remarked,
‘Then, coming to ask for my permission was just a farce!’
Ramesh took note of his aunt’s displeasure, but was not swayed in
the least. A little later he continued gently, ‘I assumed Jethaima that
you would happily bless me in any action that was not wrong. My …’
Before he had finished speaking, Bishheshwari interrupted, ‘But
shouldn’t you also have realized, Ramesh, that I would not go
against my own son?’
Her words wounded Ramesh. No matter what the surface
interaction between them might have been, since the previous day
his soul had been craving a mother’s affection and a son’s rights
from Bishheshwari; but in a flash he realized that her own son held a
much stronger position in her heart. Standing up, with smothered
hurt in his tones he said, ‘That is what I had taken for granted till
yesterday, Jethaima! It is the very reason why I had asked you not to
come—I would manage as best as I could. I did not have the
audacity to even invite you’
This stifled hurt did not escape Bishheshwari’s attention. But, not
making any response, she continued to sit in silence in the darkness.
Just as Ramesh turned to leave, she said, ‘Just a moment, dear, let
me fetch the keys of the larder.’ She got a bunch of keys and flung
them at his feet. Ramesh was dumbstruck for a few minutes and
then, heaving a deep sigh, stooped to pick them up and left. Only a
few hours ago he had thought to himself, ‘What is there to be scared
of? I have my Jethaima.’ But, in the short span of a night he had to
admit the bitter truth—‘Jethaima too has deserted me.’
 4

THE FUNERAL WAS OVER. RAMESH HAD JUST LEFT HIS PRAYER
SEAT AND WAS trying to get better acquainted with his invitees. The
feast which had been arranged in the house was just about to start
when suddenly the noise of a clamour and raised voices from
indoors hurriedly drew him there. A lot of others also accompanied
him. Just inside the entrance of the inner kitchen, a young widow
huddled awkwardly; an elderly lady was close at hand—her face
flushed with rage. A veritable volley of abuses gushed forth from her.
The object of the abuses was Paran Haldar. As soon as she spotted
Ramesh, the elderly lady shrieked, ‘Tell me, just because you belong
to the gentry, must an old Brahmin like me always be held to
ransom? Just because we have no guardian, can we be punished
any number of times?’
Pointing out Gobinda she said, ‘At the ceremony in the Mukherjee
household, didn’t he extract a fine from us? Haven’t we been paying
on a number of occasions? How many times will the old story be
repeated?’
Ramesh could not understand anything of what was going on.
Gobinda Ganguly had been sitting, but now stood up in order to pass
judgement. Looking in turn at the elderly woman and at Ramesh, in a
grave voice he said, ‘Since you have dragged in my name, Khanto
Mashi, let me reveal the truth. Everybody knows that Gobinda
Ganguly is no toady! Your daughter has undertaken a penance and
was appropriately fined. And we have ordered her not to touch the
sacred fire. On her death we will carry her to the funeral pyre, but …’
Khanto Mashi screamed, ‘You carry your own daughter to the
funeral pyre when she expires. There is no need to worry about my
child. Gobinda, don’t you ever look at your own self when you talk?
Your relative there, sitting so coyly in the store room, where and why
did she disappear for almost one and a half years, returning so sickly
and washed out? Aren’t there any skeletons in the cupboards of the
rich? Do not irritate me too much, I can reveal a lot of secrets. We
too have borne children and can recognize the signs quite well. Don’t
try to hoodwink us!’
Gobinda flew into a blinding rage and shouted aloud in a frenzy,
‘You worthless and good-for-nothing—’
But the worthless and good-for-nothing woman was not
browbeaten in the least. Rather, she took a couple of steps forward
and brandishing her hands about wildly, asked sardonically, ‘Are you
going to strike me? If you come to battle with me, let me warn you—
more than half the village will not remain unscathed! My daughter
had not even attempted to enter the kitchen; but just as she reached
the door, Haldar Thakurpo lost no time in insulting her senselessly.
Let me ask—was there no scandal associated with the in-laws? Let
me ask—should I make more revelations or will this suffice?’
Ramesh stood still, as though turned to stone. Bhairav Acharya
grasped Khanto’s hands and with utmost humility pleaded, ‘That will
suffice, Mashi, there is no need for any more. Sukumari my dear, get
up and come and sit with me in the other room.’
Paran Haldar stood ramrod straight and flinging the shawl over his
shoulder said firmly, ‘I am warning you—unless this woman of a
loose character is thrown out, I will not touch even a drop of water in
this house! Gobinda! Kalicharan! If you respect your Mama, just
come away. Beni Ghosal had warned me, “Mama, do not go there!”
If I had known that such a characterless woman would be present,
would I have risked my religion by coming to this house? Kali, come
away!’
Despite the repeated injunctions of his uncle, Kalicharan remained
seated with his head bowed. He traded in jute. About four years ago,
an eminent client of his from Kolkata had run away with his younger
widowed sister. The incident was an open secret. The sudden
journey to the in-laws’ house and from there on a pilgrimage—all this
remained hidden for only a few days. For fear that all this would once
again come to the fore, Kali found it impossible to look up. Gobinda,
however, continued to feel the sting of Khanto Mashi’s outburst.
Once again he stood up and asserted, ‘No matter what anyone
else says, Beni Ghosal, Paran Haldar and Jodu Mukherjee’s
daughter are regarded as the pillars of society. None of us can
disregard them. Ramesh Babaji, unless you can explain why these
two fallen women have been invited to the house, I am warning you,
we will not have even a drop of water here.’
In minutes, a group of people stood up, ready to leave. They were
naïve and rustic people, well versed in obeying the dictums of
society, particularly where it was most advantageous.
All the invited Brahmins conversed among themselves and drew
whatever conclusions they pleased. Tearfully, Bhairav Acharya and
Dinu Bhattacharjee pleaded in turn with Khanto Mashi and her
daughter, Gobinda Ganguly and Paran Haldar. The ceremony was
on the point of being disrupted. But, Ramesh could not say a word.
As it is he was weak with hunger and thirst and then to have to cope
with this unimaginable situation! He stood aghast with a wan face.
‘Ramesh!’
All of a sudden all attention was on Bishheshwari. She had
emerged from the larder and was now standing at the door. Her
head remained covered by one end of the sari, but her face was
visible to all. It only then dawned on Ramesh that his Jethaima had
not deserted him after all and that she had voluntarily appeared by
his side. The whole world was witness to the presence of
Bishheshwari, the head of the Ghosal family.
The village did not observe the practice of the purdah system as
rigidly as the city. But Bishheshwari was the eldest daughter-in-law in
her family and despite the fact that she was not very young, she did
not appear in public very much, especially without covering her face.
Hence her sudden appearance—that too in the midst of such a
delicate social situation—took everyone by surprise. Those who had
never seen her before were amazed at her beautiful pair of eyes. It
was probably sheer anger that had propelled her forward. As soon
as everybody looked up, she quickly moved to one side. In a sudden
flash, all of Ramesh’s indecision vanished. He moved forward. From
inside, Bishheshwari asserted firmly and clearly, ‘Tell Ganguly
Moshai not to scare us, Ramesh! Further, inform Haldar Moshai that
I have personally invited everybody and he has absolutely no cause
to insult Sukumari. In my household, when there is a ceremony
going on, I forbid any sort of clamour or hurling of abuses. Anybody
who has a problem with that can go elsewhere.’
Everyone present heard Boro Ginni’s stern command. Ramesh did
not have to repeat it again; it would have been impossible for him to
do so. Neither could Ramesh stand there and witness the result of
this course of action. Seeing his Jethaima voluntarily assuming all
responsibility, he was overwhelmed with tears. Somehow he
controlled himself and rushed into a room. There he started weeping
unrestrainedly. He had been busy all day and it had been impossible
for him to keep track of all those who had come and gone. But, no
matter who else might have come, it was absolutely beyond any
stretch of his imagination that his Jethaima would actually pay a visit.
Now, after Bishheshwari’s statement, all those who had stood up
slowly resumed their seats. Only Gobinda Ganguly and Paran
Haldar remained standing stiffly. Someone from amongst the crowd
said indistinctly, ‘Why don’t you sit down, Khuro, who organizes such
a feast these days?’
Paran Haldar left the place without a word, but amazingly,
Gobinda Ganguly took his seat again. However, he continued to look
gloomy and on the pretext of supervising the serving, did not sit to
eat along with the others. Those who took note of this also observed
that Gobinda was not one to give up so easily. But there were no
more problems after that. It was impossible to believe the quantity of
food the Brahmins could put away. Neither was the food they carried
back for all the missing children any less!
 Late in the evening, all the proceedings had almost come to an
end—Ramesh stood absent-mindedly under a tree, feeling
somewhat melancholic. He saw Dinu Bhattacharjee returning with
his children. Khedi was heading the line and came to an abrupt halt
on seeing him, stuttering, ‘Baba, Baba …’
Everybody awkwardly came to a standstill. Ramesh immediately
realized the situation from what the little girl had inadvertently let slip.
If there had been any other way out, he himself would have escaped.
However, since that option was not there, he smiled genially and
asked, ‘Khedi! Whom are you carrying all this back for?’
Realizing that Khedi would find it impossible to explain all their
packets, large and small, Dinu himself smiled drily and said, ‘All the
low-caste children, these remnants can at least be given to them.
Never mind that, now I understand why everyone addresses her as
Ginni Ma.’
Not making any response, Ramesh accompanied them to the door
and then, all of a sudden he asked, ‘Bhattacharjee Moshai, you are
aware of everything that goes on here. Can you tell me why there is
so much unrest in our village?’
Dinu clicked his tongue and shook his head rapidly a couple of
times, ‘Babaji, our Kuapur is much better off! You will not believe
what I have just been witness to in a neighbouring village. It is
constituted of barely twenty houses, but there are four groups! One
man even sent his nephew to jail for plucking two ripe mangoes off
his tree. All villages are the same, besides being riddled by legal
battles and all manners of litigation.’
Once again Ramesh inquired, ‘Is there no solution to all this?’
‘How is that possible? This is the peak of Kalyug—an era when sin
abounds!’ Bhattacharjee sighed deeply and continued, ‘But, I can tell
you one thing, Babaji, I go to seek alms in many places, a lot of
people are very good to me. It is only too apparent that you, the
youth, are kind and generous; it is the old humbugs who cause
problems. They do not let go any opportunity to take advantage of
the weakness of people, they would hang them if they could.’ To
illustrate his point, the old man put out his tongue in such a manner
that Ramesh could not help laughing.
However, Dinu did not join in the laughter. ‘It is not a matter of jest,
Babaji,’ he said gravely, ‘but the veritable truth! I have also grown
old, but you have progressed a long way in this darkness.’
‘Never mind, Bhattacharjee Moshai, please continue.’
‘What more is there to say, Babaji? Life in villages follows this
pattern. Gobinda Ganguly—if one were to even mention all his sins,
it would be necessary to do penance just from uttering the words.
Khantomoni was not wrong—but everybody is scared of him. He is
incomparable so far as counterfeiting, organizing false witnesses
and framing people in legal battles is concerned. Beni Babu is his
toady; hence, no one dares to utter a word against him either!
Rather, he is responsible for turning so many people into outcasts.’
Ramesh walked along in silence for a long while, his entire body
burning in anger. Dinu continued, ‘Mark my words, Babaji,
Khantomoni will not be let off very easily. Gobinda Ganguly, Paran
Haldar—is it a joking matter to take on two formidable people like
them? But it must be admitted that that woman has guts! Why not,
anyway? She sells puffed rice from door to door and is well aware of
everything that goes on. If she is rubbed the wrong way, there will be
no end to the havoc that will result, I can tell you! Which household
does not have skeletons in the cupboard, tell me? Even Beni Babu
…’
Apprehensive that he might hear some unsavoury secrets from
Beni’s past, Ramesh stopped Dinu, ‘Let that be, we will not talk
about Barda …’
Dinu was embarrassed, ‘Then let: it be! I am a poor man and do
not want to interfere in anybody’s affairs. If anyone informs Beni
Babu, my house will be set on fire …’
Ramesh once again interrupted, ‘Bhattacharjee Moshai, is your
house much further away?’
 ‘No, not very far, if some day …’
‘Definitely I will come!’ As Ramesh was about to leave, he turned
around once, ‘We will meet again tomorrow morning—but, even after
that, do keep in touch.’ Ramesh then left.
‘God bless you and may you be like your father!’ Showering
benedictions wholeheartedly, Dinu Bhattacharjee left with his
children.
 5

IN THE LOCALITY, IT WAS ONLY MADHU PAL’S GROCERY STORE THAT

LAY ON the way to the river, at one end of the marketplace. Ramesh
on an impulse set out in the direction of this shop, realizing all of a
sudden that despite ten days and more had gone by, the man had
not turned up to collect his dues. Madhu Pal seated Chhoto Babu on
the veranda respectfully and coming to know of the reason for his
visit was greatly surprised. Normally, none of his debtors ever came
forward voluntarily to clear his dues. In fact, Madhu Pal had never
witnessed such a happening and nor had he ever heard about such
a thing in his entire life. After a long conversation, Madhu told
Ramesh of his problems. ‘How will the shop Function, Babu? There
are innumerable bills of varying amounts that have added up to quite
a substantial sum. After reassuring me that dues will be immediately
paid, there is no sight or sound of those people. Oh! Is that you,
Banerjee Moshai, when did you return? My respectful salutations.’
Banerjee Moshai, looking rather dishevelled, appeared with some
fish that was well wrapped up. He sighed deeply and said, ‘I returned
yesterday, Madhu.’ Putting down all his packages he continued, ‘Can
you believe the audacity of that wretched fisherwoman? She actually
grasped my hand! Tell me, is this fish really worth all that much?
Disgusting wretch! Can you cheat a Brahmin and get away with it?
Won’t you have to go to hell?’
Madhu was incredulous, ‘She touched you?!’
The furious Banerjee glanced wrathfully all around, ‘A small
amount is due to her, but just because of that do you have to grip my
hand in front of everyone? Everybody present witnessed the sight!
After washing up in the river in the morning, I had decided to get on
with the marketing for the day; but that low-down woman covers her
basket and assures me that everything has been sold out. But is it
possible to deceive me? I just reached out and took off the lid and …
And she immediately caught hold of my hand! Will I run away with all
her dues—past and present? Tell me Madhu, is that possible?’
Madhu Pal agreed, ‘How is that possible!’
‘Exactly! Is there any discipline in this village or not? It does not
look like there is any such thing, or else should not that fisherwoman
have been absolutely boycotted by all?’
Suddenly glancing at Ramesh he asked, ‘Who is the Babu,
Madhu?’
Taking great pride, Madhu Pal replied, ‘Our Chhoto Babu’s son!
Some money was due and he came all the way to return it.’
Forgetting all his sorrows regarding the purchase of the fish,
Banerjee Moshai was amazed, ‘What, Ramesh Babaji! May you live
a long time. I believe that you organized a truly magnificent feast?
No one had ever partaken of such a repast! But it is to be greatly
regretted that I could not personally attend—I had to go to Kolkata
on work. Shame! Can anyone live in such a city?’
Ramesh gazed silently at him. But everyone else in the shop was
waiting with curious anticipation to hear about Banerjee Moshai’s
sojourn in Kolkata. Madhu Pal hastily organized a hookah and
handing it to him asked, ‘Then? Did you get the job?’
‘How could I not? But, living there is impossible—it is as filthy as it
is polluted. If you return to your dwelling safely without being run
over, you can count yourself extremely lucky!’
Madhu Pal had never been to Kolkata. He had only been to
Midnapore—having gone there as a witness in some case. He was
stunned to hear such criticism about the big city. ‘What are you
saying?!’
Banerjee smiled a bit, ‘Why not ask your Ramesh Babu whether
all this is true or not? No, Madhu, even if I have to go hungry, never
ever mention going to foreign regions to me again. You won’t believe
this—over there, one has to even buy the vegetables for daily
consumption! Is that possible? I have become as thin as a reed
during these past few months. Each day there seemed to be
something or the other wrong with me—I had no choice but to run
back as quickly as I could. What a relief! Staying in the village with
my children and even begging if required is preferable. A Brahmin
has no need to be ashamed of seeking alms. May the goddess of
prosperity always be worshipped and revered, but no one should
ever have to think of travelling out of the village.’
While all present were bemused with fright, Banerjee got up and
freely availed of the mustard oil Madhu Pal had in the shop and
proceeded to give himself a brisk massage. He then said, ‘It is
getting late, might as well take a dip in the river and return home. Let
me have some salt, Madhu—I will pay you in the evening.’
‘In the evening?’ Unhappily Madhu got up to fetch the salt.
Glancing up at the look of dismay on Madhu Pal’s face, Banerjee
burst forth in surprise and irritation, ‘What is the matter with all of
you, Madhu? You are almost using force to get a bit of money out of
me!’ He moved forward and grabbed some salt and put it into a
packet. Looking at Ramesh, Banerjee smiled gently, ‘We return by
the same route, why not go together and talk as we go along?’
Ramesh too stood up. Standing some distance away Madhu Pal
asked piteously, ‘Banerjee Moshai, those remaining dues …’
Banerjee flew into a rage, ‘Madhu, we keep meeting every day—
have you lost all sense of shame? That trip to Kolkata has ripped me
of most of my money; is this any time to pressurize me for payment?
Have you noticed, Ramesh, how these people behave?’
Madhu was immediately subjugated and could only murmur, ‘A
longstanding debt …’
‘So what? If everyone hounds a person in this manner, it will
become impossible to live in this village any longer!’ retorted
Banerjee, and gathering up his belongings he left the place in a huff.
When Ramesh entered his house he was met by a man who
immediately laid aside the hookah and greeted him respectfully. ‘I
am Bonomali Parui, the headmaster of your school. I have been
coming here for the past two days, but have not been able to meet
you and so …’
Ramesh immediately attempted to seat Parui with all due honour;
but the latter chose to remain standing, saying respectfully, ‘Sir, I am
your humble servant.’
The man had reached a venerable age and all said and done, was
the headmaster of a school. At this display of overplayed humility, a
sense of disgust started brewing in Ramesh. Bonomali Parui now
gave voice to all that he had to say, ‘A small school had been set up
in these parts under the aegis of the Mukherjees and Ghosals. There
are at least thirty—forty students who come from far away and
neighbouring villages. There was some small amount of government
aid, but despite that it has become virtually impossible for the school
to function.’ Ramesh remembered studying in this school during his
childhood. Parui pointed out that the approaching rain would make it
impossible for students to study outdoors; however, that could be
considered a little later. The present problem was that no teacher
had been paid for the past three months, hence personal interests
were now at stake.
Ramesh became alert. He seated the headmaster in the living
room and began to gather detailed information from him. There were
four teachers and thanks to their unstinting efforts, students usually
performed well in the examinations. Details as regards the names
and all other relevant descriptions gushed forth from Parui. Ramesh
also learned that the salaries for the teachers were often gathered as
alms from the villagers. Even then, only a measly sum of money had
been thus obtained after continually trying for over two months.
This bit of news stunned Ramesh. This school fulfilled the needs
of four or five villages and yet only this paltry sum of money had
been gathered! He asked, ‘How much is your salary?’
The headmaster answered, ‘I have to give a receipt for a greater
sum, but am actually handed a measly amount!’ The matter was not
very clear to Ramesh—he continued to stare ill incomprehension
and confusion at Parui. The latter then explained, ‘This is a
government regulation. The receipt for a certain amount has to be
shown to the inspector, or else all government aid will be stopped.
Everybody knows, any student can tell you that I am not lying.’
Pondering in silence for a long while, Ramesh asked, ‘Does this
not humiliate you in front of the students?’
The headmaster was embarrassed, ‘What can be done, Ramesh
Babu? Beni Babu is reluctant to give even this amount of money.’
‘Is he the head of the school?’
There was some slight hesitation, but Parui seemed to conclude
that if the problem was to be solved, then all matters had to be
revealed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Beni Babu is the secretary, but he does not
spend any money on the school at all. Jodu Mukherjee’s daughter,
she is truly a benevolent lady—if she had not taken an interest, the
school would have shut down a long time ago. This year she had
promised to have the roof of the school re-thatched; but it is a
mystery as to why she has suddenly stopped all help.’
Indulging his curiosity, Ramesh asked a number of questions
about Rama and finally said, ‘Doesn’t her brother study in this
school?’
‘Are you talking about Jatin? Yes, he is a student.’
Ramesh said, ‘It is getting well past your school hours, you can
leave now; I will come across tomorrow.’
The headmaster offered his respectful salutations and took his
leave.
 6

BISHHESHWARI’S ACTION THAT DAY HAD RECEIVED WIDE

PUBLICITY ALL across the ten villages in the district. Beni found it
personally impossible to be harsh to his mother for having supported
Ramesh and for going against social convention; yet he felt that his
mother ought to be reprimanded for the embarrassment and insult
her actions had brought on him, and so he took the help of Rama’s
aunt. She was famed to be more than capable of felling any demon
who was unfortunate enough to cross her path. It was thus a miracle
that Bishheshwari did not collapse in a heap of ashes after this fiery
aunt came and spewed poisonous flames of fury at her. All the
insults she heaped on Bishheshwari were tolerated without a
murmur. In fact, Bishheshwari was well aware that it was her own
son who was behind it all and was petrified that in case she
answered back even once, this woman would take the first
opportunity to bring up Beni’s name. This would reach Ramesh’s
ears—fright of the overwhelming shame that would then result forced
her into remaining completely silent.
However, nothing remains secret in a village and in no time
Ramesh came to know what had happened. There had been a
constant concern in his mind about his Jethaima and he had also
anticipated a fallout between mother and son. But that Beni would
actually seek the help of an outsider to insult and persecute his
mother in this manner—seemed at first to be senseless and
unbelievable to him. At the next instant, knowing this had actually
transpired, his rage and fury knew no bounds. He wanted to
immediately go across and abuse Beni in no uncertain terms. A man
who could stoop so low was not worth any consideration and only fit
to be insulted and humiliated. But, just as he was about to convert
his thoughts into action, Ramesh realized his mistake—ultimately
any such action would only result in further insult to his Jethaima.
 After listening to what Dinu and the headmaster had had to say
about Rama, a fresh respect for her had grown in his heart. In the
midst of all the deplorable and heinous ignorance and ugliness all
around, it had begun to seem to Ramesh that besides his Jethaima,
the entire village was steeped in darkness. In such a despairing
frame of mind, whenever he gazed towards the Mukherjee
household, the knowledge that Rama too believed in social good and
fairness brought to his thoughts a small ray of light, and with this light
came hope, comfort and joy. However, this incident regarding his
Jethaima once again filled his mind with an acute disgust and
distaste for Rama. There was no doubt in his mind that the aunt and
niece had conspired with Beni to indulge in this wrongdoing. But he
still could not figure out how he was to deal with these two women or
even severely chastise Beni.
It was at this juncture that another incident took place. In some
matters there was no division or disparity at all between the
Mukherjees and the Ghosals. The pond behind Bhairav Acharya’s
house was one such common property. At one time it had been large
and sprawling, but with the passing years and due to lack of
maintenance it had presently become only a small pool of water. No
good fish spawn was released there—only the ones that had
naturally made it their home had bred there. One day Bhairav came
to Ramesh, panting and gasping for breath; the estate accounts
were being prepared by Gopal Sarkar and Bhairav hurriedly spoke,
‘Sarkar Moshai, have you sent anybody to the pond? All the fish is
being caught!’
‘Who is catching the fish?’
‘Who else? Beni Babu’s servant is there and the Mukherjees’
guard is also present; only your men are lacking. Hurry up and send
someone over.’
Gopal did not evince any excitement at all, ‘Our Babu does not
partake of any meat or fish.’
 Bhairav answered, ‘He might not, but the legitimate share he has
in the pond and its fish must be wrested!’
Gopal said, ‘That is what all of us want and Babu would also have
wanted it had he been alive. But, Ramesh Babu is somewhat
different.’ Glancing at Bhairav’s bewildered face, he continued
sardonically, ‘These are only a few fish you are talking about,
Acharya Moshai! The other day a massive tree was cut down and
the wood divided between both the houses—we did not get even a
small branch. When I came running to inform Babu, he looked up
once from the book he was reading, smiled and resumed reading
once more. I asked, “What do I do, Babu?” Ramesh Babu did not
have the time to even look up again. After a lot of begging and
pleading from me he put down his book, yawned and said, “Wood?
Why? Are there no more trees?” Can you believe that? I said, “Why
won’t there be? But why should you let go of something that is
legitimately your due? Who has ever done that?” Ramesh Babu
once again became immersed in his book and after remaining silent
for a few minutes said, “That is correct, but there is no sense in
fighting over a few bits of wood!”’
Bhairav was stunned. ‘What are you saying?’ he asked
disbelievingly.
Gopal Sarkar smiled gently and nodding his head a couple of
times said, ‘That’s the way it is, Acharya Moshai, that’s the way it is! I
have realized the futility of it all since that day. The goddess of
prosperity has left along with Tarini Ghosal!’
Bhairav too was silent for a while and then responded, ‘But the
pond is just behind my house. I should at least inform him once …’
Gopal answered, ‘That is true, Acharya Moshai, why don’t you go
and inform him? If one is constantly immersed in books and remains
so much in awe of one’s subjects, is it possible to safeguard any
property? Jodu Mukherjee’s daughter, in spite of being a woman,
was thoroughly amused. Apparently she told Gobinda Ganguly the
other day, “Tell Ramesh Babu to take a monthly retainer and hand
over all the property to me.” Is there anything more shameful than
this?’ His face distorted in anger and sorrow, Gopal concentrated on
his work again.
There was no woman in the household—hence there were no
restrictions about entering any part of the house. Bhairav went in and
saw Ramesh stretched out on a broken easy chair on the front
veranda. In order to incite Ramesh about his responsibilities, he
urgently broached the subject and was concluding a brief
introduction about protecting property, when, like a sleeping tiger hit
by a bullet, Ramesh roared out, ‘What is this audacity every day!
Bhojua!’
At this unimaginable and unexpected aggression, Bhairav himself
grew agitated. He could not begin to imagine what could have
managed to anger Ramesh to this extent. Bhojua was Ramesh’s
servant from Gorakhpur—extremely trustworthy and strong. He was
adept at wielding a lathi, having learnt this from Ramesh himself. As
soon as he appeared, Ramesh instructed, ‘Take away all the fish
forcibly—if anyone protests, drag him here by the roots of his hair! If
that is impossible, at least break a couple of teeth.’
Bhojua was actually delighted—for a long time he had not flexed
his muscles. At this wonderful chance to do so, he silently entered
his room to pick up his lathi and was about to leave. Bhairav quailed
in fright at the direction in which matters were moving. He had been
brought up in Bengal and was not in the least perturbed by raised
voices or the flaunting of strength. But the sight of the squat
Hindustani who did not say a word and only nodded, scared him to
the very soles of his feet. He recollected that the dog who did not
bark definitely bit! Bhairav was a true well-wisher—all that he had
wanted, even to the accompaniment of curses and abuses, was to
join in the fray and take some fish for himself from the Ghosals’
share. But it now seemed as if matters were not moving according to
his plans at all. The owner reacted by cursing aloud; the servant did
not even bat an eyelid and only armed himself with his well-oiled
lathi silently and purposefully. Bhairav was a poor man; he had
neither desire nor any ability to get embroiled in a legal battle. In a
few minutes Bhojua was ready to leave and respectfully saluted his
master from a distance. All of a sudden, Bhairav burst into tears and
firmly clutched Ramesh’s hands, ‘O Bhojua, do not go! Ramesh my
dear, save me; I am a poor man and will not survive even for a day
on my own.’
Irritated and amazed at the same time, Ramesh freed himself.
Bhojua walked back silently. Tearfully, Bhairav reiterated, ‘This will
not remain a secret, my dear. Beni Babu will ensure that I do not live
even twenty-four hours! My house will burn and not even the gods
will be able to save me.’
Ramesh sat in silence with bowed head. Hearing all the uproar
Gopal Sarkar left his accounting and entered the room. He said
softly, ‘What he says is correct, Babu.’
There was no answer to that; Ramesh merely gestured to Bhojua
to get on with his own work and silently left the room. It was only the
Almighty who was witness to the fearful storm that raged in him at
the sight of Bhairav Acharya’s immeasurable fright.
 7

‘JATIN, WHY DO YOU CONTINUE TO PLAY, DON’T YOU HAVE SCHOOL?’

‘We have a holiday for two days, Didi!’
Hearing this, Mashi grimaced and her face looked even more
fearsome than ever. ‘That wretched school remains closed for more
than half the month! Yet you still insist on spending money on it. I
would have had it burnt down by now!’ she said contemptuously.
Those who maligned Mashi as a liar through and through would be
wrong—she could give voice to such truths once in a while and when
she did so, did not hesitate to use the brutal frankness which was so
typical of her.
Rama pulled her younger brother close and in low tones inquired,
‘Why do you have holidays, my dear?’
Jatin snuggled against his sister, ‘Our school is having the roof
thatched—many new books have been bought and even some
chairs and tables! There is also an almirah and a huge clock—why
don’t you come and take a look one day, Didi?’
Rama was amazed, ‘What!’
‘Yes, Didi, truly! Ramesh Babu has come—it is he who is
organizing everything.’ He would have said some more, but seeing
Mashi approach, Rama quickly took him to her room. Drawing her
brother close she asked innumerable questions and gathered a lot of
information about Ramesh’s activities in the school. She found out
that Ramesh spent a couple of hours every day personally teaching
the students. All of a sudden she asked, ‘Jatin, does he recognize
you?’
Proudly, the lad nodded vigorously.
‘How do you address him?’
This question posed a problem. Jatin had not been lucky enough
for such intimacy with Ramesh and neither had he had the gumption
to initiate a conversation with him. The manner in which even the
much-feared headmaster became tense and alert in Ramesh’s
presence, caused waves of fear and amazement amongst all the
students. Far from calling out, the students could barely summon the
courage to look directly at him. This was, however, no confession to
make to his sister. The boys had heard the teachers addressing him
as ‘Chhoto Babu’. So, Jatin put two and two together and said, ‘We
all call him Chhoto Babu!’ But his very manner of speaking gave the
game away. Rama pulled her brother even closer and said, ‘Chhoto
Babu! He is your elder brother! Like all of you call Beni Babu Barda,
can’t you address him as Chhorda?’
The child grew restive with joy and amazement. ‘He is my elder
brother? Really, Didi?’
‘That’s how it works out!’ Rama smiled a bit. It then became
impossible to hold on to Jatin! He felt as if he would burst unless he
imparted this stupendous news to his fellow students. But school
was closed! Somehow he would have to hold on to his patience for a
couple of days. But how could he possibly be expected to refrain at
least from telling the boys of the locality? Impatiently he asked, ‘Can
I go now, Didi?’
‘Where will you go at this hour?’ Rama continued to hold on to
him. Unable to leave and discontentedly remaining silent, after a
while Jatin asked, ‘Where was he all this time, Didi?’
Serenely Rama answered, ‘He had gone far for higher studies.
When you grow up, you will have to move afar to be better educated
too. Will you be able to stay without me?’
She clutched her brother close once more. Though he was a mere
child, it was apparent to Jatin that there was a strange tone in his
sister’s voice and he stared at her curiously. Though Rama dearly
loved this brother, never before had she displayed such emotional
excess.
Jatin asked, ‘Has Chhorda completed his studies?’
Just as affectionately Rama answered, ‘Yes dear, he has taken all
his degrees.’
 Yet again Jatin questioned, ‘How do you know?’
Rama could only sigh and shake her head in response. Truly,
neither she nor anyone else in the village knew anything for sure
about Ramesh. It was not that her assumptions were certain to be
correct, but somehow a conviction had grown in her that a person
who was so conscious about the education of children, was definitely
no ignoramus himself. Jatin did not display any further interest in the
subject. All of a sudden another question had arisen in his mind and
he immediately gave utterance to this: ‘Didi, why doesn’t Chhorda
come to our house? Barda comes every day.’
Like a sudden unexpected shaft of pain, the question ran tremors
throughout Rama’s body. But she concealed the hurt and smilingly
responded, ‘Can’t you invite him and bring him over?’
‘I will go immediately,’ said Jatin instantly and stood up to set off
on this mission.
‘What an impulsive child!’ In fearful trepidation, Rama put her arms
around her brother and drew him close. ‘I am warning you, Jatin, you
are never ever to do something like that—never!’ Feeling her heart
beat rapidly as he stood against her, Jatin gazed in bewilderment at
his sister and was silent. First of all, he had never seen her behaving
in such an erratic fashion; besides, after being upgraded from
‘Chhoto Babu’ to ‘Chhorda’, Ramesh’s status in Jatin’s entire thought
process had undergone a change. But he failed to comprehend why
his sister continued to be so scared of Ramesh. All of a sudden,
Mashi’s shrill tones reached her and Rama quickly let go of Jatin and
stood up. The lady herself appeared shortly. She chided Rama as
usual, ‘I had assumed you had gone to the pond for a dip—is it right
to remain without bathing or even oiling your hair so late in the day?
You are looking absolutely washed out!’
Rama forced herself to smile. ‘You carry on, Mashi, I will join you
in a while.’
‘How much later? Come out! Beni and the others have come to
divide the fish.’
 Jatin ran off at the mention of fish. Unnoticed by Mashi, Rama
carefully wiped her face and then emerged from the room. There
was a huge clamour in the courtyard—a large amount of fish had
been netted. Beni himself was present to divide the spoils. All the
children of the village had gathered there and were getting under
everybody’s feet.
The sound of a cough was heard and at the next instance, asking,
‘What has your haul been like, Beni?’ Dharmadas entered, leaning
on his stick.
‘Nothing much,’ Beni responded offhandedly. He called out to the
fisherman, ‘Hurry up now and make two divisions.’
The division proceeded.
‘What is happening, Rama?’ It was Gobinda Ganguly—he had just
arrived. ‘I have not been able to call on you for a number of days. I
thought to myself, let me drop by and make some inquiries.’
Rama welcomed him with a little smile.
‘Why is it so crowded?’ asked Ganguly and moved forward for a
glimpse of the proceedings. And then, as if in sudden surprise, he
exclaimed, ‘Oh! There is quite a good amount of fish, I see! The
large pond was netted, was it?’
No one found it necessary to answer such obvious questions; the
division of fish went on and was over soon. Beni was on the verge of
sending home his share and gestured for the fisherman to leave.
Taking it for granted that the need of the Mukherjees was not much,
all present took for their own consumption as much as possible and
prepared to leave.
Just then everyone was taken aback by the sight of Ramesh
Ghosal’s squat Hindustani servant carrying a long bamboo baton,
taking a firm stance in the middle of the courtyard. The man had
such an ominous appearance that it immediately attracted all
attention. All the youngsters and elders in the village instantly
recognized him; as a matter of fact, there were already a number of
exaggerated and absurd stories circulating in the village about
Bhojua. In the midst of so many people, how this man was able to
discern Rama as being the mistress of the household was a mystery;
but, respectfully greeting her from a distance, he drew closer. No
matter what his outer appearance was, his voice was truly fearsome
—very deep and hoarse. Greeting Rama yet again, in a mixture of
Hindi and Bengali, he said abruptly, ‘I am Ramesh Babu’s servant
and have come to collect a third share of the fish.’ Whether because
she was taken by surprise or because she was not able to come up
with the words to respond with—Rama remained silent. Suddenly
Bhojua turned around and addressing Beni’s servant, commanded,
‘You, don’t leave!’
In fright the man moved back a step or two. For a few minutes
there was total silence; then Beni mustered the courage to ask,
‘What share?’
Bhojua immediately greeted him respectfully and answered,
‘Babu, I did not ask you.’
From a safe distance, in high-pitched tones Mashi called out, ‘Do
you plan to strike us or what?’
Bhojua glanced sharply at her; at the next instant, the entire house
was filled with the terrifying sound of his full-throated laughter.
Abruptly stopping his guffaws and in slightly shamed tones, Bhojua
again looked towards Rama and asked, ‘Ma-ji?’ Rama felt the
inherent contempt in his attitude despite the courtesy of his speech
and the excessive display of respect. She was getting more irritated
steadily and ultimately spoke, ‘What does your Babu want?’
Noting her irritation, Bhojua suddenly grew somewhat awkward.
He softened his harsh tones as much as possible and in a milder
tone reiterated his demand. However, what difference did that make
—the fish had already been divided! After all, Rama could not face
humiliation in front of so many people. Hence, in sardonic tones she
responded, ‘Your Babu has no share at all in this. Tell him to do what
he can!’
 ‘All right, Ma-ji!’ Bhojua respectfully acknowledged her words, and
gestured for Beni’s servant to leave. He himself then got ready to
move away. The entire household was stunned at his behaviour; all
of a sudden he turned around and in the strange dialect he favoured,
apologized for his harsh tones, ‘Ma-ji, listening to what people had to
say, Babu had commanded me to forcibly take away the fish in the
pond. Neither Babu nor I touch fish or flesh, but—’ He struck his
chest and asserted once again, ‘If Babu had commanded, perhaps I
would have had to give up my life on the banks of this pond. But, the
Almighty was good, Babu’s anger waned! He called me and said,
“Bhojua, go and ask Ma-ji whether I have any share in the pond.”’
Bhojua respectfully raised his stick to acknowledge her presence
and continued, ‘Babuji said, “No matter what anyone else says, no
untruth will ever be uttered by Ma-ji, she will never touch what
belongs to another.”’ Bhojua respectfully continued to salute Rama a
number of times before he took his leave.
As soon as he had left, Beni cried out in high-pitched tones, ‘He
will safeguard his property in this manner! Let me promise all of you
—henceforth, not an iota of anything at all will he get from the pond,
do you understand, Rama?’ He began to laugh cruelly.
Nothing penetrated Rama’s ears. ‘No untruth would ever be
uttered by Ma-ji’—it was as though the clamour of innumerable
hands clapping was creating a furore in her head. Her fair
complexion assumed a rosy hue and at the next moment turned pale
—as though not a drop of blood remained. The only sane thought
that she could retain was—no one should catch a glimpse of my
emotion right now! She pulled one end of her sari over her face and
made a rapid exit.
 8

