Rabindranath, "Chokher Bali" [Eyesore] (1901 / Translated 1914) (Full Text)
Detailed summary here.
Tags: Calcutta, City vs. country, Allahabad, Benares (Varanasi), Widows, Adultery, Asceticism
EYESORE [Chokher Bali]
By Rabindranath Tagore
Source: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Eyesore
CHAPTER 1
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
I
BINODINI'S mother Harimati beseiged
Rajlakshmi, the mother of Mahendra, and would take no denial. They both belonged to the same village, and had played together as children.
Rajlakshmi would get hold of Mahendra and entreat him, "Mahin, my son, you must
come to the rescue of the poor woman's only child. I am told that the girl is really pretty, and has taken lessons from an English lady—she will just suit the taste of you young people now-a-days."
"But mother", Mahendra would reply, "there are so many modern young men besides myself."
Rajlakshmi.—That's your one great fault, Mahin, there's no getting in a word about marriage with you.
Mahendra.—Hardly an unpardonable sin, mother, since there are so many other subjects in the world to talk about.
Mahendra had lost his father in his infancy. His ways with his mother were not those of the average youth. He was nearly twenty-two, and had begun studying medicine after taking his M.A. degree; yet with his mother he was still wayward and exacting, and expected to be petted and humoured. Like a kangaroo cub he had got into the habit of continuing to want his mother's enfolding care; she was indispensable alike in his work and pleasure, both a necessity and a luxury in his life.
When next his mother plied him about Binodini, Mahendra said, "All right, let's have a look at the girl."
But when the day appointed for the visit came he said, "After all what's the use of seeing her? If I must marry to please you, why pretend to exercise my own Judgment?"
There was a trace of the sulks in his tone, but the sharp note, thought the mother, would be duly flattened down when, at the moment of the auspicious vision, her son would have occasion to endorse her taste. So with a light heart Rajlakshmi prepared to fix the wedding day.
Hut the nearer drew the day the more anxious did Mahendra become—till at last when there were only a few days left he broke out with a "no, no, I really cannot!"
Mahendra's intimate friend was Vihari. He used to call Mahendra
Dada and Rajlakshmi mother. The mother used to look on him as the "useful burden-bearing barge in tow of the proud steamboat and was in a way fond of him accordingly. "Then you," said she, "must do this my son, or else the poor women"—
"I beg to be excused mother," said Vihari with hands folded in mock supplication, "many a time have I taken at your bidding the sweetmeats that your Mahendra has refused as not to his taste, but when it comes to a girl I really must draw the line."
Binodini's father had not been particularly rich, but he had engaged a missionary
lady to teach his daughter to read and write and do fancy needlework. She was getting past the age when marriage ought to have been thought of, but that had escaped him altogether. So, when at length he died, his widow was beside herself hunting for a likely bridegroom. There was no dower, and the girl was over age.
At last Rajlakshmi got the girl Binodini married to a distant cousin in the village of her birth.
In a short while the girl became a widow. Mahendra laughed, "How lucky, I was not the bridegroom. With my wife a widow, where would I have been?"
CHAPTER 2
========================================
II
Three years later the mother and son were having another talk.
"My son, people lay the blame on me."
"What great calamity have you brought on these people, mother?"
"They say I'm not getting you married for fear the bride should take your heart away from me."
"A very natural fear," said Mahendra. "If I had been a mother I could never have got my son married—I'd rather have welcomed the blame."
"Hear the boy, just listen to him!" laughed the mother.
"The bride is sure to absorb the whole of the son," continued Mahendra, "and to what a distance has the mother, for all her trouble and all her love, to retire—you may like the idea, but I don't."
With a great gladness at heart Rajlakshmi called to her widowed sister-in-law who had only just arrived. "Listen to him, sister, just hear what Mahin is saying. He is afraid to marry lest his bride should oust his mother. Have you ever heard such an extraordinary idea?"
"This is too had, my boy", said his aunt, "everything is fit and proper in its own season. Now it is time to cut your mother's leading strings and set up house with a wife. One feels ashamed to see you still behaving like an overgrown baby."
These words did not sound exactly sweet in Rajlakshmi's ears and the few words of her reply were more plain than pleasant.—"If my son cares for his mother," said she, "more than other people's sons do, why need that make
you
ashamed, sister? If you had children of your own you would have known better."
Rajlakshmi entertained a suspicion that the childless woman was jealous of her more fortunate sister.
"It was you who started the subject of bringing home a bride," replied her sister-in-law, "else what call had I—"
"If my son does not choose to bring home a bride," Rajlakshmi went on, "why should that be as a dart in your bosom? If I have been able to bring up my son all these years I hope and trust I shall be able to go on looking after him still, without wanting anybody else's help."
The tears came to her sister-in-law's eyes and she went away without another word. Mahendra was pained and, coming back early from his college, went straight to her room. He well knew there was nothing but love for him in what she had said. He also knew that his aunt had an orphan niece, her sister's child, whom the childless widow desired to bring near to herself, and make happy, by marrying to him. Though the idea of marriage was distasteful to him this desire of his aunt seemed to him only natural and extremely pathetic.
There was not much left of daylight when Mahendra entered her room. He found his aunt, Annapurna, with a drawn face, seated with her head resting against the bars of her window. In the next room lay covered her simple meal of rice, long served, as yet untouched.
Mahendra's eyes had a trick of getting moist at the slightest provocation. The sight of his aunt made the tears come. Going near he called affectionately, "Kakie."
With a forced smile Annapurna said, "Come and sit down, Mahin."
"I am fearfully hungry," said Mahendra, "won't you give me some
prasad
."
Annapurna saw through Mahendra's little stratagem and, keeping down her rising tears with an effort, she took her food and helped Mahendra to some.
Mahendra's heart was then soft with pity. After the meal was over he suddenly in the impulse of the moment blurted out, "Kakie, will you not show me the niece of whom you spoke to me once?"
He had no sooner uttered the words than he was afraid.
"Are your thoughts then turning to marriage?" asked Annapurna with a smile.
"No, no, it's not for myself," Mahendra hurriedly explained. "I have succeeded in persuading Vihari to agree, so please arrange a day for the visit."
"Ah," murmured Annapurna, "can she indeed be so fortunate as to get Vihari for a husband?"
Coming out of his aunt's room Mahendra met his mother near the door. "What were you two talking about?" asked Rajlakshmi.
"There was nothing particular to talk about," said Mahendra. "I only came for some
pan
.
"
"Your
pan
was ready in my room," remarked his mother. Mahendra cut short the subject by walking away.
When Rajlakshmi entered Annapurna's
room a glance at her tear-swollen eyes led her to conjecture a great dea1. "Well Mistress Aunt," she said with a little snort, "so it seems you have been telling tales to my son," and without waiting for an answer, she swept out of the room.
CHAPTER 3
========================================
III
Mahendra had almost forgotten about the proposed visit to the girl, but Annapurna had not. She wrote to her niece's guardian and arranged a day for the young men to see the gir1.
When informed that the day had been appointed, Mahendra said, "Why all this hurry, Kakie? I haven't yet managed to speak to Vihari."
"What's to be done?" exclaimed Annapurna. "What will they think of us if you don't go now?"
Mahendra sent for Vihari and told him everything. "Come along," said he, "if you don't like her they can't force her on you."
"I don't know about that," Vihari said. "To go and see Kakie's niece and then to say that I do not like her is more than I can bring myself to do."
"So much the better," said Mahendra.
"Look here, Dada," said Vihari, "you have done wrong. It was not fair to keep yourself free by placing this sort of burden on another's shoulders. Now it makes it so terribly difficult for me—it will be such a blow to Kakie."
"What then do you propose to do?" Mahendra felt awkward and annoyed.
"Since you have led her to expect this of me," said Vihari, "I will marry her niece—but it's no use keeping up this farce of going to see the girl."
Vihari had a very great veneration for Annapurna.
Then at length Annapurna called Vihari to her and said, "That cannot be, my child, you must not marry a girl you have not seen. I swear you shall never marry her If she does not please you."
On the appointed day Mahendra on returning from his college said to his mother, "Put out for me my Dacca muslin things and silk tunic, will you?"
"Why," asked his mother, "where are you going?"
"I want them, mother," Mahendra replied; "let me have them, please. I'll tell you all about it afterwards."
Mahendra could not resist the temptation of dressing up. The occasion of the selection of a bride, be it for another, demands of youth an extra touch to the hair, a little perfume on the garments.
The two friends set out to view the maiden. The three-storeyed house of Anukul, the girl's guardian and uncle, towered above the neighbourhood. When his poorer brother had died he had brought his orphaned niece to live with him. Her aunt Annapurna had said, "let her come to me." That would have been less expensive to him no doubt, but also less respectable, so he did not agree. In fact so particular was he about what was due to his position that he never even sent the girl to visit her aunt.
The girl attained the age of marriage, but, whenever the question of her dower was raised, he would say, "I have daughters of my own, how much do you expect me to do?" Such was the position of affairs when Mahendra, dressed up and scented, entered on the scene with his friend.
The sun was about to set on a long April day. At one end of the fancy-tile-floored verandah on the second storey, fruits and sweetmeats were displayed in silver dishes beside which were two silver goblets full of iced water frosted outside with dew. Mahendra with Vihari was bashfully engaged in tasting the proffered delicacies. Down below in the garden the gardener was sprinkling the shrubs with water. The south wind, bearing the cool fragrance of the moistened earth, was creating a flutter in the ends of Mahendra's muslin scarf. It seemed as if from the interstices in the venetian doors leading into the rooms little sounds of whispering and giggling and the tinkling of ornaments could he heard.
After the refreshment was over Anukul glanced towards one of the rooms and said, "Chuni, will you fetch the
pan
, please." After a little pause one of the doors behind them opened and a girl appeared from somewhere, wrapped round with a world of modesty, and, the casket of
pan
in her hand, she came up with hesitating steps and stood near Anukul. "What is there to be shy about, my little mother?"
said he; "put down that casket in front of these gentlemen." The girl with downcast eyes and trembling hands put the casket on the floor near the carpet seats of the guests. From the west end of the verandah the glow of the setting sun lighted up for a moment her bashful countenance.
That was the moment when Mahendra's glance fell on the pathetic picture presented by the face of the trembling girl.
The girl was about to retire immediately after, when Anukul said, "Stay awhile, Chuni. Vihari Babu,
this is my brother Apurba's daughter; he has passed away and now she has none else but me," and he heaved a sigh.
Mahendra felt a great pity. He once more glanced at the orphaned girl. "What may be your name?" he asked her.
Anukul, in an encouraging tone, repeated, "Your name, my little mother, ten him your name."
The girl, as if obeying orders, replied with downcast eyes, "My name is Asha."
"Asha! What a gentle voice, what a touching name," thought Mahendra, "poor orphaned Asha!"
The two friends came out of the house and drove off. Mahendra said, "Vihari, don't you give up this girl."
Vihari would not give a direct reply but said, "She reminds me of her aunt, she must be as good."
"I trust," said Mahendra, "that you are not feeling the burden which I placed on your shoulders so very heavy after all!"
"No, I think I'll be able to bear it," said Vihari.
"Why sacrifice yourself? I'll relieve you if you like. What say you?"
Vihari gravely turned towards Mahendra. "Are you serious, Dada?" said he. "Tell me truly while there is yet time. If you marry her, Kakie will be much better pleased, as she will then always have her near."
"Are you mad?" replied Mahendra, "if that had been possible it would have happened long ago."
Without any further objection Vihari went his way, while Mahendra, leaving the direct road, paced slowly through a long round, reaching home late.
His mother was then busily engaged in making cakes. His aunt had not yet returned from her niece's place.
Mahendra went up to the terraced roof and spreading a mat he stretched himself on it. The light of the half moon went on silently spreading its magic radiance over the Calcutta housetops. When his mother came to announce the evening meal, Mahendra in a lazy voice replied, "I'm so comfortable here, I really can't get up now."
"Let me fetch it here," the mother suggested.
"No, I think I won't have anything more tonight, I've had something to eat."
"Where have you been eating?"
"Oh, that's a long story, I'll tell you afterwards," said Mahendra.
Wounded at this unwonted behaviour on Mahendra's part his mother turned to go without another word. Recovering himself in a moment the repentant son said, "All right, mother, do bring my food up here."
"If you are not hungry, what is the good?"
After a few more passages between mother and son Mahendra had to sit down to a second meal after all.
CHAPTER 4
========================================
IV
Mahendra did not sleep well that night. Early in the morning he turned up at Vihari's lodgings.
He said, "Look here, old fellow, I feel on reflection that Kakie's real desire must be that I should marry her niece."
"There was no need for all this reflection. In many a way has she shown this desire."
"That is why I was saying," Mahendra went on, "that if I don't marry Asha, Kakie will be left with a life-long regret."
Vihari with a somewhat exaggerated enthusiasm exclaimed, "Just the thing, the very thing. If you are willing there's nothing more to be said. Only it would have been well if this desire to do the right thing had come to you yesterday."
"What matters the delay of just one day?" remarked Mahendra.
Once he had given rein to the thought of marriage, Mahendra found it difficult to contain himself any longer. "No more words, but action," thought he.
He went home and said to his mother, "All right, mother, I yield to your persuasion. I am now ready to marry."
"Now I understand," thought his mother, "why my sister-in-law went to her niece's and why Mahendra dressed himself up to go out."
That Annapurna's scheming should have prevailed over her repeated entreaties made her feel that something had gone wrong with the whole scheme of the universe. She simply said, "Very well, I'll have to find out a good girl for you."
"But there is a girl," said Mahendra, alluding to Asha.
"That girl won't do, my child, I tell you plainly."
Restraining himself with a great effort Mahendra asked, "Why what's wrong with her, mother?"
"She has no blood relations to call her own. Your marriage with her would not give us the pleasure of extending our connections."
"I would not mind foregoing the pleasure of connections, but I feel I could be happy with her."
Her son's pertinacity only hardened Rajlakshmi's resolve. She went to Annapurna and said, "Is it your idea to filch away my son from me by marrying him to this ill-omened daughter of departed parents?"
Annapurna wept as she replied, "There has been no talk of marriage with Mahin. I know nothing of what he has been telling you of his wishes in the matter."
Mahendra's mother did not believe a word of this, of course.
Then Annapurna sent for Vihari and said, with tears in her eyes, "I thought the marriage had been settled with
you
, why again is everything upset? I must ask you once more to give me your word. If you do not come to the rescue I shall be put to great shame. I can assure you she is a good girl and will not he unworthy of you."
"Your assurances are entirely superfluous, Kakie," said Vihari. "Since she is your sister's child I can desire no better. But Mahendra—"
"Never, child, that is impossible," said Annapurna. "I should be perfectly content if she is married to you. I do not approve of her marriage with Mahin."
"If it has not your approval, Kakie, there is nothing more to be said." With which Vihari went off to Rajlakshmi and said to her, "Mother, my marriage with Kakie's niece has been settled, my relations are not here with me, so I have shamelessly to announce it to you myself."
Rajlakshmi.—"What is that you say, Vihari? I
am
so glad! She is a very good girl and quite worthy of you. Take care you do not lose her."
Vihari.—"Why should I lose her, mother? Dada has himself chosen her for me and arranged the match."
All these obstacles excited Mahendra still more. He sulked at both his mother and aunt and took himself off to some dingy rooms in the students' quarter.
Rajlakshmi went to Annapurna in tears and said, "Sister, save my child. He may turn ascetic and leave home for good."
"Have patience, my sister," said Annapurna, "his anger will cool down after a few days."
"You don't know him," rejoined Rajlakshmi. "He is capable of doing anything if he doesn't get what he wants. You must somehow or other give your niece to—"
Annapurna.—"How can that be, sister? Has not everything been finally settled with Vihari?"
"That won't take long to unsettle," interposed Rajlakshmi, as she sent for Vihari. "My son," said she to him, "I am looking out for a really good bride for you, you must give up this girl, who is not at all worthy of you."
"No, mother, that cannot be," said Vihari. "Everything has been finally settled."
Then Rajlakshmi went again to Annapurna saying, "I humbly entreat you sister—I beg of you at your feet—if you will only say a word to Vihari, everything will be righted."
So Annapurna had to say—"I really don't know how to say this to you, Vihari, but what
am
I to do? With Asha yours
?
I would have felt so relieved, but you
know
everything—"
"I quite understand, Kakie. Your commands shall be obeyed. But never ask me to marry anyone again." So saying Vihari left.
Annapurna's eyes filled with tears, but she wiped them away lest they should prove inauspicious to Mahendra, and repeatedly tried to console herself with the hope that everything had happened for the best.
Asha, with her shapely, well-draped figure, and a bashful far-away look in her eyes, took her first step into social life. Her tender palpitating heart did not realise that there could be any thorns in the path that stretched before her; rather all fear and doubt had departed from her mind with the hope and joy of coming to Annapurna, the only one in the world who could take her mother's place.
After the wedding Rajlakshmi called Mahendra and said, "I would suggest that
my little bride-mother had better continue staying with her uncle for a time."
"Why, mother?" asked Mahendra.
"Well, you see, your examination is coming on and you might be disturbed in your studies."
"Do you take me for a child, mother? Can't I be trusted to take care of myself?"
"What does it matter? It's only a year more now."
"If she had her own parents, there could have been no objection to sending her to them, but I can't keep her with her uncle."
"Oh heavens!" thought Rajlakshmi to herself, "so
he
is the master, and her mother-in-law a nobody! How tenderly thoughtful, all in a day! Once upon a time our husbands had also married us, but such shameless henpecked behaviour was not to be seen in those days."
"Have no fear, mother," said Mahendra with decision, "my examination shall not suffer."
(
To be continued.
)
Translated by
Surendranath Tagore.
CHAPTER 5
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
V
T
HEN Rajlakshmi set about with tireless energy to initiate the daughter-in-law into her household duties. During the day her time was divided between pantry, kitchen and household god: at night, to make up for the separation from her own people, Rajlakshml would make Asha sleep with her in her room.
Annapurna, after much thought, decided to keep aloof from her niece.
Mahendra felt very much like the small boy watching an elder, of whom he is afraid, sucking all the sweetness out of a piece of sugarcane.
He went to Annapurna and said, "I really can't bear the way mother is making the poor girl slave."
Annapurna was quite aware that Rajlakshmi was overdoing it, but she said, "Why, Mahin, it's only right that your wife should be taught her housewifely duties. Would it be good for her, like the girls one sees now-a-days, to be playing the fine lady with novels and fancy needle-work?"
"Good or bad," replied Mahendra excitedly, "the girl of to-day must be like the girl of to-day. If my wife could enjoy a novel the same as I do, I'd see nothing to be sorry for, or to laugh at either."
Hearing her son's voice in Annapurna's room, Rajlakshmi left her work and hied thither. "What's all this discussion about?" she asked in a hard ringing voice.
Mahendra replied in a tone of unabated excitement, "There's nothing to discuss, mother, but I can't allow my wife to do household drudgery like a servant-maid."
The mother, suppressing her rising temper, asked with an incisive calm, "What then is to be done with the lady?"
"I'll teach her to read and write," said Mahendra.
Rajlakshmi hurried away without another word and returned in a moment, half dragging by the hand her daughter-in-law, whom she placed before Mahendra, saying, "Here she is, teach your wife to read and write by all means!"
Then turning to Annapurna she said with a great parade of mock humility, "Forgive me, Mistress Aunt, I beg you, if I've been unable to appreciate your niece and have let her stain her delicate fingers in the kitchen. I now leave you to scrub and polish her into a fine lady and hand her
over to Mahendra. Let her take her ease at reading and writing—
I
shall be the maid-of-all-work!"
With this Rajlakshmi went off to her room and shut herself in with a great clatter of bolts.
Annapurna sank to the floor in dismay. Asha, unable to understand the inwardness of this sudden domestic storm, went pale with shame and fear. Mahendra, with rage in his heart, said to himself, "No more of this. I must look after my wife myself, or else I should be doing a great wrong."
With the wish thus supported by the sense of duty, the flame was fanned by the wind. And college, examination, friendship's claims and social duties—where were they when Mahendra, to educate his wife, went with her into retirement?
The proud Rajlakshmi vowed that even if Mahendra and his wife sat starving at her door, she would not so much as vouchsafe them a glance. She would see how Mahendra could manage with his wife without the help of his mother!
Days passed—yet no repentant footsteps were heard near her door.
Rajlakshmi conceded that if pardon was begged, pardon must be granted, or poor Mahendra would be too grievously wounded.
But the petition for pardon did not arrive.
Rajlakshmi decided that she would go and offer her forgiveness. After all, if the son was in a huff, should the mother sulk too?
Mahendra's bedroom and study was a small room, the only one on the third storey, at a corner of the terraced roof. The last few days his mother had entirely neglected the making of his bed and the tidying of his things. Like breasts aching with an excess of milk, her maternal heart had begun to feel the weight of these undischarged daily cares. That noon she thought, "By this time Mahendra must be at his college. I'd better go and do up his room. When he comes back he'll at once recognise his mother's touch."
Rajlakshmi climbed up the steep stairs. The door of Mahendra's room was ajar, and as she came up to it she started as if pricked by a thorn. Mahendra was lying asleep on a bed made on the floor, and with her back to the door his wife was gently stroking his bare feet with her hands. The sight of this conjugal scene in the broad light of day was too much for Rajlakshmi. She crept back downstairs, abashed and mortified.
CHAPTER 6
========================================
VI
It was intolerable that this newly-arrived stranger should be established there with the assurance of longstanding habit. So Rajlakshmi proceeded to vent her heart-burnings upon Annapurna's devoted head. "Just go and have a look," said she, "at the sort of training your Nabob's daughter has brought with her from the house of her father, the Nabob."
"Sister, why speak thus to me?" pleaded Annapurna in great distress. "She's your daughter-in-law, train her, and if needful punish her, as you will."
Rajlakshmi's voice twanged forth like a smitten bowstring: "
My
daughter-in-law indeed! As if I am likely to have any voice while
you
are behind her."
Annapurna rushed into Mahendra's bedroom with loud footsteps, startling the wedded couple into a due consciousness of their surroundings. "You wretched girl," she said to Asha, "are you determined to put me to shame? Have you lost all sense of decency and propriety that you should be taking your comfort here, leaving the whole burden of household cares on your old mother-in-law? 'Twas my evil star which led me to bring you into this house!" And as she spoke she burst into tears.
Asha, standing with bowed head, kept fidgetting with the ends of her draperies, and wept silently.
Mahendra said, "Why are you scolding the wife, Kaki? 'Tis I who have kept her up here."
"A nice thing to have done to be sure!" cried Annapurna. "She's but a child and an orphan, what should she know of right and wrong? But what sort of training are
you
giving her?
"Well," rejoined Mahendra, "don't you see that I've got for her a slate and paper and books? I've made up my mind to teach her to read and write, and I don't care if people speak ill of me, or whether you get angry."
"But why need her lessons take up the whole day?" asked Annapurna. "It should be quite enough if you taught her for an hour or so in the evenings."
"It's not so easy as that," replied Mahendra, "these things take quite a lot of time."
Annapurna left the room thoroughly vexed. Asha was about to follow her, but Mahendra placed himself across the door, and paid no heed to the tearful pleading in her eyes. "Wait a bit," said he, "if I have· wasted my time in sleep, I must make up for it now."
As the days went by Annapurna had to say to Asha, "The sort of progress you are making with your lessons is clear enough, but are you also going to prevent Mahendra from getting through his medical examination?"
At this Asha determined to be absolutely firm, and said to Mahendra, "You aren't reading for your examination at all—so from to-day I'm going to stay downstairs in Kaki's room."
.
"As you please," said Mahendra; "let's stay in Kaki's room by all means, but then she'll have to come upstairs and stay in ours!"
A bantering reply to such a serious proposition touching so grave a matter made Asha highly indignant. But Mahendra went on, "Hadn't you better keep an eye on me, day and night, to see for yourself that I really do cram for my examination?"
The decision to adopt the latter course was arrived at with remarkable ease. It is needless to describe in detail in what manner the eyes appointed to keep this strict and constant watch performed their functions. Suffice it to say that Mahendra did not pass his examination that year, and that Asha's ignorance of the life-history of the Centipede did not suffer the least abatement, in spite of the exhaustive information on the subject furnished by her reading-book.
At the news of Mahendra's failure Rajlakshmi blazed up like a summer conflagration; but the brunt of all its heat and fury had to be borne by Annapurna. She could neither eat nor sleep.
CHAPTER 7
========================================
VII
One evening resonant with the newly-set-in seasonal rain, Mahendra, with scented muslin scarf and a garland of white jasmine round his neck, jauntily came to his room, creeping up tiptoe, with the idea of surprising Asha. Peeping through the door he found the rain streaming in, with the gusts of wind, through the open east window; the lamp had got blown out; and Asha, lying on the bed on the floor, was shaking with suppressed sobs.
Mahendra bounded to her side and asked, "What is the matter?"
The girl burst into another fit of sobbing, and it was some time before he succeeded in finding out from her that their aunt, unable to bear it any longer, had left the house and gone off to stay with a cousin.
"If she
had
to go," thought Mahendra irritably, "why need she have spoilt for me this lovely rainy evening!"
In the end all his irritation got focussed on to his mother, she was the root of all the trouble!
"Where Kaki has gone, let us go too," said he; "then we'll see with whom mother can pick a quarrel:" with which he began to pack up his things with a lot of needless noise, and to shout for porters.
Rajlakshmi understood. She slowly went up to Mahendra and mildly asked, "Where are you going?"
Mahendra at first gave her no reply, but after the question had been repeated several times he answered "We're going to Kaki."
"You needn't go anywhere at all," said Rajlakshmi; "I'll bring you your Kaki here."
She at once sent for a palanquin and went off to Annapurna's lodgings.
.
With the end of her
sari
round her neck, and palms joined in an attitude of abject humility, she said, "Be merciful, Mistress Aunt, and pardon me."
Annapurna, terribly exercised, bent low and took the dust of Rajlakshmi's feet. "Why make me guilty of impropriety
, Sister," she wailed, "am I not yours to command?"
The mortified Rajlakshmi sobbed back in her exasperation, "My son and his wife want to leave the house because you have come away."
The sisters-in-law came back home together.
It was still raining. By the time Annapurna reached Mahendra's room, Asha's fit of crying had been soothed and Mahendra was trying to make her laugh with his sallies. Judging by appearances, the rainy evening could not have been so hopelessly wasted after all!
"Chuni!" said Annapurna, "Isn't it enough to make it impossible for me to stay in
this house, but you must also pursue me when I'm out of it? Am I not to have any peace at all?"
Asha winced like a stricken deer. Mahendra was fearfully incensed. "What has Chuni done to you, Kaki," he asked, "that you should go on like this?"
"I went away," replied Annapurna, "because I could not bear to see this chit of a girl so shameless. What made the miserable creature drag me back by bringing tears to her mother-in-law's eyes?"
Mahendra never knew before how effectually mothers and aunts can mar the most poetic episodes of life.
The next day Rajlakshmi sent for Vihari and said, "Will you speak to Mahin for me, my child? It's a long while since I've been to my native village of Baraset. I should like to pay the place a visit."
"Since you haven't been there for so long, why not stay away a little longer?" said Vihari. "I'll speak to Dada if you like, but I'm sure he'll never allow you to leave him."
Vihari did not at all like the readiness with which Mahendra gave his consent. "If you let mother go alone, who's to look after her?—Why not send sister Asha
with her?" he suggested with the hint of a smile.
Mahendra felt the implied taunt as he retorted, "What makes you think I can't do that?" But there the matter dropped.
Vihari seemed to find a sort of dry pleasure in saying things which he knew Asha would not like, and which would set her against him.
It is hardly necessary to mention that Rajlakshmi was not excessively anxious to revisit the place of her birth. As, when the river is low in summer, the boatman has to keep on sounding with his pole,—so in this ebb-tide of affection between mother and son, Rajlakshmi was feeling her way. That she should so soon touch bottom, with her proposal of going to Baraset, was more than she had expected. "There seems to be some difference," she thought to herself, "between my leaving home, and Annapurna's leaving home. She is an accomplished schemer, while I am
only
a mother. So I suppose I'd better go."
Annapurna grasped the situation and said, "If sister goes I can't remain."
"Do you hear, mother," said the tactless Mahendra, "if you go, Kaki will go also; how then are we to keep house?"
"Nonsense, Mistress Aunt," said Rajlakshmi, burning with a jealous hatred of the woman; "why should you go? Don't you see
you
are wanted here? you
must
stay on!"
Rajlakshmi could not brook further delay. The very next afternoon she was ready to start. Vihari did not, nor for the matter of that did anyone else, doubt for a moment that Mahendra would accompany his mother on the journey. But when the time came, it was found that Mahendra had arranged for a servant to go with her.
When Vihari inquired, "Dada, how is it you're not ready yet?" and Mahendra shamefacedly started to explain, "You see, my college—," Vihari cut him short with "All right, you stay on, I'll take mother along."
Mahendra was wroth, and when alone with Asha, remarked, "Vihari is really getting too bad. He wants to make out that he cares more for mother than I do!"
Annapurna had to remain; but she felt utterly shamed and crushed, and shrank within herself. Mahendra resented her aloofness, and Asha, too, showed that she felt aggrieved.
CHAPTER 8
========================================
VIII
Rajlakshmi reached her native village. Vihari, who was to have returned after escorting her thither, could not do so after seeing what the place was like.
The only distant relatives still living in Rajlakshmi's childhood's home were one or two aged widows. A dense jungle of bamboo thickets and tangled vegetation had grown all around; the water of the pond had turned green; and the disquieting howl of jackals was to be heard even in broad daylight.
"This may be your birthplace, mother, right enough," said Vihari, "but it certainly can't be described as 'more glorious than heaven!'
Come back with me to Calcutta. 'Twould be a sin and a shame to leave you here alone."
Rajlakshmi was also beginning to feel a great sense of oppression, when, in the very nick of time, Binodini came to the rescue and took shelter with her.
Ever since the death of her husband, Binodini, like a garden-plant in the wilderness, had been drooping in this dreary village. Now that she had come to pay her respects to her husband's respected relative, she entirely gave herself up to her service.
And what a service it was! What unremitting devotion! How deft was she in household work, how clever in the kitchen, how sweet-spoken!
Rajlakshmi would have to say, "It's late, my little mother, go and have something to eat."
But would she hear of it? How could she rest till she had fanned her
Pishima
into her afternoon nap?
Rajlakshmi, after a while, would insist, "You'll get ill, my little mother, if you go on like this."
Binodini, with great self-depreciation, would reply, "No, Pishima, we who live in sorrow never get ill. What is there here, what have I got with which to welcome you home after all these years?"
Vihari in a few days got to be the boss of the village. Some would come to him for medicine, some for legal advice; he would be asked to find jobs for sons in some big Calcutta office, he would have to write out applications. His genial humour and quizzical curiosity took him everywhere, from the chess gathering of the elders to the drinking-haunts of the outcasts; nowhere was he looked upon as a stranger, they all respected him.
Binodini, also, from behind the scenes, tried her best to lighten the exile of the Calcutta youth in so dull a place.
As often as Vihari came back from his rounds in the village, he would find that someone had been arranging his room, putting flowers into a brass pot, placing novels by the side of his cushion seat; and in each book was written in a firm feminine hand, the name "Binodini."
This was rather different from the ordinary kind of hospita1ity met with in villages! Whenever Vihari al1uded to this in terms of praise; Rajlakshmi would say, "And this is the girl whom you people thought beneath notice!"
Vihari would laugh in reply. "We did wrong, mother, we are duly penitent. But isn't it better to regret a failure to get married?—it would be so awful to have to regret the marriage proving a failure!"
But Rajlakshmi would be continually harping on the thought, "Would that this girl had been my daughter-in-law. Why, oh why, was it not so!"
If Rajlakshmi so much as alluded to her return to Calcutta, Binodini's eyes would fill with tears. "Oh Pishima", she would say, "why did you come for so short a visit? I was getting along somehow while I did not know you, but how can I live without you now?"
And in the effusiveness of her emotion Rajlakshmi would cry out, "Oh! my little mother, why did you not come to me as the bride of my house, then I could have kept you in my arms for ever."
And when the conversation took this turn, Binodini would contrive some excuse for leaving the room to hide her blushes.
Rajlakshmi was awaiting a repentant letter of entreaty from Calcutta. Since the day he was born, her Mahin had never been separated from her for so long—he must, she thought, be greatly worrying over her absence by this time. So Rajlakshmi was athirst for this letter in which Mahendra would stormily lay claim to his mother's love.
It was Vihari, however, who got Mahendras' letter. He wrote, "Mother must be so happy to be in her native village after all this time."
"Poor Mahin is fearfully cut up," thought Rajlakshmi, "that's why he puts in that little touch about my being happy. As if his wretched mother could be happy anywhere away from her Mahendra!"
"Go on, Vihari, my child, what does he say next?"
"That's all, mother, nothing more," said Vihari, as he crushed the letter in his hand, slipped it into a book, and threw it into a corner.
Rajlakshmi could hardly contain herself. Mahin must be so furious with his mother, she concluded, that Vihari did not care to read out to her how strongly he felt. Like the toss of the sucking calf, the thought of Mahendra's anger, while it pained Rajlakshmi, drew forth, as well, an overflowing tenderness. She at once forgave Mahendra. "Let him be happy with his wife," she said to herself. "I'll not worry him anymore over her shortcomings. How very angry poor Mahin must be that his mother, whom
be
can't bear to be away
from for a moment, should have left him—" and her eyes repeatedly brimmed over.
Rajlakshmi kept on coming to Vihari's room and saying, "Go and have your bath, my son, I am afraid the irregular hours you are keeping here will tell on your health."
Vihari somehow seemed not to be at all in the mood for toilet or food that day, and replied, "A bit of irregularity is good for a vagabond like me, mother."
But Rajlakshmi insisted, "No, my son, you really must get on with your bath."
At last after repeated urging Vihari went. As soon as he left the room Rajlakshmi hunted out the crumpled letter from the book, and taking it to Binodini, said: "Will you tell me, my little mother, what Mahin has been writing to Vihari."
Binodini proceeded to read the letter out aloud. In the beginning there was a little bit about his mother,—just what Vihari had read out, nothing more. Then came all about Asha! Mahendra seemed to be revelling in a boundless intoxication of rapturous love and excitement.
After reading out a little Binodini stopped for very shame and asked, "Pishima, need I go on?"
The affectionate eagerness in Rajlakshmi's face had in a moment frozen into a stony stare. After a short silence she said, "Let it be," and went away without taking back the letter.
Binodini shut herself into her room, settled down on the bed, and went on with her reading.
What charm Binodini found in that letter Binodini alone knew. But it was not the mere satisfaction of curiosity. As she read it over and over again, her eyes glowed like the sand under the midday sun, her breath came in hot gasps like the desert wind. What was Mahendra like, what was Asha like, what was the love between Mahendra and Asha like, these were the questions that kept whirling round and round in her mind. Leaning with her back against the wall, her feet stretched out on the bed, and the letter pressed on her lap with her hands, she sat long, staring straight before her.
Vihari was not able to find that letter of Mahendra's again!
That afternoon Annapurna suddenly made her appearance. Rajlakshmi's heart beat violently for fear of evil tidings; she could not bring herself to put any question, and gazed at Annapurna with blanched face.
"All is well at Calcutta" said Annapurna.
"What brings you here, then?" asked Rajlakshmi.
"Come and take charge of Jour household, sister," said Annapurna. "I have ceased to care for the world, I am going to Benares to end my days there, and have come to take the dust of your feet.
If knowingly or unknowingly I have wronged you, I beg your forgiveness. As for your daughter-in-law," here her eyes filled with tears, "she is but a child, and motherless; be she to blame or not to blame, she is after all your own—" she was unable to continue.
Rajlakshmi hurried away to look after Annapurna's toilet and food arrangements. Vihari, hearing of her arrival, rushed back from a neighbouring farmer's house, and after prostrating himself at her feet said, "No, Kaki, this won't do at all. Do you really mean to be so cruel as to forsake us?"
Annapurna, holding back her tears, said pleadingly, "Don't try to turn me back, Vihari. I wish all of you every happiness, but no part of it depends on me."
Vihari was silent for a time, and then said, "Fate is indeed unkind to Mahendra that it has made him part with you."
"Don't say that," said Annapurna with a little start, "Mahendra hasn't in any way annoyed me. But unless I go there can be no peace in the house."
Vihari looked away in silence. Annapurna then took out a pair of gold bangles from the folds of her
sari
and said, "Keep these bangles, my son. When you bring home your bride, put these on her wrists for me with my blessing."
Vihari touched his forehead with the bangles in reverent acceptance of the gift, and went oft into the next room to conceal his emotion.
At the time of departure Annapurna said, "Vihari, look after my Mahin and my Asha." Then putting a document into Rajlakshmi's hands she said, "Here is a deed of gift making over my share in the family property to Mahin. It will be quite enough if you send me fifteen rupees every month."
With which she prostrated herself, and, taking the dust of Rajlakshmi's feet on her head, started on her pilgrimage.
CHAPTER 9
========================================
IX.
Asha felt quite frightened. What could be happening? First the mother goes away, then the aunt. Their happiness seemed to be driving everybody away—would it be her turn to be spirited away next, she wondered! To resume afresh the play of their wedded life in the now deserted household seemed to her somehow unseemly. Mahendra on the other hand, in a spirit of reckless rebellion against this unsympathetic household of his, proceeded to exhaust in one blaze all the candles of his love carnival, in a desperate attempt to maintain the festivity of their union in the midst of this ominous solitude.
With a little fling at Asha he would say, "What is the matter with you, now-a-days, Chuni? Why need your heart be so overcast at Kaki's departure? Is not our love sufficient unto itself?"
Asha with great concern would wonder, "Am I then really wanting in my love—else why should my thoughts turn so often to my aunt—why should my mother-in-law's absence make me so nervous?" And she redoubled her efforts to make up for what she thought lacking in her love.
The affairs of the household were not getting on well. The servants had begun to get lax in their duties. One day the maid said she was not well, and failed to turn up. Another day the cook was drunk, and made himself scarce.
"What a lark," said Mahendra to Asha, "let's do the cooking ourselves."
Mahendra hired a carriage and went off a-marketing, but as he had no idea how much of what was wanted, he returned in great glee loaded with quantities of odds and ends. Nor was Asha any clearer as to what was to be done with the things he had brought. It was considerably past the hour for their meal by the time the experiments were over and Mahendra was in a position to triumphantly produce a variety of unknown and uneatable dishes. Asha, however, was unable to share Mahendra's high spirits. She felt greatly ashamed and oppressed by her ignorance and want of skill.
Things had got so mixed up in every single room that nothing could be found when wanted. One of Mahendra's surgical instruments had done duty as a kitchen knife, and thenceforth gone into hiding in the dust-bin. His college notebook, after performing the functions of the palmyra-leaf fan, was reposing under the ashes of the kitchen grate. Mahendra was hugely amused at this unusual topsyturvydom, but Asha felt it more and more keenly. It seemed to the young girl to be a sacrilege to be watching with a smiling face the household welfare being borne away on the tide of self-indulgence.
One evening they were seated together on a bed spread on the floor of the covered verandah of their room, facing the open terraced roof. A shower of rain was just over, and the housetops, stretching as far as the eye could see, were flooded by the moon-light.
Asha had gathered a heap of rain-washed
vakula
flowers, and was bending over the garland she was stringing. Mahendra seemed to be trying his best to provoke a quarrel by criticising it unfavourably, pulling it about, and generally hampering her work. Every time Asha opened her lips to give him a scolding, he would nip her lecture in the bud by the illogical method common among lovers.
Suddenly the tame
koil
belonging to a neighbour cooed out from its cage. At once both Mahendra and Asha looked up at the cage hanging from the eaves of the sunshade over their heads. Their
koil
had never failed to respond to the call of the neighbour's bird. But why was he silent to-day?
"What's the matter with the bird?" asked Asha anxiously.
"He must have been shamed into silence by your voice," suggested Mahendra.
"Dont be silly," said Asha petulantly, "do see what's happened to him."
Mahendra took down the cage, and taking off its cloth cover found the bird dead inside. The servant boy had taken leave after Annapurna's departure, and there had been no one to look after the
koil
.
Asha's face fell, her fingers gradually left off moving, the flowers lay unheeded! Mahendra also was shocked, but he tried to retrieve the situation by laughing away the incident. "A good riddance," said he, "while I was away at college the bird must have kept plaguing you with his cooing."
And Mahendra put his arms round Asha and tried to draw her near him.
Asha gently released herself, and brushing away the last of the clinging
vakula
blossoms from her drapery, said, "No more of this, for shame! Go, I pray you, and bring mother back at once."
As she said this a shout of "Dada, Dada" was heard from the storey below.
"Hullo, is it you, come along," shouted Mahendra in reply. He was overjoyed to hear Vihari's voice.