‘JETHAIMA!’
‘Who is that? Ramesh? Come in, come in, my dear!’ Bishheshwari
affectionately welcomed him and put out a mat for him to be seated.
On stepping into the room, Ramesh was startled. It was quite
apparent to him (though her face was not visible) that the woman
seated near his Jethaima was none other than Rama. What stung
Ramesh was the thought that while people like Rama did not
hesitate to mete out insults through an intermediary, they also
unhesitatingly and shamelessly drew close when required. Rama
was no less embarrassed at Ramesh’s sudden advent. It was not
merely that she belonged to the same village, but her relationship
with Ramesh was such that it was awkward to treat him formally and
yet, it was just as embarrassing to make a show of closeness.
Besides, what a furore had been created over dividing the fish! She
sat awkwardly in one corner, preserving all the social niceties.
Ramesh did not acknowledge her presence any further. He went into
the room as though oblivious of anyone else, calling out, ‘Jethaima!’
‘Why suddenly in the afternoon, Ramesh?’
‘There is no other opportunity to spend some time quietly with you.
You keep busy all the while!’
Not protesting, Bishheshwari merely smiled a bit. Ramesh said,
‘Long ago, when I was a child, I had once come to take my leave of
you. Today I have come to do so once again. Perhaps this will be the
last time, Jethaima!’
Though Ramesh was smiling, his heavy voice bore such an
imprint of an overburdened heart that both the women were startled
by the deep despair that broke through.
‘Bless you, my dear, why do you speak thus?’ Bishheshwari’s eyes
brimmed over with tears.
Ramesh only smiled in response.
 In a voice replete with affection Bishheshwari asked, ‘Are you not
feeling well?’
Ramesh cast a look at his well built and healthy body and said,
‘This is a body used to rigours and hardship, it can endure a lot. No,
there is nothing wrong with me physically, but emotionally and
mentally I am feeling stifled.’
Relieved at hearing that it was no question of any physical malady,
Bishheshwari said with a smile, ‘This is your birthplace, tell me what
makes it so difficult to live here!’
Shaking his head, Ramesh said, ‘There is no sense in elaborating,
I know that you are aware of the reasons.’
After remaining silent for a while, Bishheshwari responded gravely,
‘If not everything, I definitely do know about some of the issues. That
is the very reason why I say, it is imperative that you stay on.’
Ramesh answered, ‘Why imperative, Jethaima? Nobody wants me
here.’
‘It is because nobody wants you here that I will not permit you to
run away anywhere. This physical prowess that you are so proud of
—is it for the purpose of taking to your heels?’
Ramesh remained silent. For the present, his entire being seemed
to revolt against the village and its inhabitants. His latest problem
concerned a road—the road that led directly to the station had
greatly deteriorated over time. Over the past month or so, its
condition had worsened even further. Water frequently accumulated
in the large potholes and it was a matter of concern and huge
inconvenience for anyone who had to go by that stretch of road. At
most times, people would carefully make their way across; but during
the rainy season, their miseries knew no end. They would fling a
bamboo or two across and with the help of that and other temporary
structures, stumbling and at grave risk to life and limb, somehow
make their way to the other side. However, despite facing such
discomforts, the villagers had made no attempt at all to have the
road repaired to date. Ramesh had taken the matter up and, instead
of paying the entire sum himself, had tirelessly tried to gather funds
from everybody. But it had proved impossible to make any collection,
even after ten days had gone by.
There was another bone of contention too; while taking a
roundabout route to his Jethaima’s house, Ramesh was passing a
local shop and overheard the comment, ‘None of you contribute
anything at all—it is mostly in his interests to do so. After all, his
shoes must remain clean on the roads! If nobody donates, then he
will definitely have it repaired himself and pay out of his own pocket.
Besides, all the while that he was not here, did we not manage to
reach the station?’
Another person had responded, ‘Why not wait some more!
Chatterjee Moshai was saying that he can even be hoodwinked into
renovating the temple … If you can sidle up to him and appeal to his
ego by addressing him as “Babu” a couple of times, that is all that is
needed.’ This conversation had been searing Ramesh ever since he
had heard it.
Bishheshwari struck at this sore point and said, ‘What has
happened to the renovation you were planning?’
Irritated, Ramesh responded, ‘That is not possible, Jethaima! No
one will contribute anything at all.’
Bishheshwari laughed aloud, ‘Will the work not be done because
they do not contribute? You have inherited a lot of money from your
grandfather. Why not contribute that amount of money yourself?’
Ramesh flew into a rage, ‘Why should I? I bitterly regret that
without understanding the entire situation, I have spent a lot of
money on the school. No one should do anything for anyone in this
village!’ He cast a scathing glace in Rama’s direction and continued,
‘They assume a person is stupid if he contributes; an attempt to do
any good is attributed to self-interest! Even to forgive is a sin, it is
taken for granted that a person has retreated in fright.’
Bishheshwari laughed even louder; but Rama’s face became
flushed. Angrily Ramesh asked, ‘Why do you laugh, Jethaima?’
 ‘What else can I do besides that, tell me, dear?’ Bishheshwari
sighed deeply. ‘Rather, I would say, your presence is most required
here. Anger is about to drive you away from your own birth land, but
who is worthy of your anger here?’ Pausing for a while, Bishheshwari
continued, as if talking to herself, ‘They are so pitiful, so weak, if you
realized that, Ramesh, you would be ashamed of even being angry
with them. If the Almighty has been merciful enough to send you
here, remain here, my dear.’
‘But they don’t want me, Jethaima!’
‘Of course! You understand from that itself how unworthy they are
of your anger? It is not just them, go to any village, they are all the
same.’
Suddenly her glance falling on Rama, Bishheshwari said, ‘Why are
you sitting there silent and downcast? Ramesh, don’t you siblings
converse? No, no—never behave in that manner! Whatever discord
there was with his father has disappeared with his death. You cannot
be permitted to continue the quarrel.’
Rama, looking down, said very gently, ‘I do not want any
animosity, Jethaima! Rameshda—’
Her sudden mild tones overshadowed Ramesh’s deep and heated
timbre. He stood up saying, ‘Jethaima, you should not get involved in
all this. The other day you were somehow saved from her Mashi’s
wrath; today, if she returns and sends her across, Mashi will stop
only after physically dismembering you!’ Ramesh then abruptly took
his leave without waiting for further arguments and counter-
arguments.
Bishheshwari called out loudly, ‘Don’t go now, Ramesh, listen to
me …’
Ramesh answered even as he left, ‘No, Jethaima, don’t say a
word in favour of those people whose vanity prods them into
trampling you underfoot!’ He made his exit without waiting for more.
Stunned, Rama gazed at Bishheshwari for a few minutes and then
burst into tears, ‘Why this quarrel with me, Jethaima? Have I tutored
Mashi or am I responsible for her actions?’
Jethaima lovingly took Rama’s hands in her own and affectionately
said, ‘It is true that you do not teach her, but you are definitely
responsible for her actions.’
Wiping dry her eyes with the other hand, in stifled hurt, Rama
forcefully denied all charges, ‘Me, responsible? Never! I did not have
any idea of all this, Jethaima! Then why does he unreasonably
blame and insult me?’
Bishheshwari did not continue the argument. She simply said,
‘Everybody is not aware of the inside story, my dear. But I can
assure you that Ramesh never had any intention of meting out any
insult. You do not know, but I have heard from Gopal Sarkar and
have realized personally, how much Ramesh respects and trusts
you. The other day, when the tree was being cut down and the spoils
divided, he did not pay any heed at all to talks about his share.
Ramesh laughed at them all as he said, “If Rama is there, I will
definitely get what is rightfully mine; she will never usurp what
belongs to another.” I know for sure, dear, that he still retained that
amount of faith and confidence in you—but, because of that
unfortunate incident regarding the fish …’
In the midst of what she was saying, Bishheshwari came to a
sudden halt as she gazed at Rama’s downcast and wan visage.
Finally she said, ‘Today, let me tell you something, my dear—no
matter how important it is to preserve your property, Ramesh’s life is
far more valuable. No matter who says what, or what goals become
important to achieve, don’t destroy that sentiment with repeated
blows. The harm that will result will be irreparable—I can assure you
of that.’
Rama sat as still as a statue, unable to utter any more words of
protest. Bishheshwari too did not speak any further. After a while, in
mild and indistinct tones Rama took her respectful leave.
 9

EVEN THOUGH RAMESH HAD DEPARTED IN GREAT ANGER

AND DISTASTE, his anger seemed to dissipate immediately on
reaching home. He repeatedly thought to himself, ‘Not understanding
this simple fact has caused me so much hurt! Truly, who is the target
of my anger? These people are so narrow-minded and petty that
they cannot even understand what is good for them. They lack
education to such a degree that the destruction of a neighbour’s
strength seems to them to be the best way for them to become
stronger! It is the height of foolishness to be upset with people who
become agitated at the mere prospect of someone working for their
betterment.’
He remembered his life in the faraway city, reading and imbibing
stories about a tranquil village life innumerable times. ‘Even if society
in Bengal lacks everything else, the quiet villages possess a serenity
that can never be found in a crowded metropolis. There, simple
village folk are satisfied with very little; they soak in sympathy and
are used to participating in the joys and sorrows of one another. It is
only there, in those hearts, that the true wealth of Bengal still lies
hidden!’ so said the books. Alas, what a terrible fallacy! Ramesh had
never witnessed such opportunism and spite even in the city.
Whenever the lively city had sported some signs of sin, of
wrongdoing, Ramesh had thought to himself, ‘If only I can once
reach my birthplace, that small village, I can escape all these evils.
There, religion governs life and society has still preserved its
integrity.’ But where was all this! Where was religion alive in these
ancient villages? If the very essence of religion had disappeared,
why did its putrefying corpse reign supreme? It seemed as if rural
society was clinging in desperation to this distorted and
decomposing cadaver and in the process, sinking deeper and
deeper into slimy degradation. But the most pitiful contradiction of
ethics was that the jibes of the villagers were directed at city life—
where, they asserted, religion was non-existent!
On entering his house, Ramesh found an elderly lady, huddled
together with a young boy in one corner of the courtyard. On seeing
him, they immediately stood up. Though he was totally ignorant
about his visitors and the purpose of their visit, Ramesh felt his heart
cry out just looking at the young boy. Gopal Sarkar who was busy
with his accounts walked up, ‘The boy is from another locality—
Dwarik Chakroborty’s son. They have come to you for some alms.’
At the very mention of alms, Ramesh flew into a rage. ‘Am I the
only one to approach with a begging bowl? Is there no one else in
the village?’
Gopal Sarkar was somewhat embarrassed, ‘You are right there,
Babu! But, Tarini Babu never turned anyone away. So, in dire need,
everybody makes their way here.’
Gopal Sarkar then explained at length, ‘This boy’s father, Dwarik
Chakroborty died after suffering for six months. Since the proper last
rites were not performed, nobody is willing to touch the corpse or
undertake whatever needs to be done. But the body will have to be
disposed off now, and quickly. Kamini’s mother who is of a lower
caste, and the Chakrobortys’ neighbour, has spent all she had to
meet the expenses of this hapless Brahmin family for the past six
months. But now even she is penniless and hence has come to beg
from you.’
Looking at the boy, but addressing the elderly lady Gopal said,
‘Kamini’s mother, your neighbours are no less at fault! While
Chakroborty was still alive, the rites were not performed, now after
his death you bring this child along to beg.’
Kamini’s mother shook her head and said, ‘Come and have a look
for yourself if you do not believe me. If there was anything worth
selling, would I have left the body untended and come begging? You
must have heard about the matter? These six months I have given
all I have. After all, otherwise the children of my Brahmin neighbour
would have died!’
Ramesh could comprehend something of the situation.
He remained silent for a while and then asked, ‘It is well past
noon; if the penance is not performed, will the corpse remain
untended to?’
Sarkar smiled, ‘What other option is there, Babu? Nothing can be
done outside the dictums of religion. How can the neighbours be
blamed—either way, the body cannot just remain lying there. In
whatever manner, they will have to take care of the matter. Hence,
begging—well, Kamini’s mother, have you been elsewhere?’
The boy opened his clenched fist and showed a few coins. The
lady said, ‘The Mukherjees and Haldars have contributed! But, a lot
more is needed to meet even the minimum cost. So, if Babu …’
Ramesh hurriedly spoke up, ‘You return home, there is no need to
go elsewhere. I will make all the arrangements and send my men
over.’ After seeing them off, he cast a pained and hurt glance at
Gopal Sarkar and asked, ‘How many such abysmally poor people
are there in the village?’
‘About two to three families, not many. They too had been able to
eke out some sort of a living; but, having got embroiled in some sort
of a legal case, both Dwarik Chakroborty and Sanatan Hazra
became virtually destitute. Lowering his voice slightly he continued,
‘Matters would not have come to such a pass, but our Boro Babu
and Gobinda Ganguly incited and provoked both of them.’
‘Then?’
Sarkar continued, ‘Then, both these families remained up to their
necks in debt to our Boro Babu. Last year he bought off everything—
the principle and interest, all of it! Kamini’s mother is truly the
daughter of a farmer. All that she did for a Brahmin during this period
is absolutely remarkable.’
Ramesh sighed deeply and fell silent. Then, sending Gopal Sarkar
to oversee the arrangements, he said to himself, ‘Jethaima, I accept
wholeheartedly your command. If I am to die here, so be it—but, it is
impossible to discard this unfortunate village and go elsewhere.’
 10

ABOUT THREE MONTHS LATER, ONE MORNING AS RAMESH WAS

ABOUT TO take a dip in the waters of the holy pond at Tarakeshwar,
he suddenly ran into a lady on the steps. For a moment he was so
entranced that all he could do was gaze at her unadorned face and it
did not even cross his mind to move away. The girl was probably not
more than twenty and was about to return after bathing. When she
looked up and saw him, she quickly put down the pitcher full of water
and, drawing her wet sari closer, looked down and exclaimed, ‘You
are here!’
Ramesh’s amazement knew no end, but he got over his
bewilderment. Moving aside to let her pass, he asked, ‘Do you know
me?’
‘I do! When did you come to Tarakeshwar?’
Ramesh replied, ‘This morning. My cousins were supposed to be
joining me, but they have not turned up.’
‘Where are you staying here?’
‘I don’t know! I have never been here before, but today I will have
to put up here somewhere or the other. Some sort of a shelter will
have to be found.’
‘You have a servant accompanying you?’
‘No, I am alone.’
‘Think of that now!’ As the girl laughed and looked up, their eyes
met again. She immediately looked down once again. Somewhat
hesitantly she then said, ‘In that case, come with me!’ Once again
she picked up the pitcher of water and moved ahead.
Ramesh was not sure how to react, ‘I do not mind going, because,
if it were indecorous, you would not have invited me. It is not even
that I do not know you, just that I cannot remember. Please tell me
who you are?’
 ‘Well, wait outside while I finish my prayers. On the way back, I will
introduce myself.’ The girl moved towards the temple. Ramesh stood
entranced. Some magnetic, physical appeal was emanating through
her wet clothes and suffusing him with its magical power. Her entire
being seemed so very familiar to Ramesh, but the blocked doors of
his memory refused to be opened.
Half an hour later, when the girl returned after her prayers,
Ramesh was able to catch another glimpse of her. But, he still could
not penetrate the mystery of her identity. While walking along,
Ramesh asked, ‘Do you not have any relatives with you?’
‘There is a maid, she is working at home. I come here frequently,
for I am quite familiar with this place.’
‘But, why are you taking me along?’
The girl walked in silence for a while and then answered, ‘I have to
take you along—your meals will become: a problem otherwise! I am
Rama.’
Personally ensuring that Ramesh ate properly, Rama laid out the
mat for him to sleep and left the room. Stretching out and closing his
eyes, it seemed to Ramesh that all the twenty-three years of his life
had undergone a diametric change in this short span of half a day.
Since childhood he had been brought up far from his native place
and not under the guardianship of his parents. He had never thought
that the act of eating could satisfy any other need, except appease
hunger. Hence, this newfound unimaginable satiety filled his heart
and soul with a strange sweetness. Rama had not been able to
make any special arrangement for his meal—it was very ordinary,
plain, day-to-day fare. Hence, it was a great source of worry for her
that Ramesh would be unable to eat properly and that she would be
to blame! Rama could no longer hide from herself the closeness and
intimacy this degree of worry implied and how it had in a flash
pushed aside all barriers and restrictions of society. In order to make
up for the paucity of food, she was forced to put herself at the fore.
The Almighty was the only one to know of the depths of satisfaction
that arose from the core of her being in doing so and surpassed
even the sense of satisfaction that Ramesh felt.
Ramesh was not used to sleeping during the day. Through a small
window in the room he could see the clouds floating by in the
summer sky. He no longer wondered about his relatives who had not
yet arrived. It didn’t matter to him. In the midst of his daydreams, he
heard Rama’s voice, and stepped out. From the threshold she said,
‘Since you cannot return home today, please do stay here.’
Quickly Ramesh spoke, ‘But, I do not know the owner of the
house. How do I stay here without his permission?’
Rama answered, ‘She says to stay on—the house belongs to me.’
Ramesh was amazed. ‘Why do you have a house here?’ he
asked.
Rama said, ‘This is one of my favourite localities, I come here
quite frequently. There are not too many people now, but at times
there is virtually no place to stand.’
Ramesh said, ‘Fine, but wouldn’t it be better not to come at all at
such a time?’
Rama was silent and merely smiled. Ramesh asked once again,
‘You are a great devotee of the reigning deity here, aren’t you?’
‘I really do not possess that much of piety, but shouldn’t all
humans make an effort?’
Ramesh kept quiet. Rama sat down on the threshold and changed
the subject. ‘What would you like to have at night?’
Answering with a smile, Ramesh said, ‘Whatever is available! I
never think about food till the moment before sitting down to eat. So,
I have to be satisfied with whatever the cook decides to present.’
Rama asked, ‘Why this disinterest?’
It was not clear to Ramesh whether this was a hidden jibe or a
simple jest at his expense. He replied tersely, ‘It’s mere laziness!’
‘But I have never seen you being slothful where others are
concerned!’
 Ramesh answered, ‘There is a reason for that. If one is lazy in
one’s dealing with others, the Almighty will have to be answered to.
Maybe this is also applicable to one’s personal matters, but probably
not as much.’
Rama remained silent for a while and then asked, ‘You are wealthy
and so can afford to concentrate on others—but what about those
who are not well off?’
‘I do not know about them, Rama, because where I’m concerned
there are no fixed boundaries or quantities as regards spending. All
this accounting is the responsibility of one who keeps track of
everything.’
Rama was silent for a while, after which she protested, ‘But you
have not reached an age to be dunking of answering to the Almighty!
You are only three years older than me!’
Ramesh laughed, ‘That means you are even younger! God willing,
may you have many more years ahead of you. But, speaking for
myself, I never assume that this will not be my last day on Earth.’
The lightest of blows that lay buried in this statement did not miss
the mark. After remaining silent for a while, Rama asked all of a
sudden, ‘I did not see you perform the evening prayers. Whether you
go to the temple or not is another matter, but shouldn’t you at least
remember the Almighty every evening?’
Laughing to himself Ramesh replied, ‘As a matter of fact, I have
not and even if I did, it would not really make a difference. However,
why this question?’
Rama responded, ‘You seem prone to reflect quite a lot on the
afterlife and the like and so …’
Ramesh did not respond to this; both remained silent for a while.
Rama then gently continued, ‘Look, blessing me with long life is only
a curse. In our Hindu society, no relation ever wishes long life for a
widow.’ She paused for a few moments and then went on, ‘It is true
that I am not exactly waiting to die, but even the thought of living for
a long time scares us widows. But this is not applicable to you. It
would be indecorous of me to assert my opinion, but when
deliberately taking on the problems of another seems childish,
remember my words.’
Ramesh could only sigh in response. After a while, in tones similar
to Rama’s he said, ‘It is recollecting your words that I say—today,
this holds no meaning for me. I am nobody of yours, Rama, rather,
an impediment in your path. But today, as your neighbour, I have
received so much warmth and caring! In life, I think that those who
are used to all this love and concern would rush to help another on
hearing of someone’s sorrow and pain. Sitting alone I was just
thinking—in this short span of half a day, you have changed my
entire life. Nobody has invited me for a meal in this manner and
there has been nobody to care about how I have eaten! I have
learned from you for the first time that there can be so much joy in
such a simple thing as having a meal.’
Ramesh’s warm praises for her thrilled Rama’s mind and body.
She responded almost immediately, ‘You will not take much time to
forget this. Even if all this does come to mind some day, it will appear
as a very negligible part of your life.’
Ramesh made no response.
Rama said once more, ‘That you will not be critical of my
hospitality when you return home is my good fortune.’
Ramesh sighed deeply yet again and responded gravely, ‘No,
Rama, I will not criticize, nor will I go about singing your praises. This
day is beyond all praise or criticism for me.’
Rama did not answer. Remaining silent for a while and then
getting up, she quietly went to her room. There, in the silence, tears
coursed ceaselessly down her cheeks.
 11

AFTER RAINING NON-STOP FOR TWO DAYS, IT WAS JUST

LETTING UP towards the evening. Ramesh was at home, examining
the accounts with the help of Gopal Sarkar. All of a sudden some
twenty farmers, weeping and in a state of desperation, asked for his
audience. ‘Chhoto Babu,’ they said, ‘you have got to save us this
time—otherwise we will surely starve along with our families.’
Taken aback, Ramesh asked, ‘What is the matter?’
‘Babu, the fields have flooded; if the water is not let out all the
crops will be destroyed and not one single family in the village will
have food to eat.’
Ramesh could not grasp the matter from this brief account. After
questioning the farmers, Gopal Sarkar explained the entire matter to
him. The entire cultivable land of the village was divided into small
plots that belonged to various farmers in the village. To the east of
this land was an enormous dam which was constructed by the
government; to the west and north were other villages and these
were located on a higher level. The dam on the southern side
belonged to the Mukherjees and the Ghosals. This could be used for
drainage and irrigation; but, because fish worth a lot of money was
sold every year from the reservoir adjoining this dam, Beni Babu had
placed it under strict guard. The farmers had pleaded the entire
morning with him to open up the dam but Beni Babu hadn’t relented,
so they had been ultimately forced to seek out Ramesh.
Ramesh did not wait any longer and left immediately. When he
entered Beni’s house, it was getting to be evening. Beni was leaning
on his pillow, puffing away on the hookah. Paran Haldar sat close by,
probably discussing the very matter in question. Not bothering with
any kind of introduction, Ramesh came to the point straightaway, ‘It
will just not do to keep the dam blocked any longer, the waters will
have to be let out.’
 Handing the hookah to Haldar, Beni looked up and asked, ‘What
dam?’
As it is Ramesh was greatly agitated, and with Beni feigning
ignorance of the matter, his anger only mounted. He replied furiously,
‘How many dams are there, Barda? Unless the waters are let out,
the crops of almost the entire village will be destroyed. Please give
the order for the waters to be released.’
Beni responded, ‘Do you realize that along with the water, fish
worth a lot of money will also escape? Who will pay for that—the
farmers or you?’
Somehow curbing his anger, Ramesh answered, ‘These farmers
are poor, it is impossible for them to make any payment. I do not
understand why I should have to make any payment either.’
Looking towards Haldar, Beni commented, ‘This is the way my
dear brother is going to manage his estates! Ramesh dear, all
through the morning the wretches were stationed here—crying and
weeping all the while. I am well aware of everything. Don’t you have
guards for your estates? They don’t have fancy shoes—go and get
that organized! The arrangements for water will happen naturally!’
Beni and Haldar laughed uproariously at their own joke.
Ramesh was finding their attitude intolerable; he tried his best to
control himself and responded humbly, ‘Barda, in order to save only
three households some little money, crops for the entire year will be
destroyed. It will prove extremely expensive for the poor farmers.’
Beni merely shrugged, ‘If that is to be, it will be—if I do not stand
to gain, why should I spend any money for those good-for-nothings?’
Ramesh made one last attempt, ‘Then, what will they eat through
the year?’
As if a truly hilarious jest had been made, Beni could barely stop
the peals of laughter that shook his entire body. ‘What will they eat?
Mind you, those scoundrels will rush to mortgage their property with
us and borrow money. Listen, keep a cool head, this is exactly why
our forefathers have left us all this; to enjoy ourselves and also leave
behind a little something for our children. What will they eat? Let
them borrow and feed themselves how they will. Why else are they
called low-down?’
Ramesh’s face became flushed with disgust, shame,
overwhelming rage and a searing regret. However, keeping as calm
as possible he replied, ‘Since you have decided to do nothing at all,
it does not make sense to remain here, arguing with you! I am going
to Rama—if she agrees, there is nothing that your dissenting will
achieve.’
Beni grew grave, ‘Very well, go and find out! Her opinion is no
different from mine, she is not an easy woman to get around! You
are a mere child, why, she had your father running around in circles.
What do you say, Khuro?’
Ramesh was not in the least curious about Khuro’s opinion. He did
not have any inclination to bear Beni’s extremely insulting attitude
either and left without a word.
In the courtyard, Rama had just lit the evening lamp and
completed her prayers. When she looked up she saw Ramesh right
in front of her! She was amazed. Her head bowed, it appeared as
though she was respectfully greeting Ramesh himself. In the throes
of his overwhelming rage and anxiety, Ramesh had completely
forgotten Mashi’s harsh insults meted out to him the first day he had
appeared in the household. Hence, he had walked straight into the
house and waited in silence till Rama had completed her prayers.
A month had passed since their Last meeting—in Tarakeshwar.
Ramesh said, ‘You must have heard about the entire matter. I have
come to seek your permission to let out the water.’
Rama’s sense of bewilderment concerning the purpose of
Ramesh’s visit was dispelled. She covered her head with one end of
the sari and answered, ‘How can I agree? Besides, Barda is not
agreeable.’
‘I know! But his sole dissent will not make any difference.’
 Rama thought for a while, ‘True, the waters should be let out! But,
what will you do to prevent the fish from escaping?’
Ramesh answered, ‘It is not possible to do anything when that
amount of water is involved. We will have to count that as a loss this
year—or else the entire village faces death.’
Rama remained silent.
Ramesh said, ‘Then I have your permission?’
Mildly Rama responded, ‘No, I cannot permit that kind of loss.’
Ramesh was stunned into speechlessness. He had not in his
wildest dreams expected this negative response from Rama. Rather,
a firm conviction had somehow grown in his mind that Rama would
never be able to refuse his earnest appeal.
Looking up, Rama could immediately gauge his reaction. She
said, ‘Besides, the property belongs to my brother, I am merely the
guardian.’
‘But, half is yours!’
‘Only in theory! Father had definitely assumed that everything
would go to Jatin. Hence, half was made out to me.’
Ramesh however continued to plead, ‘Rama, you are squabbling
just for this paltry sum of money? You are the most prosperous of
everybody here; this will be no loss to you. I would never have
imagined you could be so cruel.’
Rama continued to respond just as mildly, ‘If looking after my own
interests means cruelty, so be it! If you are that concerned, why not
pay the compensation yourself and make up the loss?’
Ramesh flew into a rage at her barbed remark, ‘Rama, whether or
not a person is truly worthy can be assessed only when money
comes into play! This is the time when no deception is possible and
only man’s true nature comes to the fore. That is what has happened
to you today. But, I never would have thought you were like this! I
have always believed that you could never stoop to being petty, but
you can! It is a mistake to even call you cruel—you are low-down
and far worse than petty!’
 Starting in hurt and shock, Rama asked, ‘I?!’
‘You are disgusting and low-down! Only because you know how
desperate I am, you make claims of compensation. Even Barda did
not have the gumption to make such a demand! As a man he
hesitated, but you as a woman, did not pause to think before
speaking. I can afford much more compensation than this, but let me
tell you this, Rama—whatever sin exists on Earth, the most heinous
is to take advantage of a person’s kindness. That is exactly what you
are trying to do with me today!’
Rama gazed at him unblinkingly, dumbstruck; not a word escaped
her. Ramesh continued in the same calm and measured tones, ‘You
are not unaware where my weakness lies, but let me clarify—not one
more jot of advantage will you be able to extract! Let me also inform
you of what I am going to do—I am going to forcibly break down the
dam. Try and stop me if you can.’
Seeing Ramesh about to leave, Rama called out after him. As he
drew near, she said, ‘I do not want to respond to even one insult you
have showered on me in my house. But, you must not do what you
have set out to do.’
Ramesh asked, ‘Why?’
‘Only because despite so many insults, I have no wish to quarrel
with you.’
It was apparent to Ramesh even in the darkness of dusk how
unnaturally wan Rama appeared and the manner in which her lips
quivered as she tried to speak. But he was in no frame of mind for a
psychological analysis. He immediately responded, ‘I have no wish
to enter into any dispute either, you will realize that if you think a
little. But then, I have no means to hold on to your goodwill either!
Anyway, there is no sense in bickering further. Allow me to leave.’
Mashi had been firmly ensconced in the prayer room upstairs and
knew nothing of what had taken place. She came down to find Rama
going out with the maidservant. Surprised, she asked, ‘Where are
you going so late in the evening, amidst all this slush?’
 ‘I have to urgently meet Barda.’
The maid added, ‘The roads are not at all muddy, Didima. Chhoto
Babu has had everything paved in such a manner that even fine
powder can be scooped up if it falls to the ground! God bless him!
The poor can now be safe from snakebites and the like.’
It was almost eleven at night. The sound of many hushed voices
could be heard from Beni’s courtyard. The overcast sky had cleared
somewhat and a pale moonlight flooded the veranda. There, leaning
against a post sat a fearsome, elderly Muslim, with his eyes closed.
His entire face was awash with fresh blood and his clothes were also
bloodstained. In low tones Beni pleaded, ‘Akbar, listen to me, go to
the police station! Then, if I cannot put him behind bars for seven
years, I don’t belong to the Ghosal dynasty.’ He turned around to
Rama and said, ‘Rama, why are you silent—you too tell him!’
But Rama continued to maintain a stony silence.
Akbar Ali now sat up straight and exclaimed, ‘Wonderful! Chhoto
Babu is indeed very capable! The manner in which he wielded the
lathi …’
Beni grew angry and agitated, ‘That is exactly what I am telling
you to report, Akbar! Who was responsible for injuring you? Was it
that young man or was it his Hindustani servant?’
A light smile played on Akbar’s lips. He answered, ‘That squat
Hindustani? Does he have any idea of how to use a lathi, Boro
Babu? Gohar, didn’t he collapse at your first blow?’
Akbar’s two sons were sitting huddled together some distance
away. They had not escaped unscathed either. The one whose name
was Gohar nodded but did not speak. Akbar resumed, ‘If I had struck
that man, he would not have lived. Gohar was enough to make him
collapse, Boro Babu.’
Rama moved some distance away. Akbar was one of their Pirpur
subjects. In days bygone he had accumulated a lot of property by
virtue of his skills with the lathi. Hence, late in the evening, wild with
hurt and rage after her conversation with Ramesh, Rama had sent
for him to guard the dam. She had wanted to see what Ramesh
hoped to achieve merely by relying on that Hindustani servant of his,
but she had not imagined that Ramesh himself could be such an
expert at lathi-wielding.
Looking up at Rama, Akbar said, ‘Chhoto Babu picked up his
servant’s lathi and wielded it so expertly, so fiercely, that the three of
us—father and two sons—could not dislodge him from the dam. His
eyes glowed like those of a tiger in the dark, he said to me, “Akbar,
you are an old man, move away. The entire village will die unless the
waters of the dam are released—it will have to be done. You also
have land in your own village—think of what it feels like, if everything
is destroyed.”
‘I saluted him and said, “Think of Allah and do not bar my path,
Chhoto Babu. Let me just break open the heads of all those who are
sheltering behind you and striking at the dam.”’
Beni could not control his rage and screamed, ‘Traitor! You salute
him and come here to me …’
Akbar and his two sons simultaneously raised their hands in
anger. Akbar said in harsh tones, ‘Don’t you dare call us traitors,
Boro Babu! We are Muslims and can tolerate everything but that.’
Wiping away some blood from his forehead, Akbar addressed
Rama and said, ‘Who does he call a traitor, Didi? He sits at home
and says all this—but only a personal meeting would reveal what
kind of a person Chhoto Babu is!’
Beni with a distorted face continued, ‘“Chhoto Babu!” Then, why
don’t you go and give this information to the police station? You just
have to mention that you were guarding the dam and that fellow
came and assaulted you.’
Akbar bit his tongue in embarrassment, ‘Shame! Shame! You tell
me to lie through my teeth, Boro Babu?’
Beni answered, ‘Then say something else. Why don’t you go and
report your injuries today? Tomorrow I will have him clapped in
chains. Rama, try and explain the situation clearly to him once again.
Such opportunities do not always present themselves.’
Rama did not speak, she merely looked at Akbar once. Akbar
shook his head, ‘No, Didi Thakrun, that will be impossible for me.’
Beni demanded, ‘Why impossible?’
Now Akbar too raised his voice, ‘What are you saying, Boro Babu,
don’t I have any shame? Am I not the headman of five villages? Didi
Thakrun, I can go to jail if you so command, but this?!’
Rama gently asked just once, ‘Can’t you, Akbar?’
Akbar vigorously shook his head, ‘No, Didithakrun, I can do
everything but display my injuries in court. Come on, Gohar, let us
return home.’ They made a move to leave.
Beni glared at them in futile rage and mentally abusing them, all
but turned them to cinder with his burning glances. The flames of
fury raged in him with greater vigour for he was unable to
comprehend Rama’s dispirited silence. When Akbar Ali left with his
sons after ignoring all pleas, reprimands and anger, a deep sigh rent
Rama’s heart. Her eyes overflowed with tears for no reason at all
and she could find no cause at all to feel that a load was off her mind
—despite the insult that she had faced and in spite of being
completely vanquished. Returning home that night, she found it
impossible to sleep. She kept recalling that image of Ramesh as he
sat down to eat before her at Tarakeshwar. The more she
remembered, the more she wondered how that handsome body
could house such softness and fury at the same time! The image
blurred with tears that coursed down her face.
 12

IN THE YEARS OF THEIR CHILDHOOD, RAMESH HAD LOVED RAMA.

IT WAS undoubtedly a childish emotion, but she had sensed its
depths that day in Tarakeshwar. But most of all she had realized his
feelings, when in the darkness of that evening he had left her house,
severing all ties. Ever since that eventful night, the part that Rama
played in the incident regarding the dam loomed like an unsavoury
void in Ramesh’s mind. But Ramesh had not imagined that all his
chores and even his droughts would become so distasteful as a
result. When the hypocrisy he had encountered made life in the
village begin to seem unbearable, a certain series of events made
him straighten up again.
The village of Pirpur was a part of their estates. The greater
percentage of the population there was composed of Muslims. One
day, a group of the villagers arrived to meet Ramesh. They
complained that though they belonged to the area, their children
were not being admitted to the village school because they were
Muslims. They had taken this to be a hopeless task after making
futile attempts a number of times; the teachers would just not accept
their children into the school. Ramesh was amazed and angered. ‘I
have never heard of such wrong and wilful persecution ever before!’
he said. ‘You bring your children along today itself—I myself will
personally see that they are admitted.’
They responded, ‘Babu, we might be mere subjects, but we pay all
revenues for the privilege of farming the land. We do not have to
worry about a Hindu landlord! We don’t think there is any point in
entering into a controversy on this matter. There will only be fights
and quarrels, no positive result will materialize. We would rather set
up a small school for our own community and, Chhoto Babu, your
help is all that is required.’ Ramesh too was tired of the constant
skirmishes he saw around him, and hence, deeming the proposal to
be a sensible one, agreed. During his interaction with the people
from Pirpur, and as he proceeded to work for their community,
Ramesh felt his spirits and strength gradually heal. He observed that
unlike the Hindu residents of Kuapur, these people did not constantly
fight and quarrel. Even if they did so, they did not immediately rush
to court to slap injunctions on their neighbours. They accepted the
decision of the village elders, whether they were pleased with it or
not. During a crisis, the manner in which everyone clustered around
to help the needy in whatever manner possible was something
Ramesh had never witnessed in any Hindu village.
Ramesh was never particularly taken with the idea of caste
differences. The obvious differences he saw when he compared the
two villages increased his feelings of disgust far his own village to an
even greater degree. He came to the conclusion that it was religion
and religious discord that was at the root of all evil amongst Hindus.
In contrast, there was absolute equality amongst all Muslims. Hence,
Hindus lacked the unity Muslims possessed and their social set-up
was such that they never were able to unite. There was no means of
doing away with the caste system. Even to broach the subject was
virtually impossible in rural society. So, to mitigate fights and quarrels
and establish a better understanding and a spirit of cooperation was
virtually unthinkable. Ramesh began to greatly regret all the fruitless
efforts he had spent on his own village. A firm conviction grew in him
that the inhabitants of his village would continue to exist in the same
clamour and rancour they had been spending all their lives in. No
positive change could ever be brought about. At the same time,
some decisions would also have to be taken about the goings-on in
Kuapur.
Due to a number of reasons, Ramesh had been out of touch with
his Jethaima for a number of days. After the battle of sorts regarding
the dam, he had deliberately not ventured in the direction of Beni’s
house. But one morning, at the very break of dawn, he went and
positioned himself at her doorstep. Even Bishheshwari was
completely unaware of the complete trust and faith Ramesh had in
her intelligence and experience; it was this that had brought him
there. Ramesh was somewhat surprised to see that even at that
hour his Jethaima had had her bath and was ready for the day! In
that dim light, with a pair of spectacles firmly perched on her nose,
she was sitting on the floor, engrossed in a book. She was no less
surprised at his advent. Closing the book, she affectionately drew
him near and asked, ‘Why so early in the morning, dear?’
‘I have not seen you for a number of days, Jethaima; I am in the
process of setting up a school in Pirpur.’
Bishheshwari answered, ‘I have heard of that. But why don’t you
go to teach at our school any longer?’
‘That is precisely the reason why I have come to meet you,
Jethaima. All my efforts to help the people here are fruitless. Nobody
can bear the good fortune of another. There seems to be no sense in
slaving after people who are vain and taken up completely with
themselves. The only effect is to increase the number of enemies
one has. I would much rather work somewhere where my efforts will
bring about a genuine uplift.’
Jethaima responded, ‘The situation is not new, Ramesh!
Whenever any person has taken on himself the responsibility of
social uplift, the number of his enemies has greatly increased. It will
not do for you also to join the crowd of the dispirited. The Almighty
has given you this burden to shoulder and it is only you who must do
the needful. But Ramesh, do you actually take water in the Muslim
households?’
Ramesh laughed, ‘I see, Jethaima, that word has already reached
you! No, as a matter of fact I have not done so as yet, but I do not
see a problem about doing so in the future! I do not believe in
religious differences.’
Bishheshwari was amazed, ‘What don’t you believe in? Do
religious differences not exist? How can you ignore them?’
 ‘That is exactly the question I have come to ask you today. I
accept that there are religious differences, but I cannot accept that
there is anything good about these differences.’
‘Why?’
Ramesh suddenly grew excitable, ‘Do I really have to tell you
why? Don’t you know that all misunderstandings and discord have
this at the root? It is only natural that those whom society and
religion has designated as belonging to a low caste, will envy those
placed in a higher category. They will rebel against all such
restrictions—this is very human! Hindus do not know how to be
constructive, they can only destroy. We are being debilitated every
single day because we just refuse to acknowledge the very fact that
in the normal course of life it is a natural instinct to protect one’s own
and try to propagate ourselves! If you go through the census,
Jethaima, you will be scared! You will witness for yourself the results
of insulting and demeaning each other, which the Hindus have
brought upon themselves. The Muslims are multiplying each day and
the number of Hindus is decreasing. But Hindus will still not take
heed!’
Bishheshwari laughed, ‘Even after listening to all that you have
just said, I am still unable to take heed! All those men who go about
counting the population—if they were able to point out the number of
men of lower castes who have changed religion only because of a
fear of remaining segregated, perhaps your logic might have been
acceptable. I agree that Hindus are decreasing in number, but there
are other reasons for this. They can of course be called flaws in
society; but inferior castes losing their identity is definitely one such
reason. No Hindu gives up his religion merely due to the stigma of
being inferior.’
Ramesh disagreed, ‘But that is what the scholars assert,
Jethaima!’
‘One cannot argue against conjecture, my dear. If anyone can
bring me news that so many low-caste people belonging to any
particular village have in a particular year given up their religion
merely due to this particular issue, I could accept the point of view of
the scholar. But I am quite sure that such information can never be
brought forward.’
Ramesh still continued to argue, ‘But, Jethaima, it only seems
logical to me that there will be feelings of jealousy in those of the
lower castes as compared to those who belong to the higher castes.’
Bishheshwari once again laughed at this display of intensity, ‘That
is not right at all; in fact it’s absolutely incorrect! This is not the city; in
rural society nobody bothers about whether those belonging to any
particular caste are high or low down! It is just like the relationship
between siblings—there is no feeling of discord in the younger one
at having been born a couple of years later; in villages the same
logic applies to caste differences. The various categories of caste
are content with their own lot. Nobody quibbles about showing due
respect to a Brahmin. The reason is not caste consciousness or
envy or jealousy. At least in Bengal, the situation is definitely
different.’
Ramesh was rather surprised, ‘Then, why do such unpleasant
events take place, Jethaima? There are so many Muslims in that
village, but there is no discord between them. No one pressurizes
another during a time of crisis. The other day, no one in our village
was willing to even touch Dwarik Chakroborty’s corpse, because due
to a financial crisis, the purification rites had not been performed.’
Bishheshwari answered, ‘I am aware of everything, my dear, but it
is not caste difference that is at the root! The primary reason is that
there is still a true religion amongst Muslims, which we lack. What
we could call true religion has all but disappeared from rural society.
Only a few superstitions and conventions remain—and from these
stems factionalism!’
Ramesh sighed dispiritedly, ‘Then, is there no way to redress it at
all?’
 ‘But of course there is, my dear! It can only be through education
—the path that you are treading, only that path. Hence I repeatedly
tell you, do not desert your birthplace under any circumstance.’
Ramesh was about to make some sort of negative response, but
Bishheshwari interrupted, ‘You will say that the Muslims are also
extremely ignorant. But, it is their dynamic religion that is keeping
them fresh and vibrant. Listen to what I have to say, Ramesh—if you
make inquiries in Pirpur, you will hear of a wealthy man named Zafar.
He has been ostracized and made an outcast by everybody. Why?
Only because he does not look after his widowed stepmother. But
our Gobinda Ganguly—the other day he beat his elder widowed
sister-in-law senseless. Far from society chastising him, he is
venerated as one of the heads of society! All these crimes are only
personal sins for us; and we Hindus feel that it is up to the Almighty
to mete out justice in His own way—rural society does not care
about it at all.’
It stunned Ramesh to hear all these new facts; on the other hand
he found it difficult to accept that this could be the truth. As if she
understood his ambivalence, Bishheshwari continued, ‘Do not
mistake the end as part of the means, my dear! The reason why
doubts still continue to trouble you is that you don’t see that the
disputes and discord that result due to caste differences, are a sign
of progress and not the cause, Ramesh. That strife has to come first
—if you go to meddle with it, the entire process will be lost or
become farcical. You want to verify the truth of what I am saying? Go
and spend some time in any of the villages adjoining the city and
then compare them to your own Kuapur! You will be able to draw
your own conclusions.’
Ramesh was very familiar with two or three villages close to
Kolkata. He tried to visualize the scenario there; suddenly it was as
though a black curtain was lifted from his eyes, and he gazed at
Bishheshwari with wonderment and deep regard. But she did not
notice this at all and continued, ‘That is why I tell you, my dear, do
not desert your birth land! Like you, if others who have been
privileged to grow up in an environment outside the village, returned
instead of moving away and causing disruption, the villages would
not be in such a pitiable state. It would never have been possible for
Gobinda Ganguly to be placed on such a high pedestal if you were
there, and nor would you have been pushed away!’
Rama came to mind and Ramesh responded in strained tones, ‘I
do not feel hurt any longer if I do have to move away.’
Bishheshwari noted the pain in his voice, but could not guess the
reason behind it. She asserted, ‘No, Ramesh, that is just not
possible. If you have come, if you have initiated some work, your
birthplace will never forgive you if you abandon the project midway.’
‘Why, Jethaima? The village does not belong to me alone!’
Bishheshwari forcefully responded, ‘Indeed, it is yours, my dear;
she is your mother. Haven’t you observed, your mother has never
voluntarily made any demands on anybody—her cries have been
heard by no one. Yet, you heard them immediately on reaching
here!’
Ramesh did not argue any further. After sitting in mute silence for
a while, he very respectfully took his leave of Bishheshwari.
He returned home with a heart brimming over with devotion, pity, a
sense of duty and a wholehearted resolve to give his best to his
village. Dawn had just broken; standing in Iront of his east-facing
window, Ramesh gazed at the sky in silence. All of a sudden a
child’s voice broke through his reverie. Turning around, Ramesh
found Rama’s younger brother Jatin staring at him, and awkwardly
calling out, ‘Chhorda!’
Going up to him, Ramesh grasped his hand and brought him
inside, ‘Whom are you calling, Jatin?’
‘You!’
‘Me? Who asked you to call me Chhorda?’
‘Didi.’
‘Didi? Has she sent you to ask me something?’
 Jatin shook his head, ‘Nothing! Didi told me, “Accompany me to
your Chhorda’s house”—she is waiting there,’ Jatin turned his head
in the direction of the door.
Ramesh was taken aback and hurriedly approached the door.
Rama was waiting behind a pillar. He moved closer and said, ‘This is
indeed my good fortune! But why didn’t you send for me instead of
taking the trouble to come yourself? Come inside.’
Rama hesitated, and then, clasping Jatin’s hand, followed Ramesh
inside and seated herself at the threshold She said, ‘Today I have
come to ask you for something! Tell me, will you agree?’ She gazed
steadily at him. That look tugged at Ramesh’s heart strings, and he
felt at a loss again. The hopes, dreams and resolutions, which only
moments before had flared into life, faded into the abysmal darkness
all around. However, he asked, ‘What is it?’
His dry tones did not escape Rama’s attention. She continued to
look straight at him and said, ‘Give me your word first!’
Ramesh was silent for a while, and then shook his head. ‘That is
not possible! You yourself have taken away the right I had earlier to
make promises with no questions asked, Rama!’ he said.
‘I have?’
Ramesh answered, ‘None other than you had the power. Rama, I
will tell you the truth today—it is up to you to believe me or not. If the
matter had not completely died out, been destroyed, perhaps I never
would have been able to speak of it to you.’ He was silent for a while
and then continued, ‘Today, as no one stands to gain or be harmed,
let me venture to tell you—till that day when you refused me, liiere
was nothing in the world that I would have denied you. Do you know
why?’
Rama shook her head mutely. However, her entire body seemed
to shrink in a kind of embarrassed fear.
Ramesh said, ‘Do not be angry or even embarrassed when you
hear what I have to say. Take this to be fiction from a long, bygone
era.’
 Rama wanted to interrupt Ramesh desperately for she dreaded
hearing what he had to say. But her head remained so bowed that
there was no strength in her to even look up. In a calm, mild and
uninvolved manner Ramesh spoke again, ‘I loved you, Rama. Now it
seems to me, probably nobody could have ever loved with so much
fervour; in my childhood, Ma would often say that we were meant for
each other. Then, the day all hopes were shattered, I remember
breaking down and weeping.’
The words penetrated Rama’s ears like burning lead and seared
her entire being. An unknown and unbearably painful sensation tore
all feelings and emotions into minute shreds. However, unable to find
the means of crying halt to the spate of Ramesh’s words, Rama took
in the bittersweet words and sat helplessly like a statue carved in
stone.
He went on, ‘You are thinking that it is wrong to talk of all this to
you. I also believed so; that is why that day in Tarakeshwar, when
one single day’s caring from you changed the entire course of my
life, I still remained silent. It was not an easy task to remain
voiceless.’
Rama found it impossible to remain quiet any longer, ‘Then,
finding me in your house, why are you taking the opportunity to insult
me?’
‘Insult! There is absolutely nothing demeaning in all that I have
said. The truth is, the Rama I am talking of never existed in reality
and the Ramesh that lived then is no longer the same. Anyhow, that
day in Tarakeshwar, for whatever reason, a belief had been born in
me that no matter what you said or did, you could never tolerate any
misfortune that might befall me. Probably I had assumed that some
remnants of the love you felt for me in childhood still existed. Hence I
was secure in my belief that I would be content to carry on with the
chartered course of my life in the shelter of your shadow. Then, that
night when I heard from Akbar that you yourself had—but what is
that clamour outside?’
 ‘Babu—’
Gopal Sarkar’s panic-stricken voice was heard outside Ramesh’s
door, ‘Babu, the police have arrested Bhojua!’
‘Why?’
Gopal’s lips were quivering in fright; somehow he managed to
utter, ‘He was apparently involved in the dacoity at Radhanagar a
few days ago.’
Looking towards Rama and Jatin, Ramesh said, ‘Not a moment’s
delay, Rama! Leave through the entrance at the rear. The police are
bound to conduct a thorough search.’
Rama had turned blue with fright. ‘Is there any danger for you?’
she stuttered.
‘I cannot be sure. Who can say how far events have progressed?’
Rama’s lips quivered and she remembered her own complaint
lodged with the police. Suddenly she burst into tears and insisted, ‘I
will not go!’
In stunned amazement Ramesh said, ‘Shame, Rama! You should
not be here, leave quickly!’ Not wasting any more time and firmly
taking hold of Jatin’s hand, he saw the brother and sister out through
the rear entrance and swiftly barred the door.
 13

FOR THE PAST TWO MONTHS, BHOJUA HAD BEEN IN GAOL WITH A
FEW others who were implicated in the dacoity. The police had drawn
a blank with the search they had conducted that day in Ramesh’s
house. Despite this and the fact that Bhairav Acharya had testified
that Bhojua had accompanied him that night to the house of a
prospective groom for his daughter, Bhojua had still not been
granted bail.
Beni arrived at Rama’s house one day and said, ‘My dear, a lot of
matters have to be reflected upon and only then can any move be
successfully planned. If that day you had not registered a complaint
at the police station that Bhojua had arrived with weapons and tried
to wrest away the fish, would we have been able to harass him and
Ramesh to this extent? But if at the same time you had only slightly
exaggerated Ramesh’s part in the matter—but nobody ever listens to
me!’
Rama looked so dispirited and crestfallen that Beni hastily said,
‘No, no, you will not have to stand witness! Even if you have to, what
does it matter? You have estates to take care of, you cannot afford to
break down.’
There was no response from Rama.
Beni carried on, ‘But Ramesh isn’t one to be vanquished easily—
he has also made a very clever move. The new school that he has
set up for the Muslims will cause us a lot of problems. As it is, the
Muslim subjects are reluctant to accept a Hindu landlord. Now, if
they become educated as well, they will start questioning our
authority and our very existence might be in jeopardy. I am warning
you—there will be trouble, and all because of Ramesh.’
In matters of the estate, Rama had always taken Beni’s advice,
there had never been any disagreement between the two of them
where these issues were concerned. But for the first time, Rama
argued with Beni, ‘But, it is Rameshda who has suffered quite a
loss.’
Beni himself entertained a few doubts on the matter. After
pondering on Rama’s argument for some time he said, ‘This is not a
matter where personal loss is taken into consideration, Rama. As
long as both of us are humiliated, that suffices for him—he will bear
all kinds of losses just to show us down. Haven’t you noticed the
manner in which he has been spending money ever since his
arrival? All these low-caste people continually laud him to the skies
because he has been supporting their cause. It would seem that he
is the only worthwhile human being in the village—and both of us are
nothing at all! But this cannot continue for much longer. He has been
drawn into the police net—I am assuring you that this is what will
ultimately destroy him.’ Beni was quite surprised to observe that the
joy and triumph that should have resulted from such news was totally
lacking in Rama’s attitude and expression. Rather, she appeared
completely downcast as she inquired, ‘Does Rameshda know that I
had registered a complaint?’
‘I am not sure, but he will definitely come to know. Everything will
come up at Bhojua’s trial.’
Rama did not speak any further. It was as if she was trying to
recover from a devastating blow. Her mind kept harping on the fact
that it was she who had taken the leading role in putting Ramesh into
danger and that fact would soon be revealed to the man himself.
After a while she looked up and asked, ‘Does everybody talk of him
these days, Barda?’
Beni answered, ‘It is not just our village; I have heard that following
the example he has set, schools are being set up in the neighbouring
villages as well and roads are being constructed too! Nowadays all
these low-caste subjects have begun to think that the white-skinned
sahibs are so progressive only because there are one or two schools
wherever they live. Ramesh has publicized that if a new school is
opened anywhere, he will make a substantial donation. He is sure to
spend all the money he has inherited in this manner. The Muslims
look on him as some kind of a messiah.’
Like a flash of lightning a thought occurred to Rama, ‘If only my
name could have been linked with his!’ It was only a passing thought
but it lit up her entire being; moments later her visage became
enmeshed in darkness once again.
Beni persisted, ‘But I will not let go so easily. Nobody could ever
have dreamed that he would incite all our subjects in this manner
and thus become a zamindar! That Bhairav Acharya stood as
witness for Bhojua, didn’t he? Let me see how he is able to marry off
his daughter! There is another plan taking root in my mind, but first
let me see what Gobinda Khuro has to say. Further, there is no
dearth of dacoities everywhere … If the servant can be thrown into
jail, we should not have too much trouble with the master either. How
right you were when you remarked that first day, “He will be no less
an enemy!”’
Rama did not respond to Beni’s enthusiastic plans of revenge.
Beni did not possess the perceptive powers to understand the frame
of mind of a lady whose face did not light up in vain pride at her
predictions proving so correct! Rather, a thick, gloomy darkness
seemed to have enveloped Rama entirely. Her feelings were so
obvious that they could not have escaped anyone’s notice—other
than Beni himself! Somewhat surprised at her lack of response, Beni
spent a few moments with Mashi in the kitchen and was about to
leave, when Rama called out and mildly asked, ‘Barda, if Rameshda
has to go to jail, won’t it also be a matter of great shame for us?’
Beni was astonished at the question and asked, ‘Why?’
‘He is our relative, Barda. If we do not save him, won’t everybody
speak ill of us?’
‘What does it matter to us if a person suffers due to his own
misdeeds?’
Rama persisted mildly, ‘It is not as though Rameshda is actually
involved in planning and executing dacoities; rather, the way he
spends so much of his own money on others is an open secret! We
also have to survive in the village and if we ourselves cause trouble
for him, won’t our reputation also suffer?’
Beni laughed uproariously. ‘What is the matter with you, Rama?’
he asked.
Recollecting Ramesh’s face and comparing it to the apparition in
front of her, Rama could no longer look up. She said, ‘Even if the
villagers do not have the gumption to directly accuse us of anything,
they will definitely talk behind our backs. And the Almighty is there! If
the innocent are falsely accused, will we be shown any mercy?’
Beni retorted, ‘My goodness! Do you think that that young man
believes in the Almighty or in religion? One of our village temples is
on the verge of collapsing. When messengers repeatedly
approached him for money to repair it, they were driven away
extremely harshly with the words, “Tell those who have sent you to
spend the money, I have none to waste!” Just think of that! That for
him is wastage! What matters to him is building schools for those
Muslims. Besides, he is a Brahmin but there are no evening prayers
or regular worship that he performs or takes part in. I believe he
even accepts water from the Muslims! Do you really believe that he
still has bonds with our religion after learning the words and ways of
the English? Not at all! He has not been punished in any way—that
is all in abeyance. But one day his sins will be apparent to
everybody.’
Rama did not bother to argue any further and remained silent. But
thinking of Ramesh’s irreligious behaviour gave her a feeling of
distaste all over again. She remained standing for a long time and
then, going to her room, collapsed on the floor. It was a day she
normally fasted on and she was glad that at least she would not
have to deal with the complications of a meal in such a frame of
mind.
 14

AT THE END OF THE RAINY SEASON AND ALONG WITH

ANTICIPATION OF the festive season that was drawing close, rural
Bengal awaited being shaken to its very roots by the virulent malaria!
Ramesh had come down with fever the previous year, but had
managed to throw off the sickness. However, he did not manage to
do so this time. After a three-day fever, he thoroughly dosed himself
with quinine. As he stood by the window, gazing at the golden
sunlight outside, he thought, ‘Is it possible to make the villagers
aware of the consequences of these stagnant pools of water?’ The
three days of physical pain he had suffered had made him realize
that some measures would have to be taken urgently to uproot the
very cause of malaria. God would never forgive him for letting the
people all around suffer while he just stood around, instead of
making some efforts at battling this evil. As the result of a discussion
a few days prior to that, Ramesh had come to the conclusion that it
was not that the villagers had no concept at all of the harmful effects
of bodies of stagnant water. But nobody was willing to leave aside
their own work and toil at draining the excess water on another’s
property or clearing away the weeds and wild plants that caused a
problem. Those to whom the land actually belonged, argued that
after all, their forefathers had been responsible for all the mess—and
so what could they possibly do about it? Whoever was interested in
clearing it all up could do so, they would not object; but they all were
extremely reluctant to spend their own time and money for the
welfare of others.
Ramesh had also realized that there were a number of other
neighbouring villages which were likely to be devastated by malaria.
He resolved to personally go and survey one such village after his
recovery and then decide where his duty lay. This was because a
conviction had grown in him that some of the villages had a natural
irrigation and drainage system; it might not be apparent to all—but, if
pointed out, surely some people would comprehend. At least his
devoted Muslim subjects of Pirpur would definitely understand. At
long last his engineering skills would be put to the test—the very
drought of doing something constructive and helpful cheered him
immensely.
‘Chhoto Babu!’
All of a sudden the tearful cry made Ramesh turn around. In
amazement he saw Bhairav Acharya writhing on the floor and
wailing aloud like a madman. His seven-year-old daughter who had
accompanied him shrieked just as loudly—and the room was filled
with the noise of their wails! In no time, everybody around gathered
there. Ramesh was totally nonplussed. He wondered if some death
had occurred in Acharya’s family or if some other disaster had
befallen him. Ramesh could comprehend nothing at all—what had
happened, who would be able to explain Acharya’s behaviour, and
how the weeping could be stopped. Gopal Sarkar, leaving aside all
work, had reached the spot. As soon as he approached Bhairav and
extended his hand, the latter sat up and fell on his shoulder with
another agonized wail. Ramesh was gradually growing impatient as
he remembered that this man tended to weep copiously at the
slightest pretext. But Gopal’s words of consolation finally comforted
Bhairav enough to allow him to dry his eyes and sitting up, he
divulged the reason of the great sorrow. Ramesh stared in dumb
silence after the cause was revealed—it was unimaginable to think
that such persecution could be carried out in such a planned
manner.
The matter was this: when Bhojua was finally released due to
Bhairav’s testimony, Ramesh had sent off the former to his village to
keep him away from further attention from the police. The accused
was gone—but the witness was now being harassed in no uncertain
manner. Somehow sensing grave danger, Bhairav had gone to the
court that day; there he had been informed that some days ago,
Beni’s relative in Radhanagar, Sanat Mukherjee, had filed a report to
the effect that a large sum of money was owed to them by Bhairav.
Further, his property in Radhanagar had been confiscated and
auctioned to meet this debt. It was not a one-sided case, summons
had been duly issued. Then, someone claiming to be Bhairav had
reportedly accepted the proposal and in court, formally accepted all
the legal injunctions laid down on him. Everything-—the debt, the
accused and the complaint—were fabrications. On the basis of this
falsehood, the mighty one had exerted his prowess and, usurping
every asset of the weak, now planned to make him a virtual beggar
on the streets. Bhairav was trying to light the case. But redress was
not an easy matter in a government court. Till all the money involved
in the false claim was deposited in the court, not a word would be
heard. It was akin to beating one’s head against a stone wall. But
where could Bhairav get so much money to deposit, defend himself
and seek justice? Hence, though the framework and all the
mechanisms of justice existed, the poor defendant would have to die
in destitution, robbed of all his assets, without a murmur of protest.
There was no doubt at all that Beni and Gobinda Ganguly were
responsible for this entire plot. No matter what disaster befell
Bhairav, the villagers would speculate and quite correctly identify the
mastermind behind the crime; yet, no one would raise their voice and
publicly protest! After all, they did not like to be involved in the
private affairs of another or speak in support of someone else. The
might that led to the poor rustic citizen being persecuted in this
manner was all too apparent to Ramesh, and he also realized with
anger and sadness how sharp the sword of justice was that was
wielded against them. Hence, he reasoned, just as great wealth and
diplomatic cunning protected people against the dominance of kings,
a putrid society prevented any justice from being meted out at all. It
was only to be expected that a lifeless, rural society that was
completely bereft of true religion would remain subjugated to petty
and false interests and cow down before these so-called stalwarts of
society who continued to live and rule unhindered and completely
wilfully.
Ramesh recalled his Jethaima’s words now more than ever. That
day she had smiled that charming smile and said, ‘Ramesh, let your
fight against caste distinction and good and evil be damned! Dispel
the darkness, my dear, just dispel the darkness! In villages all
around, people have embraced blindness—light the lamp of
knowledge, my dear. Then, they themselves will be able to
distinguish between good and evil.’ She had continued further, ‘Since
you have come, my dear, do not leave. It is because all of you turn
your backs that your motherland is in this plight.’ True! If he had left,
there would be no hope of any redress at all.
He sighed and thought to himself, ‘This then is what we take pride
in, this is our pure, tranquil village society—abounding in justice for
all! Perhaps one day when there was true life and dynamism here,
there was also the strength to mete out punishment to those
persecuting the innocent.’
But presently, the village society was lifeless; despite that, the
rustic people, instead of discarding the putrid corpse, formed illusory
attachments, and grew increasingly weary, jaded, lifeless
themselves. Yet, they still refused to look at the truth straight in the
eyes. Theirs was a society that did not protect those in danger;
instead, it only endangered them further. It continually dragged town
people into the abysmal depths of degradation.
Ramesh shook himself from these thoughts and wrote out a
cheque for the entire amount that Bhairav owed to the court.
Handing it to Gopal Sarkar he said, ‘Please get me all the details of
the matter and have the cheque deposited. By whatever means,
ensure a retrial. Let them be taught such a lesson that never again
will they have the audacity to attempt such persecution.’
Gopal Sarkar and Bhairav were both shocked into absolute
silence. For their benefit, Ramesh repeated what he had said and it
was apparent to all that his words were not in jest. All of a sudden,
Bhairav made a mad dash and threw himself at Ramesh’s feet. He
cried out wildly and began showering blessings in such profusion
that it would have been impossible for anyone less strong than
Ramesh to free himself. It did not take much time for the entire
matter to be broadcast throughout the village. Everybody realized
that at long last Beni and Gobinda would not get off so easily! All of
them discussed the amount of money Chhoto Babu was spending to
get his eternal enemy in his grasp. They did not know that, in
actuality, instead of the weak Bhairav, it was the Almighty who had
placed on Ramesh the heavy burden of an enmity that would have to
be borne by him.
About a month went by. In his battle against malaria, Ramesh had
become so engrossed in carrying out various surveys and practising
his engineering skills, that he had almost forgotten that Bhairav’s trial
was to start the next day. He suddenly remembered this the evening
before, just at dusk, when the strains of the shehnai were heard in
the distance. As he was thinking about the case, Ramesh heard
something incredible from his servant: Bhairav Acharya’s
grandchild’s first rice-eating ceremony was to be celebrated the next
day. He had absolutely no intimation of the event at all. Bhairav had
apparently made fairly elaborate arrangements. The entire village
had been invited; but none in the house could inform Ramesh as to
whether anyone had come to invite him while he was not at home. It
was not merely this; Ramesh suddenly recollected that despite such
an important legal issue pending, Bhairav had not kept any sort of
contact with him over the past couple of weeks. What could the
matter be? However, it did not cross his mind in any way that of all
the people in the world, Bhairav would not have thought to invite him.
Ramesh immediately changed and set off in the direction of
Bhairav Acharya’s house. He saw that alongside the temporary
structure set up for the occasion, all the dogs of the village had
gathered in quest of all the waste food. A little distance away lay the
musical instruments. Stepping into the courtyard, Ramesh observed
the temporary, extremely shabby scaffolding that had been put up.
All the ancient kerosene lamps of the village had been borrowed
from the Mukherjee and Ghosal households and were flickering
dimly in the darkness. They emitted a little light and a lot of fumes—
which gave off an unpleasant odour all around. Everybody had
finished eating and there was hardly anyone left. The heads of the
society, however, still lingered around—Dharmadas was pleading
with Harihar Roy to stay on for a little longer. Gobinda Ganguly was
talking animatedly with a farmer’s son a little distance away. At such
a juncture, Ramesh appeared like a spoilsport in the midst of it all.
All the faces grew ashen just seeing him; observing two of the most
vindictive enemies on such terms of easy familiarity did not lighten
Ramesh’s expression either! Nobody moved forward to greet him; as
a matter of fact, nobody uttered even a single word. Bhairav himself
was not present at the time. A little later he emerged from the house
on some chore, calling out, ‘Gobindada …’ All of a sudden, catching
sight of Ramesh in the courtyard, he started and in a flash ran back
into the house. Ramesh stayed outside, an overwhelming
astonishment benumbing him. Behind him someone called out,
‘Ramesh …’
He looked around to find Dinu Bhattacharjee walking rapidly
towards him. As he drew closer, Dinu said, ‘Come along, let us
return home.’
Ramesh merely tried to smile a little.
As they walked, Dinu said, ‘Even his parents would not have
shown the kindness you have! All are aware of that, but there is
really no choice in the matter. After all, we all have our families to
think of; so, if you were invited … don’t you understand, Babaji—
Bhairav cannot really be blamed. You young boys brought up in the
city do not bother about caste distinctions and all that … But, don’t
you understand his daughter is fast growing up and after all, will
have to be married off soon? You do understand, don’t you, our
society …’
 Impatiently Ramesh answered, ‘Yes, I understand!’
Standing at the entrance to Ramesh’s house, Dinu said happily,
‘Of course you understand! You are not unreasonable. How can that
Brahmin be blamed either—we old people think about the long
journey ahead—’
‘Yes, of course!’ Ramesh hastily entered his house to end further
conversation with Dinu. It was very obvious to him that the entire
village had ostracized him. Returning to his own room, his eyes
smarted with regret, pain and embarrassment. It hurt Ramesh most
of all to note that it was Beni and Gobinda who had been so
honourably invited by Bhairav. Despite witnessing the entire incident,
the villagers not only condoned Bhairav, but for the sake of social
norms did not even invite Ramesh—and even regarded it as a
matter to be lauded!
Alas! He stretched out on the couch and brooded, ‘These ingrates
—what sort of penance can they ever offer! O Almighty, will you ever
be able to forgive such cruel insults?’
 15