After their marriage Vihari used to come now and then as an intruder into their happiness. The preservation of that happiness now seemed badly to want that same intrusion.
Asha also felt greatly relieved at Vihari's arrival. Seeing Asha start to her feet and veil herself with the upper fold of her
sari
, Mahendra said, "Where are you off to? It's only Vihari. You needn't treat him so formally as all that!"
"Let me go and bring some refreshment for brother Vihari," replied Asha, her heart feeling considerably lightened at having some definite duty to perform.
Asha, however, tarried a little, with veil adjusted,
waiting to hear news of her mother-in-law. She was not yet sufficiently familiar with Vihari to be on speaking terms with him.
"O Lord," ejaculated Vihari, as soon as he came to the verandah, "what a world of poesy have I stepped into! Dont worry, sister Asha, you stay on, I'll decamp!"
Asha looked towards Mahendra, and Mahendra inquired, "What news of mother, Vihari."
"'Such a night was not made for sleep'," quoted Vihari in English, "nor for mothers and aunts! Why bother about them now? There's time enough for that," with which he was about to turn and go, when Mahendra pulled Vihari down beside him by main force.
"Look here, sister Asha," said Vihari, "it's no fault of mine. The sin is Dada's, let not your curse lie on me!"
Asha used to wax all the more indignant at Vihari's chaff because she was not in a position to reply. Vihari took a peculiar pleasure in rousing her ire.
"The tidiness of the house," Vihari went on, "is perfectly plain,—don't you think it's high time to call mother home?"
"What d'you mean?" retorted Mahendra, "it's we who are waiting for her to come back."
"To write a line just to tell her so," said Vihari, "would take you very little time, but would make her infinitely happy. Sister Asha, my humble petition is that you spare him for just these two minutes."
Asha went off in high dudgeon, she was actually in tears.
"In what an auspicious moment you two must have first met!" said Mahendra, "you don't seem to manage to patch up any sort of peace. You're always at it!"
"First of all," said Vihari, "your mother has spoilt you. Now your wife has begun spoiling you over again. This sort of thing I can't stand, and that's why whenever I get a chance I let fly."
Mahendra—"What good does that do?"
Vihari—"It doesn't do
you
any good that I can see, but it does
me
."
(
To be continued
)
Translated by
Surendranath Tagore.
CHAPTER 10
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
X
V
IHARI got Mahendra to write that letter while he waited, and armed with the missive he went off the next day to fetch Rajlakshmi. The mother could see that the letter was of Vihari's contriving; none the less, she could no longer remain away. Binodini came along with them.
The sight that met the eyes of the mistress of the house on her return—the whole establishment upside down, unkept, uncared for—turned away her heart still more from her daughter-in-law.
But what a change had been wrought in Asha! She would follow her mother-in-law about like her shadow, she would hasten to help her without waiting to be asked, till Rajlakshmi would have to exc1aim—"Let it be, let it be, you'll only spoil it! Why fuss about with things you don't understand!"
Rajlakshmi concluded that Annapurna's departure was responsible for this improvement in her daughter-in-law. "But," she argued, "I mustn't let Mahendra feel that unalloyed happiness with his wife was possible only so long as his
Kaki
was there and that the sorrows of separation begin with his mother's arrival. That would never do!"
Now-a-days if Mahendra sent for his wife when she was with his mother, Asha would hesitate to go. But Rajlakshmi would rebuke her, saying, "Don't you hear, Mahin wants you,—or is that beneath your notice? The result of being over-petted I suppose! You needn't pretend to be attending to the cooking—there's nothing to keep you here."
Then the farce with slate and pencil and reader began all over again! The charging each other with fancied offences against love's code! The futile quarrels over weighing one's love against the other's! The making the rainy day into night and the moonlight night into day. The getting so habituated to each other as to lose all delight in companionship and yet be afraid to free oneself from its toils! Verily lies the curse of the life of indulgence in the evanescence of its pleasure, the permanence of its bondage.
When things had come to this pass, Binodini one day threw her arms round Asha's neck and said, "May your good fortune last for ever, my dear, but am I not worthy even of a glance from you because I am destined to sorrow?"
Brought up as a stranger in the house of her guardian, Asha was morbidly shy of new acquaintances—she seemed to be in chronic dread of a rebuff. So when Binodini first arrived with her chiselled features, pencilled eyebrows, keen glances and full-blown youth, Asha had not dared to make any overture.
Asha found Binodini to be on very familiar terms with her mother-in-law. In fact Rajlakshmi made a point of impressing on Asha that she was making much
of Binodini, and would lose no opportunity of waxing eloquent in her praise. Asha could see that Binodini was well trained in household work; that the role of mistress came naturally to her; that she was not in the least shy in ordering about or scolding the servants, and was an adept in exacting from them their appointed tasks. All this made Asha feel so insignificant in comparison!
Consequently when Binodini, the paragon, came forward to solicit her friendship, the poor girl's joy, checked for a moment by her diffidence, overflowed in a redoubled shower. As with the juggler's magic tree, the seed of their love sprouted, branched and flowered all in a day.
"Let's have a pet-naming ceremony,"
said Asha.
"What name shall it be?" asked Binodini with a smile.
Asha suggested
Ganga
,
Vakula
and many such names of nice things.
"All these are so hackneyed!" complained Binodini. "Pretty names have lost their pretty meanings."
"What would you like, then?" asked Asha.
"Eyesore,"
laughed Binodini.
Though Asha had a leaning towards sweet-sounding names she accepted the pet term of raillery suggested by Binodini. "O my Eyesore!" she cried, as she clasped Binodini round the neck, and then she went off into a fit of laughter.
CHAPTER 11
========================================
XI
The thirsty-hearted Binodini, on her part, would drink in, with the avidity of a drunkard, the daily love-story of the newly-wedded wife. It would mount to her head, and the blood would course madly through her body.
When, in the quiet of midday, the mother would be taking her siesta, and the servants enjoying their off-time, Mahendra, at Vihari's urging, would be temporarily away at his college; and the faint shrill cry of the kite be now and then heard from the furthest edge of the burning sky; Asha would be rolling on the bed on the floor of her room, with her flowing hair spread all over the pillow, while Binodini lying prone beside her, a bolster under her breast, would he absorbed in the hum of her prattle, flushed to the ears, her breath coming short and quick.
Binodini, with repeated questions, would elicit from Asha even the smallest details, would have the same thing over and over again, and, when facts were exhausted, would ask for fancies. "What would you do, my dear, if such and such a thing happened?" she would
insist. And Asha also loved to pursue the long-drawn-out vistas, leading to impossible love-scenes, which such questions would open up.
Sometimes Binodini would venture further: "Look here, my Eyesore, how would it have been if you were married to Vihari?"
Asha—"For shame, my dear, don't say that sort of thing. It makes me feel so queer. But wouldn't it have been nice if
you
had been. There was a talk of it, I know."
Binodini—"There were so many talks about my marriage. It's just as well that none of the others came to anything. I'm very well off as I am."
Asha could not let that pass uncontradicted. How could she admit that Binodini's condition was tolerable compared with her own! "Just think, my Eyesore, what might have happened if you had married my husband. It had almost been settled, d'you remember?"
That was true enough! But why had it not been? This bed of Asha's had one day been waiting for her. Could Binodini ever forget
that
as she looked round Asha's well-furnished room! She was but a guest here now—she was welcome to-day—she might have to go to-morrow.
In the afternoon Binodini would insist on doing up Asha's hair herself with consummate art, and on supervising her toilet for her husband's home-coming. And Binodini's imagination would veil itself to accompany the gaily-bedecked young bride to the love-tryst with her husband.
Some days Binodini would not let Asha go at all. "Do stay with me a little longer," she would plead; "your husband is not going to run away. He's not the elusive stag of the forest, but the pet deer tied to your skirt." Thus would she chatter to detain Asha!
Mahendra would resent this and say, "When does your friend intend to go back home? She seems to have become quite a fixture here."
"Oh! don't get angry with her," Asha would excitedly reply. "You don't know how she loves to hear all about you—how eagerly she dresses me up to please you!"
Rajlakshmi would not let Asha do a thing. But Binodini took her part and got her to take her share in the household work. Binodini was untiring and with herself she gave Asha no rest. She so linked together their daily duties that it became difficult for Asha to find any gap in the chain. And the thought of Asha's husband, kicking his heels in his lonely room upstairs, in helpless vexation, would rouse in Binodini's heart a hard and joyless smile.
Asha would now and then have qualms and say: "Let me go now, my Eyesore, He
must be getting impatient."
"Oh wait a little," Binodini would hurriedly interpose, "just finish this little bit, it won't take long."
After a while Asha would again get fidgetty and exclaim, "I must go now, dear. He'll be really annoyed. Do let me off."
"What if he does get a little angry?" Binodini would reply. "Love, without a little anger, loses its relish—like curry without the pepper!"
Of the pungency of the pepper Binodini had tasted in full measure—without the curry. Her blood was on fire. Sparks flashed from her eyes. So loving a husband, so happy a home! A home which might have been her kingdom, a husband who might have been the slave at her feet! Would then that home and that husband have remained in this miserable condition? And where she might have been queen there was this baby, this doll of a girl!
And with her arms round Asha, she would repeat: "Do tell me, my Eyesore, what happened! Did you tell him what I told you to? To hear of your love-making is more than food and drink to me."
CHAPTER 12
========================================
XII
Mahendra in his annoyance said one day to his mother: "Is this proper? Why take on ourselves the responsibility of a young widow belonging to another family? I, for one, don't like it—who knows what might happen one of these days."
"She’s my Bipin's widow," said Rajlakshmi. "I don't look upon her as a stranger."
"No mother," insisted Mahendra, "I can't agree with you. She ought not to be kept here."
Rajlakshmi knew well that it was no easy thing to go against Mahendra's wishes, so she sent for Vihari and said: "Look here, Vihari, do explain matters to Mahin, there's a good soul. I'm getting a little rest in my old age by Bipin's widow being here. She may not belong to our family, but when did I ever get such care and attention from anyone in the house?"
Vihari without replying to Rajlakshmi went straight to Mahendra. "Dada," said he, "are you giving any thought to the question of Binodini?"
"Thought!" laughed Mahendra, "I can't sleep of nights for thinking! Ask your sister Asha whether the thought of Binodini has not driven all other thoughts from my mind."
Asha from behind her veil shook a warning finger at Mahendra.
"Chuni is now pining," Mahendra went on, "to have her sent away."
Asha's eyes again flashed reproof through her veil.
"Sending her away won't do," said Vihari. "What's to prevent her coming back! Get her married—that's the only way to get rid of the fangs!"
"To be serious," he continued, "I'm rather concerned about Binodini. She can't remain with you for ever; that's certain. Then again to consign her for life to the wilderness which I've just visited would be too rough on the poor girl."
Binodini had not yet appeared
before Mahendra. But Vihari had seen her. It was clear to him that she was not the sort of girl to throw away on a deserted village; at the same time he had his misgivings that the flame which could serve to light the lamp might also set fire to the house.
Mahendra chaffed Vihari about his concern for the fair widow; but he also inwardly arrived at the conviction that she was neither to be despised nor played with.
Rajlakshmi thought she ought to warn Binodini. "Look here, my child," she said, "don't be monopolising Mahin's wife in this way. You've been leading a simple village life and don't know the ways of the world these days. You're a clever girl, keep your eyes open and take care of yourself."
Binodini began to make a great show of keeping Asha at arm's length. "Who am I after all?" she would say. "People in my condition ought to know their own position—they must be prepared for anything that may happen next."
Asha begged and prayed and wept bitterly, but Binodini would not relent. Asha grew full to overflowing with her untold confidences, but Binodini would have none of them.
Meanwhile Mahendra's ardour was slackening, his passionate gaze getting shaded over with a trace of weariness. The absence of regularity and order which used to seem so amusing was gradually beginning to irritate him. Instances of Asha's deficiencies would annoy him, but he would say nothing.
But, in spite of his reticence, Asha's heart told her that their too constant intercourse had affected the dignity of their love. It was partly an element of insincerity and partly an element of self-delusion that went to make Mahendra's love ring false.
In such cases the only safety is in running away; the only remedy in separation; and with a woman's true instinct Asha sought to keep more aloof. But where else could she find refuge except with Binodini?
Mahendra aroused from love's dream, found his waking thoughts slowly turning back to his studies and his social duties. He rescued his books one by one from the most impossible places, and prepared to air and dust his college suit.
CHAPTER 13
========================================
XIII
Finding Binodini obdurate, Asha was struck with a brilliant idea. "Why don't you show yourself to my husband, my Eyesore?" said she. "Why d'you keep away from him?"
"For shame!"
replied Binodini, briefly but firmly.
"Why?" persisted Asha. "I've heard Mother say you're one of us."
"There's no such thing as kin or alien in this world," remarked Binodini sententiously. "'Tis the feeling which makes one kin, without it the nearest is but a stranger."
Asha felt that this admitted of no reply, and that her husband had been unjustly annoyed at Binodini's presence in the house, and was wrong in the distant attitude he had taken up.
That evening Asha begged hard of her husband, "You really must make my Eyesore's acquaintance."
"How brave of you!" laughed Mahendra.
"Why, what's there to be afraid of!" asked Asha innocently.
"From what I've heard of the attractions of your friend she doesn't seem to be a safe person!"
"I'll risk that," said Asha; "but do be serious and tell me, will you or will you not make friends with her?"
Not that Mahendra had no curiosity to see Binodini. As a matter of fact, of late he occasionally found himself eager to have a glimpse of her. This uncalled-for eagerness had made him feel guilty. So he replied, "Where's the time, Chuni? When I read, there are my medical books,—when I have leisure, there's yourself. Where then do I find room for your friend!"
"She's not going to encroach on your time for study," said Asha. "I'll give up some of my share to her."
"You may choose to do so," rejoined Mahendra, "but I can't allow you to."
Mahendra had all along been trying to make out that Asha's friendship for Binodini simply evinced the want of her whole-hearted devotion to her husband. "You are not single-hearted as I am," he would claim with immense pride. Asha would not admit it, of course, and this would lead to quarrels and even tears; but Mahendra always had the best of the argument.
To-day Asha made a concession to Mahendra's proud boast and said, "All right, be friends with my Eyesore to please me."
Mahendra, having compelled Asha to recognize the superior strength of his love, graciously consented to admit Binodini to his friendship. "But see," he stipulated, "that she doesn't come bothering round too often."
Early the next morning Asha went to Binodini's room, and embraced her, while she was still in bed.
"Oh wonderful!" exclaimed Binodini. "How is it that the
chakor
has left the moon to seek the cloud?"
"These fine sentiments of yours are beyond poor me," said Asha. "Why scatter your pearls in the desert, better keep them for somebody who can pay you back."
"And who may that gifted one be?" asked Binodini.
"Your brother, my husband!" said Asha. "I'm not joking, he's been worrying me about making your acquaintance."
"So he sends for me by his wife's command, does he!" thought Binodini to herself. "Well, he doesn’t get me so easily, that's all."
She would not hear of it. And Asha felt very small, indeed, when she had to tell her husband so.
Mahendra was greatly incensed. To object to meet him! Did she take him for just the ordinary sort of male person! Any one else, by this time, would have contrived a hundred and one excuses to see her and cultivate her acquaintance. She ought to have known him better by the very fact of his having refrained from doing so. Had she come to know him she would at once have realised the difference between him and the ordinary run of men!
As it happened, Binodini only the other day had thought bitterly to herself—"I have been here so long, how is it that Mahendra never even makes an attempt to see me? While I am with Pishima can he not find an excuse to come and visit his mother? Why this supreme indifference? Am I a lifeless image? Am I not a human being, a woman? If he once came to know me, he would find out the difference between me and his spoilt pet of a Chuni!"
Asha proposed to her husband, "Let's pretend you've gone to college, and I'll bring my Eyesore into our room. Then you suddenly come in from behind. That'll serve her right."
"What has she done to deserve this severe punishment?" asked Mahendra.
"No really," said Asha, "I'm fearfully angry. To object to meet even you! I can't rest till I take her pride down a bit."
"As I'm not dying to meet your dear friend," said Mahendra, "I must decline to do so by stealth."
With his hand in hers Asha begged of Mahendra, "As you love me, you must,—just this once. I only want to break through her proud reserve; after that do as you please."
Mahendra kept silent. "
Do
," pleaded Asha. "There's a darling."
Mahendra's eagerness was getting the better of him, so, with the display of an exaggerated indifference, he agreed.
In the silence of a brilliant autumn noon-day, Binodini, seated in Mahendra's room, was teaching Asha how to embroider slippers on canvas. Asha was absent-minded and continually looking towards the door, so the number of mistakes she made was enough to convince Binodini of her utter incapacity.
At last Binodini got annoyed, and taking away the work from Asha's hands said: "This seems to be quite beyond you. Let me go—I have other things to do!"
"Just wait a little," said Asha. "Let me try once more, I won't make any mistakes this time," and she again pretended to set to work.
Meanwhile Mahendra gently came up to the door behind Binodini, and stood there. Asha, with head bent over her work, shook with silent laughter.
"What have you found to laugh at, all of a sudden?" asked Binodini.
Asha could contain herself no longer. She laughed out aloud, threw the canvas at her companion and said, "You're right, my dear, this is beyond me." With which she threw her arms round Binodini's neck and went off into peals of laughter.
Binodini had seen through the whole thing. Asha's excitement and demeanour had betrayed her. She knew exactly when Mahendra had come and stood in the doorway behind her. And affecting an utter simplicity she allowed herself to be caught with Asha's transparent device.
Mahendra entered saying, "Why should this unfortunate creature be deprived of his share in the joke?"
Binodini gave a great start, adjusted the end of her
Sari
as a veil, and made as if she would rise to go. Asha held her down by the hand.
Mahendra said with a smile: "May it please you
to remain seated and let me
depart, or if it so pleases you let us both sit down."
Binodini did not, like the ordinary girl, snatch away her hand and create a scene of embarrassed bashfulness. She replied in a natural voice: "If, sir, I remain only to honour your request, I hope you will not curse me in your heart for an intruder."
"My only curse shall be," rejoined Mahendra, "that for sometime you do lose the power to move away."
"That frightens me not," said Binodini; "for your 'sometime' cannot be a long time, perhaps it has already expired." With which she again essayed to rise.
And again Asha held her by the hand, saying, "Oh do stay a little, for my sake!"
CHAPTER 14
========================================
XIV
"Tell me truly," asked Asha, "how did you like my Eyesore?"
"Not half bad," replied Mahendra indifferently.
"Nobody seems to please you," said Asha, greatly disappointed.
Mahendra—"Except one!"
"Well, wait till you know her a little better," Asha went on, "and then we'll see whether you get to like her or not!"
"Know her better!" exclaimed Mahendra. "D'you mean to say that this sort of thing is to go on and on?"
"Surely," argued Asha, "you'll have to go on with an acquaintance once begun, for politeness' sake at least. What will my Eyesore think of you if you have nothing more to do with her? You really
are
a most extraordinary sort of person. Anybody else in your place would have been pining to make friends with such a nice girl—and you think it a great trial!"
Mahendra felt hugely pleased at being thus distinguished from other persons. "All right," he said, "where's the hurry? Your friend doesn't seem to be in any haste to be gone, nor have I any other place to run away to; so I suppose we shall be now and then coming across each other;—and when we do meet, your husband, I trust, is well-bred enough to behave properly."
Mahendra was sure that on some pretext or other Binodini would be re-appearing on the scene. But there he turned out to be entirely mistaken. Binodini did not come anywhere near his room, nor even did she accidentally cross his path.
Lest his eagerness betray itself, Mahendra did not at first venture even to mention Binodini to his wife. His constant endeavours to conceal and suppress his first-natural inclination for Binodini's companionship, had only succeeded in increasing it to a keen desire. This was now further excited by Binodini's unconcern.
The very next day Mahendra in his most casual manner asked Asha with a smile: "And what did friend Eyesore think of this unworthy husband of yours?" He had been vainly hoping to receive an enthusiastic report from Asha without the need of putting the question, but he could wait no longer.
Asha was in a fix. Her Eyesore had not said a word. In fact she was excessively annoyed with her friend on that account. To her husband she said: "Wait a bit, let your acquaintance ripen, then we shall hear what she has to say. Yesterday you barely saw each other and exchanged only a few words."
Mahendra was grievously disappointed, and it became more and more difficult for him to feign indifference about Binodini.
Vihari entered at the conclusion of Asha's excited little speech. "What's the latest discussion about?" he inquired.
"Just look here, old fellow," appealed Mahendra; "there's a girl here, Kumudini or Pramodini or something of that sort, whom your sister Asha calls her Hairwash or Fishbone or some such pet name, and whom she now insists on my nick-naming Cigar-ash or Match-box in my turn,—this is really too much!"
The clouds of a big quarrel seemed to be gathering within Asha's veil.
Vihari stared for a while at Mahendra in silence and then said: "Oh I say, sister Asha! the signs are ominous! He's trying to hoodwink us! I've seen your Eyesore, and I'll swear I'd not count it a misfortune to see her oftener. But Dada protests too much—'tis a case for grave suspicion!"
This only confirmed Asha in her idea as to the vast difference between the likes of Vihari and her Mahendra!
Mahendra suddenly developed the hobby of practising photography. He had tried it once before and given it up. He now mended his camera, got some chemicals, and started again. Even the family servants became subjects for his operations.
Asha was importunate—he really must take one of her Eyesore.
"All right," briefly replied Mahendra.
"No," said Binodini with even greater brevity.
Asha had again recourse to a stratagem, and this time it was apparent to Binodini from the very first.
The plan was for Asha to lure Binodini into her room at noon and lull her to sleep; whereupon Mahendra was to seize the opportunity to take a shot with his camera and thus vanquish her recalcitrant friend.
The surprising part of it was that Binodini, who never slept in the day-time, felt so drowsy that noon in Asha's room that she could scarcely keep her eyes open. At length with a red shawl negligently drawn over her spotless white
sari
,
she fell asleep so charmingly, with her face towards the open window, that Mahendra said it was as good as if she was posing for the picture.
Mahendra brought up his camera on tiptoe. To get the proper point of view he had to make prolonged surveys of Binodini's figure from different positions. In fact his regard for his art constrained him to diffidently step up to her head and arrange her scattered hair a little; and then, the first arrangement not being to his taste, he had to do it over again!
"Will you shift that corner of the shawl at her feet a little to the left," whispered he to Asha.
Awkward little Asha whispered back, "I'll spoil it, and perhaps wake her. Do it yourself."
Mahendra did the shifting.
At last when he had got the plate into the camera, the noise or something caused Binodini to heave a deep sigh and then sit up with a start. Asha burst out laughing. Binodini was highly indignant. "This is very wrong," she said, her glance flashing fiery darts at Mahendra.
"Very wrong, no doubt," repeated Mahendra, "but the crime has been committed, and if I'm deprived of its fruits it'll be like losing both this world and the next. Let me complete the deed, and then award me such punishment as it may please you."
Asha added her entreaties. The photograph was taken, but the first one was unsuccessful. So the artist insisted on taking another the next day. after that Binodini could not say no to a group with Asha which would serve as a memento of their eternal affection. "But this must positively be the last," she said. Whereupon Mahendra saw to it that this one also was a failure.
Thus with repeated sittings did their friendship progress fast and far.
CHAPTER 15
========================================
XV
The ash-smothered fire flames up again when it is stirred. The advent of a third person revived the waning passion of the newly wedded couple.
Asha had no gift of witty repartee,—Binodini's store was inexhaustible; so Asha felt it a great relief to be under her wing. She had no longer to strain herself in the increasingly difficult task of keeping up Mahendra's spirits.
Mahendra and Asha had from the very first pitched their love too high. How were they afterwards to attune it to the key of everyday life? How was Asha to supply anew the intoxication which Mahendra in the hour of re-action seemed to be moping for? It was as if at this juncture Binodini had placed in her hands a brimming, sparkling, crystal goblet. And Asha, seeing her husband cheering up, felt greatly comforted.
Asha was no longer worried with the sense of effort. When Mahendra and Binodini engaged in a contest of wit and badinage, she could wholeheartedly join in their laughter. When in playing cards Mahendra would try to evade some rule, Asha would appeal to Binodini; or if he made cutting remarks, she would look to Binodini to meet him with a suitably crushing reply. Thus, between them, the trio kept things going merrily.
But Binodini did not neglect her work. Superintending the cooking, directing the household work, attending to Rajlakshmi's comforts, all these duties she would get through with, before joining in the merry-making.
Mahendra would sometimes get impatient and say, "You'll spoil the servants by not allowing them to do their own work."
"That's better than spoiling myself by not doing any work at all," Binodini would reply. "Hadn't you better be going off to college yourself!"
Mahendra—"It's such a lovely cloudy day—"
Binodini—"Nonsense, your carriage is at the door, you really must go."
Mahendra—"But I didn't order the carriage—"
Binodini—"I did." With which she would fetch his college things and place them before him.
Mahendra—"You ought to have been born a Rajput girl—they used to put the armour on their menfolk when they went to battle."
Binodini would never lend any countenance to the idea of Mahendra taking a holiday and neglecting his studies for the sake of mere amusement. Under her strict regime the mid-day playtime was entirely abolished. So the evening relaxation became for Mahendra a thing of keen enjoyment and impatient anticipation. His days would await the fulfilment of their ending.
At first Binodini began by indulgently rebuking Asha in Mahendra's presence when anything went wrong. Mahendra, too, would smile affectionately at little instances of Asha's helpless incapacity. Gradually, asserting the prerogative of her friendship, Binodini took things away from Asha's hands into her own. And then was the improvement at once evident.
Asha would be fumbling with a coat with a lost button, at a loss exactly what to do. Binodini would snatch it away from her, produce a button, and sew it on, before Asha could recover from her surprise. Had a cat, at the last moment, spoilt the dish that was to be served to Mahendra? Poor Asha would be at first in despair, and then completely mystified at the way in which Binodini would promptly be off into the kitchen and replace it with something made up out of this and that at a moment's notice.
Thus in his food and dress, in his work and rest, in every thing did Mahendra feel her comforting touch. Binodini's embroidered slippers were on his feet, her knitted scarf clung softly round his neck. And Asha, adorned for him by Binodini's skilful hands, like the Ganges and Jumna after their confluence, represented alike in the beauty and in the joy of her presence the union of both the friends!
Vihari was no longer the favourite as of yore—his presence had ceased to be requisitioned. On a Saturday Vihari wrote to say that on the morrow he would like to come round and join them in tasting something cooked by mother. Mahendra, in nervous dread of his Sunday being utterly spoilt for him, hurriedly wrote back to say that an urgent engagement would be taking him elsewhere.
Nevertheless Vihari stepped round after his mid-day meal to inquire after the family. Hearing from a servant that Mahendra had not left the house at all, he bounded up the stairs to Mahendra's room with his usual shouts of "Dada, Dada."
Mahendra, feeling horribly guilty, leant back on a bolster saying, "I've got a fearful headache."
These words and Mahendra's peculiar expression made Asha quite nervous, and she silently looked towards Binodini for advice. Binodini was perfectly aware that nothing was the matter, but she said in a tone of great concern: "You've been sitting up too long, better lie down a bit, I'll get you some eau-de-cologne."
"Dont trouble," said Mahendra, "let it be."
But Binodini would not hear of it. She hustled about with swift steps, concocted a mixture of iced water and eau-de-cologne, into which she dipped a piece of muslin, and handing it to Asha said, "Wrap this round Mahendra Babu's head."
Mahendra repeatedly protested, "Oh don't trouble about me, please." He felt, however, a secret satisfaction that that fellow Vihari should be there to see how much was being made of him.
Vihari, meanwhile, was watching the scene almost bursting with pent-up laughter.
Asha, feeling shy and nervous in Vihari's presence, was unable to put the wet cloth on properly, and splashed some of the eau-de-cologne into Mahendra's eye. Whereupon Binodini took charge of the operation and deftly arranged the bandage. Asha adjusted her veil and busied herself fanning Mahendra.
"Are you feeling a little better, Mahendra Babu?" asked Binodini tenderly. And while her voice was at its softest she stole a swift glance at Vihari. She found his suppressed merriment sparkling forth through his eyes, and discovered that he was not a person to be easily duped—that nothing escaped his observation.
"I am afraid, sister Binod," he remarked with a smile, "this sort of treatment will only prolong and not cure the malady!"
Binodini—"What do we poor womenfolk understand of treatment. Is that what your medical science says?"
Vihari—"Of course it does. My forehead is already aching to be treated, but I'm afraid the fates have written
that it's got to get well without it. The writing in Dada's forehead is of different character."
Binodini left off moistening the bandage and said: "In that case I'd better leave the friend to treat his friend."
Vihari was at heart feeling far from cheerful. He had been recently immersed in his studies, and knew nothing of the tangled situation which Mahendra, Asha and Binodini had created for themselves. To-day he saw through Binodini. Binodini also had a glimpse of the stuff he was made of.
There was a note of sharpness in his tone as he replied, "Quite right. The friend will look after his friend. I brought the headache, I'm taking it away with me. Why waste the eau-de-cologne?" Turning to Asha he said: "Let me impress on you, sister, that prevention is easier as well as better than cure."
(
To be continued
)
Translated by
Surendranath Tagore.
CHAPTER 16
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
XVI.
"T
HIS won't do at all," thought Vihari, "I must take a hand in this affair. None of them want me, I know—still I must be there."
Without waiting to be asked or welcomed Vihari made his plans to cut in through Mahendra's guard. "Look here, sister Binod," said he, "This is a fellow whom his mother has spoilt, whom his
friend has spoilt, and whom his wife is still spoiling; don't follow suit, I pray you, but try some new diversion!"
Mahendra.—"That is to say—?"
Vihari.—"That is to say
me
for instance, whom no one else has ever deigned to look at."
Mahendra.—"So you want to be spoilt, eh, friend Vihari! That's not such an easy matter,—a mere petition is not enough."
"The capacity to be spoilt must also be there, Vihari Babu," laughed Binodini.
Vihari.—"Couldn't the skill of the operator make up for the patient's failings?
Do
try the experiment, won't you?"
Binodini.—"You mustn't be so determined, you should simply resign yourself. What say you, my Eyesore? Won't you try your hand on friend Vihari?"
Asha pushed Binodini away with the tips of her fingers. Vihari likewise refused to pursue this suggestion.
It had not escaped Binodini how sensitive Vihari was to being chaffed about Asha. It riled her that he should respect Asha and treat herself lightly. "This cunning mendicant," said she to Asha, "is really begging for your favour through me. Grant him at least something, my dear!"
Asha felt really annoyed.
Vihari got red in the face but, recovering himself in a moment, said with a smile: "So I'm to be put off with a draft while Dada gets all the cash?"
Mahendra in his turn, was annoyed. Plain speaking was hardly compatible with a romantic situation. He replied with some acerbity: "My dear Vihari, your Dada does not trade in these things. He is quite satisfied with what he has."
"He may not want to," Vihari rejoined, "but he is one of those lucky people towards whom trade-winds have a way of blowing."
"And which way does the wind blow with you, friend Vihari, who have nothing of your own!"—Binodini nudged Asha, her eyes sparkling mischief the while.
Asha indignantly left the room.
Vihari felt himself worsted and maintained an angry silence. He was on the point of rising to go when Binodini went out of the room with a parting shot: "Don't despair, Vihari Babu, I'll go and send my Eyesore Back."
With Binodini's departure Mahendra's irritation came to a head. Seeing the gloom settling on his countenance Vihari could stand it no longer and blurted out: "If you want to spoil your own life, Dada, you're welcome. That's a thing you've been consistently trying to do. But don't ruin the life of the pure-souled simple-hearted girl who is so trustfully clinging to you." Vihari's voice choked with emotion.
"I don't understand a word of what you are saying," replied Mahendra, sullenly, "will you leave off speaking in riddles and talk plainly?"
"I'll put it quite plainly," said Vihari. "Binodini is deliberately luring you into the path of sin, and you, like a fool, are blindly following her lead."
"That's a lie," shouted Mahendra in a towering rage. "If you are capable of harbouring such unworthy suspicions you aren't fit to come into the inner apartments
at all."
At this juncture Binodini re-entered with a little collation of sweetmeats arranged on a metal salver, which she placed before Vihari with a smile.
"Why this feast?" exclaimed Vihari, "I'm afraid I have no appetite."
"No excuses please," said Binodini. "You must refresh yourself before you leave."
"So my petition is granted, the spoiling has begun!"
Binodini's smile was full of meaning as she replied: "You have a claim as the friend of the family. Where there's a right why beg? You can insist on being made much of."—"Isn't that so, Mahendra Babu?"
Mahendra was speechless.
Binodini.—"You're not doing any justice to the sweets, Vihari Babu; are you bashful or is it a protest? Shall I ask someone else to come in?"
Vihari.—"No more, thank you, I've had enough!"
Binodini.—"Still sarcastic? There's no getting even with you! My poor sweets can't stop your mouth."
That night when Asha spoke out her resentment at Vihari's ways, Mahendra did not as usual laugh it away, but heartily joined in.
The very next morning Mahendra went off to Vihari's lodgings and said: "Look
here, Vihari, you mustn't forget that Binodini isn't quite one of the family. I suspect she doesn't relish the familiarity of your coming into her presence."
"Oh indeed!" said Vihari. "In that case it's certainly not the thing to do. If she doesn't like it, why need I go?"
Mahendra felt greatly relieved. He was afraid of Vihari, and had not expected that this trying interview would pass off so easily.
That very day Vihari turned up in the inner apartments of Mahendra's house and said to Binodini: "Sister Binod, you must forgive me."
Binodini.—"What for, Vihari Babu?"
Vihari.—"Mahendra tells me you are annoyed at the liberty I've been taking, so I'm here to ask your forgiveness before finally ceasing my visits."
"Nonsense, Vihari Babu, why should you stay away because of a bird of passage like me? I'd never have come to this house had I known it would lead to all this trouble;" with which Binodini went off with troubled mien, as if to hide her tears.
It flashed across Vihari that perhaps he had been hasty in suspecting Binodini and had wronged the poor girl.
That evening Rajlakshmi came to Mahendra in great dismay. "Mahin," she cried, "Bipin's widow insists on going back home."
"Why, mother?" asked Mahendra, "what's wrong here?"
Rajlakshmi.—"Nothing, but she says people may begin to talk if a young widow like her goes on staying with another family."
Mahendra was hurt. "So we are strangers after all!" he said, and he glared at Vihari who was seated in the room.
"I must have let fall something savouring of a reflection on her, which has wounded Binodini," thought the repentant Vihari.
Both husband and wife made a regular onslaught on Binodini. "So we are only strangers, my dear!" said one. "After all this time we are nothing to you," added the other.
"Would you keep me captive for ever?" sighed Binodini.
"Dare we hope so much?" asked Mahendra. "Then why did you steal away our hearts," wailed Asha.
Nothing was settled that day. "No, my friends," said Binodini firmly, "why prolong the agony?—staying on would only make the wrench harder;" at the conclusion of which speech she threw a heart-broken glance at Mahendra.
The next day Vihari came and said: "Why are you talking of leaving, sister Binod, is it a punishment for any crime of mine?"
Turning away her face to hide her emotion Binodini replied: "Why your crime? 'Tis my fate!"
"If you go, I'll never forgive myself, said Vihari.
Binodini looked at Vihari with mournful pleading eyes as she asked: "Do you
really
think I ought to stay, tell me truly?"
Vihari was in a dilemma. How could he say that she
really
ought to? "Of course I know you must go," he said at length, "but what's the harm in staying on just for a while?"
"If all of you insist on my remaining," said Binodini with downcast eyes, "I suppose I must yield to your entreaties. But I tell you, you are not doing right." And from beneath her long eyelashes big tear-drops coursed down her cheeks.
These silent tears were too much for Vihari. "You've won everybody's heart in the short time you've been here, that's why nobody wants to let you go," said he consolingly. "Who'd willingly part with a treasure?"
After that Binodini did not again broach the subject of her departure.
CHAPTER 17
========================================
XVII
With the idea of removing all traces of the recent unpleasantness Mahendra suggested: "Let's have a picnic next Sunday at the Dum-dum Villa
"
Asha's enthusiasm was unbounded; but Binodini would not be persuaded. Whereupon both Mahendra and Asha were bitterly disappointed. Binodini is getting more and more distant, thought they.
When in the evening Vihari turned up as usual, Binodini appealed to him: "Is this fair, Vihari Babu? Both of them are angry with me because I refuse to intrude on their picnic in the Dum-dum Villa."
"I can't blame them," replied Vihari, "I wouldn't wish my worst enemy the sort
of picnic they'd have if left to themselves without you!"
Binodini.—"Why not join us Vihari Babu? If you come, I'll go too."
Vihari.—"Splendid! But 'tis for the master to command. What says the master of the house?"
Both master and mistress felt aggrieved that Vihari should have met with better success than they. Mahendra lost half his interest in the idea at the prospect of Vihari's company. He had consistently tried to impress on his friend that Binodini resented his presence. After this there would be no holding Vihari back.
"Good idea. Why not?" replied Mahendra without enthusiasm. "But look here, Vihari, you always do make such a fuss wherever you go. You'll be gathering all the village boys round us, or picking a quarrel with some drunken soldier, for all we know."
"That's what makes the world so interesting, you never know what you're likely to be in for next," replied Vihari, with a smile at Mahendra's ill-concealed unwillingness to have him.—"We must be starting early, Sister Binod; I'll turn up in good time."
Early on Sunday morning a hackney carriage of the inferior class had been engaged for the servants and things, and one of the superior class for the family. Vihari punctually made his appearance with a big hamper.
"What on earth is that for?" complained Mahendra. "There's no more room in the servant's carriage."
"Don't worry yourself, Dada," said Vihari, "I'll see to all that."
Binodini and Asha stepped into their carriage. Mahendra hesitated, not quite certain what to do about Vihari. Vihari solved the problem by hoisting his hamper on to the roof of the carriage and himself mounting the coach box.
Mahendra breathed a sigh of relief. Vihari was quite capable, he had feared, of offering to come inside with them.
Binodini was concerned: "I hope Vihari Babu is quite safe up there," she exclaimed.
This reached Vihari, who replied, "Don't trouble about me. The falling-down-in-a-swoon business is not in my line."
"If you're feeling so anxious about him," said Mahendra after the carriage had started, "let me go up and send Vihari in."
Asha took him seriously, and nervously clutching the end of his muslin scarf said, "No, no, you shan't do anything of the kind!"
"You're not used to roughing it," slyly added Binodini, "why take the risk?"
"Risk!" exclaimed Mahendra excitedly, "you think I'm clumsy enough to fall off?" And he rose from his seat as though to jump out of the carriage.
"Talk of Vihari Babu making a fuss!" remarked Binodini caustically. "Who's making a fuss now?"
Mahendra sulked the whole way to Dum-dum. At last they arrived at the villa. The servant's party, which had started long before their's, had not yet turned up.
It was a delicious autumn morning. The dew had just dried in the rays of the sun, and the washed foliage was glistening in the clear light. The walk under the row of
Sephali
trees against the garden wall was carpeted and perfumed with the scattered blossoms.
Asha, freed from the bondage of brick and mortar, frisked about like a wild gazelle. With Binodini she gathered heaps of the strewn flowers, picked and ate custard apples off the trees, and then the two friends indulged in a prolonged bath in the little artificial lake. The artless merriment of the girls seemed to infect and gladden the rustling leaves and waving blossoms, the changing lights and shadows of the groves, and the rippling wavelets.
They returned to the house after their bath to find that the servants had not yet arrived. Mahendra was lolling on an easy chair in the verandah with a far from cheerful countenance, apparently studying a shop catalogue.
"Where is Vihari Babu?" inquired Binodini.
"I don't know," was Mahendra's laconic reply.
Binodini.—"Let's go and look for him."
Mahendra.—"There's no fear of his
getting stolen. We'll find him without the trouble of looking for him."
Binodini.—"But he may be anxiously wondering what's happened to your precious self! Let's go and relieve his mind."
There was a huge Banyan tree near the lake with a masonry platform round its trunk. Here Vihari had unpacked his hamper and was found boiling a kettle over an oil stove. He welcomed his guests, seated them on the raised platform, and handed them cups of tea and helps of sweetmeats on little metal saucers.
"It's a mercy Vihari Babu thought of bringing his hamper," said Binodini, "or what would have become of Mahin Babu without his morning tea?"
Mahendra felt the tea to be a god-send, nevertheless he said: "Vihari always will overdo things. We come for a rough-and-tumble picnic, hut he needs must bring along all the home comforts. That spoils all the fun."
"Pass back the cup then," laughed Vihari, "I won't stand in the way of your enjoying as much empty fun as you like."
It was getting late, yet there was no sign of the servants. All sorts of materials for a feast began to come out of Vihari's hamper; rice, pulses and vegetables, and various cooking spices put up in little bottles.
"You put us to shame, Vihari Babu," said Binodini in unaffected admiration; "your house has no mistress, yet how did you learn all this?"