IT WAS NOT THAT SUCH A SUSPICION HAD NEVER ENTERED

RAMESH’S MIND. But next evening Gopal Sarkar confirmed his
worst fears—he returned with the information that Bhairav Acharya
had thoroughly duped them—in other words, Bhairav had not
appeared at the hearing at all! As a result, the case had been
dismissed and the security deposit was now in Beni’s possession. In
a flash, a blinding rage seared Ramesh from head to toe! The money
he had deposited on Bhairav’s behalf to combat their attempts at
counterfeiting and cheating—and instead of saving himself, that
sinner had established a camaraderie with Beni himself! This
ingratitude incited Ramesh into a far greater fury than the previous
day’s insult had done. Slowly he stood up and walked out, clad just
as he was. Seeing his master’s bloodshot eyes, Gopal asked
timorously, ‘Babu, are you going anywhere?’
Replying, ‘I will just be back,’ Ramesh hastily left. He entered
Bhairav’s premises to find nobody there. His wife was busy with the
evening prayers in the courtyard; she shrank into herself on being
suddenly faced with Ramesh. He had never called on them before
and the thought of the reason behind his unexpected call made her
quail in fright.
Ramesh asked, ‘Where is Acharya Moshai?’
What she replied was inaudible, but it was clear that Bhairav was
not at home. Ramesh’s upper torso was bare and in the dark even
his face remained indistinct. Bhairav’s daughter Lakshmi came out of
the house carrying her child; seeing an unknown man there she
asked, ‘Who is he, Ma?’
Her mother could not make the introductions and neither did
Ramesh say a word.
Lakshmi was scared and shouted out, ‘Baba, some man is
standing in the courtyard and refusing to speak!’
 ‘Who is it?’ asked her father, stepping out; he then stood
absolutely still, as though turned to stone. Even in the pale darkness
of dusk, Ramesh’s tall and lithe figure was unmistakable.
Ramesh harshly called out, ‘Come here!’ He then firmly gripped
Bhairav’s hand and demanded, ‘Why did you do such a thing?’
Bhairav cried out tearfully, ‘He is killing me, Lakshmi, inform Beni
Babu!’
In a flash, the entire household started weeping noisily and raising
the alarm; the silence of the evening was broken by the shrill sounds
of innumerable voices shrieking lustily.
Ramesh shook Bhairav vigorously, ‘Quiet! Why did you do this, tell
me!’
Not making any attempt to answer, Bhairav continued wailing in
the same manner at the top of his voice. He continually struggled to
free himself at the same time.
In no time the entire courtyard became full of villagers—people
began jostling each other to get in. There were stories abounding of
Ramesh’s legendary strength. The look in his eyes acted as a further
deterrent to any person moving forward with the intention of freeing
Bhairav from his clutches. Gobinda merged into the crowd as soon
as he entered and saw Ramesh. Beni too was slinking away
immediately, but Bhairav, catching sight of him, started calling out
loudly, ‘Boro Babu, Boro Babu …’
Boro Babu, however, did not pay any heed and vanished in the
flash of an eye.
Suddenly the crowds parted as Rama rapidly made her way to
Ramesh. She caught hold of his hand and said. ‘Enough, now let
go!’
Ramesh cast a burning glance at her, ‘Why?’
Gnashing her teeth and in muffled tones of great anger Rama
answered in a sibilant whisper, ‘You might not have any shame, but I
am dying of embarrassment!’
 In front of the courtyard full of people Ramesh immediately let go
of Bhairav’s hand.
Rama said in mild tones, ‘Go home!’
Ramesh left without another word. It seemed a miracle! But as
soon as he left in mute obedience, people began looking at each
other; such a tame ending to all the exciting drama did not please
them at all!
Everyone departed. Gobinda Ganguly revealed himself and
wagging his finger remarked with immense gravity, ‘He had the
audacity to come all the way home and threaten a Brahmin half to
death! We will have to discuss what steps can be taken.’
Bhairav was still on his knees; trembling in fear, he gazed
helplessly at Beni who had now returned. Rama had still not left.
Gauging Beni’s motives, hastily she said, ‘But, this side too is at
fault, Barda! Besides, nothing has happened to cause such furore.’
Beni was amazed, ‘What are you saying, Rama!’
Bhairav’s elder daughter continued to cling to the post and weep
noisily. Like an injured serpent she burst forth, ‘You will naturally side
with him, Rama Didi. But what would you have done if someone had
entered and beaten up your own father?’
Her outburst startled Rama momentarily. It did not matter so much
that she showed no gratitude for her father’s release. But the jibe
that she sensed in the girl’s scathing tones infuriated Rama.
However, controlling herself she said, ‘There is a vast difference
between my father and yours, Lakshmi—do not make comparisons.
But I did not take sides and only spoke for common good.’
Lakshmi was a village girl and quite adept at verbal skirmishes.
She charged ahead, ‘Indeed! Don’t you feel ashamed to speak in his
favour? Nobody says anything just because you happen to be a
wealthy man’s daughter—otherwise who has not heard of all the
goings-on? It is only because you are who you are that you still
appear in public, anyone else would have hanged themselves.’
 Beni made a pretence of chastising Lakshmi, ‘Be silent, Lakshmi!
What is the sense of talking about all that?’
‘Why not? Why will she speak favourably of a person who has
caused my father so much sorrow? What if my father had died?’
Rama had been at a loss for words for merely a very short while.
Beni’s hypocritical chiding inflamed her once again. She looked at
Lakshmi and said, ‘Lakshmi, it would be your good fortune to die at
the hands of someone like him. Your father would at least have gone
to heaven if he had died today.’
Lakshmi too flared up, ‘Oh, is that why you too have died, Rama
Didi?’
Rama did not answer. Turning towards Beni she said, ‘But do you
know what the facts are, Barda?’ She gazed at him unblinkingly. Her
eyes seemed to penetrate the darkness and look into Beni’s
innermost droughts.
In a somewhat disgruntled mariner Beni responded, ‘How will I
know, my sister! People gossip—what is the sense of paying it any
heed?’
‘What do people say?’
Beni said with utter contempt, ‘Words don’t bruise the skin, so let
them talk!’
Rama clearly sensed the false sympathy. She was silent for a
while and then replied, ‘Maybe gossip does not affect you, but not
everybody has such a hidebound skin! However, who is inciting the
people to gossip, you?’
‘I?’
Rama, exerting great self control over her rage, said, ‘It could be
none other than you! There is no misdeed in this world that you have
not participated in—theft, cheating, counterfeiting, setting houses on
fire; why neglect this area of activity?’
Stunned, Beni could make no reply.
Rama continued, ‘You cannot possibly comprehend that there can
be no greater disaster for a woman. But, I ask—what do you gain by
spreading this scandal?’
Beni retorted, ‘What can I gain! If people see you emerging from
Ramesh’s house at dawn, what am I to do?’
Not paying any heed to his explanation, Rama continued, ‘Don’t
think, Barda, that I am unaware of your attitude. But rest assured, if I
am to fall, I will not let you survive either!’
Acharya’s wife had been standing elsewhere all this while; now
she drew closer and said gently from behind the veil of her sari, ‘Ma,
why are you getting so excited, doesn’t everybody out here know
you?’ She addressed her own daughter and said, ‘Lakshmi, you are
a woman, don’t bring another into disrepute—it will never bode well
for you. If you had any humanity, you would have realized the great
kindness extended by her to all of us.’ The lady took Rama by the
hand and took her into the house. The mocking remark was, of
course, meant for her husband. Bhairav’s wife neutrally taking the
part of honour and truth made all the others slink away in
embarrassment.
No matter how major an occurrence it was, the educated and
innately cultured Ramesh recoiled at the thought of his deplorable
lack of self control. He found it impossible to emerge from his house
for two full days. In spite of his unbecoming reaction, Rama had
voluntarily come to share in his embarrassment! This thought
dispelled to some extent the black cloud of shame that hung around
him and like a sporadic burst of lightning gave him a quick glimpse of
beauty and sweetness. Thus, even in his gloom, Ramesh
experienced some feeling of satisfaction. He resolved to remain in
isolation, wrapped in his own mantle of joy and sorrow; that at the
same time a virtual mountain of continual humiliation was being
heaped on someone else, did not even occur to him.
It was not feasible to remain hidden any longer, however. In the
evening, the Muslim subjects of Pirpur came to request his presence
at a meeting of their panchayat. Ramesh himself had made all the
arrangements a few days before. Accordingly, when word was sent
to him, he got ready to leave for Pirpur.
Ramesh had found out that there were extremely poor farmers in
every village. They possessed no land at all and lived as tenants on
the land of another. They eked out a livelihood by working as bonded
labourers on the same land. If for some reason work wasn’t available
for a few days, or it was not possible to work because of sickness,
their entire family would be forced to starve. At one time they had all
been prosperous, but debts incurred over a period of time had
brought about their present plight.
The matter of getting into debt was not simple either—when the
land was mortgaged to meet debts incurred due to social
commitments or unfavourable weather—the interest charged was
astronomical. The farmer would find it impossible to free himself. He
would have no other way but to repeatedly borrow money—in this
aspect, both Hindus and Muslims were in the same plight. Most of
the moneylenders were Hindus. Ramesh was overwhelmed to find
that all that he had read in books about moneylenders was true. A lot
of Ramesh’s money was accumulating in the bank. He gathered all
of that together and put in an intense effort to free the poor and
helpless farmers from the clutches of the moneylenders. But a
couple of experiences quickly taught him that the farmers were
certainly not as helpless or pitiful as one might think at first. They
were poor, without too many options and not very intelligent; but their
scheming powers were quite potent. In most cases they were neither
simple, nor innocent; and they lost no opportunity to lie! They were
keen to take loans, but just as reluctant to repay them. Another
distasteful habit was the manner in which they coveted each other’s
wives and daughters. It was difficult to find a suitable bride for a
man, but because each family was burdened with a few widows their
morals were not commendable either. These people were on the
fringes of society, it was a strange relationship that they shared with
society proper—that of the hunter and the hunted! Yet, all said, they
were so persecuted, weak and totally bereft that it was impossible to
remain angry with them for any length of time.
Just as a father is distressed by his wayward son, Ramesh too, felt
an inner turmoil when he thought of these dispossessed farmers.
Hence he had invited this panchayat session to discuss matters as
regards the new school.
The gloom of the evening had been dispelled by moonlight that
flooded the surroundings all around. Gazing out, Ramesh was taking
his own time to leave although he was fully dressed and ready. All of
a sudden, Rama came and stood at the door. The place was not well
lit and assuming that it was the maid Ramesh asked, ‘What do you
want?’
‘Are you going anywhere?’
Ramesh was startled, ‘Rama, is it you? What are you doing here
at this hour!’
Rama felt that it was redundant explaining to Ramesh the reason
of her having no other recourse but to seek the shelter of the
evening to visit him. But she was visiting him now with a purpose,
and she had to disclose this. Unable to think of how to begin, Rama
remained silent for a few seconds. Ramesh too was speechless.
After a while, Rama asked, ‘How are you keeping now?’
‘Not too well, there is the onset of a fever every day.’
‘Then, why not go away somewhere for a bit?’
Ramesh laughed, ‘That certainly would be the best, but how can I
leave?’
His smile irritated Rama. She said, ‘You talk of a busy schedule,
but what could be more important than your own health?’
Ramesh still smiled as he responded, ‘I have never said that one’s
physical well-being is unimportant. But, there are certain tasks that
are far more important than this corporeal body—but, you would not
understand that, Rama.’
She shook her head, ‘Neither do I want to. But, you will have to go
somewhere. Tell Sarkar Moshai that I will render whatever
assistance is required.’
Ramesh was amazed, ‘You will take care of my work? But …’
‘But what?’
‘But you know what, Rama, will I be able to trust you?’
Unhesitatingly Rama responded, ‘A lesser person would not, but
you will be able to!’
At this unimaginable utterance in such tones of conviction,
Ramesh was dumbstruck. After a while he said, ‘Let me think about
it.’
Rama shook her head, ‘No, there is no more time to think, you will
have to leave immediately! If you do not—’ Even as she spoke Rama
was aware that Ramesh was becoming increasingly perceptive to
her urgency. It was only too apparent to him now that unless he
chose to leave in the aforementioned manner, grave danger
threatened him. Ramesh gauged the reason correctly; however,
exerting great self-control he said, ‘Fine, if that is so, you have to tell
me, what do you stand to gain? You have tried to get me into trouble
too many times to be warning me today. The events are not so far
back in the past that you will have forgotten. Tell me what is your
profit in my departure and I might even consider leaving …’ He
looked expectantly towards Rama for a response, but nothing was
forthcoming.
His words caused turbulent waves of sorrow in Rama but Ramesh
had no clue of this, for the effect of his cruel jibes was not visible on
her face in the darkness. She remained still and got back a
semblance of control over herself. She then continued, ‘All right, I will
tell you the actual reason. If you leave I do not gain in any way. But if
you do not, there will be a great loss. I will have to stand witness at
the trial.’
Ramesh responded drily, ‘Is that all? What if you do not stand
witness?’
Rama paused for a while and carried on, ‘If not, we will be
ostracized and nobody will attend any religious ceremony or social
programmes that my family organizes.’ Even the prospect of such a
misfortune made Rama shudder in horror.
Ramesh needed no further details, but unable to contain himself
asked, ‘After that?’
In desperation Rama appealed, ‘Is there anything more after that?!
No, please leave—I am begging you, Rameshda, or you will be
destroying me in every way possible! Please go away from this
village.’
Both stood in mute silence for a while. Previously, the very sight of
Rama would awaken a storm of emotion in Ramesh. He would
hardly be able to control himself, even though he severely
reprimanded himself for what he felt. This involuntary emotional
bonding which her mere presence evoked would hurt and embarrass
him into anger, but even then it was impossible to control himself.
Now finding Rama alone in his house and recollecting the incident at
Bhairav’s house awoke in him an emotional turbulence once again.
But Rama’s last words stilled the storm and calmed him, for Rama’s
fright and desperate appeal had made her unadulterated selfishness
so clear that even his blind heart was able to see her true nature
distinctly.
Ramesh sighed deeply, ‘Very well, I agree. But today there is no
more time! No matter how important the reason might be to you,
tonight I have to attend to matters of far greater importance for me.
Please call your maid, I have to leave right away.’
Rama said slowly, ‘Then, is it truly impossible for you to leave
today?’
‘Yes! Where is your maid?’
‘There is nobody accompanying me!’
Ramesh was astounded, ‘What! How could you be so foolhardy as
to come here alone? You did not bring even a maid!’
Rama continued to reply just as mildly, ‘What difference would that
have made? She would never have been able to protect me against
you!’
 ‘No matter! But at least your reputation would have been protected
against false rumours. It is fairly late at night, Rani!’
That long forgotten name! Overcome by nostalgia, and intense
emotion, Rama was on the verge of blurting out, ‘Nothing remains of
my reputation any longer, Rameshda.’ However, exerting great self-
control all she said was, ‘Even that would have been of no use. The
darkness of the night will not prevent me from finding my way.’ Not
wasting any more words, Rama took her leave.
 16

EVERY YEAR RAMA ORGANIZED THE DURGA PUJA FESTIVAL

WITH A LOT OF fanfare. On the very first day of the festival, all the
farmers and other locals around would be treated to a hearty meal.
There was usually such a stampede on that day every year to
partake of the food, that even till the early hours of the next morning
there would be virtually no place to discard the leftovers. It was not
just the Hindus; even the Muslim subjects of Pirpur would arrive en
masse to participate in the festivities and feasting. This year too,
despite not keeping in good health, Rama had made elaborate
arrangements for the puja. In the specially designated elevated
place, the idol of the goddess had been placed along with all that
was required for her worship. Below was the massive courtyard in
which all the festivities were usually held. The first day of the festival
had drawn to a close and it was getting on to be dusk. The half moon
was gradually visible, but the huge courtyard of the Mukherjees was
largely deserted, barring a few people who lingered there. Inside,
heaps of food grew cold and unappetizing as time passed—but not a
single farmer appeared to partake of even a morsel!
‘Oh! Then is all this food to be wasted by these low-down
characters? Such audacity!’ A hookah in hand, Beni paced about
restlessly. ‘I will teach those scoundrels a lesson … I will see to it
that their crops are destroyed …’ he ranted. Gobinda, Dharmadas
and Haldar agitatedly walked about and speculated about the
identity of the scoundrels who had brought all this about. What was
most amazing was that both Hindus and Muslims had come to an
agreement on this matter! Meanwhile, Mashi became impossible to
control indoors—that too was no less of a calamity. In the midst of all
the pandemonium only one person remained calm—Rama herself.
She did not utter a word against anyone, not a whisper of any regret
or complaint escaped her lips. Was it the same Rama? There was no
doubt at all that she was extremely unwell. However, she did not
admit to that at all and laughed at the very mention of sickness.
There was no emotional turbulence or rage or stubbornness in her
demeanour. But her eyes seemed to be brimming over with pain and
sorrow. If one were a little observant, one could see that a whole
ocean of tears was lingering just below the surface—and that the
whole world might drown in a flood if she let slip her self-control.
Rama emerged from inside the room and stood beside the idol of
the goddess. As soon as they caught sight of her, the small group of
well-wishers present there began unanimously abusing all the low-
caste characters in no uncertain terms. The only response Rama
made to this display of scorn on those who had insulted her was a
gentle smile—a smile that spoke of pain. There was no vestige of
anger or hatred, hope or despair. Who could say if her smile was
meaningless or if there were any hidden depths to it!
Angrily Beni continued, ‘No, no, this is not a laughing matter, it is
an absolute disgrace. If I come to know who is at the root of all this
…’ Wringing his hands together, he continued, ‘I will tear them apart
like this!’
Rama shuddered in horror. Beni persisted, ‘You scoundrels, why
do you not understand that the man on whose strength you are
basing all these actions is languishing in jail. How much time will it
take us to deal with the likes of you?!’
There was no response from Rama. She completed the chore she
had come for and left just as silently.
Ramesh had been in jail for one and a half months now, on
charges of illegal entry and attacking Bhairav with a knife. No great
effort had to be made to convict him—somehow the new magistrate
had already been made aware of the fact that such crimes were
quite natural and likely for the accused. As a matter of fact, he was
also concerned about possible links of the accused with incidents of
dacoity and the like. The judge was greatly helped by the records at
the police station. It was clearly stated there that there were similar
instances of crime in the past too, and that Ramesh was involved in
a lot of other suspicious events of a criminal nature that had taken
place. The magistrate had also not neglected to add that in the future
when Ramesh would be out after his jail term, the police would
continue to keep an eye on him. There had been no need for too
many witnesses. Rama had been summoned. She had said,
‘Ramesh entered the house and manhandled Acharya Moshai. I am
not sure whether the miscreant carried a knife or not.’
Rama had sworn the above facts to be true in the district judiciary.
But what would her response be in the court of the Almighty where
there was no custom of promising to adhere strictly to the truth? Who
knew better than her that Ramesh most certainly did not knife a soul
and, far from carrying such a weapon at the time, he did not even
have a blade of grass on him at the time! But in that court of justice
she would definitely not even be asked about all these accusations—
what she could or could not recollect! In the court of law on Earth,
however, there was no way at all to have voiced the truth. Beni and
all the other stalwarts of the village society had not wanted the truth.
Rama had no doubts at all that to taint Ramesh with the mark of
false accusations would make him an outcast from society. But she
had not imagined the severe punishment that would be imposed on
him. A fine of a fairly heavy sum of money was as far as it would go,
she had thought. As a matter of fact, when Ramesh had refused to
discard his work and run away, Rama had then angrily even wished
that he be fined. ‘Let him be taught at least some sort of a lesson!’
she had said to herself. However, that the lesson would be so harsh,
she had not dreamed; she had never thought that even after looking
at Ramesh’s wan and sickly face, the judge would be so merciless! It
was impossible to believe that he would unhesitatingly pass a
sentence of six months’ imprisonment, accompanied by rigorous
labour.
Rama had been unable to even look at Ramesh at the time. She
had later been informed by others that Ramesh had firmly fixed his
glance on her and refused to let her be interrogated further. Later,
when the sentence had been passed, in response to Gopal Sarkar’s
plea, he had refused any further course of action. ‘No, even if the
magistrate sentences me to life imprisonment, I do not wish to lodge
an appeal. Let me to go to jail,’ he had said.
Truly, when his loyal subject Bhairav Acharya repaid his debt with
this false accusation and Rama took the witness stand and could not
recollect whether or not he had carried a knife, what could be the
justification in appealing? Ramesh’s hurt burdened Rama like a
gigantic boulder that just refused to be dislodged in any way. It was
an overwhelmingly heavy burden. Her conscience could never be
appeased by telling herself that she had not actually lied. It was true
that she had not actually uttered a falsehood, but neither had she
revealed the truth. If only she had realized that concealing the truth
would cause her such anguish! It kept on recurring to Rama—how
grievous Bhairav’s crime must have been to have sent Ramesh into
such a frenzy of anger! But, upholding just one request she had
made, he had forgiven all and immediately left the place. Who had
ever thus honoured Rama by taking her smallest wish to be a
command?
Being consumed in the fire of her own guilt, Rama had come face-
to-face with the question—did the society for which she had
committed such a grievous crime actually exist outside the vested
interests of Beni and some other so-called pillars of society? Who
did not know of Gobinda’s widowed sister-in-law? None in the village
remained unaware of Beni’s secret liaison with her. But she
remained sheltered by a society whose head was Beni himself. True
fulfilment lay in blind acceptance of all the shackles that society
decreed must be clapped on people in the name of norms that must
be followed. This then was what the Hindu religion was all about!
However, after much introspection, Rama could not feel much
anger against Bhairav, who was the root cause of so much discord.
After all, his daughter was of a marriageable age; and very soon he
and his entire family would be social outcasts unless he married her
off. The very thought was enough to make any Hindu shrink in fright.
She, Rama, possessing so much could still not muster up enough
courage to break free of the shackles of social norms. How then
could poor Bhairav be expected to do so? She could not deny that
only disaster would result if someone like Beni were flouted.
The elderly Sanatan Hazra was passing by. Seeing him, Gobinda
forced him into standing before Beni. In harsh anger Beni chided,
‘What is there to be so vain about, Sanatan? How is it that you have
become so daring all of a sudden?’
Sanatan replied, ‘How can that ever be possible, with people like
you around, Boro Babu? We are merely the poor!’
‘How dare you!’ Beni’s anger knew no bounds on hearing
Sanatan’s retort. This was the same Sanatan who at one time would
bend low before him in respect and come to salute him every day!
Gobinda rebuked Sanatan sharply, ‘We are only wondering at your
sudden daring! Can you give any explanation of why you did not
even bother to turn up for food blessed by the goddess at
Didithakrun’s house?’
The old man laughed, ‘What daring? Whatever has been done so
far has been done by you to me. But, no matter, whether it’s blessed
food or not, none of us will ever go to that household again for a
meal. We are amazed at just how much sin can be tolerated.’
Sanatan sighed deeply and looked towards Rama, ‘Be a little careful,
Didithakrun, the Muslims of Pirpur are greatly agitated. God only
knows what will happen once Chhoto Babu returns. They have
targeted Boro Babu and are on the lookout for a chance to pounce
on him—it is lucky that they have not managed to do so yet.’ He
looked once at Beni; in a flash all of Beni’s anger vanished and his
face became pale with fright.
Sanatan continued, ‘Boro Babu, I will not lie before the Almighty—
be a little careful! Try avoid going out at night—one never knows who
might be lying in wait.’
 Beni tried to say something, but no words emerged. There was
probably no greater coward than him.
Rama spoke at long last. In affectionate and pitiful tones she said,
‘Sanatan, then, is it because of Chhoto Babu that you are all so
angry?’
Looking towards the image of the goddess, Sanatan replied, ‘Why
will I ensure a path to hell by lying, Didithakrun? Indeed it is so! The
Muslims are the angriest. They look on Chhoto Babu as a messiah.
Let me point out one instance as proof: Zafar Ali, who hates
spending money, donated a thousand rupees for the school the day
Chhoto Babu was jailed! I have also heard that special prayers are
held for him in the masjid.’
Rama’s washed out expression was replaced by a joy that flooded
her entire being and she gazed unblinkingly at Sanatan in silence. All
of a sudden Beni clutched at Sanatan’s hand, ‘You have got to go to
the police and make a statement, Sanatan! Whatever you want will
be yours; the property held in bondage will be released to you, I
promise in front of the Almighty. Please keep a Brahmin’s request,
Sanatan.’
In stunned amazement Sanatan gazed at Beni, ‘How much longer
can I hope to live, Boro Babu! If I commit such a grievous sin, when I
die no one will be willing to even touch me with their feet, let alone
perform the last rites. Those days are long past, Boro Babu, those
days are no longer there! Chhoto Babu has turned everything upside
down and put a new way of looking at things in place.’
Gobinda persisted, ‘So, that means you will not keep the request
of a Brahmin?’
Sanatan vigorously shook his head, ‘No! You will be angry,
Ganguly Moshai, but the other day, at the new school, Chhoto Babu
said—just an outward show does not make a person a Brahmin. I
am not a young man and am well aware of all that is going on. Are
your activities worthy of a true Brahmin? Let me ask you,
Didithakrun, you tell me?’
 Rama bowed her head without answering. Encouraged, Sanatan
continued, ‘A new awareness has come upon a lot of us now …
particularly among all the young men of both villages who gather
every evening at Zafar Ali’s house. They have stated very clearly, “If
anyone is the zamindar, it is Chhoto Babu—the rest are all thieves.”
Besides, we pay for all our privileges, what is there to be scared of?
A Brahmin is nobody special—he is someone just like me.’
Terrorized, Beni asked in great fear, ‘Sanatan, can you tell me,
why they are so angry with me?’
Sanatan responded, ‘Do not be angry, Boro Babu, but you are
indeed the root cause of all the trouble. They have come to know
that.’
Beni was silent. Despite hearing a low-caste man like Sanatan
spew forth such harsh and unpalatable statements, there was no
sign of anger in him! He could not afford to be angry—his heart was
pounding madly in fright!
Gobinda was also startled by Sanatan’s revelations. He said,
‘Then, the gathering takes place in Zafar’s house, does it? Can you
tell us what happens there?’
Looking at him, Sanatan reflected for a while and ultimately said,
‘How would I know, but do not plan on doing anything unpleasant
there, Ganguly Moshai! The relationship between Hindus and
Muslims there is like that of the relationship between siblings. They
are united in every respect. Ever since Chhoto Babu was sent to jail,
their anger has been piling up like a heap of dynamite—do not set it
afire.’
Sanatan left after giving this advice, but no one felt like talking for
a very long time. As Rama attempted to leave, Beni said, ‘Did you
hear all that, Rama?’
Rama smiled slightly but did not make any response. Rama’s
passive stance infuriated Beni. ‘It is that scoundrel Bhairav who has
caused all these problems,’ he said. ‘If you had not gone there and
freed him, Rama, none of these complications would have arisen.
You are a woman and do not have to leave the house—you can
afford to laugh! But, what will happen to us? Suppose one day they
truly crack open our skulls? This is what happens if one works with a
woman!’ Venting his fear, frustrations and anger in this manner, Beni
continued to sit there with a gloomy expression.
Rama was stunned. She was only too well acquainted with Beni;
but such a baseless accusation which turned the tables on her left
her speechless. She remained standing there, unresponsive; after a
while she left. Beni then shouted loudly for more lights and armed
guards, and with great precaution left the place in stealth
 17

BISHHESHWARI ENTERED THE ROOM AND, IN A VOICE CHOKING

WITH TEARS asked, ‘How are you today, Rama?’
Rama, looking up from where she lay on the bed, smiled a bit and
said, ‘I am fine, Jethaima.’
Sitting at the head of the bed, Bishheshwari gently caressed
Rama’s forehead and face. It was about three months since Rama
had been bedridden with malaria and a debilitating cough. She was
being treated by the local doctor who continued to make futile
attempts to heal her. The old man remained completely at sea
regarding the sickness that was continually gnawing on and was
gradually destroying every member in her body. It was only in
Bishheshwari’s mind that the dark and gloomy clouds of a growing
suspicion gradually gathered, overshadowing everything else. She
genuinely loved Rama like a daughter—there was not an iota of any
faked emotion in her relationship with her. It was this heightened
degree of love that made her even more alert to everything
concerning this young girl. She noted that Rama’s eyes seemed to
be sinking into their sockets and yet remained as bright as ever. It
appeared that in an eagerness to look closer at some distant future,
Rama’s senses had become even more sharpened and alert.
Bishheshwari called out gently, ‘Rama!’
‘Yes, Jethaima?’
‘I am like your mother, Rama—’
Rama interrupted, ‘Why do you say “like”, you are my mother,
Jethaima!’
Bishheshwari bent down to kiss Rama’s forehead, ‘Then, tell me
the truth, dear, what is the matter?’
‘I am sick, Jethaima.’
Rama’s pale face flushed red for an instant.
 Very affectionately Bishheshwari shook Rama’s untended tresses,
‘That is only too apparent, my dear! If there is something beyond the
physical, do not hide it from your mother, Rama—or else, how can a
cure be found?’
Outside, the heat of the sun had not yet intensified and a light
breeze seemed to carry the tidings of the approaching winter. Rama
gazed outside the window and remained silent. A while later she
asked, ‘How is Barda, Jethaima?’
‘He is better, the wound on his head will take some time to heal.
But, he should be home from the hospital in another five or six days.’
Feeling the pain in Rama’s glance Bishheshwari said, ‘Do not
grieve, my dear! There was need for this. It will do him good.’ Noting
Rama’s surprise she explained, ‘You are wondering, how as a
mother I am so casual about such a disaster that befell my son?
Truthfully speaking, I do not know whether I am happy or sad at the
incident. Those who do not fear being irreligious, those who have no
shame—if their fear of death is not high, chaos and anarchy will
reign on earth. I am sure that what this Kolu’s son did to Beni, no
friend or relative could have done more. One has to burn coal, my
dear, one cannot wash it clean.’
Rama asked, ‘Was there nobody at home at the time?’
‘Why not, everybody was present! But Kolu’s son did not strike
senselessly; he had ostensibly come to sell oil. He knew he would go
to jail for what he was going to do. There was no personal animosity
—that is why, when Beni fell with only one blow, he did not shower
any more blows, but waited there quietly. And he also said that
unless Beni is a lot more careful in the future, whether or not he
himself is able to return home, this blow would not be the last one.’
Rama responded quietly, ‘This means that there are more people
involved! But the lower classes were never so bold in our village—
what could be the source of so much defiance?’
Bishheshwari smiled gently, ‘Don’t you yourself know the answer
to that, my dear? Who could fill so completely the hearts of all the
impoverished? Such fire can never be completely extinguished; if put
out, the surroundings still remain singed with heat. On his return, let
him live long wherever he is—I will never sigh on Beni’s behalf!’
Despite this assertion, Rama was well aware that Bishheshwari
somehow stifled a heart-rending sigh. She pulled her Jethaima’s
hand close and lay still, clutching it in silence. After controlling
herself somewhat, Bishheshwari continued, ‘Rama, only a mother is
aware of how much a child can mean! I cannot express to you what
emotions passed through my mind when they carried away an
unconscious Beni to the hospital. But it was impossible for me to
curse anyone or even blame anyone for what happened. I cannot
forget, my dear, that just because the victim happens to be a
mother’s son, true justice will be denied.’
Rama thought awhile and answered, ‘I am not arguing with you,
Jethaima, but if this is so, what sin is Rameshda paying such a
heavy price for? The manner in which we have sent him to jail does
not remain hidden from anyone.’
Jethaima answered, ‘No, my dear, that it does not! That is why
Beni is in hospital and you—’ Bishheshwari came to an abrupt halt.
She somehow gulped down what she had been on the verge of
saying, and instead continued, ‘You know, my dear, no action
remains without effect or consequence, no matter what the situation.
The force generated by any action will strike somewhere or the
other. But this force is not always visible or apparent—which is why
there is sometimes no definite conclusion and someone pays for the
sins of another. But there is no doubt at all that some sort of penance
definitely has to be undertaken.’
Recollecting her own role in bringing misery to Ramesh’s life,
Rama sighed deeply. Bishheshwari went on, ‘I have also learned a
lesson from all this, Rama, it is not always possible to bring about
change just because one wants to do good. There are a lot of major
and minor steps that have to be patiently gone through. One day
Ramesh had come to me in despair and had said, “Jethaima, their
betterment is impossible—let me return to where I have come from!”
That day I had prevented him by saying, “No, Ramesh, do not run
away from a project that you have already begun.” He never could
ignore my command. So, the day he was sentenced, I felt as though
I was personally pushing him into jail. But later, when Beni was taken
to hospital, I realized, no, perhaps it was necessary that he too had
to be sent to jail. How was I to realize all the travails of doing good—
that the task was so difficult? One will first have to integrate people—
unless people work together no good is possible. From the very
outset, Ramesh stood on such a pinnacle of education, reformation
and idealism that ultimately none could reach him! But I did not
notice all this, my dear. Neither did I permit him to leave, nor could I
keep him safe.’
Rama prevented herself from blurting out a few impulsive words.
Gauging what she might have said, Bishheshwari remarked, ‘No,
Rama, there are no regrets about that. But you too, my dear—do not
be angry when I tell you, you might have caused his downfall and
forced him on the path to destruction, but no matter how great a sin it
might have been for you, there is no doubt at all that when he
returns, he will definitely be able to see the truth for what it is.’
Not understanding the implication of Bishheshwari’s words, Rama
responded, ‘But why will this have brought him down, Jethaima? No
matter how much pain and distress might have been caused by our
wrong and sinful act, surely our wrongdoing will push us towards
hell! Why must it touch him at all?’
Bishheshwari smiled somewhat sadly. ‘But of course it will, my
dear!’ she said. ‘Or else, why is sin so terrifying? A person does not
reciprocate a kindness, rather quite the reverse—he causes harm
instead; what difference does it make, unless the magnanimous
person is brought down to abysmal depths as well? You tell me,
dear, will Kuapur ever come so intimately close to Ramesh again?
On his return it will be only too clear to everyone that the very
generosity which prompted him to give such spontaneously, has
been destroyed by Bhairav.’
After pausing for a while, she continued, ‘But, who knows, may be
it is for the good! Even though his healthy, strong prowess could not
be accepted by the village, this threatened and hurt being will
perhaps achieve some positive goal.’ Bishheshwari sighed deeply.
Clutching on to her hand, Rama said in pitiful tones, ‘Tell me,
Jethaima, what is the punishment for being a false witness and
sending an innocent man to jail?’
Bishheshwari who was gazing out of the window and running her
hand through Rama’s hair, suddenly noticed the tears coursing down
her face. She wiped them dry and in tones of deep affection said,
‘But that was not your fault, my dear. All the responsibility should be
borne by those cowardly men who have taken advantage of a
woman’s natural fright and aversion at the thought of any scandal.
You do not have to bear the burden of even one action, my child.’
This one reassurance freed all the pent-up tears that had been
welling up inside her and Rama began weeping copiously. After a
while she said, ‘But they are his enemies! They say that that it is no
sin to bring down your own foe by whatever means. I do not have
even that excuse, Jethaima!’
‘Why are you neither friend nor foe, my dear?’ As Bishheshwari
cast a glance in Rama’s direction, she started as if struck by a bolt of
lightning. The truth that had once appeared in unwarranted flashes,
was now unmasked all of a sudden and it was only too clear.
Recognition of the unassailable reality threw Bishheshwari into a
pain that she willed herself to suppress. The cause of Rama’s agony
no longer remained a secret.
Rama’s eyes were closed and she did not catch sight of
Bishheshwari’s knowing expression. She called out, ‘Jethaima!’
Bishheshwari responded by gently shaking her head.
Rama said, ‘Today I want to make a confession to you, Jethaima.
The youth of the village used to gather every evening at Zafar Ali’s
house in Pirpur to discuss all matters positive—on Rameshda’s
instructions. There was a conspiracy to brand them as miscreants
and get them arrested by the police. I sent men to warn them,
because that would be exactly what the police were looking for! They
would have been absolutely unable to protect themselves.’
Bishheshwari shuddered in distaste, ‘What are you saying? Beni
permitted this senseless intrusion by the police?’
Rama answered, ‘I think that the pain Barda is going through is a
result of that action. Will you be able to forgive me, Jethaima?’
Bishheshwari bent down and tenderly kissed Rama on the
forehead. She said, ‘Rama, if as his mother I am unable to forgive
this, who will ever be able to do so? I bless you and pray that the
Almighty reward you for all that you have done!’
Rama wiped her eyes dry and said, ‘This is the one consolation
that I have, Jethaima—that he will return to find his arena ready for
him! What he had wanted has happened—the rustic farming class
has awakened. They have come to recognize and love him. In
celebration of all this love, will he not be able to forgive me,
Jethaima?’
Bishheshwari could not speak. A tear ran down her cheeks and
moistened Rama’s forehead. For a long time both women remained
silent.
Rama called out, ‘Jethaima!’
‘What is it, my dear?’
Rama answered, ‘There is one sphere in which neither of us have
ever differed. We both have loved you.’
Once again Bishheshwari bent down and touched her lips to
Rama’s forehead.
Rama continued, ‘On the basis of that, I am going to make a
demand on you. When I am no longer there and if he is still unable to
forgive me, please convey a message on my behalf, Jethaima. I am
not as bad as he believes me to be. The hurt that I have inflicted on
him, has hurt me much more. He will never disbelieve what I have to
say.’
Bishheshwari held Rama close and cried out, ‘Come, my dear, let
us go to some holy place where there is no Beni or Ramesh—the
only sight is that of temples all around. I understand everything,
Rama. If the time has come for you to make the last journey, it will
not do to reach there with these poisonous emotions. We belong to a
Brahmin household and have to reach the Almighty in a befitting
manner.’
Rama remained speechless for a long while and then, somehow
stifling a deep sigh said, ‘That is my desire too, Jethaima!’
 18

RAMESH HAD NEVER IMAGINED EVEN IN HIS WILDEST

DREAMS THAT THE Almighty would fashion such fulfilment of all his
dreams outside the barriers of his prison. When Ramesh stepped out
of prison after his imprisonment term, an unimaginable sight greeted
him. Beni Ghosal himself was at the fore, with his head wrapped in a
shawl. Behind him were the headmasters of both the educational
institutes and some Hindu and Muslim students. Beni embraced
Ramesh and tearfully said, ‘I have only just become aware of how
strong family ties can be! Though I was aware of the manner in
which Jodu Mukherjee’s daughter was contriving with that scheming
scoundrel Acharya to heap insult and injury on you, I chose to ignore
the facts and have been punished for that silence! You have been
much better off in jail; but these six months, Ramesh, I have only
simmered in the fire of contrition …’
Unable to find any words at this warm welcome and words of
apology from Beni, Ramesh gazed at him in bemused wonder. Parui,
the headmaster, prostrated himself at Ramesh’s teet. The group
behind him moved forward—everyone crowded around Ramesh and
jostled to bless him, offer salutations or at least greet him. Beni could
not stop his tears any longer and in an emotion-laden voice said, ‘My
dear younger brother, please do not hold the past against your older
sibling any longer—come home! Mother is almost blinding herself
with tears.’
A coach awaited them; Ramesh stepped in and took his seat
without a word. Beni sat facing him and unfolded the shawl from
around his head. Though the wound had healed, the scar was still
very prominent. Beni sighed deeply and gesticulating with his hands
said, ‘Whom can I blame, it is all the result of my own doing—I am
paying for all my accumulated sins! But what sense does talking
about all that make now?’ Simulating deep sorrow, Beni fell silent.
 His simple confession moved Ramesh. He concluded that
something must have happened while he was in prison and so did
not press for any answers. But seeing that Ramesh was not rising to
the bait, and that his schemes were being foiled, Beni grew restless.
After a moment or two had gone by, once again he drew Ramesh’s
attention by sighing deeply and saying, ‘It is an ingrained habit—the
inability to say something and mean something else! Unlike certain
others, I have just not learned to be a hypocrite. That is a great fault
of mine!’
Observing that Ramesh was now paying full attention to him, Beni
lowered his voice still further and said even more gravely, ‘The other
day, unable to bear the torment any longer, I had said, “What
injustice have we done you that you have caused us so much
anguish? Mother will have a breakdown if she comes to know of the
jail sentence. No matter what disputes we might have as regards
property, after all we are still brothers. At one and the same time you
cast a blow at my brother and also hurt my mother! But, the Almighty
is there for the innocent.”’ Beni looked at the sky as if to seek justice.
Though Ramesh did not offer any opinion, he continued to listen
attentively. Beni paused a bit and resumed, ‘Ramesh, that
aggressive image makes me shudder even now. She gnashed her
teeth and said, “Was not Ramesh’s father responsible for sending
my father to jail? Do you think that I would do anything for his
release?” So much vanity in a woman was unbearable, Ramesh! I
too was angry and said, ‘All right, let him return and then justice will
be done.”’
So far Ramesh had been unable to properly take in all that Beni
had been spouting. He did not know when his father had schemed to
send Rama’s father to jail. But he now remembered the matter being
mentioned by Rama’s aunt the first time that he had visited them. He
waited curiously for Beni to tell him the rest.
Taking note of this Beni said, ‘She is used to killing—don’t you
remember Akbar being sent to fight you during the incident of the
dam? But you more than capably handled that hoodlum. However,
do you see my condition?’ Beni then delved into the depths of his
own lurid imagination and wove a fabricated version of the events
that had actually taken place.
Ramesh asked with bated breath, ‘Then?’
Beni smiled in a melancholy manner and continued, ‘Do I
remember what followed, my dear brother? Who carried me and how
I was taken to the hospital, what happened there and who tended to
me—I know nothing! It was only ten days later, when I regained
consciousness, that I realized I was in hospital. It is only due to the
past good deeds of my mother that I recovered. There can be none
like her, Ramesh.’
Ramesh failed to find words to express his shock and disbelief and
felt as though he was turned to stone. The only external
manifestation of his feelings were his clenched fists. An
overwhelming rage and disgust burned within him with such intensity
that even gauging its depths was impossible for anybody. Ramesh
knew that Beni was low-down—he was also aware that there were
no depths to which he would not sink. However, he had had no
experience at all of men who could lie so freely and continually, with
no compunction at all. So, Ramesh assumed that the fault lay with
Rama—and what was being disclosed by Beni was nothing but the
truth!
The entire village celebrated his return. Through the day there
were hordes of people streaming in—there was such jubilation and
so many relationships grew and flourished in such a short span of
time! The bitter taste of his brief sojourn in prison that was lingering
with Ramesh, vanished completely now. In his absence, a social
revolution seemed to have taken place in the village; but it remained
no end of a puzzle as to the manner in which all this had been
brought about. Ramesh observed that all the positive forces he had
initiated and that had continually been retarded by Beni and yet
continued to gather momentum, were now a might to be reckoned
with! He also came to understand Beni a little better. In spite of
knowing him to be extremely harmful and scheming, the manner in
which he was obeyed by all impressed him like never before.
Ramesh breathed a sigh of relief at having put an end to the enmity
of such a man. One by one everybody in the village came and
proffered their regret for the wrongs that had been perpetrated
against him. With all their sympathy and Beni’s support, Ramesh’s
enthusiasm grew with every passing day. Once again he tackled all
the projects he had taken up, but had been forced to abandon. He
visited all the houses in the village and spent time in merrymaking
and celebrating. But he avoided any mention of Rama at all costs.
He had heard that she was unwell, but evinced no desire at all to find
out what her actual condition was. As far as he was concerned, all
ties and links with her had been severed. From the moment of his
return to the village he had only heard reports of how it was
principally Rama who had been responsible for all his miseries.
Hence, there could no longer be any doubt that in this instance Beni
had not lied.
Five or six days later, Beni began to exert all his wiles on him.
There was a huge tract of land in Pirpur over which Beni and Rama
had not been seeing eye to eye for a very long time. Beni’s intention
was to take the opportunity of the rivalry between Ramesh and
Rama to usurp the concerned property.
No matter what Beni said, he was innately scared of Rama. Now
that she was bedridden and unable to participate in court cases and
the like, he was emboldened to proceed. Also, Beni knew that their
Muslim subjects would never disobey if Ramesh instructed them. No
matter what happened later, never would there be such an
opportune moment to claim the property as his own. Greatly
surprised when Ramesh refused to intervene in the matter and help
him, Beni tried to persuade him in all ways and ultimately said, ‘Why
not? Did she show any consideration when you were sick that you
are thinking of her now? Did your illness hold any meaning for her
when she sent you to jail?’
Ramesh could not deny the truth of this statement. But, somehow
his mind revolted against active enmity with Rama; despite all the
ugliness that Beni tried to influence him with, the picture of Rama in
Ramesh’s mind effectively put brakes on any kind of action against
her. Beni was not to be outdone—he knew only too well how to reel
in the fish. Instead of making further attempts at persuasion, he left
the matter alone for the time being.
Another fact had come to Ramesh’s attention: he was aware that
Bishheshwari had never been attracted to worldly matters; but, ever
since his return he had noted an actual look of distaste for material
things in her expression. The day of his many-splendoured release
from jail, he had returned to his Jethaima’s house with Beni.
Bishheshwari had expressed great joy at his return and in tearful
tones had blessed him innumerable times. However, there was
something in her tones that only served to sadden him. Now news
reached Ramesh that Bishheshwari planned to leave soon for Kashi,
never to return. He was astounded, not having been aware of any
such plans. Due to an extremely busy work schedule, Ramesh had
been unable to meet Bishheshwari over the last few days; but the
previous time he had done so, Bishheshwari had not spoken of any
such intention. Of course Ramesh was also aware that she did not
like any sort of unnecessary discussion about personal matters. But
connecting the present news with the memory of their last meeting,
the reason for Bishheshwari’s complete detachment from worldly
matters became only too apparent to Ramesh. There was no doubt
about it, his Jethaima was truly taking her leave. Ramesh’s eyes
filled with tears at the very thought. Not delaying any further, he
reached her house as quickly as he could. It was late in the morning
and Ramesh was informed that his Jethaima had left for the
Mukherjee house.
Surprised, Ramesh asked, ‘Why at this time?’
 The maid who had been part of the household for a very long time
smiled gently and said, ‘What meaning does time have for Ma?
Besides, today is their Chhoto Babu’s sacred thread ceremony.’
‘Jatin’s?’
The maid continued, ‘They have not invited anybody. Even if they
did, none would have gone—all the seniors have ostracized Rama
Didi!’
There was no end to the astonishment Ramesh felt. After a
moment’s silence when he asked about the reason, the maid, greatly
embarrassed, said, ‘I am not sure, Chhoto Babu; some horrible
rumours have been heard about Rama Didi. What would we poor
people know of such matters?’ She rapidly made her escape.
Ramesh returned home after quietly standing there for a while.
This social boycott that Rama and her fimily faced was the obvious
result of Beni’s vengeful anger—Ramesh had no reason to make
any queries. But the reason for the anger against her and the ugly
rumours circulating to defame Rama—it seemed an impossibly
difficult task to find out the details of the alleged contention.
 19

THAT EVENING AN UNIMAGINABLE EVENT TOOK PLACE.

DISREGARDING THE injunctions of the court, Kailash Napit and Sheikh
Motilal, along with their witnesses, sought Ramesh’s intervention. In
genuine surprise he asked, ‘Why would you accept what I might
say?’
Both parties responded, ‘Why would we not, Babu? Is your
intelligence and power of judgement any less than drat of a judge?
Besides, it is from gentry like you that judges and the like are
chosen. Tomorrow if you work for the government and preside as the
judge, we would have had to accept whatever you said. Then,
disagreement would just not have been viable!’
Ramesh felt as if his heart would burst with pride at this statement.
Kailash continued, ‘Both of us can at least explain our points of view
to you—which is not possible in any court. Further, unless a lawyer is
given plenty of money, nothing worthwhile is achieved. Here, there
are no expenses and no lawyer whose ego has to constantly be
appeased. No Babu, whatever you decide, whether we like it or not,
we will accept and return home. The Almighty was kind enough to
direct us to your home and so both of us have come here directly
from the court.’
A small canal was the bone of contention between the two parties.
After placing whatever little papers there were in his hands and
promising to return the next day, both men along with their witnesses
took their leave. Ramesh sat still; all this was beyond his
imagination. He had not imagined such honours being conferred on
him even in the distant future. No matter whether they actually
accepted his judgement or not, the very fact that they rejected a
government court and had made their way to him—that filled his
heart with pride. The matter was negligible—an extremely petty
quarrel; but the prospect of this utterly insignificant issue possibly
leading to far-reaching consequences dazzled him. There appeared
to be no limits to the heights he could scale for his unfortunate
motherland. Outside, moonlight flooded the surroundings and all of a
sudden he remembered Rama. Any other day, he would instantly
have been filled with rage. But now, far from anger, there was no
longer even a feeling of outrage. He smiled a bit to himself and,
addressing Rama, said, ‘It is through you that the Almighty has
shown me such fulfilment, the poison you have forced me to swallow
has turned to nectar! If only you were aware of all this, probably you
would never have: even wanted to send me to jail … Who is that?’
‘I am Radha, Chhoto Babu! Rama Didi has requested you to
please go and meet her.’
Rama had sent a maid requesting his presence! Ramesh was
amazed. Why was God playing such scheming games with him?
The maid said, ‘If you could kindly—’
‘Where is she?’
‘She is resting in her room.’ Pausing a little, the maid continued,
‘Tomorrow there will be no time. So, right now if you could …’
‘All right, come along—’ Ramesh stood up.
After sending the maid across, Rama lay in alert and anxious
anticipation on her bed. Ramesh was shown in by the maid; he drew
up a chair and seated himself by the bed. It was sheer willpower that
prevented Rama from casting herself at his feet. A lamp flickered in
a corner of the room; in its dim and indistinct light Ramesh could not
make out Rama’s appearance very well. All that he had decided and
reflected on the way to her home made no sense in Rama’s actual
presence. He was silent for a while and then gently asked, ‘How are
you keeping, Rani?’
Rama moved away slightly and said, ‘Please call me Rama.’
It was as though someone had struck Ramesh. In a flash his
attitude hardened and he responded, ‘So be it; I had heard you were
unwell and wanted to find out how you are now. Otherwise I have no
inclination, desire or requirement to address you by name.’
 Rama understood all. She was quiet for a few moments and then
answered, ‘I am all right now.’
She then continued, ‘You might be surprised at my sending for
you, but—’
Ramesh interrupted sharply, ‘No, I am not! The time to be
surprised by any of your actions is long past for me. But tell me, why
have you sent for me?’
Hw much his words wounded Rama, Ramesh had no idea. She
sat in mute silence for some time and then said, ‘Rameshda, it is on
two counts that I have put you to the trouble of coming over. I am
aware of all the injustice that I have done to you. But, at the same
time, I was sure that you would honour my last request to come and
meet me.’
Rama’s voice grew thick with tears. It was so apparent that in a
flash Ramesh felt all his former affection for her flooding back. He
himself was amazed to realize that despite so much chaos and
anarchy, his fondness for her had not died at all! His emotions had
merely fallen into a kind of stupor. He remained silent for a while and
then asked, ‘What is your request?’
All of a sudden Rama looked up and immediately cast her eyes
down again, ‘The major portion of the property Barda is trying to
usurp with your help belongs to me. I want to gift that to you.’
Once again Ramesh flared up, ‘You need not worry! Never have I
helped anyone steal in the past and nor will I do so now. If you do
want to gift it, there are others, I will not accept it.’
In the past Rama would also have flared up and retorted, ‘The
Mukherjees cannot be insulted by accepting anything from the
Ghosals either.’ But today no such words escaped her. Rather, she
said humbly, ‘Rameshda, I realize that you will never be an aid to
thievery and I also know that if you do accept, it will not be for
yourself. However, the situation is not that—a mistake has to be
rectified! Please accept this as a fine for all the wrongs that have
been done to you.’
 Ramesh was silent for a while and then asked, ‘Your second
request?’
‘I am leaving my Jatin in your hands. Please bring him up to be the
kind of person you are; as an adult may he learn to sacrifice self-
interest the way you do.’
In a flash all the hardness vanished from Ramesh’s demeanour.
Rama wiped her eyes with one end of her sari and said, ‘There is no
time for me to see to all this; but I am sure that Jatin has in him all
the qualities of his forefathers. If taught, the inherent qualities he
possesses should lead him to be as upright as you, one day.’
Ramesh did not come up with any immediate response—he
remained looking outside, at the moonlight flooding the
surroundings. A strange kind of pain that he had never felt before
coursed through his entire being. After a prolonged silence he turned
around and said, ‘Look, do not involve me in all this any longer. After
a lot of effort I have been able to bring a little light into my life. There
is a constant fear that even this will flicker out!’
Rama answered, ‘You need not be afraid, Rameshda, this light will
never go out. Jethaima had said that because you were placed on
too high a pedestal, the work you wanted to get done was not
possible! Now, our own misdeeds have brought you down to Earth,
you are here with all of us. You are afraid, because now, you see
yourself at last as one of the village folk! In the past, such a thought
would not even have occurred to you. Then, you were beyond the
boundaries of rural life; now you are one of us. That is why your light
will never be dimmed—it will glow even brighter.’
The sudden mention of Jethama emboldened Ramesh. He said,
‘Are you sure, Rama, that this light will never go out?’
Rama responded assertively, ‘I have no doubts at all! These are
the words of Jethaima, who knows all. This is your task. Please take
the responsibility of my Jatin and, forgiving my sins, bless me today
and allow me to take my leave of you in peace!’
 Ramesh’s heart trembled, as though repeatedly struck by
thunderbolts, but he remained silent with a bowed head. Rama
continued, ‘There is another favour to which you have to agree.
Please say you will!’
Mildly Ramesh asked, ‘What?’
‘You will not quarrel with Barda on my behalf.’
Not understanding, Ramesh asked, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just this, if word ever reaches you one day please keep this in
mind—I bore all in silence and did not utter a single word of protest,
even while departing! The other day Jethaima had said that the more
we analyse falsehood, it increases in strength. There is no greater
sin than increasing evil through one’s own impatient actions.
Keeping in mind this advice of hers, I have been able to deal with
and conquer all sorrow and misfortune—never ever forget this,
Rameshda!’
Ramesh continued to gaze at her in silence. Rama went on, ‘Do
not be pained, Rameshda, because today you find it difficult to
forgive me. I am sure that a time will come when what seems
insurmountably difficult today will smoothen out by itself. Knowing
that surely you will be able to forgive me then, I am not anxious at all
or troubled in any way. Tomorrow I am leaving.’
‘Tomorrow! Leaving!’ Astonished, Ramesh asked, ‘Where will you
be going tomorrow?’
‘Wherever Jethaima takes me.’
Ramesh asked, ‘But I believe that she will never return again?’
Rama responded quietly, ‘Neither will I. I am also taking my last
leave from all of you.’
She bent low and touched her forehead to the ground. Ramesh
thought for a while and then, sighing deeply, stood up, ‘All right, you
may leave. But can you not at least tell me the reason for your
departure?’
Rama could make no response. Ramesh said once again, ‘Only
you know why you have to leave with so much left unsaid. But I pray
that some day I might be able to forgive you from the very depths of
my soul. Only the Almighty knows how painful it is not to be able to
absolve you of everything.’
Tears overflowed from Rama’s eyes, but in the dim light Ramesh
saw nothing. In silence, Rama respectfully bent down to take her
leave again, and almost immediately Ramesh left the room. While
walking back, it seemed to him that all the enthusiasm about his
future, his work—all had turned pale and indistinct as the moonlight
ever since he heard of Rama’s departure.
The next morning, when Ramesh reached the house,
Bishheshwari had already taken her seat in the carriage, ready to
leave. He stood at the carriage door and tearfully said, ‘Why are you
punishing us in this manner by leaving so abruptly?’
Bishheshwari extended her right hand and blessing him said,
‘What is the sense of talking about past misdeeds, my dear, there
can never be an end to that!’ She continued, ‘If I breathe my last
here, Beni will perform the last rites; then, I will never find my
release. During this lifetime I have struggled and sought relief from
the fiery hell of retribution; fear of having to do so in my next birth
perforce leads me to run away, Ramesh.’
Ramesh stood speechless, shocked by the implication of his
Jethaima’s words—they revealed the anguish of a mother’s heart as
never before. Remaining silent for a while he asked, ‘Why is Rama
leaving, Jethaima?’
Bishheshwari exerted great self-control on a sudden upsurge of
emotion. Lowering her voice, she said, ‘She has no place in society,
my dear. That is why I am taking her to where the Almighty is! I am
not sure whether she will survive there either; but, if she does, I will
request her to answer this overwhelmingly difficult question—why did
God send her to this Earth with so much beauty, talent, goodness, if
only to burden her with the heavy load of sorrow and, in spite of
being innocent, cast her out of society! Is this the divine plan to some
end or is it a game, played by human society? Ramesh, today there
is no one more pitiable than her on this Earth.’ Bishheshwari’s voice
choked even as she spoke. No one had seen her so emotional ever
before.
There was not a single word that Ramesh could utter. A little later
Bishheshwari said, ‘But it is my order to you, Ramesh, never to
misunderstand her. Just before my departure, I have no desire at all
to complain about anybody. But do not disbelieve my words in the
slightest when I say that you have no greater well-wisher than her in
this world.’
Ramesh answered, ‘But Jethaima—’
Bishheshwari interrupted, ‘There is no “but” in this, Ramesh.
Whatever you have been told is false. But let all grievances come to
an end at this juncture. Let your crusade against all such injustice,
envy, jealousy always remain vibrant. This is her last request to you.
This is why she has borne all so stoically! Rama is at death’s
threshold, Ramesh, but she has not uttered a word.’
Now, Ramesh remembered some of Rama’s words from the
previous night and tears seemed to well up from his inner being. He
quickly looked down to hide his tears and exerting all the strength
that was in him said, ‘Tell her, Jethaima, that which she desires will
be done!’ Somehow he managed to stretch out his hand and touch
Bishheshwari’s feet, and then, in unbearable agony, he left.
 Glossary

BARDA Eldest brother

BABAJI A form of affectionate address to one younger
BABA Father
BORO GINNI The seniormost lady of a household / the female
head of the household
CHHOTO Younger uncle
KHURO
CHHOTO Younger aunt
KHURI MA
CHHORDA Youngest of the elder brothers
DIDI Older sister; sometimes also used as an
affectionate mode of address
DADA Elder brother; also a respectful form of address for
men
DADAMOSHAI Grandfather
DIDIMA Grandmother
DIDITHAKRUN A respectful address to a female member of the
household
GINNI MA The lady of the house
JETHAIMA Elder paternal aunt
KARTA A senior male member of the household
KHURO Paternal uncle
KHURI MA Paternal uncle’s wife
MASHI Maternal aunt; also, an informal mode of address
for older female persons
THAKURPO Younger brother-in-law
 NISHKRITI
(Deliverance)
 1