"Sheer necessity taught me," said Vihari. "If I don't look after myself there's nobody else to do it." Vihari said this in the lightest possible manner, but Binodini's grave eyes showered pity upon him.
Then Vihari and Binodini set to work at the cooking. Asha feebly and hesitatingly offered to help, but Vihari would not let her. The lazy Mahendra made no offer at all but, with his back against the trunk of the Banyan tree, and one leg crossed over the other, he sat watching the dance of the sunbeams on the quivering leaves.
When the cooking was nearly done, Binodini said: "It's not likely, Mahin Babu, that you'll be able to finish counting the leaves. Hadn't you better go and have your bath?" By this time the servants had arrived. There had been a break-down on the way which had detained them. It was past noon.
After the meal somebody proposed a game of cards under the tree. But Mahendra would not give ear to the suggestion, and dozed off in the shade. Asha retired into the house for her siesta. Binodini with a touch at the upper fold of her
Sari
, as if to pull it over into a veil, said: "I'd better be going in too."
"What d'you want to go inside for?" objected Vihari. "Let's have a chat. Tell me all about your village home."
The hot afternoon breeze every now and then rustled through the leaves, and a
koil
cooed out of the thicket which fringed the lake. Binodini went on with the story of her childhood, of her father and mother, of her playmates. And as she became absorbed in her recital, her half-drawn veil slipped off unperceived, and the aggressive glow of youth which generally gleamed from her countenance was toned down by these reminiscences of her early days. And when the keen ironical glance, which usually roused such misgivings in the mind of the wary Vihari, came so strangely softened through the long dark moist eyelashes, he seemed to behold before him quite a different person. In the centre of the halo of her outward brilliance a heart honeyed with true feeling could still be discerned, her womanhood had not yet been scorched to the core by the arid frivolity on the surface. "Binodini may look like a light-minded girl," thought Vihari, "but I seem to catch a glimpse of the vestal virgin within." He sighed as he realised how little human beings could know even of themselves, and how the immediate circumstances brought out one particular aspect of a character which to the world at large appeared for the time to represent the whole personality.
He would not let Binodini's story come to an end, but kept it going with his questions. Binodini had never found such a sympathetic listener to the tale of her childhood's recollections, nor had she ever talked so intimately with one of the opposite sex. To-day the overflow of her natural feelings which accompanied her simple unaffected narration had on her mind the cleansing effect of a bath in a sacred stream.
It was five o'clock before Mahendra slept off the fatigue of his untimely awakening. "Let's be off!" he said grumpily.
"Would it matter if we waited till the cool of the evening?" suggested Binodini.
"No, no," Mahendra insisted. "D'you want us to fall into the hands of drunken soldiers?"
It got dark before the things could be gathered together and packed up. Meanwhile the servants came and reported that the carriage had been commandeered by some soldiers and driven off to the railway station. So a man had to be sent off to fetch another.
"What a miserably mis-spent day!" thought the disgusted Mahendra. He could hardly keep his irritation to himself.
The moon struggled up out of the fringe of trees on the horizon, and mounted to the clear sky above. The silent, motionless garden became chequered all over with light and shade. Binodini in the midst of this magical beauty seemed to find in herself an entirely new creature. And there was no trace of affectation in the affectionate embrace with which she put her arms round Asha under the shade of the trees. Asha saw the tears in her eyes, and, greatly pained, asked: "What is it, Eyesore, dear, why do you weep?"
"It's nothing, dear," replied Binodini, "I am so happy; It has been such a wonderful day."
"What makes you think so much of it?" asked Asha.
"I feel as if I have died and come to another world," said Binodini, "where everything may yet be mine!"
The mystified Asha could not understand. The allusion to death shocked her, and she said reprovingly: "Don't talk of such ominous things, my dear!"
A carriage arrived at last. Vihari again got on the coach box. Binodini silently gazed out into the night, and the shadows of the trees, standing sentinel in the moonlight, passed in procession before her gaze. Asha fell asleep in her corner of the carriage. Mahendra was deep in the blues during the whole of the long journey.
CHAPTER 18
========================================
XVIII
After that trying day of the picnic Mahendra was anxious to make an attempt to re-conquer Binodini. But the very next day Rajlakshmi was down with influenza. The malady was not serious, but she became very weak and suffered considerably. Binodini devoted herself to nursing her day and night.
"If you go on like this you'll get ill yourself," said Mahendra; "let me engage some one to look after mother."
"Don't you worry, Dada," said Vihari; "let her go on with what she considers her duty. No one else can do it half so well."
Mahendra would be constantly coming to the invalid's room. But Binodini could not bear to see him fussing about where he was of no use. "How are you improving matters by sitting here!" she had to tell him more than once. "Why needlessly miss your college?"
Binodini felt a certain pride and satisfaction in having Mahendra at her feet. But when Binodini took up any duty, she had no thought for anything else, and she could not brook this spectacle of Mahendra's hankering heart displayed beside his mother's sick-bed—it revolted her.
Vihari would now and then come to inquire after Rajlakshmi. Whenever he entered the room he could tell at a glance if anything was amiss, and after quietly setting it right he would slip out. Binodini felt that her nursing had earned her Vihari's respect, and at his visits she somehow felt rewarded.
Smarting under his rebuff, Mahendra threw himself into his college work. And while this did not improve his temper, he was further exasperated by the change that had come over the household arrangements. His meals were not ready in time, the coachman was occasionally not to be found, the holes in his socks grew bigger and bigger. He had come to know the comfort of finding everything ready in its place when wanted, and Asha's innate inability no longer appeared a matter for indulgent amusement.
"How often have I told you, Chuni," he broke out one day, "to have the studs put in my shirt while I am bathing, and my college suit laid out. Why is it I never find them ready and get delayed every morning after my bath!"
.
"I told the boy about it," faltered Asha, greatly abashed.
"Told the boy, did you? What would have been the harm if you had seen to it yourself? One never gets any help from you at all!"
This was a thunderbolt for Asha. She had never been spoken to so sharply. But it did not occur to her to reply "It is you who stood in the way of my learning how to help!" She had always blamed her
own stupidity and want of aptitude. And even when Mahendra had once so far forgotten himself as to compare her unfavourably with Binodini and say unkind things, she had accepted his rebuke in all humility.
Asha would restlessly hover near about her mother-in-law's room, and sometimes timidly linger in the doorway. She did so want to feel that she was of some use in the house, to show that she could do something, but no one seemed to want her assistance. She knew not how to express herself in work, how to claim her place in the household; her diffidence kept her wandering on its outskirts. Some undefined pain in her inmost being seemed to be growing more and more acute everyday, but she could not tell what her sorrow was, nor what it was she feared. She felt that she was spoiling the whole fabric of her life, but how that fabric had grown round her, what made it crumble at her touch, how it was to be made whole again, she had no idea. At times she felt she wanted to wail out aloud: "How useless, how unworthy, how incomparably stupid am I!"
In byegone days how happily the time had passed when Mahendra and Asha were together in a corner of their room, sometimes in talk, sometimes in silence. Now-a-days, in Binodini's absence, Mahendra could not find a word to say when alone with Asha, while the silence made him feel awkward.
One day seeing the servant-boy carrying a letter, Mahendra asked him: "Whose letter is that?"
"Vihari Babu's."
"Who gave it you?"
"The young mistress—" (meaning Binodini).
"Let's see!" said Mahendra as he took it from his hand. He felt strongly tempted to tear open the cover and read it, but after turning it over and over he tossed it back to the boy.
Had he opened the letter he would have found in it: "Pishima will not take her barley-water. May I try her with gruel instead?" Binodini never asked Mahendra's advice about the invalid's requirements—her reliance was on Vihari.
After pacing the verandah for a while Mahendra went into his room, and as he did so a picture, hanging crooked with one of the supporting strings giving way, caught his eye. "You never notice any thing" he flared up at Asha, "and that's why everything is going to rack and ruin." The flowers that Binodini had brought from the Dum-dum picnic and placed in a little metal vase, had faded away, but were still there. Any other day Mahendra would not have been troubled by such a trifle, to-day he was furious. "These must remain as they are till Binodini comes to throw them away, I suppose!" he sneered as he flung the vase with the flowers out on to the landing whence it rolled clanging down the stairs.
"Why is not Asha all I want her to be?" "Why cannot Asha do things as I should like them to be done?" "Why does not Asha keep me straight in the path of wedded life; why will her defects and weaknesses distract me away from it?" These were the grievances which were tossing about in his mind.
When he came to himself and glanced at Asha, he found her standing dazed, clutching the bed-post, with ashen face and trembling lips. As he looked up, she fled from the room. Mahendra slowly went out and brought back the vase. He then dropped into the chair at his desk in the corner, and sat there long, his elbows on the table, his face hidden in his hands.
It grew dark, the lamps were lit, but Asha came not. Mahendra began to rapidly walk up and down the terrace. It struck nine, a silence as of midnight descended on Mahendra's deserted room—yet Asha had not come.
At last Mahendra sent for her; and with hesitating steps she came upstairs and stood at the doorway leading to the terrace. Mahendra went up to her and drew her to his bosom—and in a moment her pent-up tears flooded her husband's breast—it seemed as if she would never get done, as if her sobs would break out of her in one great cry. Mahendra kissed her hair and kept her held close to him, as the silent stars looked on.
When they had retired, Mahendra sitting on the bed, said: "It's my turn to be on night-duty at the hospital, so for a time I must take some rooms near the college."
"Still so angry with me," thought Asha, "that he heeds must go away? So incorrigible am I that my husband is driven out of the house. Oh, why am I not dead!"
But there was nothing of anger in
Mahendra's demeanour. He again drew Asha's face on to his breast and lightly passed his finger through her hair loosening it as he did so. When Mahendra had done this before, Asha had objected. To-day she nestled closer to him thrilled with gladness at his touch. Suddenly she felt a tear drop on her forehead, and Mahendra in a choking voice called: "Chuni!"
Asha made no reply but silently pressed his hand with her soft fingers.
"I have been in the wrong," said Mahendra, "forgive me."
Asha stopped him by placing her flower-petal palm over his mouth. "Don't say that!" she cried, "you've done nothing wrong, the fault is mine, chide me as you would your servant, make me worthy of sitting at your feet."
Before getting out of bed in the morning Mahendra said: "Chuni, my jewel, I'll always wear you next my heart that none else may get past you and enter there."
Asha, with a firm resolve to make every sacrifice for her husband's sake, nevertheless put in one little claim of her own. "You'll write to me, won't you?" she said.
"You too?" asked Mahendra.
"Do I know how to write?" protested Asha.
"Your writing would be pleasanter reading than the best of authors!" averred Mahendra pulling the little wisp of hair straying over her ears.
"Oh, don't tease me about my shortcomings," Asha pleaded.
Asha did her best to arrange Mahendra's portmanteau for him before his departure. Mahendra's thick winter clothes refused to be folded and accommodated within its limits, and what ought to have gone into one box filled two; and even then some things were left over to be tied up into a separate bundle. Asha was ashamed at the result; but the struggles and disputes and laughing recrimination which accompanied the process reminded them of old times. For the moment Asha quite forgot that the occasion was a parting.
The servant boy had several times brought word that the carriage was ready, but Mahendra paid no heed, and at last he angrily ordered the horse to be unharnessed.
It was only after the morning had passed into noon, and noon into evening, that, with many a parting admonition about not getting ill, and many a reminder about regularly writing letters, they actually separated.
Rajlakshmi had left her bed a couple of days ago. With a thick wrap round her she was having a game of cards with Binodini. Mahendra entered and without glancing at Binodini said: "Mother, I am on night duty at the hospital now. It's not convenient to be staying all this way off, so I've taken some rooms near the college. I'm going to live there from to-night."
Rajlakshmi took this sudden intimation ill; and said coldly: "Well if it's standing in the way of your work I suppose you must go!"
Though she was really quite convalescent the thought of Mahendra's leaving made her imagine herself ill and weak again. "Will you give me that pillow, child," she said to Binodini; and, as Rajlakshmi fell back on it, Binodini began to gently stroke her body with her hands.
Mahendra tried to feel his mother's pulse, but she drew away her hand saying querulously: "What can the pulse tell? You needn't worry about me, I'm all right." And as if with a great effort she turned over to the other side.
Mahendra without a word of leave-taking to Binodini, took the dust of his mother's feet and went away.
"What can be the matter?" wondered Binodini. "Is he angry, or afraid, or only showing off? He wants to show me he doesn't care? Well, let's see how long he can stop away!"
Binodini also thought she did not care, nevertheless she was disturbed in mind. She had delighted in goading Mahendra with many a prick, in keeping him in hand with many a bond, and the want of that occupation now made her restless. The house had lost for her its only excitement. Mahendra had lighted in her some flame, but she could not tell whether it was envy or love or partly both. "What woman was ever in such a plight?" she asked herself with bitter humour. "I know not whether I am the hunter or the hunted!" Whatever the real reason may have been, she wanted Mahendra, and with heaving breast kept on repeating to herself: "Where
can he go? He must come back! He is mine!"
CHAPTER 19
========================================
XIX
After a short while Mahendra, in his new lodgings, got a letter in a well-known hand. He would not open it in the midst of the turmoil of the day, but kept it over his heart in his breast pocket. As he was passing and repassing from hospital to lecture-room and lecture-room to hospital, the conceit occurred to him that a dove bearing a message of love was nestling at his breast. How softly it would coo in his ears when awakened later on!
In the evening when Mahendra was alone in his room he lit his lamp and settled himself comfortably in his chair. He then brought out the letter warm from his body. For a time he did not open the cover but kept looking at the superscription. He knew there could not be much inside. It was not likely that Asha would be able to give precise expression to her sentiments—he would have to divine her tender thoughts from her shaky letters and unsteady lines. His name in Asha's childish hand on the envelope made it seem to him set to music—the heavenly music vibrating from a loving woman's tender heart.
In these few days of separation, the weariness of constant intercourse, the irritation due to petty household worries, had completely disappeared from Mahendra's mind, and the happy memories of the days of their first love shone brightly in their place, round Asha's ideal image enshrined in their midst.
Mahendra lingered over the envelope as he slowly tore it open, and caressingly touched the letter with his lips. The paper was fragrant with his favourite scent, which entered his heart like a yearning sigh.
Mahendra unfolded the letter and began to read it. But what was this! The writing was childish, but not the language. The hand was uncertain but not the sentiments! This was the letter:
Lord of my heart! Why do I remind you by this letter of her whom you went away to forget? Why does the creeper which you ruthlessly tore off and cast on the ground shamelessly seek to cling to you again?
Was it my fault, my beloved, that you once did love me? Did I ever dare to dream that such good fortune would be mine? Whence and why did I come into your life—who ever knew or thought of me before? Had you not smiled on me, had I but been allowed to serve you as your handmaid, would I have complained or blamed you? What was it in me that attracted you, my beloved, what made you raise me so high? And if out of the cloudless sky came the thunder-bolt, why did it not reduce my wretched heart to ashes?
How much have I suffered, how much have I pondered over, in these few days—and yet one thing I have not understood. Need you have left home on my account—could you not have cast me from you where you were? Or if that could not be, was there no place in the wide world whither I could have fled—drifting away as I drifted to you?
What letter was this—whose the message? Mahendra had no doubts on that score. He sat rigid and motionless with the letter in his hand, like one who is suddenly paralyzed. Pursuing one line as he had been with the full force of his emotion, this blow from the opposite direction came as a collision which threw him off and entirely crumpled him up.
He read the letter over three times. What had been a distant fancy seemed to become near and real. The comet which had dimly risen on his horizon now threatened to spread its flaming tail over the whole sky.
It was of course Binodini's. The simple Asha had imagined she was writing her own letter. Ideas which had never crossed her mind seemed to awake in her as she wrote to Binodini's dictation. "How could Binodini," she thought, "so clearly find out and put into words exactly what I was feeling." Asha felt drawn closer than ever to her bosom friend on whom she had to depend for the very words which seemed to express the pain in her heart—so helpless was she!
Mahendra left his chair with a frown. He was trying to feel angry with Binodini, but succeeded only in getting annoyed with Asha. "What a little silly!" thought he, "how trying a wife for her husband." And to prove the truth of this he sat down to read the letter over again.
He tried to read it as a letter of Asha's, but the language refused to call up for him the memory of the artless Asha. A ravishing suspicion bubbled up like wine after the first few lines. The tidings of a love, hidden yet revealed, forbidden yet proffered, poisonous yet sweet, intoxicated him. He felt he wanted to hurt himself with a knife to come back to his senses out of its overpowering influence. He brought his fist down with a bang on the table and
leapt from his chair saying: "Hang it all, I'll burn the letter!" and went over to the lamp. But instead of burning it he read it over once more.
The ashes that the servant swept off the table the next morning were not those of Asha's letter, but of his numerous abortive attempts at writing a reply.
Another letter duly arrived:
So you have not replied to my letter! It is as well. The truth cannot always be told—but my heart understands you. When the devotee offers worship the reply comes not in words. Has my offering at least found a place at your feet?
Mahendra again made an attempt to reply. But he had not the skill to appear to be writing to Asha, the reply to Binodini
would
obtrude itself. He spent the greater part of the night in writing, and in tearing up what he had written; and when at last he did manage to finish a letter and put it into an envelope, something seemed to cut him like the lash of a whip when he had to write on it Asha's name. "You scoundrel!" some one seemed to say, "would you betray that trusting girl!" He tore it into a hundred bits and spent the rest of the night with his face in his hands as if trying to hide from himself.
The third letter:
Can it be that I have not understood you truly—that I have dared too much—that I have been overbold in writing first to you? While you were silent I laid bare my heart. But if I have misunderstood you, had I no excuse? If you will look back over the past, from the beginning to the end, was it not you who made me to understand what I did?
However that may be, my only regret is that what I have written cannot now be effaced, what I have given cannot now be taken back. But think not that one who loves can for ever submit to disdain. If you do not want my letters, let them be. If you will not reply, this is the end.
Mahendra could no longer stay away. His righteous indignation impelled him homewards. Did Binodini think that it was to forget her that he had fled from home? He would show her by returning at once that she was arrogating too much to herself!
It was at this juncture that Vihari came to his rooms. Mahendra's inward elation was redoubled at the sight of him. Many an unspoken suspicion had hitherto made him jealous of Vihari. After these letters, his jealousy allayed, he welcomed his friend with an extra effusiveness. He rose from his chair, slapped him on the back, and pulled him by the hand into a seat.
But Vihari was gloomy to-day. The poor fellow must have been to see Binodini and met with a rebuff, thought Mahendra.
"Have you been to our place, of late, Vihari?" he asked him.
"That's where I'm coming from," replied Vihari gravely.
Mahendra felt somewhat amused at Vihari's plight. "Unfortunate Vihari!" he thought, "the love of woman is not for him." And as he passed his hand over his breast pocket, the three letters crackled inside: "How did you find everybody at home?" he inquired.
Vihari did not reply to this, but asked in his turn: "How is it that you've left home to stay here?"
"I'm constantly on night-duty now-a-days; it's very inconvenient to be staying all that way off."
"You've had night-duty before, but I've never seen you leave home."
"D'you suspect anything wrong then?" asked Mahendra with a laugh.
"Don't try to be funny, come along home," said Vihari.
Though Mahendra was only too eager to do so, Vihari's importunity made him delude himself into the opposite belief. "How can that be, Vihari?" he said, "I might lose one whole year."
"Look here, Dada," said Vihari seriously, "I've known you since we were children, it's no use trying to play it on me. You are doing a great wrong."
"And whom am I wronging, pray, Mr. Judge?"
"What's become of the heart on which you used to pride yourself?" asked Vihari with some heat.
"It's in hospital at present," chaffed Mahendra.
"Oh stop all that, Mahendra," exclaimed Vihari impatiently; "while you are joking here, Asha is weeping all over the inner and outer appartments of the house."
The idea of Asha in tears gave Mahendra a bit of a shock. "Why should Asha be weeping?" he queried.
"You don't know that," said Vihari bitterly, "and you expect me to know it!"
"If you're angry because your Dada is not omniscient you had better blame his maker." Mahendra said this lightly, but he was astonished at Vihari's emotion. He always had an idea that Vihari was not
burdened with the troublesome thing called a heart—when had he managed to acquire it, he wondered. Could it have been from the day they had gone together to see the maiden Asha?
Poor
fellow! Mahendra thought of him in terms of commiseration, but felt more amused than pained. He knew only too well where Asha's heart was unalterably fixed. And the thought that the prizes for which others were vainly longing had of their own accord surrendered themselves to him, made his breast swell with pride.
"All right." said he to Vihari. "Let's go. Fetch a carriage, will you?"
(To be continued)
Translated by
Surendranath Tagore.
CHAPTER 20
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
XX
F
ACE to face with Mahendra, all Asha's troubled fancies cleared away like a fleeting mist. She could hardly look him in the eye for shame at what she had written.
"How could you charge me with such awful things?" said Mahendra reproachfully, as he brought out the three letters from his pocket.
Asha was greatly distressed. "For heaven's sake, tear them up," she implored,
and tried to take them away from his hand.
But Mahendra would not let her, and replaced them in his pocket saying: "I went at the call of duty, and you couldn't understand—you doubted me!"
"Forgive me this time, it'll never happen again," said Asha, tearfully.
"Never?" insisted Mahendra.
"Never!" repeated Asha.
And then Mahendra drew her to him and kissed her.
"Let me have the letters," said Asha. "I'll tear them up."
"Let them be," said Mahendra.
"
'Tis my just punishment that he should keep the letters," thought Asha.
The episode of the letters set up a sort of barrier between Asha and her friend. She did not hasten to share with Binodini her rapture at her husband's return—but rather seemed to avoid her. This did not escape Binodini, who, on the pretext of some work or other, kept altogether at a distance.
"This is very strange," mused Mahendra. "I should have thought that Binodini would now bring herself a little more forward, hut it happens to he quite the reverse. What then could be the meaning of those letters?" Mahendra's mind had been quite firmly made up—he would make no attempt to unravel the mysteries of woman's ways. If Binodini tried to come near, he would remain distant, so he had decided. He now thought differently. "This is not right," he said to himself. "It's like admitting that something really is the matter. Why should we seem to distrust each other? This strained situation must be relieved by talking and laughing with Binodini in the old natural way."
Said Mahendra to Asha one morning: "It seems
I
have become your friend's eyesore! We never get to see her now-a-days."
"Goodness knows what's the matter with her," replied Asha unconcernedly.
On the other hand Rajlakshmi was in tears. "There's no keeping Bipin's widow with us any more," she said that afternoon.
Mahendra tried not to show how startled he was, as he asked: "Why, mother?"
"Who knows, my son, but she insists on going back. You people don't know how to treat her properly. Why should a well-bred girl want to stay on in a strange house if she's not made to feel at home!"
Binodini was in her room hemming a bed-sheet. Mahendra, as he went in there, called out: "Friend Eyesore!"
Binodini collected herself, and, sitting upright, replied: "What is it, Mahendra Babu?"
"O Lord!" he ejaculated. "Since when has Mahendra become Babu?"
"Then what am I to call you?" asked Binodini, with eyes fixed on her sewing.
"The same as you do your friend—your Eyesore."
Binodini seemed to be unready with her usual repartee and silently went on sewing.
"Too apt an epithet to serve as a pet-name I suppose?" suggested Mahendra.
Binodini paused a little to cut off a bit of thread with her teeth, and then said: "You know best, I don't." Without waiting for a reply she gravely continued: "How is it you have suddenly left your college quarters?"
"How long d'you expect me to go on dissecting dead bodies?" returned Mahendra.
Binodini had to bite off another bit of thread, and with it still in her mouth she said: "So you want live bodies now!"
Mahendra had come with the set purpose of entertaining Binodini with conversation and badinage in his most natural manner. But such a profound seriousness seemed to be settling down on him that nothing light by way of reply would come. Finding Binodini to-day bent upon maintaining a cold distance, Mahendra's whole being seemed to want to get closer, to shake down the obstructing barriers by main force. Without taking up Binodini's last challenge, he edged nearer and asked: "Why are you leaving us, what have we done?"
Bioodini shifted her position, sitting a little further back, as she raised her face from her work, and, fixing her glorious eyes on Mahendra, said: "Each of us has our own duties. Was it for anybody's fault that you went off to your college rooms? Haven't I also my place to fill?"
Mahendra could not think of a fitting reply. After a pause he hesitatingly asked: "What can be the duties which compel you to go?"
Binodini's whole attention was directed to threading her needle. "My conscience tells me of my duties," she replied. "What explanation of them can I give to you?"
Mahendra stared at a distant cocoanut-tree top through the window, lost in heavy thought. Binodini silently sewed on. One could have heard the falling of a needle. All of a sudden Mahendra broke the silence, so startling Binodini that she pricked herself.
"Will no entreaty of ours persuade you to remain?" he said.
"Why all these entreaties?" asked Binodini, sucking a drop of blood from her pricked finger. "What does it matter to you whether I go or stay?" Her voice dropped as she said this, and she bent lower and lower over her sewing. The short winter's day had already grown too dark for him to be sure whether or not there were tear-drops on the edge of her eye-lashes.
In a moment Mahendra had taken Binodini's hand in his, and was saying in a husky voice: "And if it does matter, will you stay?"
Binodini snatched away her hand, and moved further off. Mahendra suddenly came to himself. His last remark echoed and re-echoed in his ears like a terrible jest. He bit his offending tongue, and did not utter another word.
In the silence which ensued Asha entered the room. Binodini with a smile, as if at some previous remark of Mahendra's, said: "If you people will insist on making so much of me, I must repay you by respecting your wishes. So I'll remain till you turn me out!"
Asha, overjoyed at this triumph of her husband's advocacy, held her friend fast in a close embrace. "You've given your word" she cried. "Now pledge it three times
—I'll stay, I'll stay, I'll stay!"
Binodini repeated it three times after her.
"Oh, my Eyesore!" gushed Asha. "Since you would yield at last why did you make us beg so hard? It serves you right to have to surrender to my husband at last!"
"Well friend Mahendra," asked Binodini, smiling, "have I lost, or have I made you confess yourself beaten, which is it?"
Mahendra was dumbfounded. It had seemed to him that the whole room was reeking with his crime, that just opprobrium had enveloped him body and soul. To now turn with a smile to Asha, to cover his shameful lips with light frivolity, was a performance of which he was utterly incapable. "It is I who have lost," he said gravely as he left the room.
Shortly after Mahendra returned and said to Binodini, "I ask your pardon."
"What is it you've done, friend?" asked Binodini.
"We have no right to keep you here by force."
"Where was the force?" laughed Binodini. "You were quite affectionate about it, is there no difference?—What say you, my Eyesore, is love and force the same thing?"
Asha was at once on her side. "Of course not," she assented.
"It's my good fortune, friend Mahin," continued Binodini, "that you should want me to remain, that my absence should cause you pain.—How many such friends can we count in this world, my Eyesore? If I am lucky enough to find any who feel for me, is it likely that I should want to leave them?"
Asha, finding her husband looking shamefaced and at a loss for a reply, flew to his rescue with ready sympathy: "Oh my Eyesore! who can ever bandy words with you? My husband has already confessed defeat, now pray stop!"
Mahendra hurriedly left the room. Vihari had just finished a chat with Rajlakshmi and was coming to look for Mahendra. Meeting him just outside the door Mahendra broke out with: "Vihari, old fellow, there's not a greater scoundrel in the world than I am!" So excited was he that his words could be heard inside the room.
Immediately came the call: "Friend Vihari!"
"I am coming in a minute, sister Binod," replied Vihari.
"Oh do come in now for a second," urged Binodini.
Vihari threw a glance at Asha as he entered. He was somewhat mystified to find, so far as he could judge through her veil, that there was no sign of sorrow or depression on her face.
Asha wanted to get up and go, but Binodini held her down. "Are you and my Eyesore sworn enemies, friend Vihari," she said, "that she should want to leave the moment you come?"
Asha blushed and pinched Binodini.
"That's because I was not made to be attractive," suggested Vihari with a smile.
Binodini—"See, my Eyesore, how tactful our friend Vihari is. He lays the blame on his maker to avoid questioning your taste. It's your misfortune if you can't appreciate such devotion."
Vihari—"If it earns me your pity, sister Binod, I am more than repaid."
Binodini—"Can even the sea make up to the
chatak
for the absence of rain?"
Asha would no longer be restrained. She freed herself from Binodini and left the room.
Vihari was also turning to go when Binodini said: "Can you tell me what's the matter with Mahendra Babu?"
Vihari sat back startled. "Why, is there anything the matter? I know nothing."
Binodini—"I can't say that I do either, but I don't like it anyway, my friend."
Vihari anxiously stared at Binodini hoping to hear something further. Binodini, however, said nothing more and silently went on with her hemming. After waiting a while Vihari asked. "Have you noticed anything particular about Dada?"
"I don't know, friend, but somehow I don't like it," repeated Binodini in an ordinary tone of voice. "I do feel so anxious for my poor Eyesore." With a sigh she put away her work, and made as if she would leave the room.
"Oh do stay a little," said Vihari taking a chair himself.
Binodini opened the window wider, turned up the lamp, and gathering up her work, sat down again on the furthest edge of the bed. Then she said: "Friend Vihari, I'm not here for ever, but when I'm gone, do look after my Eyesore, see that she's not made unhappy." And she turned away her face, lest her feelings should get the better of her.
"Sister Binod!" exclaimed Vihari in alarm. "You really mustn't go. You have none of your own to go to, you must take on yourself the care of this poor true-hearted girl. If you desert her I see no hope."
Binodini—"You know the ways of the world, my friend. How can I stay here for ever? What will people say?"
Vihari—"Oh let people say what they will, their gossip doesn't matter. Your soul is far above the petty things of this world, you alone can protect this helpless innocent from its cruel touch. Sister, forgive me, at first I knew you not; and like a low-minded wretch I allowed myself to harbour unworthy suspicions against you. I even went so far as to believe that you envied poor Asha her happiness;—'tis a sin even to talk about all that I imagined. Now that I know you to have the soul of an angel I couldn't help making this confession and asking your forgiveness."
Binodini's whole being was thrilled. Playing a part as she knew she was, she had not the heart, even to herself, to refuse Vihari's offering of praise as not her due. She had never received the like from anyone before. For the moment she felt as if she was really the pure high-souled creature of his imagination; an undefined pity for Asha brought the tears to her eyes. She did not seek to hide these tears from Vihari, they assisted her to keep up her self-delusion.
Vihari, himself overcome at the sight of her emotion, abruptly left the room and went to Mahendra. He could not even guess why his friend had proclaimed himself a scoundrel. He did not find Mahendra in his room, and heard he had gone out for a stroll. This was very unusual for Mahendra, who had a horror of strange people and strange places, and never left the house except with a definite object. Vihari slowly wended his way homewards lost in thought.
Binodini brought Asha into her own room and, enfolding her in her arms, said with brimming eyes:—"Eyesore, my love, I am such an unfortunate. such an ill-omened creature!"
Asha was greatly touched, and embracing her in turn she lovingly rebuked her saying: "Why, my dear, do you say such things?"
Binodini cried on her breast like a child, as she replied: "Wherever I go some evil is sure to happen—let me go, my dear, let me return to the wilderness whence I came."
Asha put her hand under Binodini's chin and lifted up her tearful face. "Don't talk like that, there's a darling," she pleadingly urged. "I shan't be able to live without you. What has happened to-day to make you think of leaving me?"
Vihari, baffled at not finding Mahendra, was burning to contrive another talk with Binodini about Mahendra and Asha, to find out what had really come between
them. So before he had proceeded far from their house he retracted his steps on the pretext of leaving a message with Binodini to ask Mahendra to dine with him next day. As he reached her door, and announced himself with his "Sister Binod!" the sight of the two weeping girls locked in one another's embrace suddenly arrested him.
It struck Asha that Vihari must have been saying something nasty to her Eyesore, which had made her want to go away. "He's not a nice-minded man, this Vihari Babu," thought she. "How odious of him!" She indignantly came away from the room. Vihari, with his veneration for Binodini heightened by several degrees, likewise departed.
That night Mahendra said to Asha, "Chuni, I am taking the early passenger train to-morrow morning for Benares."
Asha's heart gave a sudden thump as she asked—"Why?"
"It's such a long time since I've seen Kaki."
Asha felt terribly ashamed. It was she who ought to have thought of this before. Absorbed in her own joys and sorrows she had clean forgotten her loving Aunt, while Mahendra had kept a place in his heart for the poor pilgrim in her exile. How hard-hearted Asha appeared to herself to be!
"She went away," continued Mahendra, "leaving to me the one thing she loved in this world. I feel as if I cannot remain any longer without seeing her—" Mahendra's voice became choked with emotion and with an unspoken prayer he placed his right hand in benediction on Asha's forehead.
Asha could not understand this sudden overflow of tenderness, though it touched her to tears. It reminded her of Binodini's uncalled-for outpouring of solicitude this very evening. Could there be any connection between the two, she wondered. She somehow felt it to be a presage of something new in her life—was it for good or for evil?
Suddenly she was afraid and drew Mahendra to herself in a close embrace. Mahendra could feel the tremor in her, and said: "Fear not, Chuni, our good Kaki's blessing is on you, you need have no fear. She left home and everything she had in this world for your sake; no harm can come to you!"
Bsha
braced herself up and took courage, accepting her husband's benediction as a talisman; and repeatedly taking in imagination the dust of her aunt's feet she prayed: "O mother, may your blessing keep my husband from all harm."
The next morning Mahendra left without saying good-bye to Binodini.
"How virtuous we are!" said Binodini to herself, contemptuously. "He does the wrong and he flies into a temper with me! Let's see how long this virtue will last!"
CHAPTER 21
========================================
XXI
When Mahendra on his return home, made over to Asha a token of her aunt's love—a little box to keep her vermilion powder
in, she was again moved to tears. The infinite patience of that good woman under the trials of her own shortcomings and her mother-in-law's temper came home to her as it had never done before. She timidly said to her husband: "I do so want to see Kaki once more and beg her forgiveness. Would that be quite impossible?"
Mahendra entered into Asha's feelings, and at once gave his consent to her spending a little time with her aunt at Benares; but expressed some hesitation at the idea of again absenting himself from college to accompany her thither.
"My guardian's people will be going to Benares in a few days," said Asha. "Would it matter if I went with them?"
Mahendra went to Rajlakshmi and said: "Mother, the wife wants to go to Benares to see her Aunt."
Rajlakshmi was sarcastic. "If the young mistress wants to go, I suppose she must—so you had better make up your mind to take her there." She did not at all like the idea of Mahendra again establishing relations with his aunt,—that his wife should be going to her was still more intolerable.
"I have my college," Mahendra replied, "so I can't take her. She'll go with her guardian."
"Splendid!" said Rajlakshmi. "Her guardian is a great man, too great to think of crossing the threshold of the like of us. How grand to be able to go with him!"
The more Rajlakshmi waxed sarcastic,
the more determined grew Mahendra, and he left her without another word, but with a fixed resolve to send Asha to Benares.
When Vihari came on his usual visit to Rajlakshmi she said: "O Vihari, have you heard the news? Our young mistress is pleased to go to Benares!"
"How's that, mother?" cried Vihari. "Is Dada going to absent himself from college again?"
"No, no, why should Mahin go, that's too old-fashioned. Mahin remains, and his wife goes with her guardian. We're all getting to be
sahebs
now-a-days.
Vihari was troubled in mind, but not because of the modern tendency towards foreign ways. "What
can
be the matter?" thought he. "When Mahendra goes to Benares, Asha stays behind. When Mahendra returns, Asha is to go. Something serious must have happened between them. How long can this be allowed to go on? Can't I do something as a friend—must I remain always looking on?"
Greatly put out at his mother's attitude Mahendra had gone into the room next to Binodini's and was moodily sitting there. Binodini had not come to see Mahendra since his return, and Asha was in her friend's room trying to persuade the latter to come and cheer her husband up.
This was where Vihari found Mahendra when he came away from Rajlakshmi. "Is it settled that sister Asha is going to Benares?" he asked.
"Why shouldn't it be,—what's to prevent her?" was the reply.
"Who's talking of preventing her?" retorted Vihari. "But why this sudden fancy?"
"A desire to see one's aunt, a yearning for an absent relative, these are fancies to which the human mind is sometimes subject."
"Are you taking her there?"
Mahendra at once jumped to the conclusion that Vihari had come to lecture him about Asha's going with her guardian. Afraid of not being able to control his rising temper, he restricted his reply to a brief "No."
Vihari understood Mahendra's moods, and could gauge the extent of his irritation. He also knew that Mahendra's obstinacy once roused, there was no getting round him. So he did not pursue the idea of Mahendra's accompanying Asha. "Poor girl," he reflected. "If she is going away with some pain at heart, perhaps the good Binodini's company may comfort her." So he casual1y suggested: "Wouldn't it be better if sister Binod went along too?"
Mahendra's fury burst forth. "Speak out Vihari!" he shouted. "Speak out the thing that's in your mind. It's no use beating about the bush with me! I know you suspect me to be in love with Binodini! 'Tis false, I say. I do not love her! You needn't play the watch-dog to protect me. Rather look to yourself! Had your friendship been pure you'd have long ago confessed to me your real state of mind, and taken good care to keep away from your friend's inner apartments. I tell you to your face that it's
you
who are in love with Asha!"
Vihari forgot himself for a moment, like one whose tenderest spot is suddenly and
violently trodden on, and leaping up from his seat, his face gone white, he rushed at Mahendra. Then, stopping short as he recovered himself, he said, bringing out his words with a supreme effort: "I go. May God forgive you!" and reeled out of the room.
Binodini rushed out from her room with the cry "Friend Vihari!" and followed him down the passage.
Vihari, leaning against the wall, tried to smile as he asked: "What is it, Sister Binod?"
"I
will
go to Benares with my Eyesore," said Binodini.
"No, no, sister," protested Vihari. "That cannot he. Do nothing, I beg you, because of what I said. I am nobody here. I don't want to interfere in anything belonging to this household,—that only makes matters worse. You are an angel of mercy, do what you yourself think best. I am going."
Vihari bent low in salutation as he left.
"Listen to me; friend Vihari," Binodini called after him. "I am no angel. Nobody will be the better for your forsaking them. Don't blame me for what may happen afterwards."
CHAPTER 22
========================================
XXII
Vihari went away. Mahendra remained rooted to his chair. Binodini with a fierce piercing glance at him through the open door went back to her room, where Asha was cowering in utter shame. After
the disclosure made by Mahendra that Vihari was in love with her, Asha felt she could look nobody in the face. But Binodini had no pity to spare for Asha. Had the latter raised her face then, she would have been scared! It seemed as if Binodini was about to run amok against the world.—So it was a lie, indeed! No one loved Binodini! Everybody was in love with this silly shamefaced wax-doll!
Mahendra was lost in thought. "I said it was false—that I did not love Binodini," he pondered. "That was a harsh thing to say. Of course I am not in love with her, but to say I do not love her is to put it very cruelly indeed. What woman would not feel hurt to hear such a thing! When can I get an opportunity of telling her my mind more tactfully, more delicately. It would be very wrong to leave poor Binodini with such a cruel impression."
Mahendra took out the three letters from his box and read them over again. That Binodini was in love with him he could not doubt. But why, then, had she so wildly rushed out after the retreating Vihari? That must have been intended as a protest. "Since," thought he, "I said in so many words that I did not love her, she had to take the earliest opportunity of appearing to take back what she had written to me. Perhaps her rude disillusionment about my feelings might t:eally turn her heart towards Vihari in the end."
Mahendra found himself getting so anxious that he felt both surprised and afraid. What, he asked himself, if Binodini had overheard him? What harm if that
did
result in turning away her heart elsewhere? As the boat in a storm keeps itself steady by straining at its anchor, so Mahendra in this time of stress tried to hold on all the faster to Asha.
That night with Asha's head on his breast he asked her: "Chuni, tell me truly how much you love me?"
What a question!—thought Asha. Had then the shameful mingling of her name with Vihari's cast any doubts on her love? She felt ready to die with shame as she pleaded: "For pity's sake don't ask me such questions. Tell me rather," she entreated, "without keeping anything back, have you ever found my love wanting?"
Mahendra, to extract all the sweetness from her love pressed her further: "Why then did you want to go to Benares?"
"I don't want to," said Asha. I don't want to go anywhere at all!"
"But you
did
, you know!"
"
You
know why," Asha exclaimed, much hurt.
"You'd have had such a pleasant time with Kaki, away from me."
"Never!" cried Asha.
"
'Twas not for my happiness that I wanted to go."
"I really do think, Chuni," muttered Mahendra, half to himself, "that you'd have been much happier married to somebody else!"
Asha shrank away from him, and hiding her face in the pillow lay stiff as a log. Her sobs would no longer he restrained. And Mahendra, whilst making ineffectual attempts to console her, felt himself in a whirl with a curious mixture of pride, pleasure, and qualms of conscience at the sensitive single-heartedness of this devoted woman.