THE CHATTERJEES OF BHAWANIPORE WERE A JOINT FAMILY

COMPRISING the two brothers Girish and Harish and their cousin
Ramesh, and their respective wives and children. The eldest living
member of this large family was the widow of Bhabani Chatterjee
and mother of Girish and Harish. In the past, the ancestral house
and property of the Chatterjees had been located in the Chhoto
Bishnupur village, on the banks of the Rupnarayan river. Bhabani
Chatterjee had been fairly well off. Then, all of a sudden, in ravenous
hunger, the Rupnarayan began to devour Bhabani’s land—ponds,
gardens and all; in five to six years virtually nothing remained.
Helpless before this onslaught by Mother Nature who had entirely
usurped the hereditary property handed down to him from his
forefathers, the Brahmin was rendered penniless and robbed of
home and hearth as well. With no other alternative, Bhabani
Chatterjee and his family left the village and took shelter in
Bhawanipore in Kolkata.
All this had happened many years ago. Now, both Girish and
Harish were practising lawyers in Kolkata who had accumulated
massive tracts of property and constructed several houses—what
had been lost in the floods had been restored many times over.
Presently, Girish earned about twenty five thousand rupees a year;
Harish too brought in four to five thousand rupees. It was only
Ramesh who had achieved nothing. But it was not that he had done
nothing at all. He had successfully incurred a loss of three to four
thousand rupees of his elder brother’s money in trying to start a
business; now, ensconced at home, he spent most of his time
intently scanning the newspapers.
This united family, however, was now on the verge of coming apart
at the seams. The reason for this was the strife between the second
and youngest sisters-in-law who just could not get along with each
other. Harish had not been in Kolkata all this while, he and his family
had been living in the suburbs and his work too was centred there.
So far, therefore, they had come visiting their Kolkata house only
sporadically and there had not been all that much time for quarrels
and conflicts between the two women, though they were not
particularly close, either. Now it was almost a month since Harish
had returned and all peace and tranquillity seemed imminent to
escape from the household. The tension between the two sisters-in-
law had not escalated to very great heights till now because the
youngest sister-in-law who was Ramesh’s wife Shailaja had not
been there all the while. Entrusting her only son Patol and her
stepson Kanailal to her eldest sister-in-law Siddheshwari’s care, she
had gone to visit her father who was seriously ill, in Krishnanagar.
Since he had recovered considerably, she had returned.
Though Bhabani’s widow was still alive, it was Siddheshwari who
was really the head of the household. Her temperament remained
incomprehensible to all, which was probably why she was both
praised and criticized excessively.
Siddheshwari’s impoverished parents had been continually
persuading her for the past five to six years to stay with them during
the festive season. They had finally succeeded this year, and
Siddheshwari had left her husband’s house in Kolkata to spend
some days with her parents in Katwa. But she was unhappy to
relegate her family to the background and had returned in a month.
She had not returned alone, however; she had also carried back with
her Katwa’s famous malaria. Though she had contracted this
dreaded disease, her strict regime of household chores carried on as
before. The baths at dawn continued and steadfastly refusing to
partake of quinine, Siddheshwari continued to suffer. Three or four
days would go by and she would come down with fever—recover
and once again fall prey. As a result, she had become very weak. It
was at this juncture that Shailaja had returned and began to
implement her sister-in-law’s medical treatment very strictly. Shailaja
had been brought into the household as a child-bride and had since
then always been with her eldest sister-in-law; she could be forceful
with her to an extent that the second daughter-in-law or anyone else
could not. There was also another reason for Shailaja’s dominance
over Siddheshwari and the latter’s submissiveness to the former:
innately Siddheshwari was quite afraid of her. Shailaja was
extremely hot-headed and when provoked into anger or stung by
hurt, she would start fasting with such severity that once she began,
it was impossible to get her to take even a sip of water by whatever
means—this was Siddheshwari’s greatest cause of concern.
Winter had set in and the evening was quickly drawing to a close.
Since the previous day, the fever had not properly left Siddheshwari.
At this hour, wrapping herself in a quilt, she lay like a corpse in one
corner of the large bed, while on the bed itself, three or four children
played noisily. On the floor sat Kanailal, memorizing his geography
lessons in the light of the lamp—that is to say, with the book wide
open, he was gaping at all the clamour that was going on all around
him. On the other side of the bed sat Siddheshwari’s son Haricharan,
with a lamp at the fore, intently reading a book. He was probably so
focussed on passing the exams, that despite all the noise around
him, he did not lose his patience. The children who were playing on
the bed so vociferously all belonged to Harish.
All of a sudden, Bipin leant over Siddheshwari’s face and said,
‘Today it’s my turn to sleep on your right, isn’t it Boro Ma?’
But before his Boro Ma could reply, Kanai called out from below
saying, ‘No Bipin, not you. It is I who will sleep on Boro Ma’s right
tonight.’
Bipin vigorously protesting said, ‘But didn’t you sleep on her right
yesterday, Mejda?’
‘I did, yesterday? Fine, then today on the left.’
As soon as these words were uttered, Patol raised his small head
from beneath the quilt; all this while: with quiet desperation and silent
determination he had been clinging on to his spot at his aunt’s left. In
fright of being ousted, he had not even attempted to join the mad
scramble till now. In weak tones he protested, ‘But I have been lying
here quietly all this while!’
In thunderous tones and with rightful wrath of the elder, Kanai
called out, ‘Patol, don’t you dare argue with your elder brother! I am
warning you, I will complain to Ma.’
Poor Patol, seeing himself cornered, clung to his aunt and in
tearful tones wailed, ‘Boro Ma, but I have been lying here for such a
long while.’
Eyes rolling in anger at his younger sibling’s audacity, Kanai let
forth a loud ‘Patol!!’ then stopped abruptly.
For just at that moment, from one end of the veranda outside,
Shailaja’s voice was heard, ‘Goodness me! Has Didi’s room been
attacked by dacoits or what?!’
Shailaja’s aunt lived in Patoldanga. Ever since returning from
Krishnanagar, she had been unable to find the time to meet her.
Today there was no cooking to be done for her mother-in-law as it
was the day of the three-quarter-moon fast—so, right in the morning,
having put Haricharan, Siddheshwari’s second son, in charge of
seeing to his mother’s medication, she had gone to Patoldanga.
What an immediate change was wrought as soon as Shailaja’s
voice was heard! Haricharan pushed the book he had been reading
under the pillow with magical dexterity, and gazed with fierce
concentration at the textbook that lay before him. Kanai decided to
postpone the resolution of the right and left side issue for the time
being and in clear and dulcet tones read aloud, ‘The massive tract of
water …’ However, what was most surprising of all was the magical
disappearance of all the children who had been playing about on the
bed, who melted into thin air, leaving not a trace behind. Shailaja
walked into her sister-in-law’s room carrying a glass of hot milk. Now,
other than Kanailal loudly reciting the text, the room was absolutely
silent. On the other hand, Haricharan concentrated so deeply on his
book that even if someone had fondly patted him on the back, he
would not have noticed. This was because he had been reading
Anandamath all this while. His Bhabananda and Jibananda had had
to beat a sudden and hasty retreat at the advent of his youngest
aunt. He wondered whether his sleight of hand had been noticed and
because he was so unsure of this, his heart began thundering in
nervousness.
Looking towards Kanai Shailaja asked, ‘And where was your
“massive tract of water” all this while?’
Raising his eyes from the text, Kanai answered in the thin, reedy
tones of the half-starved survivor of a drought, ‘I didn’t do anything,
Ma, it was Bipin and Patol.’
Because they were his principal rivals in this case of ‘Right versus
Left’, with no compunction at all, he surrendered these two hapless
victims to his stepmother.
Shailaja said, ‘I can’t see a soul, where did they all escape?’
Now with full enthusiasm, Kanai stood up and pointing to the bed
said, ‘Ma, nobody has run away, everybody is under the quilt.’
Looking at his expression, Shailaja was forced to laugh. It was his
voice that she had heard the loudest from a distance. Now,
addressing Siddheshwari she said, ‘Didi, they are all but devouring
you alive! You can’t raise your hands to them, but can’t you at least
raise your voice and scold them? You brats, all of you come out and
leave right now, with me.’
Siddheshwari had been quiet all this while; now in a slightly
irritated manner she said, ‘They are playing by themselves, why
would they want to devour me and why would they want to go with
you! No, absolutely not, you are not going to slap anyone in my
presence! Leave—go from here, the children are suffocating under
the quilt.’
Shailaja smiled a bit, ‘Do I only bit them, Didi?’
‘You do, too much, Shaila,’ Siddheshwari addressed her by name
as she would a younger sister. ‘Seeing you they become wan and
pale—why don’t you leave and let them come out.’
 ‘I will take them with me. If they constantly pester you like this, you
will never get better. Patol is the most gentle—he can remain with his
Boro Ma. All the others will have to sleep with me.’ Passing this
sentence in the manner of a judge, Shailaja looked at her eldest
sister-in-law and said, ‘Now, you get up and have this milk. Oh yes,
Hari, you did give your mother her medicine at 6.30, didn’t you?’
Hearing his aunt’s question, Haricharan’s face lost colour. All this
while he had been wandering about in the forests with the disciples
and fighting to free his country; thoughts of petty and mundane
objects such as medicines and the like had not even crossed his
mind. Not a word escaped him now as his mind floundered
hopelessly in search of an excuse.
In anger and vexation Siddheshwari said, ‘I will not have
medicines and all that, Shaila …’
‘I did not ask you Didi, you be quiet,’ Shailaja said briskly. Coming
close to Haricharan she said, ‘I am asking you Hari, did you give her
the medicine?’
Haricharan huddled up and in nervous tones said vaguely, ‘Ma
didn’t want to have …’
Shailaja thundered, ‘Arguments again! Tell me, did you give her
the medicine or not?’
Anxiously wanting to save her son from the stern wrath of his aunt,
Siddheshwari forced herself up and said, ‘Why are you creating such
a fuss at this hour of the night, tell me, Shaila? Haricharan, why don’t
you just bring me the medicine or whatever else I have to take?’
Being somewhat reassured, Haricharan hurriedly got down from
the bed, took a bottle and a small glass from the drawer and went
and stood by his mother. As soon as he started to uncork the
medicine bottle Shailaja spoke from where she stood, ‘It’s enough to
just pour the medicine into the glass, isn’t it Hari? Water isn’t
required to make it into the right mixture and neither is something
needed for your mother to have later? You won’t remember the
simplest of things unless I tell you, will you?’
 With the medicine bottle firmly held in his hand, Haricharan had
thought that at least for the moment he had managed to avert the
crisis. However, with the question of ‘something to have later’, this
hope waned. Looking this side and that, in pitiful tones he said, ‘But
there is nothing anywhere, Khuri Ma.’
‘Will something just come flying by unless it is brought into this
room from the kitchen?’
Angrily Siddheshwari said, ‘Where will he get anything to bring? Is
this the work of a man? Shaila, you can only discipline the boys.
Couldn’t you tell Nili? That wretched girl hasn’t stepped into this
room since you left—didn’t even peep in to see whether her mother
was dead or alive.’
‘But she wasn’t here, Didi—she had gone with me to Patoldanga.’
‘Why did she? On what account did you take her? Give it to me
Haricharan—pour out the medicine, I will have it just like that,’
Siddheshwari laid the blame squarely on her absent daughter’s
shoulders and stretched out her hand for the medicine.
‘Wait a little, Hari, I’ll get all that is required,’ said Shailaja and left
the room.
 2

LIVING AWAY FROM THE ANCESTRAL HOME ALL THIS WHILE,

HARISH’S WIFE Nayantara had become quite anglicized. She would
not permit her sons to appear in public without western attire.
Presently her family was back with the rest of the household, but the
attitude that she and her children had inculcated earlier persisted
even now. In the morning, as Siddheshwari prepared for her prayers,
and while her daughter Nilambari laid out all the paraphernalia of
medicines, Nayantara entered the room suddenly and said, ‘The
tailor has brought Atul’s clothes, I need twenty rupees.’
Forgetting her prayers, Siddheshwari sat up. ‘Twenty rupees for a
shirt?’
Smiling a bit, Nayantara replied. ‘Is it really all that much, Didi? To
tailor suits for my Atul, I have paid much more.’
Unfamiliar with the concept of ‘suit’, Siddheshwari looked at her
blankly. Seeing her look Nayantara clarified, ‘Coat, pant, necktie—all
of this together is called a suit.’
In a somewhat disgruntled manner, Siddheshwari instructed her
daughter, ‘Nila, call your aunt—let her come and take out the
money.’
Nayantara said, ‘Why don’t you just give me the key, I’ll take it out
myself.’
Nila stood up and said, ‘Where will Ma get them, the keys to the
almirah have always been with Khuri Ma.’
Nayantara’s face flushed a bright red hearing this. She remarked,
‘Didi, do you mean to say that the keys were with you for a couple of
days only because Chhoto Bou was not here all this while?’
Siddheshwari had begun her prayers and did not answer.
Ten minutes later, when Shailaja entered the room to take out the
money, a conference was being held around Atul’s new coat. Clad in
the coat, Atul was explaining the intricacies of its tailoring, while his
mother and Haricharan gazed in stupefied wonder and imbibed
knowledge of what fashion was all about.
‘Chhoto Khuri Ma, what do you think?’ asked Atul.
‘Good.’ With that terse response Shailaja opened the safe,
counted out the money and handed it over to Nayantara.
For the benefit of all present, Nayantara made a force of chiding
her son mildly and said, ‘You have closets full of clothes, yet you will
still not be satisfied.’
Impatiently her son answered, ‘How many times will I have to
repeat myself, Ma? This is the fashion these days. If there isn’t at
least one in this style, people will laugh!’ Saying this he was about to
make an exit, when suddenly he came to a halt and said, ‘When
Harida goes out the way he does, I feel so ashamed. His old-
fashioned, ill-fitting clothes—they are nothing but a shame,
absolutely awful.’ Then, laughing, he continued, ‘In such clothes,
Harida looks just like a walking pillow!’
Her son’s mimicry of Haricharan caused Nayantara to burst into
peals of laughter. Nila turned aside, trying hard to stifle her giggles.
Haricharan, gazing piteously at his Khuri Ma, hung his head in
shame.
Siddheshwari, who was making a mere attempt at praying, was
disturbed by her son’s demeanour. In a peeved manner she said,
‘Truly! Don’t they too have a right to dreams and desires, Shailaja?
Why don’t you just have some clothes made for these children?’
In the manner of one who knows all, Atul nodded sagely, ‘Just give
me the money Jethima, I will get my tailor to make something
absolutely perfect. There is no hoodwinking me.’
Nayantara was on the verge of remarking on her son’s great
sagacity, when Shailaja spoke aloud in firm and determined tones,
‘You don’t have to overreach yourself—just mind your own business.
There are capable people here to tailor their clothes.’ Saying which
she noisily slung across her shoulders the bunch of keys tied to one
end of her sari and left.
 Fuming, Nayantara spoke out, ‘Didi, did you hear what Chhoto
Bou just remarked? Why, what was wrong with what Atul said?’
Siddheshwari did not answer. She was probably meditating, which
was why she perhaps did not hear. But Sihailaja did. Returning and
looking at her sister-in-law she said, ‘Didi has heard Chhoto Bou any
number of times, it is you who have not. In spite of being the
younger, Atul mocked his elder brother very unbecomingly and you
giggled at that; if he had been my son, today I would have buried him
alive.’ Saying this Shailaja left and went about her work.
A sudden silence descended on the room. Some time later
Nayantara sighed deeply and addressing her sister-in-law said,
‘Today is my Atul’s birthday and Chhoto Bou wilfully abused him with
anything that came to mind!’
Fear of a noisy outbreak of words between her two sisters-in-law
inspired Siddheshwari to pray even more intently.
Not getting an answer, Nayantara continued once again. ‘If you
don’t take some steps, we will have to do something one way or
another.’
Despite that veiled threat of impending unpleasantness,
Siddheshwari did not say a word. Accompanied by her son,
Nayantara made a graceful exit.
But, after about ten minutes, when Siddheshwari was through with
her prayers, Nayantara returned; she had merely been waiting
outside.
In a voice parched with tension. Siddheshwari asked, ‘Yes, Mejo
Bou?’
Nayantara answered, ‘What I have come to find out about is this: I
do not sponge off anybody, nor live off anybody’s earnings that I
have to mutely put up with such a tongue lashing! Can you tell me
why Chhoto Bou should say anything she feels like and be allowed
to get away with it?’
Attempting to soothe her ruffled feathers, Siddheshwari gently
said, ‘That was no lashing, Mejo Bou, she talks in that manner.
Besides, nothing was intended for you, it was …’
‘Of course not, she didn’t mean it! She only wanted to bury Atul
alive and it seems that I giggle! Don’t cover up for her, Didi, how else
is a tongue lashing meted out? Is it because I was not physically
assaulted that you remain unperturbed?’
Siddheshwari was taken aback. ‘What kind of talk is that, Mejo
Bou? Have I been tutoring her to speak the way she did?’
Nayantara had been festering internally since the incident
regarding the key and arrogantly responded, ‘That is something that
you know the answer to. Nobody can read anyone’s mind, Didi; one
has to judge by what one sees and hears. We are new to this family,
if we have become unwanted, wouldn’t it be better to tell us directly,
instead of provoking someone else into doing so?’
Siddheshwari could not find words to respond to this allegation
and stared at Nayantara blankly and speechlessly in bewilderment.
In an increasingly harsh manner Nayantara continued, ‘We are not
totally without intelligence, Didi, and can understand everything. But,
instead of rejecting us in this manner, wouldn’t it be better if we were
simply asked to leave? We too can then depart with our honour
intact. Oh! If my husband heard of all this, he would be
thunderstruck! He goes about telling all and sundry, “My Bouthakrun
is not human, but a virtual goddess.”’
Siddheshwari started weeping. In a choked voice she said, ‘Not
even my worst enemy could make such an allegation, Mejo Bou! I
would rather die than speak in this manner to Thakurpo. That you
are all here, I am so happy—go and fetch Kanai, Patol, I will swear
on their heads …!’
She could not complete what she was saying for Shailaja entered
the room carrying a glass of milk. ‘Are you done with your prayers,
Didi? Here is some milk,’ she said.
Forgetting her tears, Siddheshwari shrilly cried out, ‘Get out of my
sight, you, just get out!’
 Shailaja was taken aback at this sudden and fierce outburst from
Siddheshwari. Weeping profusely, the latter continued, ‘Why do you
speak in such a self-willed fashion to just about anybody?’
‘What have I said and to whom?’
Siddheshwari did not pay even a jot of attention to this query and
continued shrieking aloud, ‘You have got so used to talking to me in
this manner that you cross all boundaries with everyone else as well.
Who cares about what you say? Do you assume that everyone is
your Didi? Just get out of my sight.’
Shailaja calmly responded, ‘That’s fine, finish the milk and I will
leave; I need the glass.’
Her calm tones further incensed Siddheshwari into a fiery rage. ‘I
will not have a morsel, you just leave! Either you get out of the house
or I will leave myself—not a drop of water will pass my lips till one or
the other comes to pass.’
Shailaja continued to answer in a composed manner, ‘Didi, I have
only just returned and will not be able to leave again so soon; rather,
you go and spend a few days in Katwa. The Ganga too is close by,
they’ll just have to drag you out when you pop it. Mejdi, what is this
furore you have set up at this hour of the morning over such a trifling
matter? Didi is half dead with fever, why are you hurling barbed
remarks at her now? If I have made some mistake, why not tell me
directly? What is the matter?’
Wiping away her tears Siddheshwari smiled and said, ‘Today is
Atul’s birthday, why did you berate the child in that manner?’
Shailaja laughed aloud, ‘Oh, is that all? You have absolutely no
cause to worry. Mejdi, like you I am also a mother. A mother’s curses
never harm a child; let me call and bless him—Didi, you drink up, I
have some cooking to take care of.’
Tears mingled with the smiles on Siddheshwari’s face. ‘But,
apologize to Mejo Bou too—you have also spoken ill of her.’
‘I will do so immediately,’ saying which Shailaja bent down and
touching Nayantara’s feet said, ‘If I have committed a wrong, I beg
forgiveness.’
Nayantara stretched out her hand and lightly caressed Shailaja’s
chin, but remained sullenly silent.
A load lifted off Siddheshwari. She, too, patted her youngest
sister-in-law and in a voice steeped in affection and happiness
addressing Nayantara, said, ‘Never let this overzealous one stir you
to anger. Look at me—I berate her and am so harsh with her;
however, my very insides seem to be torn asunder if I do not see her
for any length of time … But, I cannot have so much of milk, Shaila
…’
‘You can, drink up.’
Siddheshwari did not argue further and forced herself to gulp down
the entire contents of the glass. She then said, ‘Shaila, be sure to
send for the child right now and bless him.’
‘Immediately,’ saying which Shailaja departed smilingly.
 3

ATUL HAD NEVER BEEN MORE EMBARRASSED IN HIS LIFE.

SINCE CHILDHOOD his parents had thoroughly spoiled him; neither his
mother nor his father had ever denied him anything at all. Now, he
felt an overpowering rage at the treatment that had been handed out
to him. Emerging from Siddheshwari’s room, he flung the new coat
to the ground and sat down in a huff, sulky and offended.
Haricharan was in full sympathy for Atul. After all, Atul had been
insulted in his attempt to speak up for the former—hence,
Haricharan too took a seat beside him and stared ahead balefully.
What he wanted to do was to console Atul, but not finding the
appropriate words, he remained silent.
But it was impossible for Atul to remain quiet any longer—because
for him it was not just the insult that was the issue. He had brought
home a lot of nouveau fashion and in innumerable ways had set
himself up on a very high pedestal. Suddenly foreseeing his stature
being smashed to the ground in smithereens thanks to his aunt’s
chiding, a restless agitation overcame him. Addressing Hari, he burst
out in wrathful tones, ‘I don’t care a whit for what anyone says! For
Atulchandra, when he is angry, the words of his aunt or anyone else
do not make any difference at all.’
In terror and glancing this way and that, Haricharan responded,
‘Neither do I—quiet, Kanai is coming.’ He stood up in nervous
tension, fearing that the foolish Atul, attempting to flaunt his courage
and bravado, would speak in this manner in front of Kanai as well.
Stepping outside the door, in the manner of a court heralder of the
Mughals, Kanai called out, ‘Mejda, Sejda, Ma wants to see you,
quickly.’
With a wan face Haricharan asked, ‘Me? What have I done?
Definitely not me—go Atul, Chhoto Khuri Ma wants you.’
 In lordly tones Kanai asserted, ‘Both, both of you—immediately.
What! Sejda, you have flung your new coat to the ground?’
But there was no response to his question. Instead, it was Chhoto
Khuri Ma’s summons which evoked a response—that of Sejda
looking at Mejda and the latter gazing at the former. Oblivious to the
tension in his cousins’ minds, Kanai picked up the: coat and, hanging
it on the chair back, left.
In parched and fearful tones Haricharan said, ‘Why should I be
afraid, I did not say a word—it was you who insisted that you were
not afraid of Chhoto Khuri Ma.’
‘Not only I, you too said so,’ saying which Atul honourably strode
into the house. His attitude was this: should it be necessary, he
would not hesitate to reveal all that he thought of these scoldings
and insults.
Left alone, Haricharan looked even more washed out. As it was he
did not know why Chhoto Khuri Ma had sent for him, and on top of
that it was virtually impossible to gauge what that irresponsible Atul
would blurt out. For a moment, Hari thought of following him and
fervently protesting against all allegations in case Atul also involved
him in his revolt against Chhoto Khuri Ma; but then, he just could not
depend on his own ability to follow through with the plan. However,
the time of confrontation drew near; Kanai had already brought the
summons, and if Haricharan did not materialize in front of his aunt
soon enough, Kanai would now probably appear with a warrant.
Unable to think of any adequate means of self-defence, Haricharan
departed to answer an urgent call of nature. What could be done?
After all, all members of the household remained in mortal terror of
Chhoto Khuri Ma.
Going inside and asking around, Atul came to know that Chhoto
Khuri Ma was in the vegetarian kitchen, engaged in cooking. All
puffed up in self-pride, Atul presented himself at the kitchen door.
Unlike the other children of the household, he had had no
opportunity to gain any understanding of what his Chhoto Khuri Ma
was truly like. Atul had no inkling at all that women too could be as
strong as steel. Having been indulged by his average, weak-willed
and mild relatives since his birth, the idea had become deeply
ingrained in him, about his mother, aunts and other elders, that if
only one confronted women aggressively and answered back at
them, was it possible to have one’s own way. In other words, it was
necessary to assert one’s will very forcefully on women. Only then
would they agree and not otherwise. A boy who did not succeed in
this would always be cheated and left bereft—that was the guiding
principle of his life.
Ever since he had arrived in the household and observed
Haricharan’s ragged and worn attire, Atul had been trying to teach
him these guidelines. But, somehow, the same trick hadn’t worked
for him just now; being chided by his Chhoto Khuri Ma, far from
answering back, not a word had escaped him—like one stunned, he
had silently quit the battleground. Hence, he returned and stood at
the kitchen door determined to extract in full, total vengeance for all
the insults he had been forced to gulp down. From his vantage point,
Shailaja could be partially seen; as Atul looked at his Khuri Ma, it
became very apparent to him that this was not the face of his mother
or Jethima. Whoever else might have the assertiveness to confront
her, he was not up to it. He found it impossible to utter even a single
word. All his puffed up importance collapsed in seconds and he
stood there in mute silence. He could not even muster up enough
gumption to attract his Chhoto Khuri Ma’s attention by calling out.
Nila had been going that way on some chore. Suddenly her glance
fell on her Sejda’s feet; from behind the scene, unobserved by
Shailaja, she gestured frantically and repeatedly, trying to indicate
that the kitchen was not the place to enter with shoes on. But Atul
did not heed her. Surreptitiously casting a glance at his Khuri Ma’s
face, his skin prickled in nervous anticipation. Once he thought of
silently slipping away, yet again the idea of throwing out the
offending shoes into the courtyard struck him. But Atul felt an acute
sense of shame in giving vent to this fright in front of his younger
sister. Truly he had not known of this injunction and neither had he
deliberately flouted the order. However, being excessively indulged
by both parents, Atul’s ego had become so heightened and sensitive
that it was totally demeaning for him to withdraw from any course of
action he had set into motion. With a visage discoloured by fright and
fully conscious of the chaos that loomed ahead, much like the
arrogant Duryodhana who, blinded by pride was not willing to yield
even an inch of ground to the Pandavas without battle, Atul did not
know how to retreat without making a scene.
Shailaja looked up. Affectionately and with a gentle smile she said,
‘Is it you, Atul? Just give me a moment—what! You have your shoes
on! Go away—shoo!’
Any other boy of the household would have speedily and with
great relief taken to his heels at being let off so lightly by Shailaja.
But Atul stubbornly dug in his heels and stood there.
Getting up, Shailaja said, ‘One doesn’t come here with shoes,
Atul, go down.’
In parched, reedy tones Atul replied, ‘I am standing outside the
threshold, what is the problem here?’
Shailaja said scoldingly, ‘There is a problem—leave!’
But even then Atul did not leave. In his mind’s eye he imagined
Haricharan, Kanai, Bipin and the others savouring his humiliation.
Like a stubborn and stiff-necked horse, he wilfully continued, ‘In our
house at Chinsurah, we would enter the kitchen itself with our shoes
on. Here, I am standing outside the threshold, so it does not make
any difference.’
Atul’s sheer audacity stunned Shailaja into silence. Only her eyes
seemed to emit sparks of fire.
At just this moment, Haricharan’s elder brother Manindra, finishing
a bout of strenuous exercise and dripping with sweat, was passing
by. He happened to look up at Shailaja. In amazement he asked,
‘What is the matter, Khuri Ma?’
 Overwhelmed by anger and the impertinence of her nephew,
Shailaja continued to remain silent. Standing close by, Nila pointed
to Atul’s feet and said, ‘Sejda has been standing there in shoes and
even after being told that what he is doing is wrong, just refuses to
go down.’
Manindra called out, ‘You, come down immediately!’
Atul obdurately continued, ‘What is the problem with my standing
here? It is only because Chhoto Khuri cannot tolerate me that she
keeps finding any and every fault with me and shooing me away.’
In an instant, Manindra jumped up to the kitchen entrance and
slapping Atul hard, said, ‘Not Chhoto Khuri, address her as Chhoto
Khuri Ma; learn to talk more respectfully, rascal!’
Manindra was an extremely muscular youth who had never been
able to gauge his own strength. Atul’s head began spinning and he
collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Surprised by his own strength, and uneasy seeing the effect it had
on Atul, Manindra felt rather awkward and embarrassed. He bent
down and tried to pull Atul to his feet, but the latter pounced on him
in the manner of a half-crazed cheetah, mindlessly biting and
scratching Moni and calling him relations that were completely
impossible between cousins. Initially Moni was stupefied in sheer
amazement. He was a senior student of the medical college and
much older than his siblings. None of them even dared to look Moni
in the eye when they talked to him. This was what had always been
prevalent in the house. That someone among his siblings could
curse him aloud in such a filthy manner was beyond his
comprehension and expectation. Losing all sense of restraint, he
firmly grasped Atul by the scruff of his neck and threw him to the
floor; then, continually kicking him all along, he pushed him all the
way from upstairs—finally throwing him down onto the courtyard
below.
Kanai, Bipin, Patol and the other smaller children set up a loud
hue and cry. Manindra’s mother, Siddheshwari, rushed out, forgetting
her prayers. Nayantara, who, taking advantage of the solitude of an
empty room had been attempting to partake of a sweet or two, came
rushing out and turned all but blue at the sight that greeted her.
Throwing aside the sweet, she cast herself at her son and set up a
loud cacophonic wailing. All in all, so much chaos resulted, that even
the menfolk cast aside their work and came running to the site of
drama.
Shailaja, looking out from the kitchen, said, ‘Moni, you go out,’ and
concentrated once again on what she was doing. Moni silently left.
His father, thoroughly ashamed of Nayantara’s seemingly lunatic
behaviour, also beat a quiet retreat.
After the situation had calmed down somewhat, Harish questioned
his son. Sobbing piteously and squarely blaming Shailaja for his
miserable state, Atul said, ‘She taught Barda to beat me up.’
Harish roared aloud, ‘Chhoto Bou, can you explain why you gave
Moni lessons on how to murder a child?’
From inside the kitchen, Nila answered on behalf of her Chhoto
Khuri, ‘Sejda disobeyed Chhoto Khuri Ma and also abused Barda—
that is why he was beaten.’
On behalf of her son, Nayantara responded, ‘It was only in sheer
self-defence that Atul became abusive; only because he was being
murdered under your instructions; otherwise, my Atul is not one to
curse aloud!’
‘Definitely not,’ assented Harish. He became further incensed and
asked, ‘Nila, just find out from your Chhoto Khuri—who is she to
order Atul to be killed? When he was flouting orders, why wasn’t a
complaint made to us? When we—the menfolk of this house, as well
as his parents—were present, who was she to discipline my son?’
Nila did not respond to any one of the three questions.
All this while Siddheshwari had been sitting at one end of the
veranda, as though in a stupor. This furore and excitement was too
much for her frail body. In the normal course of things, she had
always been reluctant to voice her opinion about anything other than
matters pertaining to the children—because she had an ingrained
belief that God had played unjustly with this household. In spite of
being the eldest daughter-in-law and in charge of the household, she
was not intelligent or capable enough; Shailaja, despite being the
youngest, had more than her share of brains and abilities. Keeping
accounts, writing letters, carrying on a conversation, nursing, looking
after the ailing, keeping an eye on everything, running the house or
decorating it—there wasn’t anyone quite like her. Quite often
Siddheshwari would reiterate, ‘If my Shailaja was a man, she would
have been a judge by now!’ When her brother-in-law began abusing
this very Shailaja, a sense of being the head of the household
suddenly awoke in her and spurred her into action finally.
She spoke aloud somewhat harshly, ‘If that is so, Mejo Thakurpo,
why are you taking matters into your own hands instead of
complaining to us? My mother-in-law is alive, I am there—if required
we will discipline any woman of the household. You are a man and
her brother-in-law, what sort of behaviour is this? What will people
think?’
Embarrassed, Harish said, ‘If you had kept an eye on everything
right from the beginning, there would have been no problem at all,
Bouthakrun. Then, could one person have attempted to murder
another in this household?’ As he quickly tried to leave after saying
this, his wife prevented him, saying, ‘Fine, why don’t you wait and
see what sort of disciplining is done?’
But Siddheshwari’s admonishing had found its target—without
bothering to reply, Harish left the place.
 4