Why had not Vihari repudiated the charge so openly brought by Mahendra?—was Binodini's thought. She would have been better pleased, she felt, if he had even untruly denied it. Well, it served him right, he deserved this blow at Mahendra's hands. Why should a man of Vihari's stamp stoop to love Asha at all? It was as well that this shock had taken him away from her—at this Binodini felt a certain relief.
But then Vihari's ashy-pale face, as of one who had received his death-wound, would every now and again obtrude itself on Binodini in the midst of her work. The ministering angel in her wept at the sight. She strained that picture of suffering to her heart as a mother an ailing child—she could not have any rest, she knew, till she could see the smile restored to those lips, the colour to those cheeks.
After thus absent-mindedly getting through her usual duties for some days, Binodini could bear it no longer. She wrote a letter:
Friend Vihari,—Ever since I saw your face that day, I have been longing to find you recovered, to see you yourself again. When shall I once more behold your smile, when again hear your words of ready sympathy? Will you write a line to let me know how you are now?—Your sister Binod.
She sent a servant of the house with the letter to Vihari's lodgings.
CHAPTER 23
========================================
XXIII
That Mahendra would be capable of bringing himself so crudely, so cruelly, to talk about Vihari's being in love with Asha, Vihari could never have imagined even in his dreams. In fact he had never even allowed
himself
to entertain that possibility. At first he was simply thunderstruck. Then he was beside himself with shame and anger. "Impossible," said he to himself. "Impertinent, utterly baseless."
But the thing which had once been uttered refused to be any longer suppressed. The particle of truth in it began to grow. The memory of that fragrant evening, when the setting sun had cast its glow upon the tender face of the maiden Asha, at the moment when his gaze had been directed thereon, as one something which his melting heart had felt to be its very own, constantly kept coming back to him. And something would clutch at his heart, and a pang shoot up to his throat, while he lay flat on his little terrace through the long night, or was pacing the pavement in front of his lodgings. All that had been hidden in Vihari's mind began to express itself; what had been unknown even to him, had sprung into life at Mahendra's words; the emotion which had been passive now refused to be dominated.
Then he felt that his was the fault. "What call have I to be angry?" thought he. "I should rather beg Mahendra's pardon before I part from him for ever. I left him that day as if he were the guilty one, I the judge—I must now make amends by admitting that I was to blame."
Vihari took it for granted that Asha had gone off to Benares. So in the evening he hesitatingly made his way to Mahendra's door. Coming across old Sadhu, one of the family dependants, he accosted him with: "Hullo, Uncle Sadhu, I haven't been able to turn up for some days. How's the family?"
Sadhu intimated that all was well with the family.
"When did Sister Asha go to Benares?" asked Vihari.
"She hasn't gone, she's not going," replied Sadhu.
Vihari's first impulse was to hasten towards the inner apartments,—his eagerness the greater because it was no longer possible for him to rush up the stairs in his old familiar way, with an affectionate inquiry here and a bantering remark there, at home with everybody as one of the family. He was filled with an immense longing just once more to greet Rajlakshmi as mother, to address the veiled Asha as sister.
"Why are you waiting out there, my son?" said old Sadhu. "Won't you come inside!"
Vihari took a few sudden steps into the doorway, and then as suddenly retreated, saying: "I'm afraid I must be off, I've got an engagement," with which he hurried away. That same night Vihari left Calcutta by the West-bound train.
The man who had taken Binodini's letter, finding Vihari away, brought it back. Mahendra was then in the strip of garden in front of the house. "Whose letter is that?" he asked. The messenger told him. Mahendra took it away.
At first his idea was to hand the letter to Binodini, witness her guilty flush of shame, and then leave her without a word. He had no doubt as to Binodini having reason to be ashamed of its contents. He remembered having intercepted another such message to Vihari. He felt an overpowering temptation to know what was in this letter. He was Binodini's guardian, he argued, and responsible for her behaviour while she was staying with them. How could he allow such a suspicious circumstance to remain uninvestigated. It certainly would not do to allow Binodini to go wrong without doing something.
He opened the little note and read it. It was in the spoken language,
and clearly came from her heart. After reading the letter over and over again Mahendra could not decide where Binodini's heart really was. "I said I did not love her," he repeated to himself. "So she is trying to find consolation elsewhere. Her wounded pride must have led her to give up all hopes of me."
This last idea made it difficult for him to contain himself. He could not bear the thought that his momentary silly outburst should have lost him the Binodini who had come forward to offer herself. "If Binodini cherishes a love for me in her
heart, it will be well for her,” he thought, it will keep her steady. I can trust myself—my heart is Asha's—Binodini need fear nothing from me. But if she allows her fancy to wander off elsewhere it may be the ruin of her." The only way, Mahendra concluded, was for him, without committing himself, to get back Binodini's heart.
Going into the inner apartments, Mahendra found Binodini expectantly lingering in the passage. In a moment his jealousy flared up. "It's no use your waiting here," he sneered. "He's not coming. Here's your letter come back!" and he flung her the note.
"Open?" queried Binodini.
But Mahendra had gone. Binodini came to the conclusion that Vihari had opened and read the letter and returned it without replying. The hot blood throbbed through her veins. She sent for the man who had taken the letter, but he was away on some errand. Like drops of oil from a heated lamp, the rage in her heart overflowed in burning tears down her cheeks. She tore and re-tore the note into a thousand bits in her fury—why, oh why was there no way of wiping away those ink-stains from the past, from the present!
Like the angry bee which puts its sting into anyone crossing its path, Binodini felt she wanted to burn up the whole household in her wrath. Why was there always some obstacle in her way? Was she ever destined to fail? If happiness was not for her, she would justify her evil star by overpowering and bringing down to the dust all who had stood in the way of her desires, of her success.
CHAPTER 24
========================================
XXIV
With the first breath of spring Asha had spread a mat on the open roof-terrace and was sitting there in the evening twilight immersed in the serial story of a monthly magazine. The hero, returning home for the holidays after a long and strenuous year, had fallen into the hands of robbers. Asha was in a quiver of suspense! The unfortunate heroine had just awakened from a bad dream and was in tears. Asha could not restrain her own! Asha had a very liberal appreciation of magazine stories. Whichever one she was reading appeared to her so charming! She would gush over them to Binodini: "Oh Eyesore, my love, do read this story. It's so delightful. I've nearly cried my eyes out." But Binodini's critical remarks would prove rather a damper for her.
To-day Asha had determined to get Mahendra to read this one. As with moist eyes she closed the pages of the magazine, Mahendra came up. His expression somewhat alarmed her, as, with a forced cheerfulness, he said: "Who is the fortunate creature on whom you are thinking so intently all alone up here?"
Asha forgot all about the hero and heroine as she anxiously inquired: "Aren't you feeling well?"
"I'm all right," said Mahendra.
"Then something must be on your mind," insisted Asha. "Do tell me."
Mahendra helped himself to a
pan
from Asha's box and said: "I was thinking what a long while it is since Kaki has had a sight of you. How overjoyed she would be if you suddenly paid her a surprise visit!"
Asha gazed expectantly at Mahendra without replying. She could not make out why this idea had now occurred to him again.
Finding Asha silent, Mahendra returned to the subject. "Don't you feel you'd like to go?" he asked her.
This was a difficult question, She
did
want to see her aunt, but she did not want to leave Mahendra. "I'll go with you when your next vacation comes on," she said at last.
Mahendra.—"I'm afraid I won't be able to get away even during the vacation. I'll have to be getting ready for my examination."
Asha.—"Then let it be for the present."
Mahendra.—"Why let it be? You wanted to go, why not do so?"
Asha.—"No, I'd rather not."
Mahendra.—"You were so eager the other day, what's the matter now?"
Asha sat still with downcast eyes.
Mahendra had been wrought up into a state of fidgets with his constant contriving to be left alone to get an opportunity for making it up with Binodini. Asha's silence exasperated him. "Are you nursing any suspicion against me in your mind, that you dare n't let me out of your sight?" he snappishly burst out. Asha's mild and accomodating nature suddenly seemed to him unbearable. "If she wants to go to her
aunt," he thought irritably, "why can't she say so. Why can't she say 'you must send me there' instead of this 'yes' and 'no' and then getting struck dumb!"
Mahendra's sudden outburst astonished and frightened Asha. She could not for the life of her think of any reply. Why Mahendra was getting to be so effusive in his caresses, so cruel in his ebullitions of temper, was a growing mystery to her. And the more difficult of comprehension did Mahendra become, the more did her trembling heart cling fast to him and try to envelope him with its love.—
She
mistrust him and want to keep watch on him! She knew not whether this was only a cruel mockery or a stern indictment; was it to be laughed away, or must she swear it baseless?
Finding the distracted Asha still silent, Mahendra, unable to control himself, rudely left her. The last trace of the sunset glow faded away from the evening sky, the fleeting balminess of the early spring gave way to a chilly breeze, and yet Asha lay prone on her mat on the terrace.
When late in the night Asha dragged herself to their room, she found Mahendra had gone to bed without a word to her. He must be utterly disgusted with her callousness in not being eager to see her loving aunt, thought she. As she got into bed she clasped his feet and lay there with her head against them in mute appeal. Mahendra's heart melted with a tender pity as he tried to draw her to his side. But Asha would not budge. "If I have done any wrong, forgive me," she supplicated.
"
You
have done no wrong, Chuni," said Mahendra remorsefully. "It's I who am a brute and have hurt you undeservedly."
Asha rained tears on his feet, and Mahendra sitting up lifted her to his side. When her fit of crying was over she said: "It's not that I don't long to see Kaki, but I can't bear the idea of leaving you. Pray don't think me heartless."
Mahendra tenderly brushed the tears off Asha's cheek. "Why should I think ill of you, Chuni?" said he. "How can I possibly be annoyed because you can't bear to leave me? You needn't go anywhere at all."
"No, I'll go to Benares."
Mahendra.—"Why?"
Asha.—Since you have even for a moment imagined that I can mistrust you, I must go once, if only for a few days.
Mahendra—I have sinned, and you undergo the purification?
Asha.—I don't know about that. I must have sinned somehow, or why should these horrid ideas cross your mind? Why should I appear to have done things I never even dream of?
Mahendra.—That's because I'm bad beyond your dreams.
"Oh don't,—you shan't say such things!" cried the distressed Asha. "But I really must once go to Benares."
"All right, go if you will," laughed Mahendra. "But what if I go to the bad out of your sight!"
"You needn't try to frighten me," declared Asha. "As if I'm worrying myself over such an absurd idea!"
Mahendra.—But you ought to worry. If you spoil such a husband through sheer carelessness, yours will be all the blame.
Asha.—I won't try to fasten the blame on you, so you needn't be anxious.
Mahendra.—Then you'll own it's your fault?
Asha.—A hundred times!
"All right, then I'll call on your guardian to-morrow and fix up everything." With which Mahendra turned over to sleep. But after a while he again turned towards her saying: "Chuni, hadn't you better not go after all?"
"Please don't say no. If I don't go at all your blame will stick to me. Let me go just for a few days!" implored Asha.
"Very well," said Mahendra as he turned over again.
The day before she was to leave for Benares, Asha put her arms round Binodini and said, "Will you promise me one thing, my Eyesore, faithfully?"
"What is it, dear?" asked Binodini, pinching her cheek. "Wouldn't I do anything to please you?"
"Goodness knows," said Asha pensively, "what has come over you of late. You seem to be trying to avoid my husband."
Binodini.—Can't you imagine why I do so, dear? Didn't you hear with your own ears what passed between Vihari Babu and your husband the other day? After that should I appear before him? What would you have done in my place?
Asha of course felt that Binodini was right. How shameful were the things said that day she knew from her own experience. Still she went on: "Such a lot of nasty things do get said. What's your love for us worth if you let them weigh you down? Forget them, my love."
"Very well, dear, I'll forget them," said Binodini.
"I'm going off to Benares to-morrow" continued Asha. "You must look after my husband, dear, and see that he wants for nothing. I won't have you running away from him any more!"
Binodini was silent. Asha took her by the hand as she repeated her entreaty: "As you love me, do promise me this!"
"I will," said Binodini.
Translated by
Surendranath Tagore.
CHAPTER 25
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
XXV
T
HE moon sets on the one side, the sun rises on the other. Asha went away, but Binodini did not appear on Mahendra's horizon. Mahendra wandered forlorn, in season and out of season invading his mother's apartments, but the tricky Binodini was not to be caught.
"With his wife away, nothing in the house seems to please poor Mahin," concluded Rajlakshmi, noticing his disconsolate looks. The thought that his mother should count comparatively so little in his life, for pleasure or for pain, cut her to the quick; nevertheless his lackadaisical melancholy air evoked her sympathy. She sent for Binodini and said: "I've got short of breath ever since that influenza, and can't
be going up and down the stairs as I used to. Will you see to Mahin's meals and everything, my child? He's been looked after all his life, and can't do without it. Don't you see how he's moping since his wife left? What a wife to be sure! How could she desert him like this!"
Binodini with face averted fumbled with the bed-clothes.
"Well child, what's troubling you? There's nothing to hesitate about. Whatever people may say, you're quite one of us."
"Wouldn't it be better not to—?" murmured Binodini.
"All right then, don't!" snapped Rajlakshmi. "I'll get along as best as I can by myself," with which she essayed to mount the stairs to do up Mahendra's room.
"Oh stop, please!" cried Binodini in a flutter. "I'm going. Forgive me if I've seemed disobedient. I'll do exactly as you wish."
Rajlakshmi had a supreme contempt for society gossip. Since her husband's death her social circle had been mostly limited to Mahendra and herself. Binodini's hint of Mahendra's incurring social censure had annoyed her. Hadn't she known Mahendra since his infancy? Where could you find such another immaculate youth? To think of anybody daring to speak ill of him! Wouldn't the tongue that uttered such a foul calumny wither and drop off!
That evening when Mahendra came home from college, the state of his room took him by surprise. The perfume of incense greeted him as soon as he entered. His mosquito-curtain had acquired a pink silk flounce. The bed on the floor was spotless and trim, and the usual bolster had been replaced by square cushions of the English pattern, the embroidery on which represented days of Binodini's toil. "For whom are you working these?" Asha had often asked her, and had received the bantering reply: "For my funeral pyre; death is the only sweetheart I'll ever have."
Mahendra's portrait on the wall had been adorned with little coloured bows at the corners, and under it a small table had been placed against the wall with a vase of flowers upon it,—as if it were an offering from some unknown worshipper. Altogether the room wore a changed aspect. The bedstead had been slightly shifted from
it
former position, and the clothes-horse draped to form a screen between it and the floor-bed, dividing the room into two parts for the day and night. The little cabinet in which Asha used to keep her trinkets had red Turkey-cloth fastened inside its glazed door, so that its contents could no longer be seen. The old associations had been completely overlaid by the touch of a new hand.
As the tired Mahendra threw himself on the floor-bed and leaned back on the cushions he found them scented with the pollen of
nageswar
flowers. As he closed his eyes it seemed to him to be the fragrance of the
champak
fingers which had worked the cushions.
Then the maid appeared with pared fruits on a silver salver, and a crystal goblet of iced pineapple
sherbet
. This was also a new departure, and bore witness to the manipulation of skilful hands. Each one of Mahendra's senses was assailed by this insidious novelty.
As Mahendra finished his repast with great relish, Binodini entered with
pan
and
spices, and said with a smile: "Forgive me, friend Mahin, if I've not been able to look after you these last few days; you know I've got to attend to all the household work. Whatever you. may do, swear for my sake not to tell my Eyesore that I've been neglecting you!" She then pushed the
pan
-box towards him. Even the
pan
was not the same, with its aroma of screw-pine blossoms.
Mahendra.—"It's glorious to have intervals of neglect like this!"
Binodini—"Why, may I ask?"
Mahendra.—"One can make a grievance of it, and get it paid back with compound interest."
Binodini.—"And how much interest do I still owe you, Mr. Banker?"
Mahendra.—"As you weren't here while I was eating, you must prolong your stay after the meal, and even then some debt will be left over!"
"What a shark," laughed Binodini. "Once in your clutches there's no getting out, I see."
"My accounting may be strict," rejoined Mahendra, "but what have I realised in cash?"
"What is there to realise?" sighed
Binodini, suddenly becoming grave. "Yet the debtor has been made captive."
"Is this then no better than a gaol, friend Eyesore?" said Mahendra becoming also grave.
The boy came in with a lighted lamp, which he placed on the table. Binodini shaded her eyes with her palm from the sudden light. "Who knows, friend?" she said in reply. "There's no getting even with you in words. Let me go now. I've got other duties to attend to."
Mahendra clasped her hand as he said: "Since you've allowed yourself to he made captive, you shall not be released!"
"Unhand me, for shame!" cried Binodini. "Why want to bind me when I've no way of escape?" With which she tore away her hand and left the room.
Mahendra fell back on the scented cushions, the blood throbbing within his breast. What with the quiet of the evening, the solitude of the room, the breath of the new spring, he felt he could hardly contain himself. He put out the lamp, bolted the yenetian door, barred the glazed sashes and retired for the night, though it was quite early yet.
Even the bed seemed different; with an extra quilt over the mattress it was softer, and again there was a subtle perfume of
khuskhus
.
Mahendra tossed from side to side, as if trying to recover some token of the past to cling to; but they all seemed to elude his grasp.
At nine o'clock in the evening there was a knock at the closed door. Binodini was standing outside, saying: "Friend Mahin, your supper is waiting, open the door."
Mahendra jumped up to undo the fastenings, but as he touched the bar he stopped short, and throwing himself on the floor-bed, he cried out: "No, no, I'm not hungry, I don't want anything."
The anxious reply was heard: "Is anything the matter with you? Shall I bring you some water, is there anything else you'd like?"
"Nothing, thank you, nothing!"
"Don't keep anything back from me, please. If you're all right, why aren't you opening the door?"
"Mahendra almost shouted as he hurriedly replied: "No, no, I'm not going to open the door, not for worlds. Do go away!" with which he again got into bed, and resumed his gropings in the darkness, in the emptiness of his bed, in the turmoil of his heart, for some memory of the absent Asha.
Finding that sleep would not come, Mahendra got up, lit the lamp, and sat down with paper and pen to write a letter to Asha.
Oh my Asha, do not leave me alone here any longer. You are my good Angel,
when you are not with me my desires break their bonds and try to run away with me, I know not whither. Where is the light to guide me on to the right path—your trustful loving eyes alone can give it. O my true, my only one, come back to me, keep me safe, keep me filled with yourself. Rescue me from the sin of doing you wrong, the terrible fate of forgetting your love.
Thus Mahendra, to spur himself on towards Asha, kept writing through the long night hours. The distant church-clocks chimed, one after another, the hour of three. The sound of passing carriages in the street had almost entirely ceased. The
Vehaga
tune which was being voiced by some neighbouring dancing-girl had long since died away into the prevailing silence of sleep. Mahendra, somewhat consoled with the outpourings of his heart which he had addressed to Asha, went back to bed and this time fell asleep at once.
It was late when he woke next morning. The rays of the sun had entered his room. As he sat up he felt the tension of last night considerably lightened. Coming out of bed he saw the letter he had written lying on the table. "What have I been doing?" thought he. "What a sentimental ass I've been. How lucky I didn't post it! What would Asha have thought of me—the poor girl wouldn't have understood half of it!" Mahendra felt miserably ashamed think how he had been worked up, and for what a trifling reason. He tore up that letter and wrote a short and simple one in its place:
How much longer are you going to be? If your guardian is not returning soon, just let me know and I will run over and fetch you. I am not feeling a bit happy all alone!
CHAPTER 26
========================================
XXVI
Annapurna was rather alarmed to find Asha come to her so soon after Mahendra's return. She put all sorts of questions to her—"So, Chuni, this Eyesore of yours you were telling me of, you think her the most accomplished person in the world?"
"It's quite true, Kaki, I'm not exag
gerating a bit. She's as clever as she's pretty, and as skilful with her hands."
"
You
think so, of course, since she's such a dear friend. But what do the rest of the household think of her?"
"Mother's never tired of praising her. She's in tears if my Eyesore so much as talks of going back home. And she's such a devoted nurse. Even if any of the servants are ill, she tends them like a sister."
"And what says Mahendra?"
"You know what He's
like, Kaki. He never can see any good in people He doesn't know very well. Everybody else loves her, but she's not been able to pull on very well with Him yet."
"What d'you mean?"
"Well, you see, though I took a lot of pains in bringing them together, they're hardly on speaking terms to-day. You know how reserved He is. People think Him proud, but you know that's not so, Kaki. Only He can't get on with people, except just one or two."
Asha blushed as she suddenly became conscious of the last words which had escaped her. Annapurna smiled to herself, greatly relieved. "Indeed!" said she. "That's why, when Mahin was here, he never even mentioned your Eyesore?"
"That's just like Him," cried Asha indignantly. "If He doesn't like anybody, it's just as if He hadn't seen or heard or known of such a person!"
"And if he does like a person," said Annapurna with an affectionate smile, "he can't think or talk of anything else in the world, That's also just like him—eh Chuni!"
Asha was silent, and returned the smile with downcast eyes.
"And what news of Vihari?" continued Annapurna after a pause. "Isn't he going to get married?"
Asha suddenly grew grave and was at a loss for a reply.
Annapurna got nervous at Asha's silence. "What is it Chuni?" she cried. "I hope nothing's the matter with him!" The childless woman had given Vihari the place of a son in her heart. The one recurring regret in her retirement was that she had not been able to see him happily settled in life before leaving the world. The rest of her world-life had been fulfilled,—the thought of his loneliness was the only thing that disturbed her devotions.
"Don't ask me about brother Vihari," said Asha at last.
"Why, pray?" queried the astonished Annapurna.
"I really cannot tell you," said Asha, as she escaped into another room.
Annapurna was lost in thought. Vihari, that jewel of a boy! How could he have possibly changed so that Chuni couldn't bear to talk of him! Alas for unkind fate, why had not Vihari married Chuni? Why had Mahendra snatched her away from his very hands? This was the first time since her retreat that Annapurna shed tears. "Oh, poor boy!" said she to herself. "If he has done anything unworthy, how much he must have suffered to have made him do it." The very thought of how great that suffering must have been, pierced her to the heart.
When in the evening Annapurna was at her devotions, a carriage stopped in front of the house, and the driver got off and began shouting and thumping at the door. Annapurna called out to Asha from within her prayer-room: "Look here, Chuni, I quite forgot that Kunja's mother-in-law and her niece were coming from Allahabad. This must be them. Will you take a light to the door and let them in."
As soon as Asha, lantern in hand, had opened the door, she saw Vihari standing outside, "Hullo, sister Asha!" he exclaimed, aghast. "How's it they told me you weren't coming to Benares!"
The lantern dropped from Asha's hand. She rushed up the stairs as if she had seen a ghost and shrieked: "O Kaki, for heaven's sake tell him to go away at once!"
"Who is it, Chuni, who is it?" cried Annapurna starting up from her prayer-mat.
"Brother Vihari has come even here!" replied Asha, as she went off into the next room and bolted the door. Vihari could hear everything from below the stairs. He was about to beat a hasty retreat. But when Annapurna, breaking off her devotions, rushed down the stairs, she found him sitting in a heap in the doorway—his legs had failed him.
Annapurna had not brought a light. She could not see Vihari's face in the dark, he could not see hers.
"Vihari!" cried Annapurna.
Alas! where were the loving accents of old! There was the sternness of judgment in the tone. O mother
Annapurna, on whom are you uplifting your sword? The ill-fated Vihari came to you in darkness to take the benign shelter of your feet!
An electric shock seemed to pass through Vihari's paralysed body. "No more, Kaki," he said, "not a word more. I'm off." He bent his head to the ground, but made no attempt to touch her feet. As a mother offering her child to the gods, Annapurna let Vihari depart into the dark without a word. In a moment the carriage with Vihari in it became invisible.
That very night Asha wrote to Mahendra:
Brother Vihari suddenly turned up here this evening. My guardian has not made up his mind when to go back.—Come soon and take me away.
CHAPTER 27
========================================
XXVII
Mahendra was feeling dull and depressed after his excitement and want of sleep the previous night. It was March, and it had already begun to get warm. It was Mahendra's habit to spend the morning at his table in the corner, with his books. This morning he slipped down on to the floor-bed and dawdled on the cushions. It got late, but he would not get up for his bath. The hawkers began crying in the street. There rose the continuous rumbling of carriages on their way to the business quarters. From a house which was being built near by came the droning song of the women concrete-rammers, to which the regular tapping of their wooden mallets beat time. With his over-wrought nerves relaxed at the breath of the balmy South wind, Mahendra felt that stern resolve or strenuous effort would be entirely out of place on a lazy langorous spring morning such as this.
"What's up with you since this morning, friend Mahin?" came the voice of Binodini. "What! still lying down?" she continued as she came up. "Your breakfast
is ready, aren't you going to have your bath? What
is
the matter, friend—are you not feeling well—is it a headache?" With which she put her hand on his forehead to test its heat.
Mahendra, closing his eyes, said in a husky voice: "I'm not feeling very well to-day—I don't think I'll have a bath this morning."
"If you won't bathe, at least have a little something to eat," said Binodini,—and she persuaded him to accompany her to the dining-room, and attended him with anxious solicitude while he ate.
When he had finished, Mahendra came back to his room, and again stretched himself on the floor-bed. Binodini sat near him, and massaged his forehead with her fingers. Mahendra, after lying for a while with closed eyes said: "Friend Eyesore, you haven't taken anything yet. Do go and have something to eat yourself."
But Binodini would not stir. The languid midday breeze brought in the meaningless murmur of the cocoanut trees which fringed the garden wall. Mahendra's heart began to beat faster and faster, and Binodini's breath quickening in sympathy, stirred the hair over his forehead. Neither uttered a word. "Floating as we are on the eternal stream of creation," Mahendra was thinking, "what can it matter if one's boat momentarily touches a particular shore,—and even if it does matter, for how long after all can it matter—?"
With her fingers running over his forehead, Binodini drooped lower and lower, heavy with the fullness of her youth, till the ends of her loose hair fell on his face. His body repeatedly thrilled at each light touch as her locks were blown about by the breeze; spasms at his breast seemed to prevent his breath from coming through. He sat up with a start, saying: "No, I'd better be off, there's my college." And without looking towards Binodini, he rose from the bed and stood up.
"Don't be in such a hurry," said Binodini. "Let me get out your things." With which she fetched him his college suit.
Mahendra went off immediately, but was unable to compose his mind even there. After making several vain attempts to attend to the lectures, he came back home before closing-time. On entering his room he found Binodini lying prone on the floor-bed, with a bolster under her breast, her loose black hair scattered over her back. It seemed she had not
heard his footsteps. Mahendra crept up on tiptoe, till he stood quite near. As Binodini read on, he heard her sigh.
"O Tender Heart!" said Mahendra, facetiously. "Don't waste your emotions on imaginary people. What is it you're reading?"
Binodini started up in dismay, and hastily hid her book under the flowing end of her
sari
. Mahendra tried to get a glimpse of it, and there ensued a tussle, at the end of which Mahendra proved the victor, and managed to get possession of the book;—he found it was Bankim's "
Poison Tree
." The defeated Binodini, breathing hard, turned her back on Mahendra in sulky silence.
Mahendra's heart was in a fearful flutter, but controlling himself with repeated efforts, he essayed a smile as he remarked: "What a disappointment! I thought it was some great secret, and after all this fuss, out comes the Poison Tree!"
"What secret am I supposed to have, may I know?" queried Binodini.
"It might have been a letter from Vihari, for instance," blurted out Mahendra.
Binodini sprang up like a suddenly-lighted flame. Lightning flashed from her eyes.
Mahendra realised his mistake. "I beg your pardon," he said, taking her hand in humble entreaty. "I was only jesting, forgive me."
"With whose name do you jest, pray?" said Binodini, coldly withdrawing her hand. "Had you been worthy of being his friend, I could have forgiven you. But your narrow heart has no room for true friendship, and yet you dare to jest!"
Binodini was about to sweep out of the room, but Mahendra clasped her by the feet and detained her. At that moment a shadow was seen in the doorway, and as Mahendra let go his hold, and raised his face with a start, he saw before him Vihari.
Vihari's steady gaze seemed to go through and through them both, as he icily remarked: "I'm intruding, I see, but I won't stay long. I came just to say one word. I've been to Benares, but I had no idea that sister Asha was there. In my ignorance I may appear to have sinned against her. I haven't a chance of asking her pardon, so I've come to beg yours. My only prayer is that if I have ever consciously or unconsciously sinned, my sin may not be visited on her."
Mahendra was wild that Vihari should have been witness of his weakness. He lost all compunction. "Rather like the guilty conscience of the proverb, isn't it?" he remarked with a caustic smile. "I never asked you to give any explanation nor to plead guilty either. Why then this playing the saint with mock contrition!"
Vihari stood awhile stiff as a statue. When, after strenuous efforts to speak, his lips began to tremble, Binodini interposed. "Don't reply to him, friend Vihari," she said. "Don't you say a thing. His foul words are only blackening his own mouth,—they're not touching you."
It is doubtful whether her words made their way into Vihari's ears. He left Mahendra's room, and went down the stairs as in a dream.
"Have you nothing to say to me?" continued Binodini, as she followed him. "If you think I've done anything wrong, rebuke me."
As Vihari still pursued his way in silence, she edged past him and caught hold of his hand. With a gesture of supreme contempt Vihari thrust her off as he rushed away. He was not aware that she had been hurled to the ground.
Mahendra hurried down at the sound of the fall, and found Binodini's elbow bleeding. "O I say!" he exclaimed. "What a nasty cut!" He tore a piece off his muslin tunic, and prepared a bandage for her wound.
But Binodini moved her arm out of his reach. "Don't touch it, let it bleed," she said.
"Let me do it up with a little medicine, so that it'll heal quickly without hurting you."
"I want it to hurt, let the scar remain," repeated Binodini, moving away still further.
"Can you forgive me for having in my agitation caused others to doubt you?"
Binodini:—"What's there to forgive?—you did right. What do I care for others' doubts? Are they who spurn me in scorn all in all,—and the supplicant at my feet nothing to me?"
Mahendra's whole being was convulsed as he said in choking accents: "Then you will not disdain my love?"
"I'll wear it as a crown," replied
Binodini. "My life's not been so overburdened with love as to make me reject what's offered!"
"Then come to my room," said Mahendra taking both her hands in his. "I caused you pain today. You've also grievously wounded me by coming away. I'll know no rest nor comfort till all that is wiped away."
"Not to-day," said Binodini. "Let me go to-day. If I've given you pain, forgive me."
"Then do you forgive me too, else I'll have no sleep to-night."
"I forgive you," said Binodini.
Mahendra was determined to wrest some token of Binodini's forgiveness, of her love. But a glance at her face gave him pause.
Binodini went away down the stairs. Mahendra went up with slow steps and began to pace the terrace. That Vihari should have suddenly found him out, at last, gave him an unwonted sense of freedom. The humiliation of secrecy seemed to have in a great measure disappeared, now that even one person knew all about it. "I'll not pose as a moral creature any more," thought he. "But I love—it's not false that I love!" In his exaltation, he even prided himself on being frankly had. He seemed to fling a challenge to the whole world, spread out before him under the twinkling stars, as he said to himself: "Let those, who will, think ill of me—but I love!" and he allowed the image of Binodini in his heart to overshadow the whole of his horizon, of his world, of his life's duties.
It was as if Vihari had upset and broken his stoppered bottle, and allowed the stains of Binodini's black eyes and hair to overflow and blot out all the whiteness and all the writing of the past.
CHAPTER 28
========================================
XXVIII
When Mahendra got up the next day, his heart was full with a delicious anticipation. The morning sunshine put a golden touch on all his thoughts and desires. With the lifting of the screen behind which his love had so long been hidden, some covering seemed to be taken off the everyday world. His meeting with Binodini today, Mahendra felt, would be something different from the ordinary. It would be real and yet dream-like—it would be free from the restrictions and responsibilities, the materiality of the social world.
Mahendra was restless and fidgetted about the house; he would not risk going to college, for no almanac could tell when would come the propitious moment for such a meeting.
He could hear the voice of the busy Binodini, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes in the pantry. This did not please him, for today he had placed Binodini in a region far removed from the world of necessity.
The time refused to pass. Mahendra got through his bath and meal. The silence of the noon-day interval of work settled on the household. Yet Binodini was not to be seen. Mahendra's nerves jangled to mixed impulses of rapture and pain, impatience and hope.
Coming back to his room, Mahendra found the "Poison Tree" lying on the floor-bed. He was reminded, with a thrill, of their little scrimmage, and leaning against the bolster which had the impress of Binodini on it, he took up the book and began to glance through its pages. He gradually became absorbed in the story, and knew not how long he lay there, or when it had struck five.
Then at last Binodini made her appearance with an enamelled brass tray on which were fruits and sweets and a fragrant iced melon-squash. "What's the matter with you, friend Mahin?" she said, as she put the tray down on the floor near a cushion-seat. "It's past five, and you've not yet washed or changed?"
Mahendra felt jarred. Need she have asked
what
the matter was? Should she have had any doubts on the point? Was this only just an ordinary day? Lest something quite different to what he had anticipated should happen, Mahendra dared not remind her of any claim based on yesterday. As Mahendra sat down to eat, Binodini brought in his winter clothes which had been put out to air on the terrace, and began to deftly fold them up and stow them away. "Wait a minute," said Mahendra, "after I've finished I'll help you."
"Whatever you may do, friend Mahin," said Binodini in mock supplication, "for goodness' sake don't try to help."
"So you think me a good-for-nothing, do you?" said Mahendra as he finished. "All right, let me be tried," and he came over and made one or two ineffectual attempts to fold some of the clothes.
"Don't worry me, sir," complained
Binodini, as she took them away from him. "You're only making extra work for me."
"Very well then," said Mahendra. "You go on with your work. I'll watch and learn." He came and sat on the floor in front of the wardrobe, while she went on putting away the clothes one after another, now and then playfully dusting some of them on his back.
Thus began the anticipated meeting, but there were none of the inspiring accompaniments which Mahendra's imagination had been conjuring up around it. Still he was not ill-pleased; on the contrary he felt rather relieved. Mahendra had had no definite idea how to act up to the ideal meeting of his fancy, what should be the setting, what the conversation, how high-flown the tone, how, in short, the commonplace could be effectively and thoroughly avoided. Amidst the ordinary badinage arising out of the folding of clothes, he felt rescued from an impossible phantasmagoria of his own creation.
At this stage Rajlakshmi appeared on the scene. "What's keeping you here, my son?" asked she. "Binodini is attending to your clothes."
"Just look at him, Pishima," appealed Binodini. "He's getting in the way, and delaying my work."
"What nonsense!" retorted Mahendra. "I was assisting her."
"My fate!" ejaculated Rajlakshmi. "
You
assist!—D'you know, my child," she continued, turning to Binodini, "poor Mahin was always like this. He's been so used to being petted by his mother and aunt, he can't do a thing himself." With which the proud mother beamed affectionately on her helpless son.
How this overgrown boy in leading-strings could be kept at the highest pitch of comfort, was Rajlakshmi's one subject of conversation with Binodini. She was immensely relieved and happy to be able to rely on Binodini in this matter. She was happier than ever to find that Mahendra was coming to appreciate Binodini, and was taking pains to induce her to stay on. With the idea of further impressing Mahendra, she said: "You've done airing Mahin's winter clothes to-day, my dear; you'd better embroider his initials on his handkerchiefs to-morrow. I'm so sorry to be making you slave like this while you're with us, instead of looking after you as I ought."
"If you talk like that, Pishima," protested Binodini, "I'll know that you look on me as a stranger."
"O my little mother!" Rajlakshmi burst out, "where have I got anybody more my own than you are!"
When Binodini had quite done with the clothes, Rajlakshmi suggested: "Shall we get on with that syrup for the cakes, or have you anything else to keep you?"
"What else could I have Pishima?" said Binodini. "Let's finish the cakes now."
"Weren't you just now apologising, mother, for making her slave," said Mahendra. "And now you're again dragging her away to work!"
"You forget that this little Jewel of a girl of ours loves to work," said Rajlakshmi, affectionately touching Binodini under the chin.
"I've nothing to do this evening and was thinking of reading something with our Eyesore," said Mahendra.
"That's a good idea, Pishima," said Binodini. "Let's both come up this evening and get brother Mahin to read to us—wouldn't you like that?"
"Poor Mahin feels so lonely,—we must all try to divert him," thought Rajlakshmi. So she replied: "Certainly, after we've made Some nice cakes for Mahin, we'll come up and listen to his reading. What d'you say, Mahin?"
Binodini shot a rapid glance at Mahendra. "All right," said he, but his enthusiasm had vanished.
Binodini left the room with Rajlakshmi. Mahendra was thoroughly put out. "I'll get away too," he decided, "and then come home late." And he immediately proceeded to dress
himself to go out. But his resolve did not get carried out. He began to pace the terrace, every now and then glancing at the doorway leading to the stairs, and after a while came back to his room and sat down. "I won't touch those wretched cakes," repeated he to himself. "I'll teach mother that syrup boiled too long loses its sweetness."
When sending up Mahendra's refreshments Binodini brought Rajlakshmi along
with her. Rajlakshmi now-a-days was chary of coming up the stairs, but Binodini had persuaded her this evening. Mahendra sat gloomily to his repast, under the shaded balcony in front of his room. "Why, brother Mahin, you're not touching anything," remarked Binodini.
Rajlakshmi was alarmed, "I hope you're not feeling unwell?" she inquired.
"You really must taste some of these
mithais
after all the troubles I've had in making them," said Binodini. "But perhaps they're not nice? Then pray let them be—don't let me persuade you against your inclination."
"Oh don't spoil my feast," said Mahendra. "These
mithais
are delicious, and I mean
to eat them all, so it's no use trying to prevent me."
He did finish the two of them to the last crumb. After he had done, they all went inside his room, but Mahendra made no allusion to the reading.
"You said you were going to read us something Mahin," said Rajlakshmi at length, "won't you begin?"
"There's nothing about gods or goddesses in what I was going to read," said Mahendra. "I'm afraid you won't enjoy it."
Not enjoy it? Rajlakshhmi was determined to enjoy it. Poor Mahin, whose wife had deserted him to go to Benares, what he enjoyed his mother must and would enjoy!
"Why not do one thing," suggested Binodini. "You know that book of moral sayings which mother has in her room. Let's have something out of that this evening, for a change. Mother would enjoy that, and we'd all have a delightful time."
As Mahendra cast an imploring glance at Binodini, the maid came in and said: "Mother, Mistress Kayeth has come to call on you. I've shown her to your room."
Mistress Kayeth was an old crony of Rajlakshmi's. The temptation of an evening gossip with her was too strong to be easily resisted. Yet she said to the maid: "Tell Mistress Kayeth I've got something important to do with Mahin, this evening. But tell her to be sure and come again tomorrow, please."
"Why not go and see her first, Mother," Mahendra hastily interposed.
"Why trouble yourself, Pishima?" offered Binodini. "You stay here. I'll go and sit with her a while."
Rajlakshmi's temptation got the better of her. "You stay here, my child," she said to Binodini. "I'll go and see if I can't get rid of Mistress Kayeth early. But go on with the reading, don't wait for me."
No sooner was she out of the room than Mahendra broke out with "Why
will
you torment me like this?"
"Torment you, friend?" asked Binodini in seeming innocence. "What have I done? Does my presence offend you? Let me go then." With which she essayed to rise, looking crestfallen.
Mahendra caught her by the hand. "That's just the way you plague me!" he said.
"I knew not I was so virulent," she replied. "How strong you must be to have borne me so long—and yet show no signs of the ravages of the pestilence!"
"How can you judge from the outside," said Mahendra as he pulled Binodini's hand towards him and placed it on his heaving breast.
He dropped her hand, as Binodini uttered a little shriek of pain, asking anxiously, "Did I hurt you?"
Mahendra found that the wound on her elbow had re-opened and was bleeding. "What a brute I am," he exclaimed. "I quite forgot. Let me do it up for you properly this time—I insist."
Binodini.—"It's nothing, I won't have anything done to it."
Mahendra.—"Why not?"
Binodini.—"Don't ask me why. I'll not have you doctoring me."
"There's no understanding the mind of woman," thought Mahendra, as his face fell. Binodini rose to go. Mahendra's wounded feelings would not allow him to attempt to restrain her. "Where are you off to?" he simply asked.
"I've got lots to do," she replied, as she slowly left the room.
After sitting dumbfoundered for a moment, Mahendra jumped up to bring her back. But he got no further than the head of the staircase, and returning to the terrace began to walk up and down all by himself.
Binodini was drawing him on at every step, and yet would not allow him to come near, even for a moment. Mahendra had had to give up one of his boasts—that he was unconquerable; would he also have to give up the other—that he could always conquer?
Translated by
Surendranath Tagore.
CHAPTER 29
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore
XXIX
E
VERY summer Vihari used to get some mustard-flower honey sent up from his estates at home, and this he would send on everytime to Rajlakshmi;—he did not omit to do so this year.
"Brother Vihari has sent some honey Pishima," announced Binodini, as she went up to Rajlakshmi with the pot. And then as she returned after putting it away in the store-room, she continued: "Brother Vihari never forgets to send you seasonal greetings. The poor fellow has no mother of his own and looks upon you as his mother."
Rajlakshmi had got into the way of looking upon Vihari as Mahendra's shadow, she hardly ever gave any thought to him as a separate person—so easily had he come to them, so little did he claim in return, so completely was he theirs. When Binodini made her conscious that she held the place of a mother to the motherless youth, her maternal heart was touched. "Of course he looks upon me as his mother!"—it flashed across her. She was reminded of the several occasions of illness, sorrow or difficulty when Vihari had rendered her silent and devoted service, unasked. She had accepted this as a matter of course, as she did her breath from the air, without seeing any reason to be specially thankful, But had they looked after Vihari in return?—was now her disquieting thought. Of course when Annapurna was here she used to make much of him, but that, Rajlakshmi was sure, was only to show off and keep Vihari on her side. So, as she replied, "Yes, Vihari is quite like a son to me," she sighed, for it struck her as she was speaking that Vihari had done much more for her than her own son, unassuming and unrequited.
"Brother Vihari is very fond of eating whatever you cook for him," Binodini went on.
"He can't touch fish-curry cooked by anybody else," agreed Rajlakshmi with affectionate pride, and as she said so she remembered that Vihari had not been coming for some time. "Look here, child, how's it we don’t see Vihari here now-a-days?" she asked.
"Just what I was wondering Pishima," said Binodini. "Your son is so wrapped up in his wife, that his friends don't find themselves welcome, perhaps."
Rajlakshmi felt she was right. Mahendra's infatuation for his wife had lost him his truest friends. No wonder poor Vihari felt the difference—why should he come if he was not welcome? She felt herself and Vihari to have a common grievance, and with a sudden access of fellow-feeling she began to tell Binodini about all that Vihari had so unselfishly done for Mahendra, how much he had suffered for him, how unjust it was that this wife in these few days should have overshadowed the old friendship's claims.
"To-morrow's Sunday," suggested Binodini. "Why not invite brother Vihari to lunch. He'd be so pleased."
"You're quite right, child," returned Rajlakshmi. "I'll get Mahin to send him an invitation."
Binodini.—"No Pishima, send him one yourself!"
Rajlakshmi—"Do I know how to write, like you learned people!"
Binodini.—"It doesn't matter. I'll write it for you." And she wrote the invitation in Rajlakshmi's name.
Sunday was now a day of great expectation for Mahendra. From the night before his imagination would run riot. And though nothing had yet happened to come up to his imaginings, the light of this Sunday morning poured honey upon his eyes. The various noises of the awakening city sounded in his ears like a song.
But what could be going on? Was his mother preparing for some religious ceremonial? She was not, as on other days, taking her ease, leaving the household work to Binodini. She could be heard bustling about herself.
Things went on like this till it was past ten. Mahendra was not able to contrive any way of seeking a word with Binodini alone. He tried to read, but his attention wandered, and at last he sat for a quarter of an hour staring at the advertisement columns of a newspaper. Then he could stand it no longer. He went downstairs and found that a portable stove had been brought up to the balcony adjoining his mother's room, at which she was cooking, while Binodini, with the loose end of her
Sari
wrapped round her waist, was busy helping her.
"What's up to-day," asked Mahendra, "why all this excitement?"
"Hasn't Binodini told you?" replied Rajlakshmi. "I've asked Vihari to lunch to-day."
Vihari asked to lunch! Mahendra felt angry all over. "But mother," he said at once, "I'll not be able to stay for lunch."
Rajlakshmi.—"Why?"
Mahendra.—"I've got an engagement."
Rajlakshmi.—"Couldn't you go after lunch—it won't be late."
Mahendra.—"But I'm engaged to lunch out."
"Let him go if he's got an engagement," said Binodini, after shooting a rapid glance at Mahendra. "Brother Vihari wont mind lunching alone just this once."
But how could Rajlakshmi brook the idea that her
Mahim
would not join in tasting the delicacies she was cooking? The more she tried to persuade him, however, the firmer Mahendra became.
"It's an important engagement, mother, which I can't possibly put off," he said. "You should have consulted me before asking Vihari." Thus Mahendra, in his anger, decided to punish his mother.
Rajlakshmi's enthusiasm evaporated. She felt she didn't care to go on with the cooking any more.
"Don't be afraid, Pishima," said Binodini, "Brother Mahin's a bit annoyed, but however he may fret and fume now, he's sure to change his mind about going out to lunch."
"You don't know Mahin, my child," said Rajlakshmi as she despondently shook her head. "Once he gets an idea into his mind, there's no getting it out again."
But it turned out that Binodini knew Mahendra better than his mother did. Mahendra had seen that the invitation to Vihari was Binodini's doing. The more his jealousy was roused at the idea, the more difficult it became for him to keep away. Must he not know all about what Binodini did and what Vihari did? It would hurt him sorely, and yet see it he must.
It was a long time since Vihari had been a welcome visitor in Mahendra's inner apartments. When he came to the threshold of Rajlakshmi's room, which had always been as free to him as to a son of the house, he hesitated. A wave of tears seemed to dash against his heart, threatening to overflow the barrier of his reserve. He got
over the shock in a moment, and entering with a smile prostrated himself before Rajlakshmi, seated fresh from her bath, and took the dust of her feet. Vihari used not to be so formal when he was in the habit of coming every day. But he somehow felt as if returning home after a long exile.
Rajlakshmi laid her hand on his head as he rose, with an affectionate blessing. She felt specially sympathetic to-day, and was correspondingly effusive. "Why haven't you been coming to see us all this time, Vihari," she said. "I've been expecting you every day, but we've not had a sight of you."
"I wouldn't have been so much in your thoughts, mother, if I'd been coming everyday," said Vihari cheerfully. "Where's Dada?"
Rajlakshmi's face fell as she replied: "Mahin's got an engagement somewhere so he couldn't stay to lunch."
Vihari's wounds opened up afresh. Was this then to be the end of their life-long friendship? With a sigh he brushed aside this thought for the moment, as he turned to Rajlakshmi and asked, "And what have you been cooking for me to-day?"
Vihari used to take great pains to make himself out to be thoroughly greedy whenever he was invited to taste Rajlakshmi's cooking. Gratified at his curiosity in regard to her culinary efforts, she proceeded to reassure him in detail as to the good things in store.
At this moment Mahendra strolled in and asked in a cold formal way, "Ah, Vihari, how are you?"
"Why Mahin, weren't you going out to lunch!" exclaimed Rajlakshmi.
Mahendra tried not to show how ashamed he felt, as he replied: "No, I've managed to put that off."
When Binodini_ made her appearance after her bath, Vihari could not find a word to say to her. The last scene in which she had played a part with Mahendra had remained imprinted on his memory.
Binodini edged near him and said in a low voice, "Well friend, do you no longer know me?"
"Is it really possible to know any one?" muttered Vihari.
"Yes, if you have the sense," returned Binodini. And then she announced louder, "Pishima, lunch is served."
Mahendra and Vihari sat down to their meal. Rajlakshmi took her seat on a cushion placed near them, while Binodini assisted in the serving. Mahendra had no attention to spare for the viands. He was absorbed in watching for signs of Binodini's partiality. It seemed to him she was taking a particular delight in attending to Vihari, and all the tit-bits appeared to be finding their way to his platter.
When they had finished and come out of the dining-room, Binodini hurriedly came up and said: "Friend Vihari, don't be running away just now. Come up-stairs and sit down a bit."
"Won't you have your lunch?" asked Vihari.
"No, to-day's the eleventh.
"
A cruel ironical smile flickered for a moment on Vihari's lips—"So you fancy a bit of asceticism too!" he seemed to be saying to himself.
This smile did not escape Binodini, but she bore it as she had borne the wound on her elbow. "Do stay a while, for my sake," she pleaded humbly.
Mahendra suddenly flared up with an uncalled for excitement. "How inconsiderate you are! A man may have other places to go to, or other things to do,—he may like it or he may not,—yet he must stay! This is a sort of petting the meaning of which I fail to understand!"
Binodini broke out into a laugh. "Just hear him, friend Vihari," said she. "He pretends not to understand!" Then turning to Mahendra: "Who else, I wonder, has ever had such opportunities of learning the meaning of all sorts of petting?"
"Dada," said Vihari, "I have something to say to you, will you come out with me?"—with which he went off with Mahendra without a word of leave-taking to Binodini. She remained leaning against the railing of the passage in which they had been standing, gazing into the emptiness of the courtyard through which the friends passed out.
When they were out of the house Vihari said: "Well, Dada, is this to be the end of our friendship?"
Mahendra was all on fire within. Binodini's derisive laugh was cutting from one end of his consciousness to the other, like repeated lightning flashes. "It may be to
your advantage if we make it up," he replied, "but I don't hanker after it. I'd rather not have outsiders interfering in my domestic concerns—I prefer to keep the sanctity of my inner apartments inviolate."
Vihari left him without another word.
Consumed with jealousy, Mahendra swore he would have nothing more to do with Binodini—and then when he went in he spent the rest of the afternoon wandering up and down the house in futile attempts to get a glimpse of her.
CHAPTER 30
========================================
XXX
Asha came back. Binodini took her severely to task. "You've been away all this time, and you haven't written me a single letter."
"Nor have you written either, my Eyesore," returned Asha.
Binodini,—"Why should I be the first to write? It was for you—"
Asha embraced Binodini and acknowledged her fault. "You know, my dear, that I can't write well," she said. "And then to be writing to such a clever person as you makes me feel so awkward."
Their little quarrel was over, love overflowed again.
"You've quite spoilt your husband," said Binodini, "by always keeping near him. Now he can't do without somebody to keep him company."
Asha.—"That's just why I left him to you. You know the art of keeping company much better than I do."
Binodini.—"During the day I had a fairly easy time after packing him off to college. But in the evening there was no escape. I must talk to him, I must read to him, his demands were endless."
Asha.—"Serve you right! since you are so artful in winning peoples' affections you must pay for it!"
Binodini.—"Be careful, my dear! From the way friend Mahin goes on, I'm sometimes afraid my art may turn out to be magical."
Asha.—"Of course it is. I wish I knew something of your magic."
Binodini.—"Whom d'you want to lure to destruction, friend? Take my advice, my Eyesore, be satisfied with the conquest you've made at home. Don't you go trying your charms on others, the result is never worth the trouble!"
"Don't be horrid!" said Asha reprovingly, shaking her finger at Binodini.
"You've been very well I see, you're actually stouter" was Mahendra's first greeting after Asha's arrival.
Asha felt ashamed. She ought not to have been in such rude health—how was it she would always be doing the wrong thing! She certainly had not been happy away from Mahendra, why then did her body play her this trick! It was difficult enough to find words to express what was in her mind, without her appearance bearing false witness against her. She shamefacedly asked in her turn: "I hope you also have been well!"
In the old days Mahendra would probably have facetiously replied, "I've been more dead than alive." But the banter which he essayed from force of habit died away in his throat. He simply said: "I've been all right, there's nothing the matter with me."
Asha looked hard at him. He certainly looked thinner—his face was pale, a sort of hungry fire shone in his eyes. She was cut to the quick at the thought that her husband had perhaps not been well, and she had been away from him at Benares! Her husband grown thinner and she to be looking stouter! She mentally cursed her own exuberant health.
Mahendra, casting about for some other subject of conversation, asked after a pause, "And how is Kaki?" and when reassured as to her well-being he could not think of anything else to say. He took up an old newspaper lying near, and absent-mindedly glanced over its columns.
Asha with bowed head anxiously pondered: "How's it that though we meet after a long time, my husband's not talking nicely to me, and doesn't even look me straight in the face? Can it be because I've not been writing to him these last few days, or is it that to please Kaki I stayed on too long at Benares?" Her wounded heart tried hard to discover through what loop-hole any fault could have gained an entrance.
Mahendra's afternoon refreshment was served on his return from college. Rajlakshmi sat by him. Asha, duly veiled, stood leaning against the open door. There was no one else in the room.
"Aren't you well Mahin?" asked his mother anxiously.
"Of course I am, why shouldn't I be?" was the irritable response.
"Then why aren't you eating anything?"
"But I
am
eating, don't you see!"
Mahendra after his meal, clad himself in the thinnest of muslin, and strolled on to the terrace to await the passing of the evening warmth. He was nursing a fervent hope that their daily reading would not be interrupted to-day. But the shades of evening merged into night, the usual time went past, and Mahendra, oppressed with a sense of hopelessness, retired to bed.
The blushing, faltering Asha, bedecked and adorned for the night,
came up with slow steps to their bed-room—only to find Mahendra in bed! She felt she could not advance a single step further. After a period of separation, comes a momentary sense of strangeness. The thread of companionship cannot be taken up exactly where it was severed,—a mutual introductory greeting is required afresh. How then could Asha accept the joy of re-union without an invitation? She stood for a while at the doorway, but there was no sound from Mahendra. With one hesitating step after another she guardedly made her way into the room, feeling as though she would die of shame if even one of her ornaments tinkled. When with fast-beating heart she reached the mosquito-curtain, she found Mahendra fast asleep. Each one of the touches she had given to her toilet, her draperies, seemed to deride her. For a moment she wanted to fly from the room, to spend the night anywhere else but there.
At last she crept into bed as noiselessly as she could. Nevertheless the unfastening and re-fastening of the mosquito-curtain and the creaking of the bed-stead would have been enough to waken Mahendra, had he been really sleeping. He did not stir, simply because he was not asleep. Mahendra was lying with his face turned the other way, so Asha lay behind him. But even so, Mahendra could feel that she was silently weeping. A sense of his own cruelty made his heart feel as if between two millstones,—but for the life of him he could not find a caress to offer, or a word to say. His conscience lashed him with scornful condemnation,—that gave him pain, but did not show the way out. "In the morning," thought he, "I can no longer pretend to be asleep. What
am
I to say or do then?"
Asha solved the problem for him. At the break of dawn she, with her slighted adornments, left the bed. She also knew not how to show her face to him in the morning,
CHAPTER 31
========================================
XXXI
"Why has this happened, what have I done?" was the burden of Asha's thoughts. But the real point of danger eluded her vision; that Mahendra could be in love with Binodini was a thing even the possibility of which had never struck her. She had no experience of the world, and she could never imagine Mahendra to be otherwise than what she had concluded him to be immediately after their marriage.
Mahendra that morning went off to college early. It had been Asha's habit to stand at the window at the time of his departure, and as the carriage drove off Mahendra would look up and they would exchange a parting glance. At the sound of the carriage to-day Asha mechanically went to the window. Mahendra, also from habit, raised his eyes. He saw her standing, unbathed, untidy, her hair undone, her careworn face gazing into space; and in an instant his eyes reverted to the book on his knee. Where was the smiling glance, the unspoken greeting?
The carriage drove off. Asha sank down on the floor where she was. The savour had gone out of her life, of her world. It was past ten, the full tide of business had set in. The stream of carriages going towards the city was endless, and the tramcars followed one another in rapid procession; and this stricken failing heart, seemed so utterly out of place beside the hubbub of this bustling traffic.
All of a sudden Asha seemed to light upon a_ discovery. "I understand!" thought she. "He's angry because brother Vihari went to Benares. But," she wondered, "how could that be
my
fault?" And as she pursued her thought, her heart suddenly stopped dead for an instant. Could Mahendra have suspected that
she
had anything to do with it? What an unspeakably shameful suspicion! It was horrible enough to have had him connecting her name with Vihari at all: she would die a thousand deaths if he could harbour a suspicion like this! And if he did have any misgivings, or
anything to complain of, why did he not speak out, why not rebuke her? But perhaps he
to
was ashamed of his own unworthy suspicions, and had not the courage to mention them to her,—else why that guilty look? For he certainly did not look like an angry judge.
The glimpse of Asha's piteous face which Mahendra had had from the carriage haunted him all day. During the lectures, amidst the ranks of the students, the picture of that window, and the forlorn dishevelled Asha with her disconsolate gaze, came up repeatedly before his vision in clear outline. After the classes were over, he began to pace up and down in the neighbouring square; and thus he continued till it grew dark. He could not decide as to how he should behave towards Asha. Should he be kindly false or frankly cruel? Whether he should give up Binodini or not was an alternative which refused to occur to him.
At last he consoled himself with the reflection that the tenderness he still felt for Asha was such as most wives would be glad enough of. Why should such tenderness, such affection, not satisfy her? His heart was big enough to have room for both Binodini and Asha. The purity of the love he felt for Binodini need not in the least stand in the way of his marital duties.
Thus persuaded, his mind was eased of its load. Why should he cast away either? He felt quite cheerful when he had decided that nothing need deter him from holding on his course like a planet served by two moons. To-night he would retire early and coax and caress and comfort Asha into forgetting her slight and her sorrow—and he hastened his steps homewards.
Asha was not present during his meal. She would have to come to bed sometime or other, thought Mahendra. But the fancies which lulled him into a languor, when alone in bed, were not recollections of the perennial freshness of the daily love-play of his early wedded life. Like moon-beams at the rising of the sun, the bashful girlish figure had paled before the charms of full-blown youth which had dazzled him. He went over again, in reminiscence, his tussle with Binodini for the "
Poison Tree
"; he lingered over the memory of the evening readings of "
Kapala Kundala
," which had gone on sometimes far into the night, and in the silence which fell upon the household after everyone had retired, Binodini's voice had grown softer and softer, and at times almost died away, with the burden of her emotion; and when, suddenly recollecting herself, she had started up to leave the room, he had offered to accompany her down the stairs; and each incident as it came back to him again and again, repeatedly thrilled him.
As the night advanced, Mahendra was every now and then disturbed with the apprehension that Asha would be coming,—but she came not. "I was quite ready to do my duty," then thought he, "but if she will be needlessly sulky, what can I do?" And he allowed himself to wholly relapse into thoughts of Binodini.
When it struck one, Mahendra could lie in bed no longer. He thrust aside the mosquito-curtain and jumped out. Coming on to the terrace he found it to be a beautiful moonlit summer night. The vast sleep of silence around him, which felt as if it could be touched like the waters of a motionless sea, seemed to be charmed into a deeper and deeper profundity by the soft-blowing wind which wandered over the housetops.
Mahendra's long-repressed desires would be curbed no longer. Binodini had not shown herself to him since Asha's return. The moon-intoxicated solitude now irresistibly impelled Mahendra towards Binodini. He went down the stairs. Going along the passage to Binodini's room, he found the door open. Entering, he saw the bed left as it had been made, unslept on. At the sound of footsteps in the room, Binodini exclaimed from the balcony on the other side, "Who's there?"
In a voice thick with suppressed passion Mahendra replied,
"
'Tis I, Binod," and as he spoke he stepped out on the balcony.
In the warm summer night, Rajlakshmi was with Binodini, reposing on a mat spread out in the open balcony adjoining both their rooms. "What brings you here, Mahin, at this time of night?" she cried out in surprise.
Binodini from beneath her heavy frowning eyebrows showered black thunderbolts at Mahendra, as he slunk away without a word.
CHAPTER 32
========================================
XXXII
The next morning was heavily clouded. The sky which had been burning in the fiery heat of the last few days looked gratefully refreshed. Mahendra had left for his
college long before the usual time. His cast off clothes were scattered over the balcony in front of his room and Asha was counting and making a list of them before making them over to the washerman who was waiting there.
Mahendra was naturally forgetful and careless and had always told Asha to go carefully through his pockets before sending anything to the wash. In the pocket of one of his tunics Asha felt a piece of paper. As she pulled it out she saw it was an open letter in Binodini's handwriting! In a moment she had gone ashy pale. She went inside the room and read the letter:—
So you are not satisfied with your absurd behaviour last night, and needs must send me a note by the maid—what must she have thought of us! Are you determined to shame me before the whole world!
What is it you want of me? Love? You have surfeited with it from your childhood and is your greed yet unsatisfied, that you must still be a beggar for more!
To love or be loved is not for me in this world, that is why in my despair I play with love. When you had a holiday you joined in the game, but holidays don't last for ever. Now that you are called in, don't be looking back at your playground. Shake off its dust and go home.
You say you love me. That sort of thing may be allowed in play, but seriously I do not believe it. Once you thought you loved Asha, that also was not true. The fact is you love only yourself. You have not that in you which can allay the burning thirst for love that consumes me, heart and soul. I now for the last time warn you to leave me alone, to cease to pursue and shame me with your shamelessness.
You have called me cruel: that may be true. But it is because I have also some pity left that I have decided to give you up. If you reply to this letter then I shall know my only refuge is in flight.
She had no sooner read through the letter than Asha felt as if all support had been taken away from her! all the nerves in her body felt suddenly relaxed, not a breath of air seemed left for her to breathe, and the very sun seemed to have lifted its rays off her eyes. Clutching at the wall, at the clothes-press and then at the back of a chair she swooned on the floor.
On recovering consciousness she sat up and again read through the letter, but this time the black lines merely danced across her vision, her dazed senses could make nothing of their meaning. What was it? What had happened? How could it be? What was she to do? Where to go? Whom to call to her aid? She was equally at a loss. Her choking heart cast about for something to hold on to, like a drowning man grasping at the empty air—till at length with a gasp she breathed out "Kaki!"
With the invocation of that beloved name the tears came to her relief and when after having flowed in torrents after torrents they at last came to an end, then came the thought: "What am I to do with this letter?"
She could not bear to think of the cruel shame to which her husband would be put if he knew that she knew of this letter. She decided to replace it in the pocket of the tunic and hang it back on the clothes horse, leaving it out of the wash-list. She rose and, letter in hand, went back to the balcony. She found the washerman had fallen asleep on the floor leaning against his bundle. Asha took up the tunic and was about to put the letter back into its pocket, when she heard Binodini coming up the stairs calling out, "Eyesore, dear!"
Asha hastily retreated into the room and throwing the tunic and letter on the bed sat on them.
"The washerman has got very careless and keeps changing the clothes," said Binodini as she came in. "I've come to fetch the unmarked ones to get them marked."
Asha could not look her in the face. Lest her own face should betray her she had turned towards the window and was gazing up at the sky. She had set her teeth to make sure that the tears should not come.
Binodini paused suddenly and stared at Asha. "I see," thought she, "so she knows something about last night! And all her anger's for me—as if the fault was mine!" She made no further attempt at conversation, but making a selection from among the scattered clothes, departed.
What pressed most cruelly on Asha's breaking heart was the weight of shame that she should so long have entertained for Binodini so pure a friendship. She tried once more to find in the bitter letter the ideal of her friend which she had so long cherished.
She had just began to re-read it when Mahendra hurriedly entered the room. Something had driven him homewards before closing time. He hesitated a moment on seeing Asha and then began to cast anxious glances round the room. Asha of course divined what he was in search of, but could think of no plan for placing the letter
in the pocket
noticed
, and making her escape.
Mahendra then passed out into the balcony and went through his clothes one by one. Asha could bear the suspense no longer. She rose and throwing the tunic and letter to the ground held on to the bed post with her right hand, hiding her face in the curve of her arm.
Mahendra was back into the room with a bound, as he snatched up the letter. He stood still for a moment as he took a look at Asha. Then she could hear him tearing down the stairs.
"Mother!" the washerman was grumbling, "how much longer will it be before I get the clothes! It's getting late and I've such a long way to go!"
CHAPTER 33
========================================
XXXIII
Rajlakshmi had not inquired for Binodini since the morning. Binodini as usual went into the store-room, but Rajlakshmi would not look up at her.
It was all clear to Binodini, yet she said "Aren't you well, Pishima? No wonder! after the absurd way Brother Mahim went on last night! He seemed beside himself when he came to our balcony. I couldn't get a wink of sleep after that."
Rajlakshmi's manner did not relax, nor did she make any sign of assent or dissent.
"Even if he has the least bit of a quarrel with my Eyesore," Binodini went on, "there's no holding him in. He must drag me in, then and there, to get it made up, no matter what time of the night it may be. Your son may have all the virtues you claim for him, Pishima, but patience he has not. That's why we've never been able to pull on together."
"Don't keep chattering nonsense child," said Rajlakshmi. "I'm not in the mood for that sort of thing to-day."
"Well, if it comes to that," retorted Binodini, "I'm not in the mood either! If I talked nonsense it was to save your feelings, to shield your son's good name. But it's come to such a pass that the truth can't be hidden any longer!"
"I knew the good and the bad in my son, well enough. But I did not know the sort of deceitful minx you were!"
Binodini seemed on the point of coming out with a passionate reply but she restrained herself and said calmly, "You are right, Pishima, no one can know another. But does every one know oneself? Did your jealousy of your daughter-in-law never make you use me to draw your son's heart away from his wife;—can you deny it?"
"Wretched creature!" Rajlakshmi flared up, "you dare accuse a mother of doing this to her son, and your tongue doesn't drop off?"
"True, Pishima," Binodini continued unmoved, "we are a deceitful sex. The deceit that was in me I didn't clearly know, but you seem to have discovered it; and the deceit that was in you, you weren't fully aware of, but I found it out long ago. Yes, we are a deceitful sex."
Rajlakshmi speechless with passion, whirled out of the room. Binodini remained for a while standing where she was, her eyes blazing defiance.
After the morning's household work was over Rajlakshmi sent for Mahendra. He knew that he would be called upon for an explanation of last night's affair. He had just received Binodini's reply and was completely upset over it. Her contemptuous rebuff made his whole being rebound towards her with an irresistible impulse. He was not in a frame of mind to bandy words with his mother. Any attack against Binodini, he knew, would make him blurt out the whole truth, and thereafter there would be no peace in the house. The best plan he felt would be to get far away from home and think over the situation. "Tell mother," he said to the servant, "that I've got to go to college early to-day and will see her when I come back." And like a truant schoolboy he hastily dressed himself and slipped out without his breakfast. He had been carrying Binodini's tormenting letter about with him reading and re-reading it, since the early
morning. In his haste he had left it in the pocket of his tunic when changing into his college suit.
The lowering clouds had kept hanging on in the intervals of heavy showers of rain. Binodini had not been able to compose herself since her passage with Rajlakshmi, and it was her habit when disturbed in mind to throw herself all the more into her work. Thus had she volunteered to do the marking of the clothes. Her glimpse of Asha upstairs had not tended to improve her temper. If it was she that was always to be branded as the criminal, why should she not take her share of the sweets as well as the blame, she thought bitterly.
Another heavy shower had come on in the afternoon. Binodini was sitting on the floor of her room. In front of her was a heap of clothes. The maid was handing them to her, one by one, and Binodini was marking them.
Mahendra, without any attempt to announce himself, rushed right into the room as he came downstairs with the letter. The maid dropped the clothes she was holding, drew down her veil, and bolted. Binodini started to her feet, scattering her marking things. "Go out of my room, will you?" she commanded.
Mahendra.—"Why, what have I done?"
Binodini.—"What have you done, you miserable coward! Ask rather, what can you do? Why are you trying to ruin my life-you who know neither love, nor duty?"
Mahendra.—"You really think I do not love you?"
Binodini.—"That's exactly what I do think. This double-dealing, this hide and seek, this slinking away like a thief makes me fairly sick. I'll have no more of it. Get away from my room, please."
Mahendra.—"So you think me a contemptible creature, Binod?"
Binodini.—"I do."
Mahendra.—"There's still time to make amends, Binod. What if I have done with the conflict? What if I leave everything else? Would you then come with me Binod?" He clasped both Binodini's hands in his own and drew her forcibly towards himself.
"Let me go! you're hurting me!" cried Binodini.
Mahendra.—"Let it hurt. Tell me, will you come with me!"
Binodini.—"No, never!"
Mahendra.—"Why will you not? Haven't you dragged me to the brink of this precipice? You can't forsake me now, you must come with me to the end." He crushed her to his breast as he continued: "Even your contempt won't drive me away. I must and shall take you with me. Somehow or other I'll make you love me."
Binodini snatched herself away from his arms.
"You've set the fire blazing all round, Now you can't put it out, nor can you escape," Mahendra went on, raising his voice higher and higher till he shouted: "What made you play such a terrible game, Binod? Calling it play can't save you any longer, now there's only one death for you and me!"
"Whatever are you doing, Mahin?" cried Rajlakshmi as she hurried into the room.
Mahendra's wild gaze turned for a moment towards his mother, and then it fastened back on Binodini as he repeated, "I am leaving my all, I ask you for the last time, will you come with me?"
Binodini glanced once towards the infuriated Rajlakshmi, and then calmly stepping upto Mahendra she took him by the hand and said, "I will!"
"Then wait just a day more. I am off now. From to-morrow there'll be no one else in the world for me, but you." And Mahendra was gone.
"I can't wait any longer, mother," whined the washerman from the passage. "If you are too busy to attend to the clothes to-day, I'll come round for them tomorrow."
The rest of the world went on as usual.
Translated by
Surendranath Tagore.
CHAPTER 34
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
XXXIV
V
IHARI had so long been steadily going through his course at the Medical College. He suddenly left just before the examination came on. To those who expressed surprise he said: "Other peoples' ailments can wait, I’ve got to look after my own health first."
Vihari had neither thirst for fame, nor greed for riches, nor even the necessity to earn a living. But his energy was boundless, and he had to be doing something or other. After graduating in the Arts course he joined the
Sibpur College of Engineering
. After he had satisfied his curiosity as to that science and acquired sufficient skill with his hands, he changed into the Medical College. Mahendra had joined the Medical College the year previous immediately after getting his Arts degree.
The friendship of these two was a bye word in the college. They were called the Siamese twins. Since Mahendra's failure last year the friends had been in the same class, and it was a mystery to their fellow-students why at this stage there should have been a rupture. Vihari could not bring himself to meet Mahendra every day, and yet not be able to meet him in the old way. So while everybody was expecting Vihari to pass with flying colours, it happened that his examination did not come off at all.
In a little room, next door to Vihari, there was a poor Brahmin, Rajendra, who made a living as a compositor on twelve rupees a month. "Let your boy stay with me," said Vihari to him, "I'll educate him." The Brahmin was only too happy and made over his eight-year old son, Basanta, to Vihari.
Vihari began to train Basanta in a way of his own. "I won't let him touch a book till he is ten" he said. He would spend his days playing with him, taking him to the
Maidan
,
to the Museum, to the Zoological and Botanical gardens; and what with telling him stories from History, teaching him English conversationally, and trying to find out his special gifts and aptitudes, Vihari left himself no time for anything else.
That evening it was too wet to go out. The rain had stopped for a time during the day and had come on again since the afternoon. Vihari was in his sitting room engaged in devising instructive games for Basanta's benefit, when his up-country servant burst in upon them with: "Sir, there's a sort of woman—" Before he could finish Binodini had entered the room.
"What's this, Sister Binod!" exclaimed Vihari taken entirely by surprise.
"Haven't you any women relatives staying with you here."
Vihari.—"Neither relatives nor otherwise. I have an aunt but she's at my home in the country."
Binodini.—"Then take me to your home in the country."
Vihari.—"As what?"
Binodini.—"As a servant. I'll look after the household there."
Vihari.—"Won't my aunt be rather astonished? She hasn't told me that she's in need of a servant. But let me hear first why this idea has occurred to you."—"Basanta, my boy, go to bed."
Basanta went out of the room. "You'll understand nothing of the inward situation if I tell you of what has happened outwardly," said Binodini.
Vihari.—"What if I don't, what if I even misunderstand, what does it matter?"
Binodini.—"Very well, misunderstand if you will. Mahendra loves me."
Vihari.—"That's not news to me, nor is it news which I care to have repeated."
Binodini.—"I've no desire to harp on it either. But that's why I've come to you. I want your protection."
Vihari.—"You have no desire! Who brought on all this trouble, pray? Who led Mahendra astray from his path?"
Binodini—"I did. I'll not hide anything from you. It's all my doing. But be I good or evil, try for once to look at things from my point of view. If I have set fire to Mahendra's household it's with the flames which were set raging in my bosom. At one time I thought I too loved Mahendra, but there I was wrong."
Vihari.—"Of course you can't burn up, if you really love."
Binodini—"That's a maxim out of your books, friend. I am not yet sage enough to go by book maxims. Put aside your book learning for a moment and look into my heart as my judge. I would tell you all my good and all my evil to-day."
Vihari.—"It is not for nothing that I go by book lore, sister. The searching of hearts I leave to the great Searcher. If I don't guide myself by what the books tell us I may go hopelessly wrong."
Binodini.—"Look here, friend Vihari, let me shamelessly confess to you,
you
might have turned me back. Mahendra might be in love with me, but he is blindly dense, he never understood me. At one time I thought that you perhaps did understand—that you found it in your heart to respect me; tell me truly, hiding nothing because of what you may think of me today—was it not so?"
Vihari.—"It is true, I did respect you once."
Binodini.—"Well, you were not wrong, friend. But if you did understand, did respect me, why did you stop there? What prevented you from giving me your love? I have shamelessly come to you to-day and shamelessly I ask you—why did you not love me? It was my malignant fate that you too should fall head over ears in love with Asha. No, you shan't get angry. Sit down and listen to me. I'm not going to mince words to-day. I knew you loved Asha before you did so yourself. But what you people found in Asha has always been a mystery to me. Good or bad what has she in her? Has God denied to men the gift of seeing into things? What on earth is it, and how little of it, takes your fancy! Oh you blind, you silly men!"
Vihari stood up stiff as he replied, "I'm quite prepared to hear whatever you want to tell me to-day. I only earnestly request you not to say things which should not be uttered."
Binodini.—"My friend, I know where and how it hurts you. But you'll have patience when you consider how it must have hurt her, who once had your respect, and who might have been saved had she your love, to cast away all propriety and modesty, and come running to you to-night. I tell you truly, had you not loved Asha she would not have suffered this fatal blow at my hands."
"What has happened to Asha?" exclaimed Vihari going pale. "What have you done to her?"
"Mahendra has just renounced his all, to take me away with him tomorrow."
"It cannot be," said Vihari with a sudden shout; "It must not be."
Binodini.—"Must not be? Who can prevent Mahendra?"
Vihari.—"You can!"
Binodini was silent for a time, and then with a steady gaze fixed on Vihari she said: "For whose sake should I? For your Asha? Have I no feelings of my own to be considered? Must I renounce all claims to happiness in this world that your Asha may prosper, that Mahendra's household may prosper?—no, I'm not so good as all that, I've not read the sacred books quite so well! For the sacrifice I make what do I get in return?"
Vihari's face set harder and harder. He said: "you have tried a bit of plain speaking. Now let me put in a plain word
or two. The thing that you have done and the words you are uttering are all stolen from the sort of literature you read—the most part smacks of the cheap novel and the melodrama."
Binodini.—"Stolen!"
Vihari.—"Yes, stolen, and not from the best sources either. You may think the sentiments your own, but they are only echoes of printed trash. Had you been a simple ignorant girl, the blessing of love would not have been denied to you—but the heroine of a melodrama is best on the stage, the home has no place for her.
Binodini's proud hearing subsided like a charmed snake. After a long pause and without looking up at Vihari she meekly asked, "What would you have me do?"
"I ask nothing extraordinary of you," replied Vihari. "Do what ordinary womanly good-sense prompt should prompt you. Go back home."
Binodini.—"How?"
Vihari—"I'll escort you to the railway station and put you into a Ladies' Compartment."
Binodini.—"Then let me stay here for the night."
Vihari.—"No, I don't trust myself so far."
At his last words Binodini bounded from her chair and dropping on the floor in front of him strained his feet to her breast as she said: "So you own some little weakness, friend Vihari! Don't be perfect like an immaculate stone god. Let love for an imperfect creature stain your heart just a little!" With which Binodini repeatedly fell to kissing his feet.
Vihari was almost overcome by this sudden onslaught. The rigour of his body and mind perceptibly relaxed as he dropped back into his chair. Binodini feeling the limpness, the tremor in him, let go his feet and raised herself on her knees before him. Putting her arms round his neck she said: "O Lord of my life, I know you can't be mine for ever, but let me know that you love me even for a moment. After that I'll go back to my wilderness, content. I'll ask for nothing more from any one in the world, only give me something to remember till death." Binodini closed her eyes and put her lips close to his.
There was a tense silence in the room while for an instant both of them remained motionless. Then with a long drawn sigh Vihari gently undid Binodini's arms from about his neck and moving away took another chair. After clearing his choking throat he said, "There's a passenger train after midnight."
Binodini after remaining motionless for a while said in a scarcely audible voice, "I'll take that train."
All of a sudden Basanta appeared on the scene in his night clothes, with bare feet and chubby bare body, and going up to Vihari's chair stood there gravely gazing at Binodini.
"Hullo, you're not gone to bed?" exclaimed Vihari. But Basanta remained silent in unperturbed gravity.
Binodini put out her arms, and after a a little hesitation the boy went up to her. Then clasping him to her bosom Binodini wept.
CHAPTER 35
========================================
XXXV
The impossible becomes possible, the unbearable gets to be borne, else that night could never have been gone through in Mahendra's household. Mahendra after leaving Binodini, had written a letter that same night. The letter reached the house by the morning's post.
Asha, completely prostrated, was still lying on the floor-bed. The servant boy coming up called out, "Mother, a letter." The blood went to Asha's heart with a sudden thump. In the twinkling of an eye a thousand hopes and fears surged through her breast. She raised herself with an effort and took the letter.
On it was Binodini's name in Mahendra's handwriting. Her head fell back on the pillow—she returned the letter to the boy without a word.
"To whom shall I take the letter?" he asked.
"I don't know!" murmured Asha.
At about eight o'clock in the evening Mahendra rushed stormily into the house and stopped at the door of Binodini's room. There was no light in the room—everything was pitch dark. Mahendra struck a match and found the room empty. Binodini was not there, neither were her things. He went out into the south balcony, it was deserted. He called out "Binod!" There was no reply.
"What a fool I've been, what an utter fool! I should have taken her away with me then. Mother must have said something which has driven her away." No sooner had this thought occurred to him
than he felt it must be true. In his agitation he went straight into his mother's room. That was also unlighted, but even in the dark it could be made out that Rajlakshmi was stretched on her bed. "What have you said to Binodini, mother?" was the angry Mahendra's abrupt inquiry.
Rajlakshmi.—"I've said nothing."
Mahendra.—"Then where is she."
Rajlakshmi.—"How can I tell?"
"You can't tell?" he sneered. "Very well I'm going after her. Wherever she may be, I'll find her." And Mahendra was off.
Rajlakshmi hastily left her bed and rushed after him crying, "Mahin, Mahin, don't go away like that, Mahin, just listen to a word from me."
But Mahendra was out of the house in a breath. In another second he was back at the door asking the porter: "Where is the young mistress?"
"I don't know, Sir, she didn't tell us where she was going."
"You dont know!" shouted Mahendra in his rage.
"No, Sir, I don't."
"Mother must have told them what to say," thought Mahendra. "Never mind, we'll see." He was then lost in the crowd in the gas-light-spotted night.
CHAPTER 36
========================================
XXXVI
Vihari had not the habit of meditating about himself when alone at night. In fact he never thought of himself as a subject worth any thought. His studies, his work, his friends and the people he came across constantly occupied him; he found the greater satisfaction in giving the first place to the outside world. But one great shock had made his surroundings fall to pieces, and left him standing alone on the isolated peak of his suffering amidst the enveloping darkness. Since then he had begun to fear himself, and he tried heaping work upon work to allow this self no opportunity to obtrude.
But to-night he had no escape from his in-dwelling companion. He had come back the day before after escorting Binodini to her train, and ever since, his lacerated heart had been insistently drawing his whole attention withinwards, in the midst of his work, in the presence of his friends.
Depression and weariness for the first time overcame Vihari to-night. It was about 9 o'clock. The south breeze had been waxing impatient on the open terrace in front of Vihari's bed room. Vihari had pulled out a chair and was sitting on the terrace in the moonless darkness. He had not been teaching the boy Basanta this evening. His heart, like a child deserted by its mother, seemed stretching out its arms into the night, seeking from it some consolation, some companionship, some reminescence of the old affection-soothed life. The walls of his reserve, his unflinching steadfastness, had to-day crumbled away. His whole being seemed to be rushing towards those on whom he had resolved not to let his thoughts dwell. He had no strength left to obstruct its progress.
The whole of the long story from the beginning of his boyish friendship for Mahendra to its end, which like a many-coloured map variegated with its hills and plains and rivers, lay rolled up in his mind, he now held unfolded before himself. He recalled one by one how and when the little world on which he had reared his life had come in touch with other planets.