ABOUT FIVE DAYS OR SO LATER, NAYANTARA BEGAN PACKING THE

BELONGINGS of her family in earnest from early in the morning.
Noticing this, Siddheshwari came and stood quietly at the door. After
remaining silent for a moment, she asked, ‘What is all this, Mejo
Bou?’
With studied nonchalance Nayantara replied, ‘You can see for
yourself.’
‘That I can. So, where are you going?’
Nayantara continued in the same manner, ‘Wherever …’
‘Even so, tell me where …’
‘Didi, how will I know where? He has gone to locate suitable
lodgings; till his return I cannot say a thing.’
‘Has your brother-in-law been told?’
‘What is the sense in telling him? The person who needed to
know, Chhoto Bou, has heard; she even came stealthily and took a
look.’
This was absolute fabrication by Nayantara. Shailaja had not a
moment to spare at this hour of the morning and did not have any
idea of what was going on.
After remaining silent for some more time Siddheshwari said,
‘Look Mejo Bou, perhaps none of you have realized the worth of this
brother-in-law of yours; but ask any rank outsider and he will affirm
that only good deeds of some past birth can result in getting a
brother-in-law like this.’
Nayantara suddenly seemed to come to life. ‘Don’t we know that,
Didi?’ she said. ‘Not just a brother-in-law, we are more than blessed
in having a sister-in-law like you too. In your house we were more
than ready to lead the life of servants. But now we cannot spend
more than a moment here in utter humiliation.’
 Hearing some note of genuine emotion in Nayantara’s voice,
Siddheshwari could not retain her composure any longer and said,
‘This is not just my house, Mejo Bou, it belongs to all of you. You all
have a right to this house, so there is no way that I can permit any of
you to go elsewhere.’
Shaking her head, Nayantara piteously asserted, ‘If God ever wills
such a time to come by, we will come and spend our days with you;
but for now, please do not ask us to remain here any longer. My Atul
appears to be a thorn in everybody’s flesh but he is very dear to us;
just allow us to leave with him.’
Greatly disturbed, Siddheshwari continued, ‘What manner of talk is
that, Mejo Bou? Just because an unfortunate incident happened the
other day, is it really necessary to continue to brood on it and take
such drastic action? Atul is our boy …’
Nayantara could not hold on to her patience long enough for
Siddheshwari to even complete her sentence. She burst forth, ‘What
a lot of chiding I have to put up with, simply because my memory
fails me! When that furore took place, I wept and cried; but in a while
everything faded from my mind and I did not hold on to any
memories or grudges. I had indeed forgotten everything. But Didi,
you may find it difficult to be angry with her, but you will have to
admit that our Chhoto Bou is not an easy person to understand or
deal with. She has primed all the children of dus house and since
then nobody at all has talked to my Atul. Seeing him look all wan and
disturbed, I was forced to ask him why he appeared thus, and found
out all about their boycott. No Didi, it is impossible for us to remain
here any longer. If my boy has to remain thus stifled and outcast in
this house, he will fall sick. It will be a relief for all concerned to shift
elsewhere. Chhoto Bou too will have some respite and even I will be
able to breathe in peace.’
Tears rolled down Nayantara’s cheeks in sorrow for her son’s
plight—and that completely softened Siddheshwari. She was unable
to handle the sorrow of any child at all. Wiping dry Mejo Bou’s tears
with the end of her sari, Siddheshwari remained silent for a while. It
was beyond her comprehension that silently such an effective
punishment could be meted out so easily and so heartlessly by the
children of this household to one of their own. Sighing deeply, she
said, ‘Poor child! Then, does nobody in the household talk to Atul,
Mejo Bon?’
Nayantara too sighed and replied, ‘Why don’t you ask one of the
children and find out for yourself, Didi?’
Sending for Haricharan immediately, Siddheshwari questioned
him. Spiritedly, Haricharan answered, ‘Who will talk to that lowly
character, Ma? He says just whatever he feels like to Barda and
abuses Chhoto Khuri Ma.’
Taken aback by the sense of righteousness in her son’s reply,
Siddheshwari could not find the words to answer him. A little later
she asked, ‘What can be done about something that has already
happened, Hari? Call him and talk to him.’
Shaking his head, Haricharan responded, ‘He has no problem in
finding people to talk with! There are plenty of people looking after
the horses who, like him, speak foul language—he will be able to
find any number of friends there.’
Nayantara flew into a rage, ‘You are also extremely cheeky, Hari;
how dare you talk to us in this manner! Fine, that will be just perfect!
The stable keepers can be our companions. Didi, get up, let the
servant pack our belongings.’
Looking at his mother, Haricharan asserted, ‘In the presence of
everybody Atul will have to hold his own ears and after rubbing his
nose to the ground will have to apologize—only then will we talk to
him. Otherwise, Chhoto Khuri Ma—no, Ma, that is something none of
us can do.’ Without waiting for further arguments, he turned and left
the room.
Dejected, Siddheshwari remained silent.
Lowering her voice, Nayantara said, ‘If Chhoto Bou sends for the
boys and instructs them, the entire matter can be resolved at once.’
 Slowly Siddheshwari nodded and said, ‘That it can.’
Nayantara continued in the same strain, ‘Now do you see what I
have been saying all this while? Will these boys care for or respect
you when they grow up? One can never be certain about the future
—your own boys are becoming distant from you—they are only
concerned about their Chhoto Khuri Ma’s happiness. But no matter
what you say about Atul and his likes, their world centres around
their mother. When I give instructions, never would Atul even think of
adamantly clinging to his viewpoint or disobeying me—his own
mother—to keep his aunt happy, nor would he leave in a huff! Such
audacity is not good at all, Didi.’
Siddheshwari probably did not understand Nayantara’s hidden
meaning; innocently she responded, ‘Yes, that’s true. All the children
of the household—from Moni to Patol—are all under that Shaila’s
thumb. Whatever she instructs is done—no one pays any heed to
me.’
‘Does this bode well?’
Somewhat distracted by Nayantara’s continuous attempts to
caution her against Shailaja, Siddheshwari answered, ‘What? Nila,
just ask your Khuri Ma to come here for an instant.’
Nila was going on some errand; she turned back. Nayantara did
not say a word more and Siddheshwari too waited in anxious
anticipation.
As soon as Shailaja entered the room, Siddheshwari remarked
aloud, ‘Their packing is all but done—then, they might as well
leave?’
Shailaja, who had no clue as to what was going on, asked
somewhat timorously, ‘Who? Why?’
Siddheshwari fumed, ‘Why indeed? Truly Shaila, how hard-
hearted you are! Under your instructions nobody plays with Atul or
even talks to him—how do you expect that poor child to spend his
time? Which parent can remain quiet, pretending that all is well when
they can see their child going about so wan and woebegone?
Doesn’t this treatment handed out to Atul under your instruction
mean you do not want him or his parents here?’
Nayantara, adding fuel to fire, remarked in apparent innocence,
‘That will perhaps suit Chhoto Bou best.’
Shailaja totally ignored this barbed remark. Addressing
Siddheshwari, she said, ‘I cannot permit any boy of this house to mix
with a boy of that sort, Didi. The extent to which he has sunk is
unimaginable.’
This was unbearable for Nayantara. Like a wounded serpent she
lashed out, ‘Wretched one, you dare criticize a child like this in front
of his own mother! Get out of my room. May you be struck dumb!’
‘Never do I willingly come into your room, Mejdi. But by behaving
like this you have set a bad example for your son and allowed him to
go to the dogs,’ saying which Shailaja left the room.
Totally bewildered, Siddheshwari remained silent for a long while.
She was torn between the arguments spewed out by her younger
sisters-in-law, and just could not decide what to do or say.
Deciding to use a dramatic and emotional approach to turn
Siddheshwari in her favour, Nayantara burst into tears suddenly and
cried out, ‘Didi, forget about us, allow us to leave; only because they
are real brothers are you taking our side like this; but Chhoto Bou
whose husband is, after all, only a cousin of theirs has no desire at
all that we remain in the same house.’
Not responding to this, Siddheshwari said, ‘Why doesn’t Atul do
what they are saying? He has not been right either, Mejo Bou!’
‘Have I ever said that he has, Didi? Does anyone in his senses
ever curse his elder brother?! Fine, on his behalf I am begging
forgiveness from all of you,’ Nayantara bent down and vigorously
rubbed her nose on the floor. ‘It tears me apart to see his crestfallen
face,’ saying which Nayantara was about to repeat her action, when
Siddheshwari reached out and prevented her from doing so and also
wiped dry her own tears.
 In the afternoon, in the kitchen, after having failed in attempting to
persuade Shailaja and arguing with her endlessly, Siddheshwari
became angry. ‘Why don’t you just express what you truly want
Shaila: that Mejo Bou and her family leave?’ she said.
The only answer Shailaja made was to look up; that glance only
served to further incense Siddheshwari. ‘Drive out one’s own brother
and live with the likes of you all, let society simply tar us black! If it
does not suit you to live here according to my household norms, go
away wherever you want and leave me in peace. You are not closer
to me than they are.’ Siddheshwari stood up, perhaps hoping that
this at long last would soften Shailaja. But when the latter continued
to concentrate on her cooking, Siddheshwari’s rage knew no bounds
and she left the kitchen displeased no end.
In the afternoon, as her husband sat down to his meal,
Siddheshwari brimming over with hurt, sorrow and pique poured out
her heart to him. ‘I do not think that Mejo Bou and her family will be
able to live here any longer. They have been packing all morning.’
Puzzled, Girish looked up and asked, ‘Why?’
Siddheshwari responded, ‘Why else! As it is she just cannot get
along at all with Chhoto Bou. Additionally, Chhoto Bou has instructed
all the boys not to have anything to do with Atul. The last couple of
days the poor boy has been boycotted by the others and has, as a
result, just withered away.’
At that very moment, Shailaja appeared at the door, bearing a
glass of milk. Tidying her self a bit, she entered the room; putting
down the glass of milk before her brother-in-law, she left.
Deliberately, to catch her attention, Siddheshwari remarked aloud,
‘Now, look at Chhoto Bou …’ She noted with some satisfaction that
on hearing her name, Shailaja immediately moved to one side of the
door.
No matter how much at fault the opponents in this dispute might
have been, Siddheshwari could not hold on to her anger seeing Atul
and his mother’s sorry plight. It would be a relief to get the matter
resolved once and for all. But it totally infuriated her to think that
Shailaja just could not be controlled in any manner. Hence, drat day,
she stepped into the fray, absolutely determined to set things right
once and for all. She continued, ‘This Shailaja, if she is causing such
friction between brothers when they are at such a tender age, going
by the look of things this house will become a battlefield when they
grow up. Does that bode well?’
Without pausing in eating Girish remarked, ‘Very bad!’
Siddheshwari continued, ‘It is because of her that Moni beat up
Atul so mercilessly. Atul was abusive and Moni beat him—surely the
matter comes to an end there! Where is the necessity of forbidding
the boys to speak to him? Today you must send for Moni and Hari
and tell them to talk to Atul; or else, if Mejo Bou and her family leave,
the neighbours will not hesitate in tearing us to shreds. Truly, you
cannot possibly discard your own brother and his wife merely to
satisfy Chhoto Bou’s whims!’
‘Definitely not,’ and Girish continued to eat. Siddheshwari dealt her
final ace. ‘Will Chhoto Thakurpo never start earning? Is he going to
spend his entire life in this manner?’
As soon as her husband’s name was mentioned, Shailaja held her
hands to her ears and quickly left the place. She could not bear to
wait and hear Girish’s reply. Never had she evinced any desire to
eavesdrop on a conversation of this kind, nor had she ever done so.
She was quite sure that any conversation about her husband could
be nothing but unfavourable. Shailaja was an ardent adherent of the
truth; no matter how unfavourable or unpalatable it might be, she
never turned away from the bitter truth. But for some reason, she
flouted the very rules that she set for herself when it came to facing
up to the truth about her husband’s squandering away of the family
fortune; perhaps the subject was too painful for her to admit and
acknowledge.
 5
WHATEVER THE REASONS BEHIND THE ANGER THAT HAD COMPELLED
Siddheshwari to complain vociferously to her husband, the sight of
Shailaja rapidly leaving the doorway brought her sharply back to her
senses—she had overstepped her limits this time. Siddheshwari was
well aware that demeaning her husband always greatly upset and
hurt Shailaja.
Seeing his wife suddenly turn silent, Girish looked up and said, ‘I
will definitely give a sound scolding.’ Then he got up, fully satiated by
his meal, and within a very short while the matter completely slipped
his mind.
Girish had a somewhat strange nature. Besides legal matters and
court cases, nothing ever left a lasting impression on his mind. What
happened in the house, what the expenses in running the household
were, what the boys were up to, how his family members got along
with each other, what they did or didn’t do—he would keep track of
nothing at all. Girish would earn enough to keep the household
running, comment favourably or unfavourably on whatever was
taking place as and when required, and in this manner assert that he
was complying with his duties as head of the household.
Hence, when her husband left with the promise, ‘I will definitely
give a sound scolding,’ Siddheshwari did not say a word. She did not
even ask him who he intended to scold and why.
Nayantara, who had been eavesdropping on the entire
conversation between her sister- and brother-in-law, departed in glee
and joyous anticipation. However, within five minutes or so she
returned and solicitously inquired, ‘Didi, why are you sitting like this?
It’s getting late, you must have something to eat.’
In a wan and dispirited manner Siddheshwari responded, ‘It’s not
all that late, only eleven.’
 ‘Is eleven all that early, Didi? With your health being what it is, you
should eat latest by nine.’
Siddheshwari did not evince any desire to talk about food at a
moment like this. She answered, ‘That may be, Mejo Bou. But I
never eat so early; I will eat later.’
Nayantara persisted; coming closer, she grasped Siddheshwari’s
hand. In a voice oozing concern she said, ‘That’s exactly why you
are liverish and in this condition. If the kitchen were in my charge,
would I let nine o’clock go by before feeding you? If you do not
survive Didi, what concern is it of anybody else, but it spells disaster
for us. Come on, let me see to some sort of a meal for you and not
worry myself to death.’
It was over a month since Nayantara had come to stay in the
house; Siddheshwari was quite aware of why she had not bothered
to alleviate this acute anxiety that she felt for her eldest sister-in-law
all this while. But such was the power of flattery that despite seeing
through all, Siddheshwari could only respond tearfully, ‘You are my
own, that is why you are so concerned, Mejo Bou; otherwise, who is
there for me?’
Grasping her by the hand, Nayantara took Siddheshwari to the
kitchen, seated her and saw to it that the rice was served.
Calling Nila, she instructed her, ‘Tell your Chhoto Khuri to send
over whatever has been cooked there.’ Siddheshwari had to partake
of vegetarian food as part of her treatment, and all the vegetarian
food in the house was prepared by Shailaja.
A little later, Shailaja came in, put the food before Siddheshwari
and was about to leave silently when Siddheshwari asked Nayantara
in the thin, reedy tones of a patient, ‘Why don t you all join me, Mejo
Bou?’
Nayantara promptly answered, ‘All of us are not virtually on our
deathbeds like you, Didi! You finish your meal first, then, I will eat off
your own plate.’ Casting a covert glance at Shailaja and in
deliberately raised tones she said, ‘No Didi, as long as I live, there is
no way that you are going to make your escape to the other world for
want of love and proper care.’ Looking around to see how far Chhoto
Bou had gone, Nayantara continued, ‘Just as both of them are
brothers, we too are sisters. No matter where I am, these bonds will
make me weep for you like none other ever can. Others will only see
how much they stand to gain by declaring their love for you, but I
want to serve you to the best of my capacity because my feelings for
you stem right from inside. Didi, what you have just said, there is
none closer to you than I am—always keep that in mind.’
In tones melting with emotion Siddheshwari responded, ‘Is this
something one can ever forget, Mejo Bou? This is the punishment
that is being meted out to me for being unable to recognize you all
this while.’
Wiping away her tears with the end of her sari, Nayantara
continued in the same vein, ‘Let any punishment that is meted out,
be only meted out to me, Didi. All the fault is entirely mine, it is I who
have been unable to recognize you.’ Halting for some time, she
resumed, ‘Today I have come to realize that I am less than the dust
at your feet, but why did the knowledge not come to me sooner,
Didi? Perhaps the Almighty does not want to grant me my fervent
wish of staying close to you and serving you. For we are nothing
more than enemies in Chhoto Bou’s eyes.’
In firm and assertive tones Siddheshwari said aloud, ‘Then, let her
go to the village house with her children! Should I undertake the
responsibility of feeding and clothing that entire clan of hers at the
cost of breaking up my own family? A cousin of my husband, that
cousin’s wife and their children—that’s all that is there to the
relationship that exists between us. I have fed and clothed them long
enough, no more; if Chhoto Bou can stay in this house in dumb
silence, like a servant, she may—otherwise she is free to leave.’
It was beyond Siddheshwari’s imagination that Shailaja could still
be standing near the door. Suddenly a glimpse of the broad red
border of Shailaja’s sari flashed in front of Siddheshwari’s eyes like
an unexpected upsurge of flames; quickly glancing around she
caught sight of Shailaja standing mutely next to the door and in
disbelieving silence taking in all that was being said. In a second
Siddheshwari lost her appetite entirely. All she wanted was to go
away and be by herself; all of Nayantara’s kind words and
ministerings meant nothing now.
In overtly concerned tones Nayantara asked, ‘What is the matter,
Didi? You aren’t eating anything at all!’
All that Siddheshwari could do was drily reply, ‘No.’
Nayantara’s immediate response was, ‘For my sake Didi, have just
a little more …’
Siddheshwari burst out, ‘Why are you pestering me, Mejo Bou? I
don’t want to eat—just get out of my sight!’ Pushing away her plate,
Siddheshwari got to her feet.
Nayantara could only gape—but she was not one to let the
opportunity be ruined without putting in an effort. Going up to where
Siddheshwari was washing up, she took hold of her hands and in
silken tones of great humility said, ‘If unknowingly I have caused
offence, please do forgive me, Didi. If you torture your already
emaciated body by fasting, I promise I will break open my own head!’
Siddheshwari felt ashamed of the way she had behaved. She
returned and in silence partook of whatever little she could and left.
But, brooding in her own room, she wondered just how she could
have hurt Shailaja the way she had. That the inevitable consequence
of this incident would be the dreaded severe: fast, she had not the
slightest doubt. Hence, in the afternoon when she heard from Nila
that Chhoto Khuri Ma had sat down to lunch, Siddheshwari’s
astonishment knew no bounds. She just could not comprehend how,
overcoming her natural rigidity, Shailaja could suddenly become so
gentle and forgiving.
That evening, after their return from office, both Girish and Harish
sat down to some light refreshments. Siddheshwari mournfully sat
some distance away—neither did she feel physically well, nor was
she mentally relaxed.
Looking at his wife’s face, Girish instantly remembered the
conversation that had taken place that morning. Though the details
escaped him, he did remember that he would have to chide Ramesh.
He looked about and saw Nila standing at the door; instantly he
commanded, ‘Nila, go and fetch your uncle.’
Perturbed, Siddheshwari asked, ‘Why him, now?’
‘Why?’ put in Harish. ‘He needs a sound scolding. Just idling away
all his time has turned him into a virtual animal.’ He then elaborated
in English, ‘An idle mind is the devil’s workshop.’ Looking towards
Siddheshwari he said, ‘No Bouthan, you must not indulge him any
more—he is no longer a child.’
Siddheshwari did not remark on this and sat there with a
displeased expression.
Ramesh was at home and answering his brother’s summons,
slowly came and presented himself. Girish glared at him and
demanded, ‘Why have you fought with Atul?’
Astounded, Ramesh could only repeat, ‘I have fought with Atul?’
In enraged tones Girish continued, ‘Of course you have!’ Looking
towards his wife he continued, ‘Boro Ginni Ma was saying that you
were extremely abusive and said whatever came to your mind
without a thought for his feelings. Tell me, will she lie to me?’
Amazed, Ramesh stared at Siddheshwari.
Siddheshwari roared out, ‘Have you completely lost your senses?
When did I tell you Chhoto Thakurpo had abused Atul?’
Correcting the wrong impression that Girish harboured of Ramesh,
Harish said, ‘No no, Dada, it is Chhoto Bouma who is responsible for
Atul’s miserable condition.’
Girish then continued, ‘And why should Chhoto Bouma be
abusive, let me hear?’
In equally enraged tones Siddheshwari denied the allegation, ‘Why
would she abuse Atul? It was not her either! Even if she had done
so, I would definitely have been there to chastise her. Why are you
picking on Chhoto Thakurpo?’
Girish carried on, ‘That may well be, but, you good Tor-nothing!
You have wasted so much of my money trying to trade in straw; but
just look at the Khans of Bagbazar! They have made millions trading
in straw.’
Stunned, Harish queried, ‘In straw?’
Ramesh answered, ‘No, jute.’
Angrily Girish responded, ‘They are my clients, do you know them
better than I do? Let me tell you: it is by trading in straw that they
have amassed their wealth. They are sending shiploads of straw to
England.’
Harish and Ramesh both remained silent.
Looking at them, Girish elaborated further, ‘Well, all right, it might
be jute. What is preventing you from bringing in a couple of hundreds
as well by doing something with jute? I cannot continue to simply let
all of you eat off me! Am I to dole out money in an endless stream?
Should I continue to work all my life and let you all sponge off me?’
Becoming extremely perturbed at the possibility of his elder
brother lending more money to Ramesh on account of a new project
involving jute, Harish interrupted mildly and said, ‘All trades have to
be learned; just entering into the jute trade will not do! It is not right
to keep losing money in this manner.’
But Girish’s mind was already made up. Seeming to agree with
Harish, he nodded, ‘Absolutely not. I don’t understand all that
business with jute—you will immediately have to start something with
straw. Tomorrow I will give you a cheque for eight thousand rupees.
Buy straw worth four thousand rupees and put the rest in the bank.
Only when that money is gone are you permitted to touch this and
not before. I cannot let you just sponge off me—go now!’
Ramesh left silently. Harish shook his head and commented,
‘These eight thousand rupees are just going to go down the drain as
well, what do you say Bouthan?’
 Siddheshwari remained silent. Hot getting an answer from her,
Harish looked towards his brother and asked, ‘Are you really going to
give him the money?’
Astonished, Girish queried, ‘What do you mean, “really”?’
Harish answered, ‘The other day you threw away four thousand
rupees on him; I cannot even imagine that you want to do the same
with these eight thousand rupees.’
‘What would you have me do, then?’ asked Girish.
Harish said, ‘What does Ramesh understand of business, Dada?
Whether you give him eight thousand rupees or eight lakhs—I can
bet that he will not be able to make even a paisa of profit. Just think
of the amount of time it takes for people like you and me to earn and
save this money!’
Girish nodded in agreement, ‘Yes, of course, of course! Giving him
money means throwing it away. Is he human at all?’
Happy that he had convinced his elder brother that lending money
to Ramesh was nothing but a folly, Harish enthusiastically continued
in full spate, ‘Rather, let him find a job—one should behave
according to one’s capabilities. The money that I am spending on a
tutor for my son can be saved if he can occupy himself with that. By
contributing even that much towards the family he can help out
somewhat. What do you say, Bouthan?’
But even before she could reply, Girish in pleased accordance
replied, ‘You are right, absolutely right, Harish. Small contributions
can build mighty citadels. Have you noticed Boro Bou, Harish has hit
the nail on the head. I have noticed from childhood that he is
extremely sharp and has very good business acumen. There is none
comparable to him in assessing the future. I was on the verge of
wasting all that money! Let Ramesh start teaching the children from
tomorrow itself. There is no need to waste any more time going
through newspapers and doing nothing.’
Siddheshwari asked, ‘Then, aren’t you going to give him the
money after all?’
 ‘Definitely not! What, do you really think that I will still give him the
money after all this?’
‘Then why did you have to promise him anything at all?’
Harish answered, ‘Just saying so does not mean that the money
will have to be given, Bouthan. I am Dada’s own sibling, my opinion
too has to be sought! It hurts me as well when money is wasted in
this house.’
‘That is the real problem, isn’t it Thakurpo?’ saying which
Siddheshwari got up and left.
 6

EVER SINCE SIDDHESHWARI’S DECLARED DISAPPROVAL OF SHAILAJA,

NAYANTARA had taken on herself the responsibility of looking after her
elder sister-in-law. Her ministering was so compelling and
overwhelming that no one else had the least possible opportunity of
taking even a step close to Siddheshwari. Never in all her years had
Siddheshwari been looked after with such devotion. In spite of that,
why her turbulent mind constantly sought an excuse to censure and
find fault with Shailaja (who made no attempts to offend her) was a
question only the Almighty could answer.
One morning, taking stumbling steps, as though after an arduous
and prolonged illness, Siddheshwari collapsed on the veranda
outside the kitchen. Releasing a careworn and exhausted sigh and
supposedly addressing the blank wall ahead of her, she spoke aloud,
‘Mejo Bou is truly my own; without her caring, I would have probably
breathed my last a long time ago. Not even my own sibling could
have looked after me with such devotion.’
Siddheshwari was well aware that Shailaja was preparing food in
the kitchen and was privy to every single word. All these days
Shailaja had neither entered her sister-in-law’s room, nor had she
talked to her. Siddheshwari was hoping to provoke Shailaja into
some conversation, anything to break the rigid wall that Shailaja
seemed to have built around herself. But even after hearing her
eldest sister-in-law’s complaints, Shailaja still maintained a stoic
silence.
Nevertheless, Siddheshwari continued, ‘Whereas, feeding and
clothing another is merely a waste of time. It isn’t of the least use
when you need it the most. What a contrast to my Mejo Bou—she
comes running even before I call. There is a resounding echo in her
heart when I walk by. It is my bad luck that I paid heed to the words
of another and doubted her in any way.’
 The sound of Shailaja cooking in the kitchen was now clearly
audible to Siddheshwari. In spite of the close proximity, when
Shailaja still did not respond to these unfair allegations,
Siddheshwari’s impatience knew no bounds. Her thin and reedy
tones became strong and assertive. ‘My mother has sent a letter, but
do I have the means of getting it read by anybody? Is there any
sense of my feeding and clothing another if they can be of no help to
me, or even be bothered about me?’
Nila sitting near her Chhoto Khuri was giving her a hand; from
there she called out, ‘Mejo Khuri Ma read out that letter at least three
times, Ma! When did you get another letter?’
‘Don’t meddle in everything, Nila,’ Siddheshwari scolded her
daughter. ‘Is it enough to just have the letter read out? Don’t I have
to reply to it? Why, is your Chhoto Khuri no longer alive that I have to
ask someone from the neighbourhood to come and help me?’
Nila too got angry, ‘Why Ma, is there no one else to write a letter
that you are talking of Khuri Ma’s death today, on this auspicious
day?’ It was the auspicious last day of the month. The fact had totally
escaped Siddheshwari. In a flash, with a face turned pale, she
turned on her daughter, ‘Nila, you astound me! God bless, when did I
ever mention her death? My own daughter chides me! The young girl
whom I welcomed as a bride and brought up, does not even care to
look me up, no matter what sickness plagues me; why do I just not
breathe my last! From henceforth if I take even a drop of medicine
…’ Siddheshwari’s voice choked with tears. Wiping them dry with the
end of her sari, she returned to her room and collapsed on the bed,
and lay there for a while, like a corpse.
Nayantara had observed everything from the window of the
adjoining veranda; she entered slowly and sat at Siddheshwari’s
feet. ‘Why do you have to persuade her to draft a reply to the letter,
Didi? If you had only commanded me, I would have written out ten
replies.’
 Siddheshwari did not respond; turning away, she lay facing the
wall.
Keeping silent for a while, Nayantara persisted, ‘Then, shall I draft
a reply, Didi?’
With a sudden spurt of anger, Siddheshwari said harshly, ‘You
make me talk too much, Mejo Bou. I am telling you, let it be now—
you will not be able to … No, not exactly that …’
Nayantara did not get angry. Where she had an ulterior motive,
she did not allow herself to be upset easily. She left the room in
silence.
Later in the afternoon, Siddheshwari sent for her daughter and
secretively asked, ‘Has your Khuri Ma eaten?’
Surprised, Nila in turn asked, ‘Why not? Like every day, she had a
normal meal today as well.’
Saying ‘Hmm’, Siddheshwari fell silent, brooding over the ominous
change in Shailaja’s behaviour.
Shailaja was extremely sensitive and would take umbrage very
easily. For the slightest of reasons she would begin fasting and this
always caused Siddheshwari endless tension. She would have to be
cajoled, fussed over and persuaded in any number of wavs to
abandon her fast. Why the same Shailaja did not now utter a word of
protest or anger against all the slights being meted out to her
Siddheshwari just could not comprehend. The more unnatural and
unfamiliar this behaviour seemed, the more her very soul trembled in
fear. A noisy quarrel would immensely help in relieving her anxiety—
but Shailaja did not move even remotely in that direction. From dawn
to dusk she carried on with her scheduled chores. Nobody in the
household could see any difference in her behaviour; but the one
who had raised her up from a ten-year-old girl to the woman that she
was now, sensed with a growing foreboding that an ever-thickening
cloud of absolute detachment shrouded Shailaja, making her more
inscrutable with the passing of every single day.
Nila asked, ‘Ma, can I leave?’
 ‘Where to, may I ask?’
Nila remained standing in silence.
Greatly incensed, Siddheshwari sat up and shouted, ‘Where do
you have to go, let me hear? What sort of bond do you have with
your Chhoto Khuri that you cannot even sit by me, your own mother,
for a while? Sit here quietly, wretched one! You do not have to go
anywhere,’ saying which, she turned her face the other way, and
collapsed on the bed.
Entering the room silently, Nayantara affectionately chided Nila,
‘Have some shame, in a little while you will have to set up your own
house; spend some time now at least with your parents and serve
them as much as you can. Give your mother company and learn
some niceties from her; at such a time should you always be in the
company of just about anybody? Go on now, sit by your mother till
she falls asleep. She is quite weak and has stayed up for a long
time.’
Nila was not in a very favourable frame of mind towards her Mejo
Khuri. Looking up, in heated tones she asked, ‘In the house, with
whom else do I spend all my time, Mejo Khuri Ma—is it Chhoto Khuri
Ma you are talking about?’
Observing the look of rebellion on her flushed face, Nayantara was
taken aback. Irritated, she said, ‘I did not mention anybody in
particular, Nila—all that I am saying is that you should look after your
mother.’
Without turning around Siddheshwari said, ‘Look after me! That’s
the last thing on their minds! They all will be relieved if I die!’
Nayantara responded, ‘That’s all right, she might be childish and
impractical—but Chhoto Bou is not a child. Ought she not to say,
“Nila, go and spend some time with your mother?” Neither does she
come to even inquire about your health, nor will she permit the child.’
Biting back her retort, Nila maintained a sullen silence.
Looking around, Siddheshwari said, ‘Truly Mejo Bou, no longer do
I wish to even look on Shailaja’s face. She seems an anathema to
me!’
Sagely, Nayantara counselled, ‘Don’t say that, Didi. After all, she is
the youngest. You have to keep in mind that if you are displeased,
they have no other recourse but to do as you bid. Oh yes, this month
he brought in five hundred rupees and keeping some loose change
for himself, he has asked me to hand you the rest.’ Nayantara made
an elaborate show of opening the knot at one end of her sari and
took some currency notes which she handed to Siddheshwari.
In a detached manner Siddheshwari accepted the money and
said, ‘Nila, call your Chhoto Khuri Ma and ask her to put the money
away in the safe.’
Nayantara’s face took on a stormy expression. All the glowing
dreams that had centred around the handing over of this money
scattered and dispersed in a moment. Not a sign of joy was
observed on Siddheshwari’s face—while Nayantara had so hoped
that she could win over Siddheshwari’s trust by handing over the
notes. Not only had the plan backfired, but Chhoto Bou was the one
who was sent for to put away the money. Which meant the keys still
remained with her! Actually, there was some hidden history behind
the handing over of this money. Harish had had no desire
whatsoever of doing so. It was only to succeed in a carefully
orchestrated manoeuvre that Nayantara had continually poked and
prodded Harish into parting with the necessary lucre. The sight of
her eldest sister-in-law accepting Harish’s hard-earned and difficult-
to-part-with money in such a lackadaisical fashion not only added to
the sting of losing the money, but also made Nayantara feel like
breaking open her own head!
Shailaja appeared at the doorway. After six days of baffling
silence, she looked without any constraint at her eldest sister-in-law
and asked, ‘Didi, did you send for me?’
Just these few words from Shailaja sounded as sweet as honey to
Siddheshwari’s ears. In the blinking of an eye her demeanour
underwent a change and with a flurry of affection she answered, ‘Yes
dear, indeed! There is a lot of money lying about. So I called Nila and
told her to ask you to come here to put it away. Here you are.’
She evinced no desire to explain how and from whom she had
come by the money, and thus quashed Nayantara’s hopes of
gloating about her husband’s contribution to the family expenses.
The sight of Shailaja taking the key from one end of her sari,
slowly opening the safe and putting in Harish’s money became
absolutely unbearable for Nayantara. However she managed to stifle
her turbulent emotions somehow, and smiling dryly, remarked,
‘That’s just what your Deor was telling me the other day. They do not
happen to be cousins, rather, they are actual siblings. If we cannot
live and eat off them, he said, off whom can we do so? But despite
this love between brothers if we can help Dada—even by means of
some paltry sum—every month, that will at least be something.
That’s so true isn’t it, Didi?’
Siddheshwari’s smiling face turned solemn. Not saying a word,
she looked towards Shailaja. Nayantara probably could not gauge
the true reason for her solemnity and continued, ‘In our religious
epic, Ramachandra had utilized the most minute help in spanning
the mighty ocean, your Deor said. So, though Boro Bouthan does
not make any whimsical demands, does that mean we should not
use our own judgement? One should extend whatever help is
possible within one’s capabilities towards the good of the family. Is it
right for one to just live with one’s family, sleep, eat and make merry?
You, Didi, too have to settle Hari and Moni. It just will not do if you
squander everything on us! Tell me, do I not speak the truth, Didi?’
Somewhat sullenly Siddheshwari replied, ‘Yes, of course!’
Locking the safe, taking the key from its ring and putting it on
Siddheshwari’s bed, Shailaja was about to leave. Anger coursed
through Siddheshwari’s veins, but somehow controlling herself, in
sharp and pointed tones she demanded, ‘What is this, Chhoto Bou?’
Taking a couple of steps back into the room, Shailaja answered,
‘For the past few days I have been thinking Didi, it is no longer right
for me to keep the key. Poverty is responsible for a lot of vices and
there is poverty around me everywhere—how long will it take for me
to be tempted? Isn’t that so, Mejdi?’
Nayantara said, ‘I don’t have anything to do with all this, Chhoto
Bou, why try to involve me?’
‘Just why have these vices not shown up all this while, may I ask?’
Siddheshwari queried.
‘Just because something has never happened does not mean it
never will. As it is we are just sponging off you—neither can we help
monetarily, nor can we contribute with physical labour. It has gone on
for some time, true, but is it good to continue in this manner forever?’
In barely controlled rage and with a flaming face Siddheshwari
responded, ‘Since when have you turned so saintly? Where has your
judgement of good and evil been all this while?’
Unperturbed, Shailaja answered, ‘Didi, why are you making
yourself even more sick by getting angry? You are not comfortable
with us any longer and neither do I like the situation.’
Siddheshwari’s fury at the calm manner in which Shailaja had
implicated her in the tensions prevalent in the house prevented her
from uttering even a single word.
On her behalf Nayantara queried, ‘That Didi does not like the
situation is understandable, but what makes you uncomfortable,
Chhoto Bou?’
Shailaja was about to leave without answering this, but
Siddheshwari shouted aloud, ‘Tell me, wretched one, when will we
be rid of you, I will celebrate! My happy and united family has been
battered and torn asunder by fights and quarrels! Mejo Bou is right,
all of your aggressiveness must be coming from somewhere. Give
me an account of the money that you have stolen.’
Shailaja turned around to look at Siddheshwari, and, for a moment
her face seemed aglow like a suddenly gnited fire; but, the next
moment she turned on her heels and left, without a reply.
 Like a branch abruptly severed from the tree trunk, Siddheshwari
collapsed on the bed, crying out loud, ‘I raised her since she was a
mere child, Mejo Bou, and today she insulted me in this manner! Let
the men return and I will see to it that appropriate punishment is
meted out.’
 7
SIDDHESHWARI HAD ONE FATAL FLAW—HER BELIEFS HAD NO
CONVICTION TO support them. The strong notions of the present
could well vanish for very petty reasons in the immediate future.
Siddheshwari had always implicitly trusted Shailaja, but under
Nayantara’s influence, she began to nurse all kinds of suspicions
and misgivings about Shailaja in a matter of a few days. Shailaja did
have a lot of money at her disposal and Siddheshwari was now
convinced that all the money that was now in Shailaja’s possession
had actually come from Siddheshwari’s safe. She was equally
convinced that Shailaja would not dare to live in the same city if she
moved out of the family house. For having stolen so much money
from them, Shailaja would now want to move out of the family’s
ambit altogether.
At night, as her husband sat in the outer room with his spectacles
firmly perched on his nose, intently looking through some important
court papers by the light of the gas lamp, Siddheshwari entered the
room and plunged into the matter straightaway. ‘Can you explain
what is the sense of your working so hard? Do you have to work
night and day so hard just to feed a herd of swine?’
Perhaps only the mention of something to do with feeding caught
Girish’s attention; without looking up he said, ‘No, it will not be much
longer. Let me just complete this and I will come to eat.’
Irritated, Siddheshwari said, ‘Who is talking about eating? I am
trying to tell you that Chhoto Bou and all of them have more or less
organized their departure from this house. All that you have done for
them all this while will be rendered absolutely useless—have you
thought of that?’
Girish became somewhat aware of his surroundings. ‘Yes, of
course I have. Tell Mejo Bou to get organized properly. Who else will
be going? Tell Moni …’ Lost in the midst of the legal papers, the
sentence remained incomplete.
Siddheshwari shouted out in anger, ‘Can’t you pay attention to
even a single word that I say? What am I talking about and what
sense are your answers making? Chhoto Bou and her family are
going away from this house.’
Jolted into awareness by the shouting, Girish queried, ‘Where are
they going?’
Siddheshwari answered in the same shrill tones, ‘How am I to
know where they are going?’
Girish answered, ‘Why not just take her address?’
Wounded pride caused her to flare up wildly and, striking her
forehead, Siddheshwari cried out wildly, ‘Is it my wretched misfortune
that I have to take down their address now?! If I were not really
unfortunate, would I be your wife? My parents should have allowed
me to drown in the Ganga rather than make me your responsibility.’
Overcome by her own anger, misery and troubled ego, she began
weeping copiously. Discovering thirty-three years after marriage that
her parents had organized a most unsuitable match for her now
caused Siddheshwari no end of regret. ‘Today if you breathe your
last I know that I will have to serve in some household to earn my
keep—that is my fate. But, what will happen to my Moni and Hari …’
Siddheshwari’s tears ran down her cheeks unrestrained and
unabashed.
All the urgent papers and court matters flew out of Girish’s mind.
Totally flustered by his wife’s sudden and uncontrolled weeping, in
an incensed and deep voice he called out, ‘Hari …’
Hari was studying in the next room and came rushing.
Reprimanding him with great severity, Girish said, ‘If you fight and
squabble anymore, I will horsewhip you. Scoundrel! You have no
interest in your studies and can only think of playing and fighting.
Where is Moni?’
 Both boys had never been scolded by their father in this violent
manner. Stunned, Hari replied, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know? You think I am unaware of what scallywags you have
turned out to be? Always remember that I keep an eye on
everything. Who tutors you? Call him!’
‘Our teacher Dhiren Babu comes in the morning,’ Hari answered in
hushed tones.
Girish continued his mindless interrogation, ‘Why in the morning
and not in the evening? I do not want such a person. Someone else
can take over from tomorrow. Go away and concentrate on your
studies. Scoundrel! Scallywag!’
Fearfully looking at his mother with a wary expression, Hari slowly
made his exit.
Looking towards his wife Girish remarked, ‘Have you noticed what
teachers are like these days? They take money and yet play truant.
Tell Ramesh that from tomorrow he must ask Paran Babu to leave
and engage someone else. That fellow thinks he can escape my
eagle eyes!’
Siddheshwari did not say a word. Casting a smouldering glance at
her husband, she left, quite certain her husband could never
understand her or take care of his family affairs. Meanwhile, assuring
himself that his family duties had been well taken care of, Girish
happily turned his attention back to his papers once again.
It was not that Siddheshwari had been unaware till now of how
necessary money was in life, she had just not paid much attention to
it. But greed is contagious. Under Nayantara’s influence, she too had
come alive to the desirability of this commodity. And that’s why she
now felt indignant at the way in which her husband’s money was
being spent in looking after a cousin’s family that neither showed
gratitude nor contributed anything to the family fortunes.
Hearing talk to the effect that Shailaja would be leaving after
lunch, Siddheshwari’s heart seemed to break with the force of
unshed tears that threatened to break loose any moment. Somehow
controlling herself, on the pretext of a fever, she lay down. Nayantara
came and seated herself close by and solicitously attempted to
gauge the intensity of the fever by touching her forehead and asking
if a doctor ought to be called.
Turning the other way, Siddheshwari cryptically answered, ‘No.’
Assessing the true cause of her sister-in-law’s irritation, Nayantara
provided the right medicine. She remained silent for a while, then
said, ‘You know what I was wondering, Didi—how do people manage
to make so much money? Jadu Babu, Rakhal Babu and Haran
Sarkar of our locality—none of them earn as much as Botthakur;
despite that, they all have no less than a lakh of rupees in the bank.
Even their wives have no less than ten to twenty thousand rupees.’
A little distracted, Siddheshwari said, ‘How do you know all this,
Mejo Bou?’
Nayantara responded, ‘Your brother-in-law spoke to the manager
of the bank. They are all his friends. Yesterday Gopal Babu’s wife
remarked to me in complete disbelief, “Is it possible that your Didi
can have no money?” However …’
Forgetting all about the fever she was supposed to be suffering
from, Siddheshwari sat up in bed and flung the bunch of keys in front
of Nayantara saying, ‘Why don’t you open the safe and see for
yourself, Mejo Bou, if there is even one hidden coin anywhere,
besides the money needed to run the household? It was Chhoto Bou
who managed everything until now—did I even have the courage to
speak a word against her! Such a husband I have, Mejo Bou, that
not even a paltry sum of money has ever been mine! Now, I am also
being punished for that—she is leaving, carrying everything away
with her. Tell me, if the money had been in my care, wouldn’t it have
been safe, would it have melted away in this manner?’
Nayantara nodded wisely in agreement and said, ‘How true, Didi.’
Once again Siddheshwari turned against Shailaja. It completely
escaped her memory now that she herself had brought up Shailaja,
that she herself had submitted the keys to her, asked her to run the
household and voluntarily taken a back seat. She now said, ‘One
man heads such a large family, how can he be blamed for not
understanding what actually goes on within the family, tell me, Mejo
Bou?’
Once again, assenting gravely, Nayantara said, ‘Everybody can
see that, Didi.’ She kept silent for a while and then said, ‘I can’t help
remembering Nandu Mitter of our village who was an extremely able
clerk. Bringing up his younger brother, educating him and getting his
children married—he did not retain anything for himself. Whenever
his wife attempted to say a word, she would be harshly scolded.’
Interrupting, Siddheshwari commented, ‘Exactly my condition!’
Nayantara resumed, ‘Undoubtedly! Scolding his wife, Nandu Mitter
would say, “Why do you have to worry? You have Naren. The
manner in which he has been taught the legal trade he too will look
after us when he stands on his feet. Don’t think of him as your
brother-in-law, rather as your child.” But the world is such, Didi, no
sooner had cataract of the eyes forced Nandu into retirement, than
the lawyer Naren got his own brother implicated in a financial tangle
and auctioned off even his share of the ancestral property. These
days Nandu Mitter begs for a living and cries, “It was not listening to
my wife that brought about my downfall.” And they are not even
cousins, but siblings.’
Shuddering to herself, Siddheshwari could only say, ‘This is
unbelievable, Mejo Bou!’
Nayantara answered, ‘It is no lie, Didi, everybody knows of Nandu
Mitter’s plight.’
Siddheshwari did not speak farther; prior to this conversation she
had been toying with the idea of calling Shailaja and forbidding her to
leave; she had also been reflecting on various means of throwing a
spanner in Shailaja’s works. But this tale of Nandu Mitter’s sorry
plight rendered her virtually immobile. She did not even make: any
further attempt to try and stop Shailaja.
 Girish was about to get ready to leave for the court when Ramesh
came and said, ‘Dada, I am thinking; of going and living in our house
in the village.’
‘Why?’
Ramesh answered, ‘If there are no inhabitants, the house remains
unmaintained and the land and water reservoirs too get spoiled. I do
not have any work here and so I thought …’
‘Very good, very good,’ Girish smilingly assented.
The gentleman remained totally unaware of the amount of discord
and disunity that lay embedded in his younger brother’s request.
Soon after he had left for the court, Shailaja respectfully took leave
of her elder sister-in-law from the doorway. Then, carrying only a
small box and taking her two sons by the hand, she left the house
with her husband.
Siddheshwari remained as still as a statue on the bed while
Nayantara looked down from the window in her room and took note
of all that was happening.
 8

SIDDHESHWARI’S BED WAS ACTUALLY TWO MASSIVE BEDS

THAT HAD BEEN joined together. In spite of this large sleeping
area, Siddheshwari was usually forced to curl into one tiny corner
and spend the entire night in great discomfort because of all the
children who shared the bed with her. She would not hesitate to
profess anger because of this, but neither could she bear to let go of
any child even for a single night. She maintained a strict vigil every
night and would be forced to get up any number of times; as such,
no night could go by in uninterrupted peace, but neither would she
permit Shailaja or anybody else to relieve her of being plagued in
this manner. Even at the height of her illness, no other place could
be found for the boys to sleep in, except their Jethima’s bed. Kanai
had a bad posture while sleeping and took up a lot of space;
Nayantara’s son Khudey would frequently lose control over his
bladder—an oil cloth had to be organized for him; Bipin would
undertake a circular journey on that bed during the night—so a
different sort of arrangement would have to be made for him; hunger
pangs would plague Patol at a late hour of the night—all that was
necessary to take care of that would have to be kept ready at hand
near the bed; whether Kanai had planted his feet on Khedi or
whether Patol was getting stifled by Bipin’s knee—Siddheshwari
would spend the better part of the night seeing to and monitoring all
this.
When Shailaja left, it had not occurred to Siddheshwari how empty
and yawning the stretch of her bed would seem. Only after
Nayantara had pleaded long and hard with her did she agree to go
down to eat; on her way back upstairs, Siddheshwari’s eyes
suddenly fell on Shailaja’s room and it was as though a sudden
heavy blow smote her. The room was dark and empty and the doors
stood wide open—turning away, Siddheshwari quickly entered her
own room. Looking towards the bed, she observed Bipin and Khudey
occupying only a little space as they slept—the remaining space
gaped before her like a limitless desert. In that vast space she lay
down quietly and closed her eyes; but hot tears streaming down her
face dampened her pillow. She had always been extremely fussy
about what all the children of the house ate. In this matter she would
trust none other than herself. She was firmly convinced that without
her active supervision, the children played hookey and did not eat as
much as they ought to and no one other than herself could catch on
to all these tricks. If by chance she failed to supervise the meal of a
child, she would try to prove that justice had most definitely not been
done by dint of innumerable questions and physically verifying how
far the child’s stomach distended; and to atone for the grave error,
the hapless boy would have to immediately gulp down a full glass of
milk under her eagle eyes. Shailaja would sometimes speak up for
the boys and argue about the drawbacks of overeating; but it had
absolutely no effect other than further incensing Siddheshwari.
Whenever she looked on any child, she visualized him as losing
weight. There was no end to her worry and concern about this.
Now lying on the bed, Siddheshwari could clearly imagine that in
all the chaos of their village house, Kanai would not have eaten
properly and that Patol would definitely have fallen asleep unfed.
Perhaps he would not be woken up and fed and so would suffer
hunger pangs through the night. The more Siddheshwari thought of
these disasters, the more her heart seemed to ache with anger and
sorrow. Girish was fast asleep in the next room. Being unable to bear
it any longer, she went and stood beside her husband’s bed at that
late hour of the night. Shaking him awake she asked, ‘It might be
acceptable that Shailaja takes away Patol, but Kanai is not her own
son—what right does she have over him?’
From the depths of sleep Girish answered, ‘No right at all!’
Siddheshwari sat down at one end of the bed and continued with
some hope at Girish’s reply, ‘Then, if we lodge a complaint she will
be punished, won’t she?’
Girish responded, ‘Definitely she will be punished.’
Siddheshwari grew excited with hope and joy. She questioned
once more, ‘That may well be, but let us talk of Patol. It is I who have
brought him up. If the judge is told that he cannot live without me,
that he might fall sick pining for me, won’t the judge give an
injunction that he stay with his Jethima? Fine! Now you are snoring
—I suppose you have not heard a word!’ Siddheshwari forcibly
shook her husband’s toe.
Waking up with a start, Girish answered, ‘Definitely not!’
Angrily Siddheshwari demanded, ‘Why not? It is not the law that
just by virtue of being the natural mother, one can kill a child in this
manner! If Thakurpo sends a legal letter tomorrow, what then?’
Waiting eagerly for her husband’s reply and only hearing his snores
in response, Siddheshwari left in angry disappointment.
That whole night she could not sleep a wink. She lay wide awake,
spinning rosy dreams about how the next day Harish would send a
legal letter demanding custody of the children—and the fright and
trepidation with which they would be redeposited in her care.
As soon as dawn broke, Siddheshwari went to Harish’s room and
knocking on the door, called out, ‘Thakurpo, are you awake?’
Surprised and puzzled, Harish hastily opened the door.
Siddheshwari demanded, ‘There is no time to be lost; immediately
a legal letter must be drafted and sent to Chhoto Thakurpo. You
write a firm letter that unless a response is received within twenty-
four hours, a complaint will be filed!’
There was no need to try and instigate Harish against Ramesh; he
was more than ready. Instantly agreeing, in sotto voce he asked
conspiratorially, ‘Tell me exactly, Boro Bou, what the: matter is?
Come, be seated—what all has been taken away by that fellow and
his wife from our house? The claims have to be somewhat
excessive, don’t you understand?’
 Siddheshwari, not following Harish’s line of thought, settled herself
comfortably and explained at length all that she wanted done.
Learning the actual purpose of the complaint, a black despair
wiped away Harish’s smiling demeanour. He retorted, ‘Have you
turned insane, Bouthan? I thought that it was a completely different
matter that you had complaints about. They have taken their sons,
what can you do about that?’
Siddheshwari refused to believe that Harish couldn’t help her. She
protested, ‘But your Dada said that a complaint would ensure their
punishment.’
Harish said, ‘It is impossible for Dada to have made such a
statement. He was teasing you.’
Angrily Siddheshwari retorted, ‘Can’t I make out what a joke is
after all these years, Thakurpo? Actually you do not want me to bring
these two children home, isn’t that so? Why don’t you just tell me so
clearly?’
Embarrassed, Harish tried to explain in innumerable ways why
such a claim would be disregarded by the court. Rather, a different
sort of demand could be presented to the court to cause Ramesh
and his wife discomfiture: a claim that they had left the house with a
large sum of money that did not belong to them by any right. That
was what ought to be done at that point of time.
Highly incensed, Siddheshwari stood up and said, ‘Keep what
ought to be done to yourself, Thakurpo; I am getting on in years and
will never be able to bring myself to make such false claims. Will you
be able to answer for me in my next birth if I do so? If you are
unwilling to write out my complaint, let me send Moni to Nagen Babu
and get it done.’
The morning saw Siddheshwari engaged in some sort of verbal
battle with Ganesh Chakraborty, who was responsible for all the
shopping of provisions and groceries for the household. The poor
man was doing his very best to explain the intricacies of accounting.
Siddheshwari was new to this world of finances. Her latest conviction
was that, finding her an easy prey, everyone was out to cheat her—
hence there was no doubt at all that Chakraborty was
misappropriating funds. Persistently she tried to make her point,
‘Fifty rupees is a lot of money, Ganesh. Just because I do not have
degrees, you cannot convince me that you’ve spent just two rupees
more than four dozen—and that accounts for fifty whole rupees!’
Desperately pleading with her, Ganesh said, ‘Ma, why don’t you
send for Didi and …’
‘I will have to send for Nila to understand accounts? No Ganesh,
such an attitude is not good. Just because Shailaja is not here, you
cannot do as you please. If she had not left, I would not have had to
face all these problems. That wretched girl—I brought her in as a
bride when she was ten, raised her so lovingly and now, with what
audacity she walks out of the house, taking two children with her! Let
her, but I too am keeping an eye on all that’s happening around me.
If I even get to hear that Patol or Kanai have fallen sick, I will see
how she manages to keep the children anymore! Now go, try and
remember how all the money has been spent and come back later in
the afternoon,’ saying which Siddheshwari dismissed Ganesh.
Totally perplexed, the poor man left the place.
Nayantara put in an appearance and said, ‘Didi, let me tell you, I
too have run a household and maintained accounts and the like.
That you should put up with all this just because Chhoto Bou is not
here, while I sit back idly, is not correct. Let me take care of all these
petty problems. Nobody will be able to get the better of me by a
clever jugglery of accounts.’
Siddheshwari answered, ‘That will be a very good thing, Mejo Bou.
In my precarious condition of health, all these problems are too
much to handle. While Shailaja was here, she would keep track of all
the money, how much was there, what had to be spent, what should
go to the bank, all that. Everything was her responsibility. Is all this
possible for me? Henceforth you manage all that, Mejo Bou.’ Having
said which Siddheshwari left, but kept the keys to the safe firmly tied
to the end of her sari—much to Nayantara’s vexation.
Days went by. In spite of trying out any number of guiles and
plans, Nayantara did not succeed in laying her hands on the bunch
of keys that she coveted so much. Nayantara was extremely
scheming and clever and could very skilfully plan for the future. But
she had not taken one major element into account—that, if the seeds
of doubt are planted in the minds of the innocent, even the
perpetrator cannot remain unaffected by the consequences. A
person who is taught to doubt her enemies, also learns to suspect
her friends. Hence, just as Siddheshwari had lost faith in Chhoto
Bou, she now failed to trust Mejo Bou as well.
 9

NO ONE MOURNS A LOSS FOREVER, NO MATTER HOW GRIEVOUS

IT MIGHT BE. Siddheshwari’s bed no longer seemed to be empty and
yawning. Once, it had been impossible for her to walk past Shailaja’s
room without a feeling of hurt and misgiving, but now she crossed
the veranda without even a thought. The acute anxiety with which
she used to seek out any news of Kanai and Patol had now lost that
sharp intensity. In this manner, a whole year went by, in joy and in
sorrow.
Suddenly it came to Siddheshwari’s notice that for the past six
months a legal battle was being waged against her youngest
brother-in-law, with the dispute being centred on their village
property. Harish was looking after the case on Girish’s behalf, as it
was he who had been monitoring the different cases of the family at
various levels. The news filled Siddheshwari with foreboding and
great concern.
Knowing that her curiosity would in no way be satisfied by
questioning her husband, Siddheshwari went straight to Harish that
evening. She asked, ‘What is this I hear, Thakurpo, Chhoto
Thakurpo is fighting a case against your Dada?’
With a slight patronizing smile Harish answered, ‘That is true,
Bouthan.’
Siddheshwari wanly responded, ‘That seems impossible to
believe, Mejo Thakurpo. There is something called natural justice
somewhere.’
Nayantara was putting Khedi to sleep in one corner of the bed. In
lowered tones she said, ‘That may be true, Didi. But, this is the same
brother-in-law to whom you gave so many thousands of rupees to
start a business of his own. None of that was spent then, it is being
used now.’
 In stunned disbelief Siddheshwari remained mute for a while and
then asked, ‘But why a case?’
Harish answered, ‘Why! I realized that there was no other way
except to file a case. Our village property is the issue. It is quite
apparent that when we are gone from this world, Moni-Hari-Bipin-
Khudey and Atul will not get even an inch of the property, for it would
be usurped by Ramesh’s family by then. Take note, Boro Bou, that
they are occupying all the village property. All the revenues that are
being accumulated from that land are being collected by them and
they are just living off all that wealth without paying anything at all to
us. It is Dada who has accumulated all the property, but his letter to
Ramesh was not even honoured by a reply from that ingrate! But I
also give you my word, Boro Bou, I will not rest before turning him
out of the house.’
After keeping quiet for a while, Siddheshwari once again said, ‘But
if we turn him out of the house, where will they go with the children?’
Harish readily answered, ‘That is none of our concern, Boro Bou.’
Siddheshwari asked, ‘What does your Dada have to say about
this?’
‘If Dada had had the right attitude, there would not have been any
problem at all, Boro Bou. Only when I forcibly pointed out to him that
Ramesh was usurping his property and creating problems for him,
did Dada readily consent to start legal proceedings against him.
Ramesh himself had been trying to implicate Dada in a case—I had
to take a lot of pains to clear that.’
In a whisper Nayantara said, ‘Didi, what causes me no end of
surprise is—Chhoto Thakurpo might be wrong, but how could
Chhoto Bou possibly consent to all this? We may all appear to be
wicked and scheming to her, but she knows what her Botthakur is
like. He has been the provider to all of us, all these years. How could
she even tolerate thinking of him in gaol?’
Siddheshwari’s entire body trembled violently and without a word
she left the room. Then she went directly to her husband. As always,
Girish was engrossed in his papers. Looking up, he was struck by
the unnatural pallor on his wife’s face. Keeping aside his papers he
asked, ‘When did the fever come on today?’
In hurt tones Siddheshwari spoke, ‘At least you thought of asking!’
Flustered, Girish answered, ‘Of course I did! Don’t I make regular
inquiries? Just the day before yesterday I sent for Moni and asked
whether he saw to it that you take your medicines regularly. These
days children are such that they don’t even look after their parents!’
Irritated, Siddheshwari interrupted, ‘Don’t take to lying in your old
age. It is over fifteen days since Moni has gone to visit his aunt in
Allahabad—and you asked him the day before yesterday! Will you
start doing something today when you haven’t done it in all these
years? It’s not to discuss my health that I have come to you today.
What I want to know is—what is happening? How is it that there are
legal cases and such with Chhoto Thakurpo?’
Girish flared up in rage. ‘He is a thief! A robber! Ramesh has
become an absolute wastrel. He has destroyed all our assets
completely. We will all go destitute unless he is turned out of the
village house, everything is in a shambles.’
Siddheshwari continued, ‘That may well be, but legal cases cannot
just be carried on without expenses—where is Chhoto Thakurpo
getting the money from?’
At this point, Harish was going towards the children’s room and his
attention was drawn by Girish’s raised voice. He entered Girish’s
room and took it on himself to answer Siddheshwari’s query. ‘Mejo
Bou just told you about the source of money, Boro Bouthan! The four
thousand or so Ramesh had taken from Dada on the pretext of
entering the jute trade is there; besides, Chhoto Bouma had total
control over all the money for this length of time—so, you can well
imagine!’
Provoked once again, Girish spluttered in anger, ‘Everything I had
has been looted, is there anything remaining, Harish? That fellow
has become nothing but a profligate! He came to court on Friday and
demanded money for house repairs!’
Harish was amazed, ‘What are you saying? He had the audacity to
demand money from you?’
Girish continued, ‘Audacity to say the least! A long list to boot—
repairs seem to be needed here, there and everywhere. Is it only
that! Sheer penury—warm clothes would have to be bought for
winter, cereals and other food stored; giving me a long list of
innumerable other such needs, he asked for another couple of
hundred rupees!’
Somehow controlling the rage that threatened to overwhelm him,
Harish could only say, ‘Shameless! Then?’
Girish added, ‘Exactly! The wretched boy has no shame, none at
all! He only left after extracting eight hundred rupees from me.’
Harish was aghast. ‘Extracting? You mean to say you actually
parted with the money?’
Girish answered, ‘What else could I do? He left only after getting
that amount of money from me.’
Harish’s face flamed scarlet and the next moment turned ashen.
Silent for a while he said, ‘Then what is the sense of our continuing
with the case, Dada?’
Instantly came Girish’s response, ‘None at all! For the scoundrel to
ever stand on his own feet and look after his family is beyond his
capabilities! I believe that the large living room has been converted
into a meeting place, where he spends his time lounging about with
friends and playing cards, having a good time—that’s all! Don’t you
understand Harish, it’s as if we have willingly invited some wasteful
lord to come and stay, and eat us out of home and hearth.’ And
Girish laughed uproariously at his own joke.
Unable to bear it any longer, Harish silently left the place.
Gnashing his teeth he snarled, ‘Fine, let’s see what I can do by
myself.’
 The case was scheduled to be heard on the twenty-second of the
month. A few days prior to that day, a distant relative of the family
came to meet Girish from their ancestral village and pleaded with
him to attend his daughter’s wedding which was to take place on the
twentieth. ‘You must come to the village for at least one day and be
present during some of the ceremonies.’
It was against Girish’s nature to refuse anybody anything. ‘Of
course, most definitely I will be there,’ he said.
Reassured, the father of the bride departed. But Siddheshwari
knew the true worth of reassurance. So, though the promise he had
made—to go ‘most definitely’—completely escaped Girish’s mind, it
remained in Siddheshwari’s.
When she reminded him of his promise on the twentieth, Girish felt
as if he had been struck by a bolt from the blue. ‘What are you
saying!’ he exclaimed in genuine surprise, ‘Today my client from
Jaipur …’
‘No, that will just not do, you will have to go. You have been
glossing over the truth ever since you began to practice law—keep
your word this one time at least. Have you ever thought about the
repercussions of your false promises in your next birth?’
Girish brooded, ‘My next birth? True, but …’
‘No, there can be no excuses this time. You just will have to go.’
Having lost the argument, Girish had to leave for the village.
As he took his leave, Siddheshwari muttered, ‘Those two boys …’
and burst into tears.
‘Fine, all right,’ Girish said and left. Neither husband nor wife knew
for sure what was going to be all right, and how.
As soon as Girish left the house, Nayantara stealthily called out to
Siddheshwari from inside and inquired, ‘Didn’t you warn Botthakur
not to partake of anything in that house?’
Somewhat surprised, Siddheshwari asked, ‘Why?’
In a voice distorted by gravity, Nayantara replied, ‘Well, Didi, one
never knows.’
 Tears ran down Siddheshwari’s face. Wiping them away with one
end of her sari, she remained quiet for a while and then said, ‘Maybe
that’s something that you can do, Mejo Bou. It would be impossible
for Shailaja even if she were to be slaughtered.’ Overcome by
emotion, Siddheshwari got up and left.
With only two days left for the hearing, Ramesh was getting ready
to make some inquiries about the court proceedings scheduled to
take place. Shailaja was not there. Prostrating before the deity of
God in their house, and taking off the last bit of jewellery that she
had, she prayed with folded hands, ‘Almighty, there is nothing further
to give up; now, deliver me by whatever means. My sons are dying
of hunger and my husband too is turning skeletal because of worry
and despair …’
‘Keno … Patol …’
Shailaja was startled; dus was none other than her brother-in-law’s
voice. Peeping through the window, her suspicions were confirmed.
That same veritable image of tranquillity was moving towards the
entrance of the house. A salt and pepper moustache and the
calmest of visages—there was not even an iota of change in her
brother-in-law’s appearance. Hearing their names called out by their
uncle, the children immediately responded. Hastily interrupting his
studies, Kanai rushed out; abandoning his game, Patol rushed up,
panting. Girish embraced him lovingly and picked him up.
Emerging from the room, Ramesh greeted his elder brother
respectfully.
Girish asked, ‘Where are you off to at this hour?’
Somewhat hesitantly and in a slightly muffled voice, Ramesh
answered, ‘To the district court …’
Like a bombshell Girish exploded, ‘Wretched fellow, good-for-
nothing, you will sponge off me and then pursue a court case! I will
not give you even a minute portion of my property—get out of my
house; get out right now, don’t waste a minute—get out in the very
clothes you are standing in!’
 Ramesh did not look up, nor did he utter a word. He left the place
just as he was. He loved and respected his elder brother, and was
well aware of his nature too. Fully conscious of the hollow nature of
the outburst, Ramesh decided not to respond at all to Girish’s anger
and silently took his leave.
Shailaja came up and from a distance greeted Girish respectfully.
Blessing her affectionately, Girish’s tones did not reflect any
rancour or bitterness. It would be impossible for any outsider to
guess that only seconds before, this very man had been hollering at
the top of his voice.
Girish was a man who did not notice anything, but today,
somehow he seemed to have acquired a special insight. Looking at
Shailaja he asked, ‘Why don’t I see any ornaments on you, Bouma?’
With her head bowed down, Shailaja remained silent.
Girish’s voice once again rose in timbre, ‘That scoundrel has sold
it for food! Whose jewellery is it? Mine! I will have him thrown into
prison!’ He carried on for a while in the same vein.
On the evening of twenty-second, the day of the final hearing of
the case, Harish returned home from the court at Hooghly in a dark
mood. His face bore a stormy expression, and as soon as he arrived
home he stretched out on the bed, without changing his clothes or
saying a word.
Suspecting the verdict on the case to be the reason behind his
frightening silence, Nayantara tearfully hounded him with
innumerable questions; Siddheshwari too came immediately on
hearing of his return. But Harish turned to the other side of the bed
and remained silent—neither of the two women could get even a
word out of him.
Undoubtedly the case had been lost, thought the sisters-in-law in
despair. The two of them repeatedly reassured him, consoling him
with the universal fact of any battle—legal or otherwise—that,
someone was bound to lose, and the other side had to win. Besides,
there was still the high court and one could also appeal in England—
there was no need to break down so completely in this manner, and
lose heart altogether.
However, much to their astonishment, Harish, despite being a
lawyer, was completely bereft of the confidence and hope that the
two of them had; they could not fathom the reason for such
hopelessness on his part.
Unable to bear it any longer, Siddheshwari grasped him by the
hand and said, ‘Mejo Thakurpo, I can assure you that you will not
lose. Whatever money is required I will provide, you appeal to the
high court. My blessings are with you, victory will be yours.’
At long last Harish turned around and shaking his head answered,
‘No Bouthan, there are no more options, all is over. The high court or
England—there is no court of law we have recourse to. All the
property was in Dada’s name. While attending the marriage the other
day, he wrote off everything in Chhoto Bouma’s name; the
registration relevant to this effect has been completed as well. There
is no way we can ever return to the village house.’
The two sisters-in-law were stupefied and remained silent as
though carved in stone.
The result of this shocking bit of news was an indescribable
scenario when Girish returned from court later that evening. He was
soundly berated and abused for being a senseless lunatic.
In the midst of receiving the criticism and accusations that Harish
and Nayantara spewed forth, Girish tried to get a word in edgewise
to explain why he had been faced with no other option but to sign off
everything in Shailaja’s name. That wretched wastrel, that good-for-
nothing Ramesh had been siphoning off the family fortune by selling
off Chhoto Bouma’s jewellery—in a little while he would have no
other option than to sell off even the bricks and mortar of the house!
Such philandering could only threaten the very existence of the
ancestral property in the village. And Girish’s own decision had been
the result of careful consideration to save the family from imminent
destruction. For, if the house was written off in Ramesh’s name, it
would soon be sold off. But by writing it off in Chhoto Bouma’s name,
who was anyway a more deserving and responsible person, he was
assured that the property was in good hands. Ramesh couldn’t force
her to sell off her property.
Siddheshwari, who was standing aside, listened silently. When
everyone else had left, she came and stood by her husband. Her
eyes brimmed with tears; with loving devotion she touched her
husband’s feet and spoke respectfully, ‘Today you must forgive me.
Everybody vilified you with whatever came to mind. But never has it
been more obvious to me than today, how far above them all you
are.’
With the greatest happiness, Girish nodded his head vigorously
and asserted, ‘Didn’t you observe Boro Bou, how much I keep an
eye on everything! A boy who hasn’t even grown up, he will destroy
all my property by deception! I have tied him in such knots that he
will never be able to disentangle himself!’ Girish laughed out loud at
his own little joke, and the whole house reverberated with his
laughter.
 Glossary

BARDA : Eldest brother

BHASHUR : Eldest brother-in-law
BORO BOU : The eldest daughter-in-law of the house
BORO BOUTHAN : Eldest daughter-in-law as addressed by a
younger brother in-law
BORO GINNI MA : The female head of the household
BORO MA : Mode of address affectionately reserved for
the eldest aunt, who is like a mother
BOUTHAN : Married female member of the family
BOTTHAKUR : Eldest brother-in law
BOUTHAKRUN : Elder sister-in-law
BOUMA : Daughter-in-law
CHHOTO Youngest daughter-in-law
BOU/CHHOTO
BOUMA :
CHHORDA : Youngest elder brother
CHHOTO Youngest uncle’s wife
KHURI/CHHOTO
KHURI MA :
CHHOTO Youngest brother-in-law
THAKURPO :
DADA : Elder brother (‘Da’ is sometimes used after
the proper name, meaning the same)
DEOR : Younger brother-in-law
DIDI : Elder sister (‘Di’ is sometimes used after the
proper name, meaning the same)
JETHIMA : Wife of the eldest uncle
KHURI MA : Younger uncle’s wife
MA : Mother
MEJO BOU : Wife of the second eldest son
MEJDA : Second eldest brother
MEJO THAKURPO : Second eldest brother-in-law
SEJDA : Third eldest brother
THAKURPO : Younger brother-in-law
 THE RIVER
* A plant similar to Indian hemp.
* An exclamation common among Bengalis, usually used to ward
off evil.
** Devotional songs composed by Ram Prasad Sen—a great
devotee of Kali.
* The brother just preceding oneself.
* A term of courtesy used for men.
** A term of contempt used by Bengalis for the people of Bihar.
*** An itinerant showman who entertains people by assuming
different guises.
* The hibiscus flower.
* ‘The vanquishing of Meghnadh’—an epic drama.
** A rustic opera.
* A kind of silk fabric.
* A vast cremation ground.
* See Glossary.
 EXILE
* See Glossary.
* ‘Oh my mother!’—an exclamation common among Bengalis.
* Food offered to Radha and Krishna in an earthen basin—a
custom among Vaishnavas.
* O hé: Oh you!
Mian: A term of respect used for Muslim men.
* Indigenous towel.
* Plate.
** Puffed pancakes.
*Jaggery.
* A pickle of decomposed fish called guanpi.
* A Burmese goddess.
* The presiding female deity of smallpox, chicken pox and
measles.
* Maternal aunt.
* This is Srikanta’s great-uncle, though the word means
‘grandfather’.
* To make obeisance.
 FORBIDDEN FRUIT
* An attorney.
* Elder brother’s wife.
* Husband’s younger brother.
* A term of respect used for Brahmin cooks from UP and Bihar.
* A school where Sanskrit is taught.
* Youngest daughter-in-law of the house.
* The last day of the fifth month of the Bengali calendar, falls in
mid-September.
* Oh! My mother!
* A village market.
* The ancient name for the part of Bengal lying on the western
bank of the Ganga.
** Maternal uncle.
* Mistress of the house.
* Husked but whole lentils.
** A Brahmin who performs funeral rites for a living and is, in
consequence, socially degraded.
* Samosas.
 JOURNEYS’ END
*The first month of the Bengali calendar (mid-April to mid-May).
* The last month of the Bengali calendar (mid-March to mid-April).
** Two miles.
*** Fruit blossoms.
* The word mian is normally a term of respect used to address
Muslim men. However, Gahar uses it here to imply ‘Mussalman’.
* A cotton vest.
* A place where Vaishnavs assemble for religious worship.
* A religious mendicant.
** A wandering minstrel.
*** Sri Chaitanya Dev.
* A term of address used for Vaishnav men.
* A term of address used for gurus.
* A Vaishnav anchorite.
* Gour is one of the names of Mahaprabhu Sri Chaitanya Dev.
* A term of respect used for the young mistress of the house.
* The philosophy of love.
* Ratan uses the word prasad to imply the leftovers from Srikanta’s
meal.
* Sec Glossary.
** A Brahmin priest who acts as a guide to pilgrims.
* See Glossary.
* A rice offering.
* A wild flower with a foul smell.
** Religious verses—usually sung.
*** See Glossary.
*Silk-cotton.
* The giving away of a daughter in marriage.
** The ritual of putting sindoor in the parting of the bride’s hair.
* The third month of the Bengali calendar (mid-June to mid-July).
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This collection published 2005

Copyright © Aruna Chakravarti 1993, 2005
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket images © Puja Ahuja
ISBN: 978-0-144-00014-2
This digital edition published in 2013.
e-ISBN: 978-9-351-18105-7
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