What had been the first disturbing influence? The blushing girlish face of Asha, radiant in the rays of the setting sun, shone out in reply against the outside darkness, and the auspicious blasts of wedding conches seemed to sound at the same time in his ears. This benign planet, coming up from some unknown region of the sky of his fate, had risen and stood between the two friends. It brought a foretaste of separation, and with it an obscure pain, which could not be expressed and should not even be silently harboured, and yet this separation and this pain were flooded and fulfilled with a sweet radiance, tinged with the warmth of a previously unknown expansion of heart.
This was followed by the saturnine planet which had next risen, breaking up and scattering the affection of the friends, the love of the wedded couple, the peace of the household. Vihari tried to repel this vision with a just and burning scorn. But how strange! the force of his repulsion became so weak, it could not reach its object! And that mysteriously fascinating luminary, with its dark and penetrating gaze, remained steadily shining at Vihari through the moonless night while the fitful
summer breezes blew upon Vihari's body like its breathing. Then the brightness seemed to die out of those eager eyes and their dry thirsting gaze clouded over with tears and brimmed with unutterable emotion; and then that figure once again fell at his feet clasping them to its bosom; and then a fairy creeper suddenly sprang up before him and winding its tendrils round his neck held out to him a pair of fragrant flowering lips. Vihari closed his eyes as he wrestled with himself to dismiss that face from his memory, but his hands seemed to refuse to lend themselves to any cruel thrust; and that profferred unaccomplished kiss hovered poignantly near him—thrilling him all over.
Vihari could remain no longer all alone in the dark. He went into the lighted room to seek some diversion for his thoughts. In a corner of the room, on a small table, was a framed photograph enclosed in a silk cover. Vihari took the frame out of the cover and brought the photograph into the middle of the room under the hanging lamp, and sat down there, looking at it.
It was a portrait of Mahendra and Asha taken shortly after their wedding. On the back was written "Dada" in Mahendra's hand, and "Asha" in her own. The sweetness of their newly wedded life had remained fixed in the picture. Mahendra was seated in a chair—the love-light in his eyes. Beside him stood Asha, whom the photographer had not allowed her veil, but whose modest bashfulness he had been unable to do away with. Mahendra was now far away from the weeping Asha, but the silly picture had perpetuated the irony of fate by refusing to wipe away any of the love-lines from Mahendra's face.
With the photograph on his knees Vihari hoped to be able to drive out Binodini's image from his mind with contumely. But Binodini's embrace, soft with her youth, agonised with her love, still clung about his feet.
"O wanton destroyer of a happy home!" his judgment wanted to say. But Binodini's uplifted lips, pleading for a kiss, seemed to reply "I love you. Out of all the world have I consecrated you mine."
But was this a sufficient reply? would it serve to drown the anguished cries of a devastated household? O heartless witch!
Was Vihari wholly angry, or was there a trace of longing in his tone? Could his heart really reject this offering of love at a moment when it had just been left destitute, divested of all the claims of a lifelong affection? When had he even been offered anything like this! He had all his life been gleaning on the outskirts of the field of love. Now that Love itself in lavish plenitude, had served a feast on plate of gold for himself alone, what nice scruples had made this unfortunate reject it!
While immersed in these thoughts, photograph in hand, Vihari came to himself with a start to find Mahendra before him.
Mahendra came to the point at once with the exclamation, "Where’s Binodini?"
As Vihari started up, the photograph slipped unnoticed to the ground. He went up to Mahendra and taking him by the hand said gently, "Sit down a while, Dada, there's a good fellow, and let's talk the whole thing over."
"I have no time to sit or talk," said Mahendra. "Tell me, will you, where's Binodini."
"I can't reply in one word to the question you're asking," replied Vihari. "You must have a little patience."
Mahendra.—"Going to lecture me, are you? That sort of thing I've been hearing since infancy."
Vihari.—"No, I've neither the right nor the ability to read you a lecture."
Mahendra.—"You want to revile me then? Well, I know I'm a brute and a scoundrel, and all the rest of the names you may want to call me. But the point is, do you or do you not know where Binodini is?"
Vihari.—"I do."
Mahendra.—"Will you tell me or will you not?"
Vihari.—"No."
Mahendra.—"You must! You have stolen her and hidden her away somewhere. She is mine, you must give her back to me."
Vihari was silent for a while and then said firmly: "No, she is not yours, nor have I stolen her. She came to me of herself."
"That's a lie," shouted Mahendra, and he began to thump on the door leading into the next room, calling out as he did so: "Binod, Binod."
Hearing the sound of crying inside he exclaimed "Fear not, Binod. 'Tis I, Mahendra, come to your rescue. No one shall shut you up here."
At his repeated blows the door burst open. Mahendra went into the room only to find himself in darkness. He could just discern some one crouching on a bed, clinging to the pillows and making an inarticulate noise. Vihari rushed in after him and taking the trembling Basanta into his arms proceeded to reassure him. Mahendra left the room and with swift steps went over the rest of the house. When he returned, Basanta was still sobbing reminiscently, and Vihari seated beside him was trying to stroke him to sleep.
"Where have you kept Binodini?" was again Mahendra's question.
"Look here, Dada," expostulated Vihari, "don't make such a noise. The poor boy might get ill, you're frightening him so. What I say is, you've got nothing to do with Binodini's whereabouts."
"O great souled saint, don't try to talk religion to me! What divinity were you worshipping with my wife's photograph on your knees? O you wretched hypocrite!" with which Mahendra crushed the frame under his heel and taking out the photograph tore it into bits and threw them at Vihari.
The boy again cried out at his violence. Vihari could not trust himself to speak and pointing to the door simply said, "Go!"
Mahendra frenziedly dashed out of the room.
CHAPTER 37
========================================
XXXVII
When from the windows of the empty Ladies' compartment of the train Binodini saw the open fields and villages nestling in the shade, memories of the retired and peaceful village life awoke in her. She felt that cloistered in a retreat of her imagination and surrounded with her favorite books, she could regain her peace of mind and forget the wounds and heart-burnings of her town experiences. "It is well" she said to herself, as the scent of mango blossoms from the passing mango groves was wafted to her, soothing her whole being into a languor. "It is better so, let me forget, let me sleep, let me live the comfortable life of a village girl satisfied with her household and her neighbourly duties."
With the hope of peace allaying the thirst in her heart, Binodini entered her cottage home. Alas, where was the peace? There was only emptiness and poverty. All around was decay and disorder, uncared for and unclean. The house had been long closed and its damp and fusty atmosphere seemed to suffocate Binodini. The little furniture that had been there had been ravaged by worms and rats and was falling to pieces.
Binodini had arrived in the evening. Everything was dark and joyless, and after she had contrived to light a little mustard oil lamp its smoky light only served to bring out the squalor of her surroundings. Things she had not minded before now seemed to her intolerable—her whole being seemed to cry out in rebellion, "I cannot live here for a moment." In a little niche in the wall were some dusty books and magazines. She did not care to touch them. Outside in the dense mango groves there was not a breath of wind, and the shrilling of mosquitos and cicadas resounded.
Binodini's sole surviving relative had left the house sometime ago and had gone to stay with her married daughter. Binodini in despair went over to some of her neighbours. They seemed to be quite startled to see her. "O la," said they, "Binodini's complexion has turned quite fair, and she is dressed up smart just like a "
mem sahib
!"
Then they seemed to be making some sort of signs to each other, directed at her; as if something which they had only vaguely heard had come out true.
Binodini realised how far she had travelled from her early village life. She felt an exile in her own home. She lost all hope of feeling at home anywhere here, even for a moment.
Binodini had known the old village postman from her childhood. When the next day she was on the steps
of the common bathing tank
about to take her bath she saw him passing along the road with his letter-bag. She could contain herself no longer and throwing aside her towel she ran up the steps and called after him, asking, "Is there any letter for me, brother Panchu?"
"No", replied the old man.
"There may be one," insisted Binodini eagerly; "let me see." She then turned the half-a-dozen letters, that were to go round the village, over and over again, but not one of them was for her.
As she returned to the water's edge, crestfallen, one of her fellow-bathers mischievously began "Ola, sister Bindi, why so anxious for a letter?" Another aired her eloquence: "Well, well, how many are so fortunate as to get a letter? We have husbands and brothers, my dears, who have gone to their work in foreign parts, but the postman never favours us." And as the topic was pursued, the mischievous glances got keener, the sarcasm more and more pronounced.
Binodini had entreated Vihari at parting to write to her regularly, something, anything, just a line or two. It was hardly likely that Vihari would begin to do so the very next day, yet her desire was so insistent that she had not been able to help nursing a distant hope. She felt as if she had left Calcutta ages ago.
It did not take Binodini long, with the help of her girl friends and enemies, to make the discovery that her name had been connected with Mahendra's, and that the scandal was all over the village. Peace was out of the question.
Binodini then tried to keep herself aloof from the rest of the village. At this her neighbours were all the more incensed. They were loth to be deprived of the luxury of reproving and worrying the sinner.
In a village, seclusion is out of the question. There is no leisure to nurse a wounded heart in the darkness of a retired corner. The sore spot always attracts everybody's curious gaze. Binodini writhed like a live fish in a basket, but only succeeded in wounding herself more and more. Here she was not free even to live alone with her suffering.
When the next day the time for getting a letter had passed, Binodini shut herself into her room to write:—
Friend Vihari.—Fear not, I am not going to write you a love letter. You are my Judge, I humbly salute you. If I have sinned, you have awarded me cruel punishment, and at your word I have submitted to it. My only regret is that you do not know how cruel the punishment has been, for thus I am deprived of the pity which you would surely have felt, had you known. Even this I will bear, with my head at your feet, for the sake of your memory. But, my Master, is not the prisoner to get even food—not luxurious food, but bare sustenance? A line or two from you is all the food I crave. If you deny even that then your sentence is not exile, but
death
. My pride was immense, I had never dreamt I should bend for favours. But yours has been the victory, my Master. I now pray you merciful and let me live. Give me just enough to live through the life in this wilderness, none shall then sway me from the rigour of your discipline. This is all my complaint to-day. I have much else I would tell you of, which my heart is breaking to tell you, but I have vowed not to trouble you, and I shall keep to my vow.
Your
Sister Binod.
Binodini posted her letter—the whole village was scandalised afresh. To be living with closed doors, to be constantly writing, to be rushing after the postman for letters! Evidently even a short stay in Calcutta was enough to make away with all sense of decency and decorum!
There was no letter the next day either. Binodini seemed to be stupefied; her face set hard. Lashed as she was by the blows of insult and contumely, from within and without, the forces of destruction seemed to be churned up from the dark depths of her heart, ready to emerge from her in cruel demoniacal shape. In her dread at these monstrous apparitions Binodini shut herself into her room once more.
She had no keepsake of Vihari, neither a photograph, nor a line of any letter. She seemed to be hunting about for some memento in her emptiness. She wanted something to put in her bosom which would bring the tears to her harsh dry eyes. She wanted tears to come and melt her inner hardness, to put out the rising flames of rebellion and enable her to enthrone Vihari's iron command on the softest spot of her heart's love. But her heart was on fire like the cloudless midday sky, and no trace of any possible tear drop was there to be seen from horizon to horizon.
Translated by
Surendranath Tagore.
CHAPTER 38
========================================
EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
XXXVIII
B
INODINI had heard that anyone invoked in single-minded meditation could not help responding to the call. So with closed eyes and clasped hands she called upon Vihari: "My life is empty, my heart is empty, emptiness surrounds me—come into this emptiness, come even for a moment, come you must, for I'll take no refusal."
As she repeated this with all her strength Binodini seemed to really feel stronger. She felt that her call, her love, could not be in vain. Passive memories which serve only to feed false hopes with the heart's blood, are merely exhausting. But a supreme effort of will is a true ally, it really draws nearer the object which it singles out from all the world as its quest.
When, for Binodini, the darkness of the unlit room thus became intensely filled with the thought of Vihari, and social conventions, neighbourly bickerings and the rest of her world faded away into distant nothingness, she suddenly heard a knock at the door. She jumped up from her seat on the floor, saying with simple, perfect conviction as she flung open the door: "Have you come, my Master?" How at such a moment could any one else in the world come to her door?
"I have come, Binod!" Mahendra replied.
With infinite loathing and scathing contempt Binodini repulsed him, saying: "Oh get away, get away from here, get away at once!"
Mahendra was struck stiff dumb.
"Bindi, my girl, when is your old granny—" Here an elderly neighbour who was coming to Binodini to make the inquiry
suddenly stopped short as she came up to the door, and with a hasty ejaculation she pulled her veil low over her face and hurried away.
There was a great commotion in the village. The elders in their evening gathering place decided that this sort of thing could not be allowed. The goings on at Calcutta might have been ignored. But to have dared to bring Mahendra to the village by writing letter after letter—this brazen openness was too much! The shameless hussy must be sent out of the village.
The next morning Binodini was sure that a reply from Vihari would come. But there was no letter. "What hold has Vihari on me?" Binodini began to ask herself. "Why am I here at his word? Why did I give him to understand that my whole life was his to command? The only need he has for me is to use me to save his beloved Asha. I am to have no wants, no claims of my own, not even a line of a letter—so mean, so contemptible am I!" A jealous envy welled up in Binodini's breast as seated stiffly in her room she continued her meditations: "I might have borne it all for another, but certainly not for Asha! This exile, this poverty, this scandal, this contempt, this life-long emptiness—all this for Asha! Why did I submit to be cheated so? Why did I not fulfil my vow of destruction? Oh fool, fool that I have been! Why did I fall in love with Vihari?"
Her aged relative, just back from her daughter's, broke in upon her thoughts with: "What's this I hear, you wretched minx?"
"What you have heard is true," rejoined Binodini quietly.
"Then what made you bring your shame to our neighbourhood—why did you come here?"
Binodini kept silent in her bitterness.
"Look here, child; you simply can't stay on here", continued the old woman. "My evil fate took away from me all whom I had of my own. Even that I've been able to bear and live through. But this sort of thing I'm not going to put up with. You've dragged our good name through the dust, you wretched girl. You must go away at once."
"I'll go at once", said Binodini as she stepped outside the room and stood at the door.
As she did so, Mahendra, unwashed, unkempt, came up to the outer gate. He had not had a morsel to eat nor a wink of sleep since his arrival last evening, his face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot. He had thought of making another attempt at inducing Binodini to go with him at daybreak, but the shock of Binodini's strangely contemptuous reply had made him hesitate. As the morning wore on and the time for the only day-train drew near, Mahendra had cast aside all questioning and misgiving and engaging a carriage driven off to Binodini's cottage. The courage of one who has taken an irrevocable step against social conventions was his—and with the courage had come also a wild joy driving away all doubt and despondency. The staring passers by seemed to him like so many earthen dolls.
Without glancing this way or that Mahendra marched straight up to the door where Binodini was standing and said: "Binod, I'm not such a coward as to leave you alone here to be reviled by these villagers. I must and shall take you away with me. If afterwards you choose to forsake me, do so, I'll not seek to hold you. I swear by yourself that it shall always be exactly as you wish. If you take pity on me, that'll be life to me—if not I'll take myself off your path. Many a time in my life have I been false to my trust but do not mistrust me to-day. We stand on the brink of chaos, this is not the time to utter falsehoods."
With unfluttered naturalness Binodini said: "Yes, you may take me along. Have you brought a carriage?
"I have."
Binodini's aged relative came out and said: "Mahendra, you may not know me, but we are kin. Your mother was a girl of this village and used to call me Aunt. May I ask you what you mean by this sort of thing? You have a wife at home; your mother is still with you. Yet you are carrying on in this mad way, lost to all shame. How will you even show your face again in society?"
This rather brought Mahendra down from the region into which he had exalted himself. He had a mother and a wife, and there was a thing called society. These simple truths seemed to come home to him with a new force. He had never dreamt of being reminded of these things in this out of the way village. To be stand
ing in the midst of the village in the broad light of day trying to lure a widowed girl of respectable parentage from her home into the streets—was this curious chapter to be added to his biography;—while yet he had a mother, a wife and still belonged to society!
Finding Mahendra standing silent, the old woman flew into a rage and said: "If you must go, get away at once and don't be loitering about the entrance to my house." With this she slammed the door on them and bolted it from within.
Bereft of all her possessions, fasting and untidy, Binodini stepped into the carriage. When Mahendra would have followed her in she said: "The Railway Station is not a long way off. You had better walk."
"All the village will stare at me," said Mahendra.
"Have you any sense of shame left?" remarked Binodini as she asked the coachman to start.
"Isn't the gentleman coming?" asked the coachman.
Mahendra hesitated but dared not. The carriage drove off. Mahendra walked along towards the station with bowed head and leaving the main road went round the outskirts of the village. By this time the village women had finished their bath and midday meal. Only a few elderly dames who spent a longer time over their daily duties than the others could be seen going through the shady mango groves, with their towels and toilet accessories, to the secluded steps of the bathing tank.
CHAPTER 39
========================================
XXXIX
Alarmed at Mahendra's sudden disappearance Rajlakshmi could neither eat nor sleep. And while old Sadhu in his attempts to comfort her was engaged in hunting about for him in all sorts of possible and impossible places, Mahendra returned to Calcutta with Binodini and leaving her at his rooms near the college arrived at the house in the evening.
Entering his mother's room Mahendra found it almost dark with the light of the lamp screened off. Rajlakshmi looked ill and was lying on the bed while Asha was gently rubbing her limbs. At last the daughter had secured her rightful place at the mother's feet. Asha started up as Mahendra came in, and left the room. Mahendra overcoming his hesitation with an effort said, "I find, mother, I can't conveniently study at home, so I'm going to live in the rooms I've taken near the College."
Rajlakshmi pointed to the foot of her bed as she said, "Sit down, Mahin."
Mahendra sat down awkwardly. "Stay where you like," Rajlakshmi then replied, "but don't give pain to my little Mother."
Mahendra was silent. Rajlakshmi continued: "It was my evil fate that I knew not what an angel my little mother is. But how could you," she went on greatly moved, "after knowing her so long and loving her so well, how could you bring her to such a plight!"
Mahendra felt as if he wanted to run away but could not muster up courage enough to make a sudden move. He sat silent at the foot of his mother's bed.
After a long silence Rajlakshmi asked: "You're here for to-night at least?"
Mahendra.—"No"
Rajlakshmi.—"When will you be going?"
Mahendra.—"Just now."
"Now!" exclaimed Rajlakshmi as she raised herself with difficulty and sat up. "Won't you even talk nicely to your wife before you go? Can't you even imagine," she continued as Mahendra made no reply, "what these last days and nights have meant for my little mother! O heartless boy, your cruelty is breaking my heart!" Rajlakshmi fell back like a lopped bough.
Mahendra got up from the bed and left his mother, going with silent steps to his own room upstairs. He did not relish the idea of coming across Asha. But as soon as he was up he saw her lying
streched
on the shaded balcony in front of his room. She had not heard him coming and started up at his sudden appearance, adjusting her disarranged drapery. Had Mahendra once called: "Chuni!" she would have taken all Mahendra's blame on herself and have cried the cry of her life at his feet. But Mahendra could not bring her pet name to his lips. Wish as he might, try as he could, grieved as he felt, he could not forget that to caress Asha to-night would be an empty mockery. What would avail his lip-consolation when with his own hands he had closed for ever the door of escape from Binodini.
Asha sat there dying for very shame. She felt it equally impossible to stand up or go away or attempt any sort of movement. Mahendra went out on to the
terrace without a word and began to slowly pace up and down. The moon had not yet risen. The tuberose in the pot at the corner had flowered on two of its stems. The constellations—the same Great Bear, the same Orion—which had been silent witnesses of so many love scenes on this self-same terrace, were shining as silently this evening.
Ah, thought Mahendra, if only it were possible to wipe out with the darkness which filled the sky the story of the few days, revolt which had upset his domestic life, and to peacefully take his old place beside Asha on a mat spread on the open terrace! No questions asked, no explanations to render, the old trust, the old love, the old happiness! Alas! it is just that little old place which is so difficult to get back in this world. Mahendra had lost for ever his share of Asha's mat on the terrace. Up to now Mahendra's relations with Binodini had been free. The wild joy of love was there, but no unbreakable bond. Now that he had plucked her from social life with his own hand, there was no place to return her to—he had become her only refuge, willy-nilly the whole of her burden must be borne by him. This was the thought which was oppressing Mahendra. The simplicity and peace of their daily domestic life on this roof, the uninterrupted seclusion of their wedded nights suddenly struck Mahendra as having been of such immense comfort—and this comfort of which he had been so easily the sole master to be now so hopelessly beyond his reach. For him there would be henceforth not a moment's breathing space away from the burden which he had imposed on himself.
With a sigh Mahendra turned his eyes towards the balcony. Asha with her breast full of unwept tears was still there in the same posture into which she had started up, the darkness of the night covering up her shame and her sorrow like a mother's skirt.
Moved with a sudden impulse Mahendra went up to Asha, as if to say something. All Asha's blood rushed to her face and she closed her eyes. But the words Mahendra came to say seemed to have escaped him. What, after all, could he have to say? But he had to say something. So he asked: "Where is the bunch of keys?"
The keys were under the pillow. Asha got up and went into the room, and Mahendra followed her. Asha pulled out the bunch from under the pillow and left it on the bed. Mahendra took it up and tried the keys one by one on his wardrobe. Asha could remain silent no longer and said in a low voice: "That key was not on my bunch." She could not bring herself to say on whose bunch it used to be, but Mahendra understood.
Asha hurriedly went out of the room, lest she should fall to weeping in Mahendra's presence, and leaning on the parapet wall at a corner of the terrace she wept with resolutely suppressed sobs.
But she could not indulge in her weeping long. She suddenly recollected that it was time for Mahendra's supper. She ran down the stairs.
"Where is Mahin, my little mother!" Rajlakshmi asked her.
"He's upstairs."
"Why have you come down then?"
"It's time for his supper—" said Asha with downcast face.
"I'll see to the supper," said Rajlakshmi, "you'd better tidy yourself up a bit. Put on that new Dacca muslin sari of yours and come to me, I'll do up your hair for you."
Asha could not reject her mother-in-law's well-meant attentions but she felt as if she would die of shame at the idea of being dressed up in this way. She submitted her person to Rajlakshmi's adornments like Bhishma taking on his body the shower of arrows when he wished for death.
Her toilet over, Asha hesitatingly went up the stairs with noiseless steps. But when she peeped into the room, Mahendra was not there. Going in she found his supper had been left untasted. For want of the key he had torn open the door of the wardrobe, and taken away with him some of his clothes and books.
The next day was the eleventh day of the moon. The fasting Rajlakshmi was confined to her bed with her weakness. The black clouds looked stormy outside. Asha lightly entered the room. She gently took her place at the foot of the bed and stroking Rajlakshmi's feet said: "I've got some milk and fruits ready for you, won't you come and have something to eat?"
Rajlakshmi's eyes grew moist at these
fresh proofs of her unpractised daughter-in-law's devoted attempts at nursing her. She sat up and drawing Asha towards herself kissed her cheek. "What is Mahin doing now?" she asked.
"He's gone away," faltered the ashamed Asha.
"When?" exclaimed Rajlakshmi. "How is it I knew nothing about it?"
"Last night," replied Asha with bowed head.
Rajlakshmi's softness was gone in a moment—there was no longer any trace of affection in her stiffened touch. Asha could feel the silent censure that was implied, and left the room feeling as if weighed down with the burden of some guilt.
XL
When Mahendra left Binodini at his
Fataldanga * rooms and went home to
fetch his clothes and books, she sat alone
in the midst of the hum of the ceaseless
stream of Calcutta traffic, and began to
think about herself. The shelter which
the world had offered her had at no time
been sufficiently’ broad. Yet there had been
room at least, when one side became sore,
to turn over on to the other. The boat
on which she was now floating down the
stream was liable to be upset at the
least movement to this side or that. She
must be very careful how she held the
helm, there was no margin for mistakes.
The more Binodini realised her helpless
position the greater was the strength she
gathered. She must not allow’ things to
drift, she was convinced, she must find a
way yet.
From the day Binodini had laid bare
her love to Vihari, the barriers of her
reserve had broken down. She knew’ not
how to unburden herself of the proffered
kiss which she had brought back, and
was carrying about with her, night and
day, like an unfulfilled offering to the gods.
Binodini’s heart never readily’ admitted
defeat—hopelessness she refused to entertain. She kept on repeating to herself
Bihari must accept my’ offering of
worship.”
To the ardour of her devotion was
added the stern necessity of gaining for
herself a refuge. For that also, Binodini
felt, she could look to Vihari alone.
Mahendra’s character she had thoroughly’
gauged. He was a reed who could not
loe leant upon—eager to come forward
when repulsed, to run away when taken
at his word. Vihari alone was capable of
giving that trusty’, unwavering support
which is needful for the woman’s heart—
thus was he indispensable to Binodini
to-day’.
Binodini when coming away’ from her
village had sent Mahendra to the Post
Office adjoining the railway station to give
particular instructions for redirecting her
letters. She could not bring herself to
believe that Vihari would not reply to her
letter at all. "I ’ll patiently’ wait a week
more,” said she to herself now. "And then
we’ll see.”
She then turned down the lamp and
went and sat at the window, looking out
on to the gas-lit street. Vihari was in this
very town. A few streets only separated
her from his door. And after the door
was the little courtyard, then the stairs
and the well-lit, well-furnished cosy little
room—where Vihari was sitting in peace
and quiet alone in his chair ; it may be that
the Brahmin boy was near him,—that largeeyed open-faced chubby little boyr,—turning
over the pages of some picture-book. Binodini felt a thrill of love and motherly affection come over her as she elaborated the
details of the picture. She felt that she had
only to desire it to be able to go there, and
with this possibility hugged to her breast
she kept on playing. In the old days she
would perhaps have at once set about
realising the possibility’, but to-day there
were so many things to think of. It was
not only’ a question of satisfying an impulse
but of gaining an object. She must not
leap in the dark. "Let’s see what sort of
reply he gives and then I ’ll know best what
to do,” she had concluded.
The evening wore on as she pursued her
reflections, till it was past nine. Then
Mahendra came back. lie had spent the
last few days and nights without regular
meals or sleep, sustained by his excitement.
Now with his object achieved, and Binodini safely enconsed in his rooms, he seemed
to be falling to pieces with weariness and
depression. He felt he could no longer
fight against his own surroundings, against
social conventions. All the burden of his
future life seemed to be crowding upon him
to-night.
Mahendra felt miserably ashamed to be
knocking at the closed door. Where was
the wild joy which had buoyed him up?
Why did his whole being shrink from the
gaze of the passers-by who did not even
know him?
The newly engaged servant-boy had
fallen asleep and there was considerable
trouble before the door could be got open.
The unaccustomed darkness of the house
oppressed Mahendra still more. Pampered
as he had been by his mother and used
all his life to expensive furniture, waving
fans, and every luxury, he felt their want
all the more keenly in this dismal
evening. All these material comforts would
have to be acquired and furnished by
him for this establishment, the whole
burden of which was on him alone.
Mahendra had never had to take thought
for his own or anybody else’s comfort,
but from to-day all the petty details of
this new house-keeping would have to be
looked after by him. The cheap lamp on the
staircase was smoking horribly, it would
have to be replaced by' a better one. The
overflow from a leaking pipe had made
the hall floor damp, workmen would have
to be called in to repair it. The shoemaker
who was the former tenant of the two
rooms on the ground floor was to have
vacated them, but had not gone. The landlord would have to be severely spoken to.
The thought that there was no one else
to attend to all these things added to his
present burden of weariness.
Mahendra paused at the top of the
stairs to recover himself—to work up his
love for Binodini. She whom he had
wanted above the whole world, was now
his, he told himself. To-day that there was
no barrier between them—what a joyful
day it was for him 1 But the absence of
any barrier seemed to be all the more of
an obstruction, for to-day Mahendra
himself was the barrier.
As soon as Binodini saw Mahendra
coming up the street, she rose from her
meditations at the window, turned up the
lamp, and taking up a piece of sewing
work on her lap bent herseif over it. She
regarded the work as a protection behind
which she could shelter herself.
"You must beimmenselyinconvenienced,
Binod,’’ said Mahendra as he entered.
"Not a bit,” replied Binodini over her
sewing.
"I ’ll bring up all the necessary furniture
in a few days—you must put up with the
discomfort meanwhile,” continued Ma
hendra.
"Nonsense,” said Binodidi firmly ; "you
mustn’t do anything of the kind. There
are already many more things here than 1
have any' use for.”
Mahendra.—"Is this unfortunate person
one of the too many'?”
Binodini.- "You shouldn’t arrogate so
much to yourself—a little modesty is a
good thing to have.”
At the sight of the self-possessed Binodini
immersed in her work, Mahendra’s passion
came back to him. Had they' been at home,
he would at once have been at Binodini's
feet—but Mahendra could not venture so
far just because this was not home. Here
Binodini was helpless and at his mercy
it would be cowardly not to control
himself.
"What made you bring your clothes
and books here?” asked Binodini.
"Merely because they do not happen to
be among the many things I have no use
for,” retorted Mahendra.
"I know, but why here?”
"Quite right, Binod ; this is not the place
for the necessaries of life ; you may throw
the books and things out of the window
without a word of protest from me, only
don’t fling me away along with them.''
Mahendra took this opportunity of coming:
a little nearer and placing the bundle which
he had brought with him near Binodini’s
feet.
"Friend Mahendra,” said Binodini
gravely, without raising her eyes from her
sewing, "you must not stay here.”
Beside himself at this sudden shock to
his rising eagerness. Mahendra said in a
choking voice: "Why Binod? Why do you
desire to keep me at a distance? Is this
my' reward for having left my all for you?”
"I cannot allow you to leave your all
for me,” said Binodini. "That’s no longer
in your hands,” exclaimed Mahendra
passionately. "The whole of myr world is
falling awayr around me—you alone remain,
Binod, my Binod—” he wildly' clasped her
feet to his breast and repeatedly kissed
them.
Binodidi releasing herself stood up.
"You are forgetting your promise,” she
said.
Mahendra controlled himself with the
whole force of his will. "No,” said he, “1
remember. I promised that it should be
as you desired—it shall not be otherwise
<lv promise shall be sacred. Tell me what
you would have me do.”
Binodini.—"Go and stay' in your home.”
Mahendra.—"Am I the one object of your
dislike, Binod? If that be so, why did you
mnt what you did not want? Tell me
truly, did 1 deliver myself to you of my
own accord, or did you not deliberately
ensnare me? Am I now to submit to be
played with? Still I will keep to my word.
I’ll go and stay in the home in which I’ve
trampled to bits my own rightful place.”
Binodini resumed her seat on the floor
and silently went on with her sewing.
“Oh cruel, cruel Binod!” broke out
Mahendra after gazing a while at her
face, “Oh wretched that I was to have
come to love you.”
Binodini went over to the lamp and
spent a deal of time taking out some false
stitches. Mahendra felt as if he wanted to
take and crush that stony heart in his
clenched hand. Physical strength seemed to
be the only means of overcoming that impassive inertness!
Mahendra went out of the room and
then immediately returned, saying, "And
who will look after you, all alone here,
when I am gone?"
“Don’t trouble yourself on that score,”
Binodini replied. "Pishi-ma has dismissed her maid Khemi, and I have taken her
on from to-day. We two women will get
along all right after we've locked the front
door.”
The angrier he felt the more intensely
was Mahendra attracted to Binodini. He
longed to smother her to his breast with
the strength of a giant. And to escape
from his terrible longing he rushed out of
the house.
Mahendra swore'as he wandered about
the street that he would repay Binodini’s
indifference with indifference. To be so
calmly and relentlessly repulsed by her
at a time when he was her sole refuge! Was
ever any man so insulted before? Crushed
as was Mahendra’s pride it refused to be
killed outright, but kept on writhing in
agony. "Am I so utterly worthless?”
he kept on repeating to himself. "How
could she dare do this to me ; who else had
she in the whole world?”
As Mahendra pursued his questioning, the
reply suddenly occurred to him—Vihari!
His blood ran cold. So Vihari was the
refuge—he the tool, the steps to be trampled under foot on the way! This gave her the courage to spurn him. They must
have been corresponding, he suspected, and
Vihari’s letters must have been supporting her against him.
Mahendra at once directed his steps towards Vihari’s lodgings. It was still
early in the night when he knocked at the
door. After much shouting and banging
the door was opened by a man who said:
"Master is away.”
Vihari's old servant was quite a familiar
figure. "Hullo Bhaju,” asked Mahendra,
"when did your master leave home?”
"Three or four days ago,” replied Bhaju.
"He’s gone travelling west.”
Mahendra was immensely relieved. "Let
me take a little rest,” thought he. "I can’t
be wandering about all night.” He went into the house and lying flown on a sofa
dropped off to sleep at once.
Vihari had gone away the day after
Mahendra had invaded his room and created such a disturbance. These collisions
with his friend might some day assume so
disgusting an aspect as to give cause for
life-long regret. So Vihari fled westwards
without any definite plan of travel.
It was eleven o'clock when Mahendra
woke next morning. The first thing that
met his eyes on getting up was a letter
lying on the little table under a paperweight. Vihari’s name in Binodini’s handwriting could be distinctly seen. He took
up the letter and found it had not been
opened, but was awaiting the absent
Vihari’s return. With trembling fingers
he tore open the cover and began to read
it. This was the letter she had written
from her village home and of which she
wras expecting the reply.
Every' word of the letter stung him.
From early childhood Vihari had been
in Mahendra’s background. Of love and
affection lie had tasted only' the leavings
of what had been offered to Mahendra.
To-day Mahendra was the supplicant,
Vihari the obdurate one ; and yet Binodini
had preferred this unappreciative boor to
himself! Mahendra had also some letters
from Binodini, but how coldly artificial
they' were compared to this, and mere
empty tricks to delude a fool!
Mahendra recollected and now understood iBnodini’s eagerness about the directions to be given to the village post-office.
So this was what Binodini was so patiently waiting for!
As of old, Bhaju brought n Mahendra’s
breakfast, without waiting for orders, and
helped him to his meal. Mahcndra forgot
all about bath or toilet. As if running over
hot sand he kept skipping over the burning
words of Binodini’s letter. Never again
would he see Binodini, Mahcndra decided.
But then, thought he, if the reply she was
expecting was delayed much longer, Binodini might take it into her head to pay
Vihari a visit. Then she would know all
and be consoled. This thought was intolerable.
Mahendra put the letter in his pocket
and marched off to his Pataldanga lodgings.
His tumbled appearance roused Binodini's pity, lie must have spent a sleepless
night wandering about the streets, thought
she. "Did n’t you go home last night?”
she asked.
"No,” replied Mahendra.
"You couldn’t have had any breakfast
then,” said the hospitable Binodini in a
flutter, as she set about getting some
eatables together.
"Let it be,” said Mehendra, "Iv ’e had
something.”
Binodini.—"Where?”
Mahendra.—"At Vihari’s.”
Binodini went pale for a moment. Recovering herself after a short silence she
said: "I hope friend Vihari is well?”
"Oh lie’s all right. He’s off West, travelling.” Mahendra said this so as to leave
the impression that Vihari was going tonight.
The blood left Binodini’s face once more.
But she again recovered herself as she said:
"What a flighty person. I suppose he
knows all about you and me. Is he very
angry about it?”
Mahendra.—"Why else should he go
westwards of all places in this stifling
heat? ”
Binodini.—"Did he talk about me at
all?”
"What was there to talk about? Here’s
Vihari’s letter.” Mahendra kept his eyes
keenly fixed on her as he handed her the
letter.
Binodini eagerly took it from him and
saw that it was her own letter, opened.
She scanned every page carefully but could
find nothing in the nature of a reply. After
a short silence she asked: "Have you read
the letter?”
The expression on Binodini’s face thoroughly unnerved Mahendra. He lied: "No.”
Binodini tore up the letter into fragmen
and threw them out of the window.
"I am going home,” said Mahendra.
Binodini made no reply.
Mahendra.—"I’ll obey your wishes a
the letter. I'll stay at home for a week am
on my way to college I’ll step in and arrange with Kliemi to have you properly
looked after. I won’t trouble you with rayi
presence.”
It is doubtful whether Binodini heard;
what Mahendra was saying. Anyhow
was silent. She was staring out of
window into the sky.
Mahendra took his things with him
left the house,
Binodini after sitting a while like
struck stiff suddenly tore off the clothes
from her breast and began to cruelly beat
herself with her clenched hands as thoig'c
to shake oft her numbness.
Kliemi rushed in at the sound cryng
"What are yrou doing, mother! ”
"Get away from here,” shrieked Binodini, as she drove Khemi from the room
and slammed the door after her. The:
with her hands still clenched she rolled
moaning on the floor like an animal stricken to death. After she had battered and
tired herself out in this way7, she lay stiil
on the floor in front of the open window
the whole night, as in a faint.
When in the morning the sunlight entered the room Binodini was struck with
a sudden suspicion. What if Mahendra
had lied to her, what if Vihari had not
really gone? She called Khemi and said.
"Go at once to Vihari Babu’s lodgings
and get me news of him.”
Khemi returned in an hour with the information: "Vihari Babu’s house is all
closed up. When I knocked the man shouted from inside that his master was away
in the West country.”
Binodini had no further doubts.
XLI
Rajlakshtni was excessively annoyed
with her daughter-in-law when she heard
that Mahendra had gone away in the
night. Asha must have spoken harshly to
him, she thought. She sent for Asha and
asked: "Why did Mahin go away last
night?”
"I don’t know, mother,” faltered Asha,
not daring to raise her eyes.
Rajlakshtni took this to be a remnant
of last night’s sulks. "Who’s to know,
you don’t?” she said severely. "Did you
scold him about anything?”
"No,” said Asha simpl}-.
Rajlakshmi could not believe it. "When
did he go?” she questioned.
“I don't know,” said Asha again, shrink-
ing within herself.
“You know nothing!” Rajlakshmi
flared np. "You’re a baby, aren’t you?
Do you expect me to believe all that?”
Rajlakshmi made it clear that she
thought that Asha’s inconsiderate behaiour had driven Mahendra out of the
house. Asha meekljr submitted to the
harge and wept in the seclusion of her
wn room. "I don’t know how my
usband ever came to love me,” she wailed
to herself, "and I don’t know how to
bring back his love now.” The heart itself
tells how* to please one who loves. But
how was Asha to tell how to attract one
who did not love? How was she to
attempt the unspeakably shameful task of
winning caresses from one who loved
another?
That evening an astrologer arrived,
Riajlakshmi had sent for him to avert the
evil influences which were disturbing her
son’s life. She began by askjng him to
read her daughter-in-law’s fortune and
sent for Asha for that purpose. Asha had
just put out her hand with the utmost
reluctauce at the idea of having her misforunes made the subject for discussion,
when steps were heard along the dark
passage outside as if some one was trying
to slip past unobserved.
"Who's that?” cried Rajlakshmi. There
was no reply. "Who goes there?” she
cailed again. This time Mahendra
entered the room in silence.
Far from feeling any joy Asha was
filled with a sympathetic shame at the
sight of Mahendra coming into his own
house like a thief. She felt still more
awkward at the presence of the astrologer.
To have to be ashamed of her husband
before all the world was the acutest part
of Asha’s sorrow. When Rajlakshmi
whispered to her daughter-in-law: "Will
you tell the maid to get Mahendra’s supper
ready?” she replied: "I’ll bring it up myself mother” and left the room. She wanted
to shield Mahendra from the curious prying
of the servant.
On the other hand Mahendra was greatly
annoyed at the sight of the astrologer.
That his mother and wife should be conspiring with this ignoramus to bring stellar
influences to bear on him was more than he
could brook. When on top of this the
astrologer unctuously asked after his
health, Mahendra could stay in the room
no longer. "I ’m going upstairs, mother,”
he said curtly,entirely ignoring the friendly
overture.
The mother thought that Mahendra
was wanting a quiet talk with his wife.
Overflowing with joy she sent for Asha
from the kitchen and said, "Hurry upstairs, my dear. Mahin might be wanting
something.”
With hesitating step and fluttering heart
Asha went up to her room. She had understood from her mother-in-law’s words
that Mahendra had sent for her. But she
could not make up her mind to enter the
room, and under cover of the outside darkness she remained gazing at Mahendra.
He was reclining on a bolster staring
up at the rafters. The longer Asha looked
at him the more was it borne in upon her
that he was coming from Binodini. Binodini’s touch on his body, her image in his
eyes, her voice in his ears, the desire for her
in his mind—all these seemed yet to be
clinging to his person. How could she
yield him the same pure reverence 7 He
seemed to her like a strange male intruder
—even wrorse, for no mere stranger could
have shamed her thus.
Asha had of late been trying to improve
herself by a course of reading and writing
pursued late into the night when alone by
herself, after she had done nursing her
mother-in-law. Her books and papers
were neatly piled in a corner of the room.
In a sudden impulse Mahendra lazily pulled out one of her note-books and began
absently turning over its pages. Asha felt
as if she wanted to scream and tear it
away from him. The idea of his sneering
gaze falling upon her childish writing was
too much for her. She hurried down the
stairs without heeding the clatter of her
own footsteps.
Mahendra’s supper had long been ready,
but Rajlakshmi, thinking Mahendra to be
engaged in loving converse with his wife,
did not want to disturb them by having
it sent up. Finding that Asha had come
down she had it served in the dining room
and sent word to Mahendra. No sooner
had Mahendra come down than Asha
rushed into her room and removing her
hooks she took down her photograph from
its frame and tore it into pieces, which she
threw away on the terrace.
Mahendra after his supper went hack to
his bedroom. Rajlakshmi after hunting
everywhere for Asha found her at last in
kitchen, warming some milk for her. Not
that there was any lack of servants to do
this work. On the contrary' the maid whose
duty this was was protesting vigorously
against Asha’s uncalled-for display of
energy, and mentally bewailing her lost
opportunity of filling up part of the milkbowl with water.
‘‘What brings you here, my dear ; get
away upstairs,” said Rajlakshmi.
Asha went up and took refuge in her
mother-in-law’s room. Rajlakshmi got annoyed at her contrariness. "When Mahendra has at last shaken off the toils of that
witch and come back home, she needs must
drive him out again with her pettishness”
thought she. Wasn’t it Asha’s fault that
he had got caught by Binodini at all! Men
were wayward by nature. It was woman’s
duty to coax and wheedle them into the
right path. "What’s the meaning of all
this, child?” she said scathingly. "If
you’re lucky enough to have got back your
husband, what makes you pull a long'face
and go about hiding in corners?”
A guilty feeling lashed Asha up the stairs
again, and this time, not to allow herself
time for hesitation, she went straight into
the room without a pause. It was past
ten. Mahendra was standing in front
of the bed playing with the edge of
the mosquito net, lost in thought. A bitter
complaint against Binodini had risen in
his heart. "Does she think me so absolutely
her slave that she does not fear to send
me to Asha,” he was saying to himself.
"If I come back to my duty to Asha, where
will she be? Am I supposed to be so abandoned that my return to duty is impossible? Is this then Binodinis idea of me?
Her respect I have lost, her love I've tin: I
got, she has even had no compunction v
insulting me.” He swore, standing by the
bed, that he would have his revenge hr
turning his heart once more to Asha.
At Asha’s sudden entry he dropped
the curtain. The perplexing problem o:
how to begin a conversation at once
presented itself. With a forced smile he gave
utterance to the first idea that occurred
to him. "So, like me, y'ou’ve been busy
with your studies. Where are those books
I saw here a while ago?”
The remark was not only not happy,
it hit Asha in her tenderest spot. Her
attempt at getting rid of her ignorance
was a great secret—a thing to get her
laughed at if out, she was sure. And the
last person she could bear to be laughed at
by was Mahendra. When that same
Mahendra touched upon that very subject
with a smile, her whole being winced like
a tender child at the cruel stroke of a cane
She turned away her face and stood silent
Mahendra had realised that the reran:
had been neither timely nor appropriate as
soon as it was out of his mouth, but as to
what the proper remark should have been
he had not the faintest idea. After the
revolution which had taken place the
simplest thing could not sound straight,
nor could the empty heart find anything
now to say.
Conversation might come easier in the
cosy confines of the bed, thought Mahendra.
He began to fan away' the mosquitos with
the edge of his garment, before opening the
curtain to get in. Like a novice on the
stage who runs through his part before
entering upon the scene, Mahendra paused
to consider what he was going to do and
say. Turning his head at a slight rustling
behind him, he found that Asha was no
longer in the room
XLII
THE next morning Mahendra said, "I
want a quiet room to myself, mother,
for my studies. I ’ll take Kaki’s old
room.”
Rajlakshmi was overjoyed. So Maliin
was going to stay at home! Then he must
have made it up with his wife. How long
after all, could the wiles of that witch keep
him away from such a jewel of a girl?
"Very good idea, Mahin,” the mother hastened to reply, and she at once proceeded
to bustle about to put the idea into execution. The keys were brought out, the
room opened up, aired and dusted.
"Asha! Asha!” Where was Asha? The
shrinking girl was discovered in a corner.
"Get out a clean floor cloth, will you?
There’s no table in this room. We must
have one brought in. And this lamp wo’nt
do at all. Have the one upstairs sent
in here.” Thus did the two women prepare the throne-room for the Lord and
Master.
Mahendra, not vouchsafing so much
as a glance at his servitors, took his place
at the table and set to work at his books,
without waste of time.
After his evening meal Mahendra was
at his books again. No one could make out
whether he intended to spend the night
in his new room or go upstairs to bed.
Rajlakshmi, after performing various toilet
operations on the stiffened form of Asha,
said: "Go and ask Mahin, my dear, if he
wants a bed made for him in his study.”
This was a question which Asha could
not screw herself up to, so she hung her
head and did not stir. The baffled Rajlakshmi poured vials of wrath on her.
Asha made a great effort and managed to
get up to the door ; but no further. Rajlakshmi watching her from the passage
urged her on with vehement gestures till
at last Asha in desperation stepped into
the study. Mahendra hearing footsteps
behind him said without turning his head:
"I’ll be late to-night, and will have to be
up early again tomorrow,—so I’ll sleep
here.”
How shameful! Did he think she had
come to coax him upstairs?
"Well?” inquired Rajlakshmi in a vexed
tone.
"He’s busy studying and will sleep
downstairs,” Asha replied, as she crept up
to her forsaken room.
Later on in the night there was a knocking at Asha’s door. Asha hastily got up
and undid the fastenings. Rajlakshmi
after hastening up the stairs could hardly
breathe, as she came into the room and
sank on the bed. After recovering her
breath she said hoarsely, "What is the
matter with you, child? What makes you
lock yourself in upstairs? Is this the time
to sulk? All your troubles have left you as
silly as ever. Go, downstairs!”
"He said he wanted to be alone,” replied
Asha slowly.
"What if he did say so? Are jmu to nr
into a temper because he’s spoken a hit
irritably? It doesn’t do to be so touchy
as all that. Hurry away downstairs!”
In this time of difficulty Rajlakshmi
made no attempt to dissemble to her
daughter-in-law in the interests of propriety. She must use all available weapons
to bind Mahendra to his home. Her excited speech brought on the breathing trouble again. She rose with a great effort
and Asha helped her downstairs without
a word of contradiction. Putting Rajlakshmi gently into her bed Asha busied
herself arranging the pillows and bolsters
so as to support her in a sitting posture.
"Let it be, my little mother,” said Rajlakshmi, "send the maid to me, but don t
you be dawdling here, you get along to
your husband.”
This time Asha had no hesitation. She
went straight from her mother-in-law's
room into Mahendra’s study. An open
book was lying in front of him while
Mahendra with his legs on the table and
lis head thrown back on the chair was
ost in thought. He was startled at
learing footsteps behind him and turned
lis head, as though half-expecting the
ibjects of his thoughts to have taken
>odily shape. Seeing Asha, he took his legs
iff the table and sitting up drew the book
3n to his knees.
Mahendra was considerably suprised.
\sha did not now-a-days come to him
io naturally, so unhesitatingly—rather,
when they suddenly came across each other
she slipped away. Mahendra without
aising his eyes from the book could make
out that she had not faltered in nor was
ffie trying to slip away. She had come up
:he table and was quietly standing before
him.
Mahendra could no longer keep up the
pretence of reading—he raised his eyes and
looked at her.
‘ Mother’s breathing trouble is getting
very bad, you’d better have a look at her,”
said Asha in a clear voice.
Mahendra.—"Where is she?”
Asha.—“She’s in her bed-room, but she
-'an’t sleep.”
Mahendra.—"Let’s go, then.”
This bit of natural conversation with
\sha, after so long an interval, seemed to
greatly relieve Mahendra. Mahendra had
lot been able to find any means of breaking
;hrough the impregnable walls of silence
which had been set up between man and
wife—now Asha had thrown open a little
loor with her own hand.
Asha waited outside while Mahendra
went into Rajlakshmi’s room. The mother
was perturbed at his coming to her at such
i time—perhaps there had been another
quarrel with his wife and he had come
:o tell her that he was off again! "What,
lot in bed yet, Mahin?” she asked.
"Is your breathing trouble worse,
nother?”
This belated inquiry greatly aggrieved
Kajlakshmi. She understood that his wife’s
admonition had turned his thoughts towards his mother’s illness. The sudden
revulsion of feeling made her spasms worse.
Speaking with difficulty she said: "Go to
bed, Mahin. Don’t worry yourself. I ’m
all right.”
“No, mother, I ’d better examine your
:hest. This is not a thing to be neglected.”
Mahendra knew that his mother’s heart
was weak, so he felt her symptoms to be
somewhat disquieting.
Rajlakshmi.—"It’s no use examining me.
I know this’ll never get better.”
Mahendra.—"Well, I’ll make you up a
sleeping draught for to-nignt and then I’ll
look into the matter carefully to-morrow.”
Rajlakshmi.—"I ’ve taken quite enough
physic, it does me no good. You go to bed,
Mahin. It’s getting late.”
Mahendra.—"I ’ll go as soon as you feel
a little better.”
Rajlakshmi’s wounded heart cried out
as she complained to the invisible Asha
waiting outside: "What made ypu trouble
Mahim, child, at this time of night and
drag him along here—” her breathing got
worse as she spoke.
Then Asha entered the room and said
softly but firmly to Mahendra: "You had
better go to bed. I’ll stay with mother.”
He whispered back to her in the corner ;
"I ’m sending for a bottle of medicine.
There’ll be two marks. Give her one now
and the other an hour later, if the first
doesn’t send her to sleep. If she gets worse
don’t fail to let me know.” Mahendra went
back to his room. Asha had shown herself
to him in quite a new aspect in which there
was no shrinking, no self-diffidence ; wherein she seemed well established in her own
right, with nothing to ask from Mahendra.
His wife he had contemptuously ignored ;
the young mistress of the house compelled
his respect.
Rajlakshmi was not ill-pleased at heart
that Asha’s devotion to her should have
impelled her to call Mahendra to her side ;
still she returned to her complaint: "I sent
you to bed ; what made you bring Mahin
here?”
Asha silently fanned her from behind
without a reply.
"Do get away to bed. my dear,” Rajlakshmi persisted.
"He has told me to lay with you,”
objected Asha softly. She knew it would
please Rajlakshmi to think that Mahendra
had charged his wife to look after her.
XLIII
When Rajlakshmi realised that Asha was
not likely to succeed in winning back M ahendra, she consoled herself with the idea
that her illness might at least serve to keep
him at home. She got afraid of getting
well too soon and began to throw away
her doses of medicine when Asha was not
looking.
The absent-minded Mahendra noticed
no difference, but to Asha it was clear that
Rajlakshmi was not getting any better, but
rather worse. She suspected that Mahendra was not sufficiently attentive and careful in prescribing for her—that he was so
far gone in his madness that even his
mother’s illness could not serve to bring
him to his senses. Asha could not help
despising Mahendra for having fallen so
low. Need one single infatuation have so
destroyed every side of his character? One
evening as her spasms came on Rajlakshmi
was reminded of Vihari. "D’you know, my
dear, where Vihari is now-a-davs?” she
asked.
Asha understood. Vihari had always
been at Rajlakshmi’s side in times of suffering, so she was naturally thinking of him
now. Alas that Vihari, the staunch support
of this household, should also have been
driven away! Had he been here, the
mother would have been properly looked
after, for he was not heartless like the other.
"Has Mahin been quarrelling with
Vihari? ’Twas very wrong of him. He
hasn’t a truer friend.” The tears gathered
to Rajlakshmi’s eyes as she spoke.
One by one sundry past events flitted
through Asha’s mind ; in how many ways
had Vihari tried to warn her of the danger ahead and how had his attempts succeeded only in turning her away from him.
Asha felt she wanted to scourge herself as
her blind folly came home to her.
Why should not Providence punish such an
ungrateful silly for repulsing her only
friend and taking her only enemy to her
bosom? Why should not the sigh with
which broken-hearted Vihari had left this
house haunt it like an evil spirit?
After lying quietly while,with a thoughtful countenance, Rajlakshmi pursued her
reflections aloud: "Had Vihari been here,
my child, he’d have been able to save us.
Things would never have been allowed to
go so far!”
Asha thought on in silence. Rajlakshmi
plaintively continued: "If he had known
of my illness, he could never have stayed
away.”
Asha could divine that Rajlakshmi
wanted Vihari to know. How helpless
must she be feeling in his absence.
Mahendra had turned down the lights
in his room and was standing in the moonlight near the window. He had lost all
interest in his studies, nor had he any
pleasure in his home. When intercourse
with the near and dear had ceased to be
natural they can neither be cast away likt
outsiders, nor taken back to the same old
intimacy—their irremovable closeness weighs
unbearably on the heart. Mahendra
could not bear to go near his mother. The
nervous anxiety with which she looked up
at his face whenever he happened into her
presence hurt him sorely. In Asha's company it was as difficult to talk as to
remain silent. Thus did the time hang
heavy on him. He had firmly resolved not
to see Binodini till the week was overthere were two days left, the question was
how to get through these two days.
Mahendra became aware of footsteps in
the room. He knew Asha had entered, but
remained looking out of the window pretending he had not heard. Asha could see
he was only pretending, but did not leave
the room. "I only want a word with you,"
she said from behind, "and then I’ll go.”
"Why need you go!” said Mahendra
turning round; "sit down a bit, won'!
you
Asha ignored his attempt at courtesy
as she replied standing: "Brother Vihari
ought to be informed of mother’s illness.''
Mahendra’s sorest spot was touched
He tried to control himself as he said
"Why ought he? Don’t you trust in my
treatment?”
Asha’s outraged susceptibilities a!
Mahendra’s neglect of his mother’s illness
would be repressed no longer. She blurted
out: "Well, she’s not got the least better,
but is growing worse and worse.”
Mahendra felt the heat behind this
apparently simple statement. Asha had
never before hinted at a rebuke. His
wounded pride found vent in sarcasm:
"I’ll have to take lessons in medicine from
you, I see.”
This came as the last straw on the neg
lect and humiliation which had been piled
on her. Moreover the room was dark
So the meek and long-suffering Asha flashed
back: "You can at least learn from me
how to take care of your mother.”
This unaccustomed retort lashed
Mahendra into cruetly. "You know,” he
said, "why I forbade your friend Vihari
the house. Have you started thinking o*
him again!”
Asha swiftly left the room, swept away
by a very whirlwind of shame ; not shame
for herself, but that steeped in guilt a?
Mahendra was, he should be so lost to
sense of decency as to utter such a baseless
calumny. A very mountain-load of shatue
to would not suffice to cover up such shamesessness!
Mahendra realised how utterly defeated
he was when Asha had gone. He could
never have imagined that Asha under any
circumstances would be able to so put
him in the wrong. He felt himself weltering
in the dust where his throne had once
been ; for the first time he was afraid lest
Asha’s sorrow should be turned into loathing.
On the other hand the thought of Vihari
roused his anxiety about Binodini to an
unbearable pitch.' What if Vihari had returned from his travels? What if Binodini
had in the meantime discovered his whereabouts? It was not impossible that they
had even met! Mahendra could no longer
keep to his resolve.
That night Rajlakshmi’s breathing
trouble was much worse. She could bear
it no longer and had Mahendra sent for.
Gasping out her words with the greatest
difficulty, she said: "Mahin, I should very
much like to see Vihari, he hasn’t been here
for such a long time.”
Asha was fanning her mother-in-law.
She hung her head as Mahendra replied:
"He’s not here, he’s gone travelling out
West.”
“My heart tells me he’s here,” said Rajlakshtni, "but he’s not coming to us
because of your treatment of him. For
ray sake you must go to him to-morrow.”
“All right. I’ll go,” said Mahendra. So
every one was calling upon Vihari. He
felt himself left alone in the world!
XLIV
Early the next morning Mahendra betook himself to Vihari’s lodgings. He
found the servants loading a lot of furniture on bullock-carts. "What is up?” asked
Mahendra of Vihari’s man Bhoju.
>• “Master has taken a villa on the river,”
replied Bhoju. "These things are going
lef there.”
I “Is your master at home then?” inquired
Mahendra. "He’s been home for the last
two day's, Sir,” was the reply, "but now
i h^’s gone to the villa.”
j~,Mahendra waxed exceedingly afraid,
jre had no doubt now that while he had
been away Vihari and Binodini had met.
He could see in imagination other bullockreretsj being loaded in front of Binodini’s
door. "This is why," he concluded, "fool
that I am, was kept at a distance by
Binodini.”
Mahendra got into his carriage and
drove off without a moment’s delay, every
now and then shouting abuse at the coachman for the slowness of the horse. Arrived
at the door he saw no signs of any exodus.
Could they' have already- gone? Out he
jumped in a hurry and thumped at the
door. As soon as the boy- had opened it
he asked him: "All’s well, I hope?”
"Certainly Sir, everything’s all right,
Sir,” said the boy- in reply-.
Mahendra went upstairs and found
Binodini had gone for her bath. Going
into her empty bed-room he rolled on the
bed she had slept in last night, pressing
the coverlet to his breast and to his lips as
he muttered, "Cruel! Cruel!” After thus relieving his pent-up emotion, Mahendra got
up and impatiently awaited Binodini’s appearance. As he paced about the room he
noticed an open newspaper lying on the
door-bed. He took it up absently to help
him to get through the interval and the
first thing on which his eye fell was Vihari’s
name. In a moment the paper had captured his whole attention. Some correspondent was writing about a nursing home for
poor clerks which had been started on the
riverside by Vihari.
l-inodini must have read this piece of
news. With w-hat feelings? She must have
wanted to fly to that nursing home. Not
only that, but this idea of Vihari’s must
have further raised him in her estimation.
"Humbug!” said Mahendra to himself.
"Sheer fussiness! Vihari had always
fussed about other people's affairs since his
childhood.” Mahendra applauded his own
simplicity and straightforwardness in comparison: "I hate this posing as a philanthropist to delude simple folk,” said he to
himself. But, alas, everyone, especially
one, might not appreciate his supremely
straightforward passivity. It seemed to
him Vihari had scored a point against him.
Hearing footsteps Mahendra folded up
the newspaper and sat on it. As Binodini
entered the room fresh from her bath
Mahendra looked up at her face and was
astonished. A strange subtle change had
come over her ; the expression of an ascetic who had done penance by the blazing
fire was hers ; her figure was thinner and
through the pallor of her countenance
shone a light.
Binodini had given up all hopes of
Vihari. The supreme contempt for her
which she now imagined him to entertain, was burning her by day and by
night, nor did she know any way by which
she could save herself from being utterly
consumed. Vihari’s leaving town seemed
like a rebuke to her, now he was beyond
the reach even of her repentance.
Then again the active untiring Binodini
felt that she would suffocate in these little
lodgings for want of something to do—her
pent-up energies seemed to be tearing her
to pieces. The idea of a useless joyless
loveless life spent in the confines of these
rooms made her outraged nature want to
dash itself against the sky in a vain rebellious attempt to escape her fate.
Her hate and contempt for Mahendra,
whose insensate folly had thus hemmed
her in and closed for her all avenues of escape, knew no bounds. She realised that
it would be impossible to keep him long
at a distance ; that in these small rooms
he needs must come and sit close by her ;
that day by day at every opportunity he
would draw nearer and nearer, inch by
inch, impelled by inscrutable attractions ;
that a hideous conflict would ensue in the
darkness and amidst the mire of this closed
in pit, between fascination on the one side
and disgust on the other. How was she
to free herself from the coils of the loathsome slimy ravenous reptile which she
with her own hands had unearthed from
the depths of Mahendra’s heart? A great
dread had come upon Binodini. Where
would this end ; when would she be out
of it into the open?
Mahendra’s jealousy glared up at the
sight of her pale worn face. Had he then
no power in himself wherewith he could
wrench out the thoughts of Vihari from
the mind of his devotee? Was there no
cloud-wrapped inaccessible spot away from
the world to which he could flv away with
her as an eagle with a lamb, where he
could keep his tender prey safely hidden
away at his breast? His jealousy gave fourfold force to his longings. Could he allow
Binodini out of his sight again even for an
instant? He must guard against the insidious thoughts of Vihari from moment
to moment—he dared not relax his vigilance over even the minutest point through
which they could possibly gain entrance.
Mahendra had read in the old Sanskrit
poems of how the pangs of absence from t!
beloved made more delicate the beautv
woman. The more true he felt this to be
in Binodini’s case to-day, the more was ho
heart churned into a turmoil by the alter
nation of pleasure and pain.
Binodini after standing quietly a while
asked: "Have you had your tea this
morning?”
"What if I have?” said Mahendra; "neeo
that make you chary of offering me on:
made by yourself?” —‘Oh fill me the cup—
he sang.
Perhaps Binodini deliberately intend?]
to put a damper on Mahendra’s risins
spirits. "D’you know whereabout friend
Vihari is, nowadays?” she asked.
Mahendra’s face fell at once as he answered: "He’s not in Calcutta now."
Binodini.—"What’s his address?”
Mahendra.—"He apparently does n:
want it to be known.”
Binodini.—"Couldn’t it be discover?]
by7 inquiry?”
Mahendra.—"1 don’t see that it’s so
very necessary.”
Binodini.—"Is necessity everything, and
life-long friendship nothing?”
Mahendra.—"He may have been mj
life-long friend—but the urgency seems to
be all on your side!”
Binodini.—"That ought to shame you
It’s strange that you haven’t been able
to learn what true friendship should be
from so true a friend.”
Mahendra.—"I’m not so concerned
about that. But if I ’d learnt from him
how to steal away women’s hearts, tba:
lesson would have stood me in good steal
to-day.”
Binodini.—"That’s a lesson which it’s
not enough to want to learn. You must
have the heart.”
Mahendra.—"If you know the great
Teacher’s address tell me—let me get the
initiation from him—then we’ll see about
the heart!”
Binodini.—"Don’t you talk to me anymore about your heart if you can’t even
find your friend’s address. Who can trust
you after the wayr you’ve behaved with
friend Vihari?”
Mahendra.—"Had you not trusted me
absolutely you’d not have dared insult me
so! If you hadn’t been so confident of my
love you couldn’t have made me so miserable. Vihari knows the art of not being
snared himself. Had he taught that art
to this unfortunate creature, he would
have been a friend indeed!”
“Vihari happens to be a man, that’s
why he can’t be snared” ; with which
Binodini closed the conversation and
quietly stood at the window with her
loose hair hanging down her back.
Mahendra jumped to his feet in a sudden
fury and clenching his fists shouted: "What
makes you dare to treat me thus? If you’re
not paid back, is it because of your power
or my forbearance? If y-ou must think
of me as a beast, know me for a beast of
prey! I’m not coward enough not to know
howto strike!” Then for a while he was
silent as he kept his eyes fixed on Binodini’s
face. Then he said again entreatingly:
“Binod, let’s get away out of this—anywhere. Be it to the West, be it to the
hills, wherever you please, but come
away. This is no place to be alive in.
I'm dying by inches.”
"Let’s go at once,” replied Binodini,
“to the West!”
Mahendra.—"To what place?”
Binodini.—"To no place at all. We
won’t stay anywhere for more than a
day—will wander about.”
Mahendra.—"All right. Let’s start
to-night.” Binodini agreed and went oft
to see to the cooking of a meal for
Mahendra.
Mahendra was now sure that the news
about Vihari in the paper had not caught
Binodini’s eye. In fact Binodini had not
of late been in a mood to be going through
a newspaper. Mahendra took care that
the paper should not fall into Binodini’s
hands before they started.
XLV
They kept Mahendra’s lunch ready at
home under the impression that he would
soon be returning with news of Vihari.
As it began to get late the suffering Kajlakshmi got more and more anxious. As
it was she had got no sleep last night and
finding this anxiety to be now further
racking her nerves, Asha sent to inquire.
She learned that Mahendra’s carriage had
returned empty. The Coachman on being
sent for told them that Mahendra had
gone from Vihari’s house to the Pataldanga rooms. Rajlakshmi turned her face
over to the w’all in despair. Asha remained
sitting like a statue at her head fanning
her.
On other days Rajlakshmi wrould insist
on Asha going and having her dinner. Now
she said nothing. Now that Mahendra,
knowing how ill she had been last night,
had still been unable to resist the wiles of
Binodini, she felt she had nothing more
to do, say or wish for in this world. Of
course she knew that Mahendra had not
taken her illness very seriously; that he
had supposed it was only another attack,
like the attack which had come and gone
before, and would get well in due course;
and so was easy' in mind. But this unanxious easiness of mind was what hurt
Rajlakshmi most. The strength of his
infatuation did not allow of any other
duty, any other fear, gaining possession
of his mind ; that was why he could so
lightly treat the illness and the sufferings
of his mother; that was why he had
slipped away so shamelessly as soon as
an opportunity had occurred, lest her illness, growing wrorse, should tie him to her
bedside. Rajlakshmi had no longer the
least desire to get well again—in her bitterness at his desertion she wanted to prove
the groundlessness of Mahendra’s ease of
mind.
When it was past two o’clock Asha said:
"Mother, it’s time to take your medicine.”
But Rajlakshmi gave no replyr. When
Asha rose to pour it out she said: "You
needn’t bother about the medicine, child.
Y'ou may go.”
Asha could quite understand her despair, and when she found that her motherin-law’s state of mind was making her
heart w’orse she could contain herself
no longer and in trying to keep back her
tears she sobbed out aloud. Rajlakshmi
painfully turned over towards Asha, and
said, as she tenderly stroked her arm:
"You’re still young, my little mother, you
’ve plenty of time to see happiness yet.
Don’t trouble about me any more. I ’ve
lived long enough.” But Asha’s fit of
sobbing grew only more violent as she
vainly pressed the edge of her sari over
her mouth.
Thus lingeringly passed the joyless day
from the sick room. In the midst of the
despairing heart of these two women the
hope still persisted that Mahendra would
come. They would start at the least
dust” * in the country. Its dimness lacks
both the cheerfulness of the light that remains and the seclusion of the darkness
that comes—it makes sadness heavier and
despair tearless ; it takes away the
strength from hope and effort, but does
not bring the peace of repose or aloofness.
In the graceless murkiness of that sickroom Asha silently rose and lit a lamp.
‘‘I can’t bear the light, child,” said Rajlakshmi. "Put it outside the room.”
Asha placed the lamp in the passage
and came and sat down again. When the
darkness growing thicker brought into
the room the outside night, then Asha softly suggested, "Shall I send him word,
mother?”
"No, my dear,” replied Rajlakshmi
firmly. "I charge you never to send him any
message about me.”
Asha was merely silent. She had not
even strength enough left for tears.
"There’s a letter from master,” called the
servant from outside. It suddenly occurred
to Rajlakshmi that Mahendra might have
been taken ill and so being unable to come
had sent a letter. "Will you see, my
dear,” she said in a repentant flurry,
"what does Mahin say?” Asha went
outside and read the letter held by her
trembling hands at the light of the lamp.
He had not been feeling well for some time,
he wrote, and so was going West for a
change. There was no reason to be anxious
about the mother’s illness. He had engaged Dr. Nabin to visit her regularly. He
also gave directions as to what was to be
done, if she could not sleep or if her head
ached. A parcel of dietetic preparations
from the pharmacy' accompanied the letter.
In a postscript was the request to send him
news of his mother addressed to Giridih.
Asha felt turned to stone. Her indignation entirely got the better of her sorrow.
How could she give this cruel message to
the mother? Rajlakshmi got more alarmed at the time Asha was taking. "What
has he written, child, come tell me, quick,”
she said as in her anxiety she sat up on
the bed.
Asha then came in and slowly read out
the missive from beginning to end. "What’s
that about his not feeling all right? Will
you read that over again?” asked Rajlakshmi.
Asha read over again: "I’ve been feeling
sound and each would know the thought
of the other. Gradually the shades of evening fell. Dusk in the interior of Calcutta
homes has not the charm of the “cow-
out of sorts for some time, so I-
"Let it be, you needn’t read anv more
Of course he’s feeling out of sorts, since
old mother won’t die but only plagues bin
with her illnes! What made you worn
him about my illness? He was at last at
home, in his own room busy with hi?
hooks, troubling nobody; what good ha?
it done you to drive him out with this talk
of his mother’s illness? What would it
have mattered to anyone if I’d been found
dead in my bed? Your troubles seem to
make you no wiser.” With which Rajlakshmi dropped back on the bed. Then
was a creaking of shoes outside. "The
Doctor's come” announced the boy.
The Doctor came into the room. Asha
veiled herself and stood behind the bee
port. "Will you tell me what the matter
is?” asked the Doctor.
"Matter!” said the exasperated Ka;
lakshmi. "What can be the matter
Haven’t people got to die. D’you think
your medicine can make me immortal?"
"We may not be able to make men immortal, but at least we can alleviate suffer
ing—”
"The medicine for suffering was to k
had in the old days when widows bunt
themselves with their husbands,” interrupted Rajlakshmi sharply. "Now will yon
leave me, Doctor? I want to be alone."
"Mayn’t I just feel your pulse—” suggested the Doctor in great trepidation.
"No, you mayn’t,” said Rajlakshmi, now
thoroughly7 aroused. "My pulse is ai
right, I tell you, it’s not going to give way
in a hurry. Now, will you go?”
So Doctor Nabin had to go. He sent
for Asha into the next room and question- 1
ed her about the malady7. After hearing
all he wanted, he re-entered the invalid's
room with a grave face. "Madam,” said
he, "Mahendra has left you in niy
care ; if you do not allow me to treat you
he will be very much grieved.”
The idea of Mahendra’s g r ie f sounded
to Rajlakshmi like a joke. "Don't you
worry so much over Mahendra’s feelings,
she replied. "Everybody7 in the world has
his sorrow, Doctor ; but this particular
sorrow won’t be too much for Mahin. 1
can assure you. Will you leave me now
and let me get a little sleep.”
Doctor Nabin felt it would hardly do to
irritate the patient further. So he hesitatingly backed out of the room and, leaving
full directions with Asha, departed.
As soon as Asha returned to the room
Rajlakshmi said, "Go. my child, and take a
little rest. You ’ve been by my sick-bed
the whole day. Send the maid here and
let her a tten d in the next room."
Asha u n d erstood R ajlak sh m i. T h is w a s
not affection ate solicitu d e— it w a s a co m
mand, and th ere w a s n o th in g fo r it b u t to
obey. She sen t fo r the m a id , and w e n t and
stretched h e rs e lf on the co o l floor-b ed in
the darkness o f her ro o m.
The w h o le d a y ’s fa s t and distress o f m ind
which she h ad u n d ergon e had th o ro u g h ly
worn her o u t. T h ere w a s a m a rria g e
celebration in the n eigh b o u rh o o d and the
wedding p ipes w ere p la y in g. T h e d a rk
ness o f the ro o m seem ed to th ro b to the
familiar m e lo d y and b ea t a t A s h a ’s h eart.
Every little d e ta il o f her o w n w e d d in g
night cam e back as a d rea m -p ictu re and
filled the em ptin ess b efore her ; the ligh ts,
the clam our, th e c r o w d ;— th e scent o f the
flower g a rla n d s and san d al p aste, o f the
new robes and the b u rn in g incense ;— the
bridal tre m o r in the d ep th s o f her h ea rt o f
bashfulness, fea r and jo y ;a n d as her m em ories crow ded rou nd her her s o r r o w gain ed
in strength. L ik e fam ished ch ild ren s trik in g
a t th e ir m o th e r fo r fo o d , these w a k en ed
m em ories o f h a p p y d a y s cla m ou red and
to r e a t her h e a rt fo r sustenance. T h e y refused t o a llo w th e ex h au sted A sh a a n y
rest. A s she clasped her hands in p ra y e r,
th e peacefu l lo v in g figu re o f her e a rth ly
g u a rd ia n a n gel, her K a k i, shone th ro u g h
th e tea rfu l m ist in her eyes. A sh a had
v o w e d she w o u ld n ever d r a g th a t d e v o te d
w o m a n fro m her retirem en t back in to the
s o rr o w s and tria ls o f the w o r ld. B u t t o
d a y she cou ld find no o th e r refu ge, th ere
w a s n o rift in th e p a ll o f d ark n ess w h ich
h ad closed rou n d her. S o in th is d a y o f
her e x tr e m ity she lig h te d a la m p and
ta k in g her w r itin g m a te ria ls on her lap,
she e v e ry n o w and then w ip ed her eyes as
she w r o te:
To your gracious lotus feet,* Kaki. I have none but
you to-day. Come here just once and draw this miserable creature into your lap, or else I die. I know not
what more to write. With thousand prostrations at
your feet.
XLVI
When Annapurna came back from
Benares, she softly went into Rajalakshtm’s room, and reverently
took, the dust of her feet on her head. In
spite of the quarrel and estrangement
which had intervened, Rajlakshmi felt at
the sight of Annapurna as if she had recovered lost treasure. She realised, now
she had got her back, that inwardly and
unknown to herself she had been missing
her sister-in-law ; that much of her weariness, and her irritation had been due to
the want of her ; and her heart at once
went out to occupy its rightful place. The
close comradeship of the days when the
two sisters-in-law had first come into this
house as brides, and taken tip for their
own the joys and sorrows of the household embarked together on its career of
duty and festivity, calamity and death,
once more asserted itself. Now in the da3r
of her supreme trouble the comrade of her
youth was back at her side, and Mahendra,
for whom she had not hesitated to cruelly
wound even her, where was he to-cray?
Annapurna taking the hand of the
stricken woman into her own said -."Sister!"
"Sister replied Rajlakshmi, but could
get no further. The tears coursed down her
face. Thg sight was too much for Asha,
who went into the next room and sat
down on the floor to weep.
Annapurna dared not ask either Asha
or Rajlakshmi for news of Mahendra. So
she sent for old Sadhu and inquired:
"Uncle, where's Mahin?”
Whereupon Sadhu gave her the whole
story of Mahendra’s and Binodini’s doings.
"And what’s the news of Vihari?” she
continued.
"He’s not been here a long while now,"
said Sadhu; "I couldn’t give you any particulars about him.”
"Will you go to his lodging, and find
out for me?’’
When old Sadhu returned from this
errand he reported: "He's not at home.
He's gone to stay at a villa on the river
at Bally.”
Annapurna next sent for Dr. Nabin and
made inquiries about his patient’s
condition.
"Dropsy has supervened on a weak
heart” said the Doctor, "Death may come
at any moment.”
When as usual Rajlakshmi’s symptoms got Worse towards evening Annapurna suggested "Sister, may I send for
Dr. Nabin?”
"No, sister,” said Rajlakshmi, "Dr. Nabin
won’t be able to do anything for me.”
"Then whom would you like to call in?”
"I should like you to send.word to Vihari,’’ said Rajlakshmi. Annapurna received
a shock. She had never been able to get
over that evening when she had driven
Vihari away with contumely into the
darkness. Vihari would never again come
to her door, Hhe knew. Nor had she any
hope of ever being able to do him reparation.
Annapurna went upstairs to Mahendra’s
room. Of all the bouse this had of old been
the abode of joy. To-day it was forlorn
and cheerless, the beds unmade, the furni*
ture and ornaments uncared for, the plants
on the terrace withered for want, of
watering.
Finding her Kaki going upstairs Asha
followed her. Annapurna folded her to her
breast and kissed her forehead. Asha sank
down at her feet and laid her head on
them. "Kaki!" she wailed, "give me your
blessing, give me strength. I never thought
people could suffer so much. O mother!
how much longer is this going to last?”
Annapurna sat down beside he£, on the
floor. Asha lay prone with her head at Annapurna's feet, till her Kaki drew it gently
on to her lap, and sat thus silent, her hands
clasped in unspoken prayer. Her silent
blessing entered into the depths of Asha’s
heart and brought the peace so long unknown. She felt that her own prayers
were about to be answered. Providence
might he deaf to her, but how could it fail
to respond to her aunt’s supplication? Asha
drew in a long breath of renewed strength
and hope as she sat up. "Won’t you write
to brother Vihari to come up?’’ she ventured.
"A letter won’t do, my child," said
Annapurna.
“How will you send word to him,
then?"
XLVII
While Vihari was wandering about in
the west country it had occurred to him
that he would not lie able to regain his
peace of mind unless he tied himself down
to some occupation. That was how he
had come to think of a nursings-home
for poor clerks. Like fish gasping through
tlie hot weather in the slime of some
shallow pool of the starved life of the
family-ridden slum-dwelling clerk. These
wan and worried, gentle folk had always
appealed to Vihari’s pity. So the desire to
give them the leafy shade and open ait of
the river-side came upon him.
Vihari took a villa at-Bally and set
some Chinese carpenters to work building
pretty little cottages on the grounds.
But the peace he sought did not come. The
nearer came the day for beginging work
the further from it did his mind stray. He
kept repeating to himself: "There is'nojoy,
no fulness, no uplifting in this work, it’s
only an unbeautiful burden.” Never before
had the prospect of work so depressed
Vihari.
There was a time when Vihari wanted
nothing. He could engross himself with
whatever happened to turn up. Now
some hunger had risen within him which
demanded satisfaction before it would
allow him to be absorbed by ought else.
Impelled by force of habit he would put
his hand to this and that only to seek
escape from it the very next moment.
Tne y«jpth which had lain dormant in
Vihari and to which he had paid but scant
heed had awoken at the touch of Binodini’s fairy wand and like the new-fledged
Garuda* was ravaging the universe for
its sustenance. This inordinately hungry
creature was not familiar to Vihari. Itkept
him so thoroughly busy that he was at a
loss how to attend to the lean and
wasting clerks of Calcutta.
The swollen June current of the Gangest
was rushing past the villa. Every now and
then the blue clouds would come up and
hang heavily in dense masses over the
think foliage on the opposite bank. The
surface of the river would then look like a
sword of steel, in places shimmering with
a grey lustre, in others flashing forth fire,
and whenever Vihari would catch sight of
this pageantry of the rainy season, the
door of his heart would open. What was
the figure which would emerge therefrom
into the cool blue-grey light of the clouded
sky, fresh from her bath with her loose
moist hair flowing thickly around her,
would fasten on him alone a gaze which
gathered into its poignant intensity all the
scattered flashes of light piercing through
the cloud rifts?
Vihari had now come to look upon the
happy serenity of the days of old as so
muen of his life lost. How many just such
moonlit nights, had brought their offerings
of nectar but had silently returned with
them untasted, from the door of his
empty heart. What songs had remained
unsung in those rare auspicious moments,
how incomplete had been the festivity.
I’ale and feeble seemed all his previous memories in the glow of that rosy kiss held
up to him by Binodini. How could he
even have got'through all those years as
Mahendra’s shadow? What a futile existence. He could not then have even imagined the ravishing melodies which were
now wrung from sky, earth and water by
the pangs of love. How could he ever
cast out from his mind the image of Binodini, whose embracing arms had in a
moment lifted him into this entrancing
world of beauty. Her gaze, her longing
had now spread all over the universe, her
passionate breathing coursed ceaselessly
through his pulsating veins, the soft
warmth of her touch enveloped and kept
open like a flower his enraptured heart.
Why then was Vihari keeping himself
away at this distance from Binodini?
Because he could think of no earthly relationship worthy to bear the flood ofbeauty
in winch Binodini had steeped him. By
plucking at the lotus the slime is stirred
up. Where and how could lie keep her so
that what was beautiful should not liecome revolting? And if there was to be a
scrimmage with Mahendra over her, the
very possibility was too disgusting to
be entertained even in a corner of his
thoughts. That was why Vihari had
enshrined the image of his beloved in the
midst of the symphony of the universe
and was burning his heart away in incense
offerings.
This morning Vihari was lying under
the shade of a jambool tree at the south
end of his villa garden, lazily watching
the mill-owner's boats passing and repassing. It began to get late. The servant
came and asked when he. was to serve his
meal. "Let it lie,” said Vihari. The head
carpenter came and wanted some directions about his work. "Wait a while,” said
Vihari.
And then he started as he suddenly saw
before him—Annapurna. He jumped up
and prostrating nimself clasped ner feet
and touched the dust with his head. Annapurna touched his head with a tender
benediction and then asked with tearful
cloudy evenings followed by just such
"I ’ll go and visit him myself, to-morrow
morning,” was Annapurna’s reply.
concern: "Why are you looking so thin and
worn, Vihari?’'
"That’s to get back your affection,
K aki!” replied Vihari.
The tears overflowed from Annapurna’s
eyes, whereat Vihari was greatly disturbed. "You couldn’t have had your breakfast, Kaki," said he at length.
"No, it’s not time for my meal yet," said
Annapurna.
"Let me arrange your cooking things*
for you,” said Vihari. "It’s a long time
since I ’ve tasted your cooking, or had
consecrated foodt either."
Vihari asked no questions about Mahendra or Asha. Annapurna had one day
closed with her own hands the door to that
subject. Vihari’s wounded pride impelled
him to strictly respect that closed door.
After their meal Annapurna said: "I ’ve
kept thqboat waiting at the landing place,
Vihari. You must come with me to Calcutta,"
"What business have I in Calcutta?"
“Sister is very ill," announced Annapurna, "she wants to see you.”
Vihari was startled. "Where’s Dada?’’
he asked.
"He’s not in Calcutta—he’s gone out
west."
Vihari went pale and remained silent.
"Don’t you know everything, then?"
asked Annapurna.
"1 know something," Vihari replied,"but
not up to the end."
Annapurna then told him the story of
Mahcndra’s flight with Binodini, westwards.
All the colour was washed out of sky
earth and water in Vihari’s eyes. All the
honey in the storehouse of his fancy was
turned to gall. "Was the deceitful Binodini
playing with me that evening?” was his
thought. "Was her loving self-surrender
only a trick? So she has shamelessly left her
village home, to go off west with Mahendra alone? Oh shame on her, and shame
cleared up moonlit night; where was their
magic?
XLVIII
Vihari was wandering how he could
bring himself to bear the sight of the stricken Asha. He had no sooner passed the
entrance door than the weight of the despair gathered over the masterless house
seemed to overwhelm him. Vihari’s head
was bowed with shame at Mahcndra’s
shameless desertion. He could not offer to
the familiar old servants his usual genial
greetings. His legs almost refused to carry
him towards the inner apartments. With
what face was he to look upon the shrinking cowering Asha whom her husband had
openly flouted and forsaken and who denuded by that supreme insult of the last right
of womanhood was left exposed to the
pitying gaze of the curious.
But he got no time to give way to these
reflections and hesitations. As soon as he
had stepped into the inner apartments
Asha hurried up to him saying: "Be quick,
brother, mother is suffering terribly.”
This was the first time she had ever
spoken directly to Vihari. Misfortune
sweeps away artificial barriers in a day
and lands those who were at a distance on
the same spot of refuge. And as in the day
of misfortune the household is neglected,
so does its mistress lose her reserve—the
little niceties and refinements remain unattended to. It hurt Vihari to see how
Asha’s anxiety had overcome her bashfulness; for it showed him above all else what
a terrible blow Mahendra had dealt to this
household of his.
Vihari went into Rajlakshmi’s room.
She was still pale from a suffocative spasm,
but had otherwise recovered, as it had ndt
lasted long. As soon as Vihari had made
his obeisance and taken the dust of her feet
she motioned him to sit on the side of her
bed and said feebly: "How are you,
Vihari? I’ve not seen you for an age."
"Why didn't you let me know you
were ill, mother?” replied Vihari. "I ’d have
come fast enough then."
"Don’t I know that, ray child?” -said
Rajlakshmi softly. "It’s true f haven’t
held you in my womb, but whom have I
in the world more my own?” Her eyes
filled with tears as she spoke..,
Vihari rose and turned away towards
the niche in the wall-pretending to examhpe
the mediciae bottles. Then turning back
after he had recovered himself he tried to
feel her pulse.
"Don’t worry about what my pulse
says,” said Rajlakshmi, "but tell me why
you are looking so thin." And with her
thin hands she stroked his face and neck.
"These bones of mine will never get
more flesh on them,” said Vihari, "till I
have had some more of your fish curry.
Get well soon mother. Meanwhile I’ll keep
the cooking things ready."
"Get things ready quickly, chi Id,’’replied
Rajlakshmi, with a wan smile, "but not
for my cooking.” Pressing his hand in her
own she continued: "You must get yourself a wife, Vihari, for there's nobody to
look after you.” "Look here, sister,” she
then called to Annauputua, “you really
must get our boy a bride. Just look at his
condition^
"Get well, first, sister," rejoined Annapurna. "That’s your duty, which you must
see through. We’ll all assist at the festivities.”
"My time is up, Sister. Sec that he's
made happy. I'll have no chance of
repaying my debt to him, but God will
bless him,” with which Rajlakshmi placed
her hand on Vihari's head.
Annapurna looked at him affectionately
through her tears. Asha was entirely
Overcome and had to leave the room.
All of a sudden Rajlakshmi seemed to recollect something and called for her
daughter-in-law. "Have you ordered dinner
for Vihari,” she asked as soon as Asha came
back. "Don’t you be afraid, mother,"
laughed Vihari. "Everyone in this house
has got to know this greedy son of yours.
As Boon as I stepped into the house I saw
Bami, the maid running in with a huge
basket of fish. I seem to have earned an
undying reputation.” Still smiling, Vihari
turned to Asha.
Asha was not bashful to-day. She
accepted his playfulness with a return
smile. Asha had never fully realised before
how much Vihari had meant to this
household. She had often ignored him
as a casual visitor; she had sometimes
not succeeded in hiding her distaste for
his visits. Her repentant heart paid him
hill homage and sympathy to-day.
"Sister!” said Rajlakshmi, "the cook
won’t be able to manage it alone. You
must superintend the cooking. This
provincial * son of ours can’t do without
whole heap of spices.”
"W hat!" exclaimed, Vihari “your mother
came from Vikrampur and you dare call
a Nadia boy provincial?”.
This led to some further badinage
and after a long interval the dismal pall
of depression was lifted a little in that
house.
But umidst all this conversation the
name of Mabeudra was not once taken.
Formerly Mahendra used to be the only
subject of conversation between Vihari and
Rajlakshmi. He was astounded to find
her completely silent about him to-day.
When Rajlakshmi showed signs ol fatigue, Vihari came away from her room and
said to Annapurna: "Mother's illness is a
serious one.”
"That is quite clear,” agreed Annapurna
as she sank on to the floor near her window.
Afteralongpau.se she continued: "Won’t
you call Mahendra home, Vihari ; there’s
no time to lose."
Vihari was silent for a time ; then he replied: "I’ll do as you command me. Does
anybody know his address?”
“Not exactly,” said Annapurna. “It
must be found out. And look here Vihari.
There’s another thing 1 want to tell you.
You must do what you can for poor Asha’s
sake. If you can’t rescue Mahendra from
Binodini’s toils she won’t survive it.
You’ve only got to look at tier face to sec
that she’s got her death-blow."
Vihari smiled to himself a bitter smile.
“O lord!” he thought,"so I've got to rescue
another! And who’s going to rescue me?”
Aloud he only said: "What magic do I
know, Kaki, to be able to keep Mahendra
away from Binodini forever? His mother’s
illness may keep him quiet here for a time,
but how can wc make sure that he won't
return?"
As he spoke the dishevelled Asha, with
veil only half ad justed, came slowly up and
sat at her aunt’s feet. She thought they
were discussing her mother-in-law's illness
and was eager to be instructed about it.
The marks of suffering stamped on the face
of the devoted wife moved Vihari to an
unutterable reverence. The ordeal of fire
through which the young girl had passed
seemed to have raised her to the status of
a goddess of old. Sbe was no longer merely a young woman, but as old as divine
womanhood itself.
When Vihari had told Asha all she granted to learn about the invalid’s medicine and
diet and she had departed he turned to
Annapurna with a long-drawn breath
and said, “I ’ll rescue Mahendra."
Vihari found on inquiry at Mahendra's
bankers that he had opened an account at
their Allahabad branch.
XLIX
When Binodini reached the Railway
Station she walked straight up to an intermediate class compartment reserved for
women and took her seat in it.
"Wait a bit’’, protested Mahendra, "I
was just going to buy second class tickets
for you."
"What for?” said Binodini. "I ’m all
right." From Mahendra who in his madness had deprived her forever from her
natural refuge in society, she would
accept nothing which might look like the
price paid for her love. When Binodini was
a guest in Mahendra’s house she did
not rigidl}' observe the ascetic practices
of a widow’s life; but now she strictly
avoided all luxury. She took only one meal
a day, wore the coarsest of cloth, and her
wealth of frivolous repartee—where was it
gone? She was now so grave, so reserved,
sodistant, so terrible, that Mahendra dared
not press anything on her. Surprised,
worried and angry, Mahendra was constantly pondering over the question: "Why
after plucking me with so much effort from
so very inaccessible a place docs she now
throw me away without so much as a
glance at me?”
"For what place shall I buy tickets?"
he now asked.
"Anywhere in the West will do” , said
Binodini; "we’ll get down where the train
stops tomorrow' morning."
This sort of travelling did not appeal
to Mahendra. He hated discomfort. He
felt out of sorts if he could not get to some
town where good lodgings were to be had.
He had not the knack of contriving or
searching out or making the best of what
could be got. So he got into his compartment in the grumpiest of moods. Then
again he was in constant terror lest
Binodini should give him the slip at some
wayside station during the night.
"Thus like a baleful planet with its
satellite did Binodini travel around and
make Mahendra travel with her—she
allowed him no rest.
Binodini had the gift of rapidly making
friends. Sbe soon got intimate with the
other women in her compartment, and
would get to know all about the place to
which she was going. She would on
alighting proceed at once to the traveller’s
rest house, and with her newly made
friends spend the whole day seeing all that
was to be seen. Mahendra felt that his
uselessness was daily lowering him in
Binodini’s estimation. In fact he had
nothing to do except to take the tickets,
and the rest of the time he spent in
wrestling with the longings of his heart.
At first he had tried sight-seeing in
Binodini’s*- wake, but that soon became
intolerable. Then he took tgu- sleeping
away the day while Binodini was wandering about. No one could have imagined
that the pampered Mahendra, his mother’s
darling, could have come to such a pass.
One day after they had thus done Allahabad they were waiting in the Railway
station for their train. As it happened,
the train was running late and Binodini
whiled away the time by watching other
trains arriving and departing. She always
seemed as if she was on the look out to
meet somebody or other, as she went on
through the towns of the west country.
There was at least more peace of mind in
such a quest in the midst of the bustle of
the open road than in the suppresed life of
lonely house in the Calcutta lane.
Binodini's wandering gaze suddenly fell
upon one of the letter frames in which
undelivered letters are exposed for
inspection. Her eye was caught by
Vihari’s name on one of the envelopes.
Vihari’s name was not an uncommon
one and there was no reason to
think that this was the Vihari of her desires. Nevertheless Binodini had no doubts
on the point. She took a mental note of
the address given there and going up to
Mahendra, who was sitting gloomily ruminating on a bench, she said: "I ’ll stay some
time at Allahabad.”
Mahendra was beginning to feel rebellious. He could not stand being constantly
ordered about without any sustenance
being offered to bis hungry heart. His
manly dignity was wounded. So though
he would have liked nothing better than to
get a few days’ rest at Allahabad, he suddenly turned contrary and refused to turn
w‘th every whim of Binodini's.
"Since we’ve started to go on. go on we
must," he said sulkilv. "I’m not going to
turn back.”
“I ’m not going on," said Rinodini.
"Then you remain behind alone. I'm
going.”
"AH right," said Binodini, and without
another word she signed to a porter to take
up her things and went off towards the
Station gate.
Mahendra and his manly dignity remained sitting glumly on the bench.' He
made no move so long as Binodini remained in sight. But when without a glance
behind her she had passed out of the gate,
hejumpelTup and hailing another porter
for his luggage he rushed aft*r her. Arriving
outside he found Binodini had already
engaged and occupied a carriage. Mahendra without saying anything put his
things on top and mounted the coach box.
He did not relish the idea of facing Binodini inside after his defeat.
The carriage went on and on. An hour
passed, and the road ran along cultivated
fields leaving the populous parts of the
town behind. Mahendra felt awkward
about questioning the driver lest he should
think the woman inside to be the leader,
who had not even deigned to inform her
superfluous companion of where she was
going. With a rising temper he sat stiffly
on the box seat.
At last the carriage drew up at a secluded villa on the bank of the Jumna. Mahendra was surprised. Whose was the
villa? How had Binodini come to know
of it?
The door was locked ; after some shouting an old caretaker emerged and told
them that the owner lived close by and
that a permit from him was necessary
before he could let them in.
Binodini glanced towards Mahendra. He
had already been taken with the looks ofthe
pretty little villa. Moreover the prospect
of a rest after all this wandering hnd made
him cheer up. "All right,” said .he ; "let’s
get along to the owner. You can wait in
the carriage, while 1 go in and settle with
him.”
"I can’t gad about any more," said Binodini "You take the carriage. I’ll wait here
and rest. There's nothing to be afraid of.”
Mahendra went off with the carriage.
Binodini entered into a conversation with
the old man and found out all about who
he was, how many children he had, where
they were and what they were doing. She
deeply sympathised with him on learning
that his wife was no more. "Alas!” said
she, "what a trial it must be for you to live
all alone with no one to look after you.”
Then in the course of conversation she
asked: "And wasn’t Vihari Babu living
here?’*
"So he was, so he was," said the old
man; "and did mother happen to know
him."
"Yes, lie's related to us.”
The description that Binodini got of
Vihari and his ways left no room for doubt.
She made the old man open out the house
and show her the room in whieh he used to
sit and the one in which he slept. As the
house had been closed since his departure,
it seemed to her that the unseen Vihari’s
presence somehow hung about those
rooms, not having been allowed to be
blown away by the breezes. She seemed to
draw it in with her deep breaths, to touch
it with her whole body. But she could not
learn oi his present whereabouts. He might
be returning, nothing was certain, said the
old man. He promised to inquire from his
master and let her know.
Mahendra returned after engaging the
villa with a deposit of rent.
L
TOWARDS evening Mahendra came out
of the house and sat on the riverside. The day slowly wore itself out
in many-coloured flickers over the long
stretches of sand on the river-banks and
the seasonal clouds came up over the horizon. Darkness in a strange place does not
fall merely as a curtain—it enfolds a world
of mystery. What little of form or colour is
visible through, it speaks in an unknown
inarticulate language. The dim whiteness
of the opposite sand-bank, the ink
blackness of the smooth running waters,
the dense silence of the thick-leaved neetn
trees in the garden, mingled with the
clouded July night, to envelope Mahendra
in a tissue of dreams.
Then the clouds parted, and the moon,
a little past its full, shone through. At the
magic touch of the moon-light, the river
and its banks, the sky and its horizon,
were wafted .away out of the bonds of this
mortal world. The thread of Time was
snapped; memories of the past, and forebodings of the future were alike cut off, leaving Mahendra with Binodini by the
riverside bathed in an eternal silvery
present, out of the reach of universal
laws.
Mahendra felt intoxicated. He could
not even imagine that Binodini would repulse him to-day, that she could refuse
to fulfil this secluded bit of heaven as its
goddess. He rose on the impulse of the
moment and went in search of her into
the house.
As he came to her room, he found it full
of the scent of flowers. Binodini had been
in the garden gathering flowers and weaving them into garlands which she had twined round her hair, her neck and her wrists,
and like an overladen flowering creeper in
the spring, she was lying prone on the
moonlit bed.
Mahendra’s intoxication mantled up
afresh. "Binod,” said he in a voice which
could scarcely be heard. "I was waiting
for you beside the river. The moon came
and told me you were waiting for me
here. So I am come.”
As he spoke Mahendra came upto the
bed as if he would sit on it.
Binodini sat up with a start and putting forth her hands as if to ward off some
evil thing said,. "Away, away, don’t touch
this bed.”
The boat in fall sail ran aground.
Mahendra was staggered and stood stock
still without a word. So afraid was Binodini lest he might not heed her injunction
that she hastily got up from the bed and
came and stood on the other side of him.
"Then whom were you expecting?”
asked Mahendra at length. "For whom
have you adorned yourself?”
With her clenched hands clutching at her
breast Binodini replied: "For him who is in
my heart.”
Mahendra.—"And who may that be?
Vihari?”
Binodini.—“Don’t you dare pronounce
his name.”
Mahendra.—"And was it for him that
you’ve been wandering about in the west
country?”
Binodini.—"Yes, for him.”
Mahendra.—"And is it for him that you
are waiting here?”
Binodini. —"Yes, for him.”
•Mahendra.—"You know his address?"
Binodini.—"No, but I shall!” ,
Mahendra.—"I'll never let you.”
Binodini.—"You may not, but you’ll
never get him out of my heart.”
Mahendra at once violently attracted
and repelled by this flower-adorned lovedistracted figure, all of a sudden waxed
terrible: "I ’ll cut him out of your heart
with a knife," he shouted with clenched
fists.
Binodini was unmoved. "Your knife
will get there easier than vour love,” she
replied.
"How is it you have no feir of me?"
raged Mahendru. "Who can protect you
here?”
Binodini.—"You. You’ll protect me
against yourself.”
Mahendra.—“So this much of trust, of
respect, you still have for me?”
Binod ini.If I hadn’t I’d have killed
myself sooner than come travelling with
you.”
Mahendra.—"Why didn’t you, rather
than keep dragging me along with this
noose of trust round my neck? Just think,
what a lot of evil would hnve departed
with your death!"
Binodini,—"1 know, but as long as 1
have hopes of Vihari, 1 cannot die.”
Mahendra.—"And as long as you are
not dead my hopes will not die, and I shall
know no peace. From now 1 shall pray
with all my soul for your death. Be neither
mine, nor another’s, but depart, and leave
me in pence. My mother weeps, my wife
weeps, and even at this distance their tears
are scalding me. Until you arc dead and
beyond the reach of either of us, I shall
have no chance of wiping these tears
away.”
Mahendra rushed out of the room,
tearing to pieces the cobwebs of fancy
which Binodini had been weaving round
herself. She remained standing, gazing out
of the window,—but the nectar had evaporated from the moonbeam*?.
Binodini realised for the first time with
what violence she had uprooted Mahendra
from his normal life—and she was intensely disturbed. What power she wielded!
And yet why did not Vihari, like the
heaving sea under the full moon, come and
break at her feet? Why, instead, did this
other unnecessary passion come and break
into her meditation of him with its wailings? Wh}' would this alien sorrow repeatedly intrude and deprive her own inward
sorrow of its fulness of opportunity?
Would this storm -she had raised pester her
during the rest of her life? How was she
now to calm it?
She tore off her flower ornaments on
which Mahendra’s burning gaze had
rested. Vain was all her power, vain her
efforts, vain her verylile; the garden, the
moonlight, the riverside, this beautiful
world, all had been in vain! And yet
amidst all this emptiness the rest of the
world would go on exactly as it had
been doing. To-morrow the sun would
rise and all her petty duties would claim
her, and -the immoveable Vihari would
remain as far away as ever he was!
The tears burst through Binodini’s
eyelids. She felt that with all the strength
of her longing she was but pushing against
a stone wall. Her heart had bled all over,
but her fate had not yielded a needle’s
point of ground.
LI
Mahendra had no sleep the whole of
that night and only dozed off through
sheer weariness towards dawn. He woke
at about 9 o’clock in the morning and
hurriedly sat up. An undercurrent of last
night’s unhealed pain had persisted even
during sleep, of which he became conscious
as soon as he was fully awake.
Then all the events of the previous evening came back to him. In the morning sun
his world, his life appeared ntterly distasteful to his unrefreshed senses.
In the moment of reaction the weary
heart seeks respite from its id ol; and as
with this ebbing of passion the slime at the
bottom is uncovered, that which had
bewitched becomes repulsive.
Mahendra felt he would give anything
to be able to get rid of the toils of his
passion and go back home. The peace,
the affection, the love that had been his
seemed to him now the rarest of unattainable bliss—tlfe staunch unfailing friendship of Vihari appeared of priceless value.
"I’ll go back this very day,” said
Mahenbra aloud. "ITlleave Binodini whereev^r she may want to stay and then I ’ll
be free.” As soon as he had uttered in a
firm voice the words "I’ll be free” he felt a
great joy. The hesitation which had been
weighing on him so long was shaken off.
Upto now what he had felt to be utterly
repugnant at one moment, he had been
obliged to do the very next—for he had
FOR DECEMBER, 1914
never dared to strongly say yea or nay.
So as soon as he had resolutely announced
his decision to be free his vacillating heart
finding refuge applauded him.
Mahendra got up and after his toilet
went to seek Binodini. He found her door
closed. He knocked and asked, “Are you
still in bed?”
"No,” was the reply. “Go away now.”
Mahendra.—"I urgently want a word
with you. I won’t keep you long.”
Binodini.—"I ’ve had enough of words,
go away and don’t worry me. Let me be
alone.”
At another time such a rebuff would
only have served to fan Mahendra’s ardour. Today he felt an utter revulsion.
"So much have 1 humbled myself before
this woman,” thought he, "that she has
acquired the right of contemptuously dismissing me whenever she please^.” He then
tried to establish his own superiority:
"But I’ll win,” he assured himself. "I’ll cut
the bonds and leave her.”
After his meal Mahendra went over to
the Bank to draw out his money, and
when he had got it he wandered about the
shops in search of some nice little novelty
for his mother.
There was another knock at Binodini’s
door. At first she kept on quiet in moody
silence. Then when it was repeated she
blazed up in anger and threw it open saying, "Why will you keep on plaguing me
thus.” Before she had finished speaking
she saw that Vihari was standing there.
Vihari threw an inquiring glance into
the room just to find out if Mahendra was
also there. He saw the faded flowers and
torn garlands scattered about. In a
moment he had turned away revolted. Not
that he had never, while at a distance,allowed suspicious pictures of the sort of life
Binodini was leading to flit through his
mind. But his tricky imagination had
always contrived to surround the charming central figure with a halo which dimmed the rest of the scene. But while Vihari had just been coming up through the
garden his heart was all a flutter ; his
whole being wincing at the possibility that
the figure of his imaginings might have
been besmirched. The dreaded blow fell as
he stood beside her open door.
From a distance Vihari had been able to
hope that with the baptism of his love he
would readily wash atvay all the stains
from Binodini’s life. Now that he was nea
it seemed by no means so easy. Where
was the impulse of pity that was to have
flooded his heart? Rather was he over
whelmed with rising waves of disgust, so
soiled did he find her to be.
"Mahendra! Mahendra!” called Vihari
as he turned away meekly accepting the
insult.
Binodini replied, "Mahendra is not
here, he has gone to town.”
Finding Vihari about to depart, Binodini
continued, "I beg of you on my knees,
friend Vihari, stay just a while.”
Vihari had made up his mind not to
give ear to any entreaty and to lose no
time in putting a distance between himself
and this scene of shame, but at Binodini’s
pitiful appeal his legs failed him for a
moment.
"If you leave me thus contemptuously
today,” Binodini went on, "I swear to you
I ’ll die.”
Vihari turned back. "Binodini,” said he,
"why seek to entangle my life with
yours? What have I done to you? Have
I ever stood in yoflr way or interfered
with your joys and sorrows?”
"I’ve already told you,” replied Binodini,
"how much of me you’ve made your own.
You did’nt believe me then. Still even
in the face of your contempt I ’ll tell it you
once more, for you’ve never given me the
time to make" it known without words,
with less brazen directness of speech. You
have thrust me away, yet at your feet l
tell you, I love.”
"Don’t say that w’ord,” interrupted
Vihari. "Dont bring it even to your lips ;
you’ve left no room for me to believe it.”
Binodini.—“In lesser minds there mayn’t
be room. But there is in you. That’s why
I ’m imploring you to stay awhile.”
Vihari.—"What does it matter if I believe or not, for I suppose your life will
still go on the way it’s been doing!”
Binodini.—"I know, it won’t matter to
you. ’Tis my fate I can’t stand beside
you without damage to your fair name, so
I needs must keep my distance. But my
heart won’t forego th;s much claim on
you that wherever you may be you’re to
think tenderly of me. You had once just
a little bit of respect for me. That would I
keep as my only support, that’s why you
must hear me out today. So I beg you
with clasped hands to be seated awhile.”
"Come along then,” said Vihari as if
to be anywhere else but there.
"It’s not as you tHink friend Vihari,”
said Binodini. "No stain has touched this
room. One day you slept in this room.
It is to you that it has remained consecrated by me. These faded flowers were
for your worship. In this very. room you
must sit and hear me.”
A great joy coursed through Vihari.
He entered the room. Binodini pointed
to the bed and as he sat down on it she
took her place on the floor at his feet.
Vihari rose in protest but Binodini
restrained him saying: "Keep your seat
friend Vihari, for my sake, pray do not
stir. I am not worthy even to sit at
your feet, but your kindness has allowed
it. This much I’ll go on claiming even
when you are gone far away.”
After she had said this Binodini sat long
silent. Then with a start she asked,
"Have you had any breakfast friend
Vihari?”
Vihari.—"Yes, I’ve had something at
the station.”
Binodini.—"Why did you send back ray
letter, opened by Mahendra's hand?”
Vihari—"I got no letter.”
Binodini.—"Didn’t you meet Mahendra
in Calcutta before you came away this
time?”
Vihari.—"I saw him the day after I had
left you at your village. I then came
away West and haven’t seen him since.”
Binodini.—"Did you ever before return
any letter of mine after reading it, unanswered?”
Vihari.—“Such a thing has never
happened.”
Binodini sat rigid for a while and then
taking a deep breath she said: "Now I
understand. Let me now tell you everything. I’ll count it fortunate if you
believe me, but won’t blame you il you
caoi't, for it’s indeed difficult of belief.”
Vihari’s sternness had by this time completely melted away. He could no longer
refuse the worship offered to him by this
devoted suppliant. "Don’t you say a word,
friend Binodini,” said he, "I believe in you
beforehand. It’s not possible foi • me to
think meanly of you. Not a word more
please!”
At this Binodini’s tears fell fast. She
took the dust of his feet on her head. "I’ll
die if I don’t tell you everything,” she said. "
“Have a little patience with me and bear
me out.—To the commands you then laid
on me, I had bent my head. Though you
cliff not grant me a single line of a letter,
I’d have been faithful to them to the end
;n spite of the sneers and taunts of the
villagers. I’d have accepted your discipline
in place of your love—but fate was against
me even iti this. The evil I had stirred up
pursued me even in my exile. Mahendra
shamed me before all the village when he
came to my door. There was no longer
room for me there. I made endless search
•for you to learn your further commands,
but found you not, and Mahendra lied to
me when he returned from your rooms
with mv letter opened. I thought you had
completely deserted me; and that might
have been my ruin. Oh! but there’s something in you that protects me even when
you are away. My heart has become pure
since it received you within. You made
yourself known to me the day you thrust
me away—that hard self of yours, hard as
gold, harckasa gem, has made me valuable.
1 swear to you on your feet, that value
has not been tarnished.”
Vihari remained silent. Binodini also
had nothing more to say. The afternoon
light began to wane little by little, minute
by minute. When all of a sudden Mahendra
came upto the door and started back at
the sight of Vihari. Repulsed as he had
been, to find Binodini at Vihari’s feet was
too much for his pride. He had no doubt
that their coming together had been
brought about by correspondence between
them. Vihari so long had hung back, now
if he allowed his scruples to be overcome,
who would be able to hold in Binodini?
Mahendra might be willing to leave her—
but not to another, as he now realised.
“So it’s a case of ‘enter Vihari, exit
Mahendra’,” he sneered in impotent wrath.
"The scene is so beautiful that I feel
inclined to applaud. I hope however that
it’s' positively tfip last act, an anticlimax
would never do.”
Binodini’s blood rose to her face. Since
she had been compelled to avail herself of
Mabendra’s company, she had no reply to
this taunt—she could only cast an appealing look at Vihari.
Vihari rose from the bed. "Mahendra,”
saicl he as he advanced towards him,
“don’t insult Binodini like a coward.
If your sense of decency doesn't restrain
' you, 1 have the right to do so.”
"So you’ve already acquired rights, have
you?” laughed Mahendra meaningly.
Before Mahendra would proceed to further insults, Vihari gripped him by the arm
and said, "Let me inform you, Mahendra,
that I intend to tnarrv Binodini, so you’d
better be careful what you say.”
Mahendra was surprised into a dead
silence.* Binodini was startled into a
palpitation.
"I ha ve another piece of news for you,”
continued Vihari. "Your mother is on her
death-bed. There’s no hope, of her recovery.
I’m going back by to-night’s train and
Binodini will accompany me.”
"Pishima ill?” exclaimed Binodini
greatly shocked.
"Her last illness,” repeated Vihari, "the
end may come at any moment.”
Mahendra went out of the room without another word. "What did you mean
by what you said?” then asked Binodini
of Vihari. "How could you utter such a
thing? Was it in joke?” •
"I was never more serious,” said Vihari,
"I am going to marry you.”
Binodini.—"To reclaim the fallen one?”
Vihari.—"No, but because I love you
and reverence you.”
Binodini.—"Well, then I’ve got my last
reward. Now that you’ve said this, I ’ve
nothing more to ask. Even if I get more
I ’ll not be able to keep it, for just fate will
not allow me more than I deserve.”
Vihari.—"But fate must allow it.”
Binodini.—"For shame! Don't think of
such a shameful thing. I, a widow, with
a stain on my name, to marry you and
drag you down in society. That can never
be. What a shame even to speak of such a
thing.”
Vihari.—"You mean to forsake methen?”
Binodini.—"What right have 1 to talk of
forsaking? You do many a good work in
secret. Give me some portion of your
burden to bear as your disciple. But what
a shame to talk of marrying a widow!
To your generosit}' everything may be
possible. But if I allow you to do this, to
lose your place in society, I’ll never be able
to raise my head again.”
Vihari.—"But Binodini, I love you."
"I’ll take just one liberty on the strength
of that today,” with winch Binodini bent
low and kissed his feet. Then as she
sat on the ground there, she continued:
" I’ll try to attain merit so as to win you
in the next Jife. In this I hope for nothing
more, I’m entitled to nothing more. I ’ve
given much pain to others. I’ve suffered
much pain myself, and I’ve learnt my
lesson. Had I forgotten that lesson
I’d have lowered myself further by bringing you down. I’m able to hold my head
up again because you’re still high up above
—this refuge of mine I’ll never destroy.”
Vihari remained gravely silent.
"Make no mistake," Binodini continued
imploringly. "You’d never have been
happy bj' marrying me. You’ve always
been aloof from the world and so known
peace. Let me do some work of yours from
at a distance. Remain at peace, remain
happy.”
LII
As Mahendra was about to enter l^s
mother’s room, Asha hurried out to stop
him saying, “Don’t go in now.”
Mahendra.—"Why?”
Asha.—"The Doctor says any sudden
shock of joy or sorrow would be dangerous.”
Mahendra.—"Let me go in quietly and
take a glimpse of her from behind. She
won’t know I ’m there.”
Asha.—“She’s very sensitive to sounds,
she’s sure to know.”
Mahendra.—"Then what would you
have me do now?”
Asha.—"Let’s consult Brother Vihari
and do as he advises after he's seen her.”
As she spoke Vihari came up. Asha
had already sent for him.
“Did you want me, sister?” he asked.
"How’s mother?” Asha seemed relieved to
see Vihari. "Mother’s been very restless
since you left. The first day she asked
‘where’s Vihari.’ I told her some important matter had called you away and
that you were expected back on Thursday.
Ever since she’s been starting at every
sound. She doesn’t say anything but
it’s clear she’s expecting somebody.
When I got your telegram yesterday, I
told her, you were coming to-day. So she’s
ordered a special dinner for this evening.
She’s got the stove up into the baleonv
and said she’d direct everything from this
room. She wouldn t listen to the Doctor’s
protest. It’s only a little while since she
told me to cook everything with my own
hands and to get dinner served in her
room.”
The tears started to Vihari’s eyes. "And
how is she now?” he asked.
14
"You’d better go in and see for yoursqjf,”
said Asha. "It looks to me as *if she was
worse.”
Vihari went in. Mahendra stood outside lost in wondering thought. How
easily had Asha taken up the reins of the
household—how naturally she lftid refused
him permission to enter! There was neither
hesitation, nor petulance in her tone. And
how lowered was his own prestige! He
was a culprit, and had to stay outside, unable even to enter his mother’s room.
And again how strange, that Asha
should so freely accost Vihari. All her counsel was with him. He to-day was the guardian of the household, every one’s friend.
He had access everywhere, everything depended on his advice. The place which
Mahendra had deserted for a while, was,
he found, not the same on his return.
On Vihari’s entry Rajlakshmi turned towards him with her piteous gaze as she
said, "So you’re back, Vihari!”
"Yes mother,” replied Vihari.
"Have you finished vour business?” Rajlakshmi’s gaze became eager as it fell inquiringly on his face.
"Very satisfactorily indeed,” said Vihari
cheerily. "I’ve got nothing to worry about
now.” With which he looked towards the
door.
Rajlakshmi.—"My little mother’s going
to cook something for your dinner with
her own hands, and I ’m going to direct her
from here. The Doctor wouldn’t have it,
but what’s the good of all that, now?
Aren’t they going to let me see you enjoying yourself once more before I go?”
Vihari.—"I don't see any sense in the
Doctor’s trying to prevent you. IIow ’s dinner to be managed without your directions? We’ve learnt to appreciate your
cooking since we were children—besides,
Dada’s got fairly sick of Western fare, he’s
pining for your" fish curry. We brothers
are going to see who’s the best man at
eating, to-day, as we used t*>do in the old
old days. I’m alraid your little mother’s
supplies will run short.”
But Rajlakshmi would not get Ije drawn
to talk about Mahendra, then Vihari had
to come to the point: "Look here, mother,
Dada’s waiting outside. How can he come
in, unless you ask him?”
Rajlakshmi silently turned her eyes to
the door. “Come in, Dada!” called out
Vihari.
Mahendra came in with hesitating steps.
Rrljlakshmi dared Viot look him in the face
lest her heart should suddenly, fail her. She
half closed her eyes.
As Mahendra raised his eyes to the bed
he started as though some one had struck
him a blgw. He bent over the foot bed
and laying his head on Rajlakshmi’s feet
remained motionless in that posture. Rajlakshmi’s whole frame shook with the
spasms at her breast.
After a while Annapurna came to the
rescue. "Ask Mahim to rise, sister, else
how can he?”
With immense difficulty Kajlakshmi
managed to utter the words: "Rise,
Mahin!” and as his name passed her lips
after so long an interval, the tears flowed
from her eyes, and the pain at her heart
seemed lighter.
Mahendra then went up and knelt on
the floor near his mother’s face, his breast
touching the bed. Rajlakshmi turning towards him with a painful effort clasped
his head in her hands and kissed him.
"Mother,” said Mahendra in a choking
voice, "I’ve given you great pain, forgive
me.”
When the renewed throbbing at her
heart was a little calmed Rajlakshmi
replied, "You needn’t ask that, Mahim.
How could 1 live without forgiving you?”
"Asha!" she called. "Where’s my little
mother gone?”
Asha was in the next room preparing
the invalid’s food. Annapurna went and
called her in.
Rajlakshmi signed to Mahendra to get
up and sit on the bed, and when he had
done so she pointed to the place at his side
saying to Asha: "Sit here, my child, I’d see
you sitting together to-day and forget all
my sorrows. Don’t be bashful* in my
resence to-day, my little mother, neither
eep any resentment against Mahin in your
mind. Sit here and iet me feast mv eyes.”
Asha bashfully veiled herself and with
beating heart tame and sat oeside Mahendra. Rajlakshmi took Asha's right hand
• in hers and put it into that of Mahendra
and pressed them together in her own.
"1 leave my little mother in your hands,
Mdhin,” she said. "Mark my words, you’ll
nowhere get another such an angel.”
"Sister,” she went on, turning to Anna-
puma, “come and bless them.. May your
goodness give them grace.”
As Annapurna came and stood before
them they both bent and took the dust of
her feet with brimming eyes. She kissed
them on the forehead saying: "God bless
you both.”
"Vihari, my bov,” then said Rajlakshmi,
"won’t you come up and give Mahin your
forgiveness?” Vihari came forward at
once and Mahendra rose and embraced
him. "My blessing to you, Mahin, is that
Vihari’s friendship may remain yours for
ever. There’s no better fortune I can wish
you.”
Rajlakshmi was quite exhausted and
lapsed into silence. Vihari held a dose of
stimulant to her lips but she waved his
fcmd away saying: "No more medicine,
my son. Let me think of God for awhile.
He will give me the last medicine for the
tribulations of this world. Go and get a
little rest Mahin. Asha, my little mother,
you may put the pots on now.”
Vihari and Mahendra sat to their dinner
that evening on the floor in front of Rajlakshmi’s bed. Asha, as directed, attended
to them herself.
Mahendra was feeling the tears welling
up in his breast, he could hardly touch a
morsel. "Why aren’t you eating anything,
Mahin?” Rajlakshmi kept on anxiously
asking. "Let me see you making a hearty
meal.”
Vihari stepped into the rescue. "You
know, mother, Mahin was always like
that. He never could do justice to his food.
Look here, sister, you really must let me
have some more of that vegetable hotchpotch—it’s delicious.”
Rajlakshmi was delighted. "I knew,”
she said with a faint smile, "Vihari was
always fond of that hotch-potch. Give
him a good helping, my little mother, that
morsel you're ladling out won’t do at all.”
"Your little mother’s close-fisted!” exclaimed Vihari, “a sufficient quantity refuses to pass through her hands.”
"You’re getting a bad name, my dear,”
laughed Rajlakshmi. "Vihari’s eating of
your salt and yet he dares to blame you 1”
Asha paid Vihari off by loading his
platter with a huge heap of the hotchpotch.
"What a shame!” cried Vihari. "Are you
determined to finish me ofi with this dish
alone and reserve all the other delicacies
for Dada alone!”
"So even that’s not enough to stop the
mouth of calumny!” whispered Asha as
she passed.
"Try it with some ol the sweets,” replied
Vihari.
When the two friends had finished,
Rajlakshmi felt an immense satisfaction.
"Get your dinner now, my little mother,
and come and join us,” she adjoined Asha.
When Asha had left the room in obedience to Rajlakshmi's wishes, she said to
Mahendra, "Go to bed now, Mahin.”
"Why so soon, mother?” Mahendra
had decided to nurse his mother that
night.
But Rajlakshmi would not allow him
the opportunity. "You’re tired,” she insisted. "You must go.”
When Asha after dinner came up to
Rajlakshmi and was about to take her
usual place^ fan in hand, near her head,
the latter said in a low voice: "Will you
go and see, my dear, whether Mahin's got
everything he wants. He’s alone upstairs.”
Asha blushed all over as she somehow
managed to get out of the room. Annapurna and Vihari remained with Rajlakshmi.
"Vihari,” then said she, "there’s one thing
1 should like to ask you. Have you any
idea what’s become of Binodini? Where is
she now?”
"Binodini is in Calcutta now,” replied
Vihari. Rajlakshmi looked at him in
questioning silence. Vihari understood.
"You needn’t fear her, any longer, mother,”
he said.
Rajlakshmi,—"She’s given me much pain,
Vihari, but at heart I’ve still an affection
for her.”
Vihari.—"She loves you too, mother.”
Rajlakshmi—" I believe it, Vihari. Like
everyone else she had her good and bad,
but love me she did. She couldn’t have
looked after me like that just to show off.”
Vihari.—"She’s dying to nurse you
now.”
Rajlakshmi heaved a deep sigh.
"Mahin's gone to bed now,” she ventured,
"where’s the harm in sending for her?”
"She’s in this very house, mother,” said
Vihari, "hidden away in the outer apartments. 1 haven’t been able to get her to
touch any food the whole day. She’s sworn
not to take food or drink till you forgive
her.”
- "What! starving the whole day!" cried
Rajlakshmi. "What a shame! CaJl her here
at once.”
As Binodini came hesitatingly in,
Rajlakshmi hailed her at once with "For
shame, child, what have you been doing?
Get away at once and have something to
eat. Weil have our talk afterwards.”
Binodini took the dust of Rajlakshmi’s
feet as she replied: "Not till you've
forgiven this wretched sinner, mother."
Rajlakshmi.—"I’ve forgiven you, child,
I’ve forgiven you. I’ve no bitterness left
for anyone now.” She took Binodini’s
right hand into hers as she continued:
"May none come to harm through you,
my child, and may you be happy yourself.”
Binodini.—"Your blessing sliali not fail,
Pishima.I swear by your feet, none shall
come to harm through me.”
She then prostrated herself at Annapurna’s feet and then went oft to have her
meal.
After she had returned Rajlakshmi looked meaningly at her as she said, "Must
you then be going, child?"
"Pishima, you must let me nurse you tonight, as God’s my witness, you and yours
need fear no harm from me.”
Rajlakshmi glanced towards Vihari. "Let
her be,” said he after some hesitation. "It’ll
do no harm.” The three of them then took
turns at nursing the sufferer.
Asha for her part, greatly ashamed at
uot having been to Rajlakshmi's room
even once during the night rose with the
break of dawn. Leaving Mahendra still
asleep she finished a hasty toilet while yet
the darkness had not wholly departed.
What she saw when she reached Rajlakshmi’s door made her doubt whether
she was still dreaming!
Binodini was in the passage boiling
water on the spirit lamp, to make tea for
Vihari who had not managed to gef* a
wink of sleep. She rose when she saw Asha
and said, "I’ve come to seek refuge with
you still burdened with my efime. None else
can send me away, but if you say, go, go
I must.”
Asha made no reply. She did not even
know for certain what her exact feeliqgs
were. She was overwhelmed.
"Pardon me you cannot,” Binodini continued. "Don’t even attempt it. But fear
me no longer. As long as Pishima may
want me, let me serve her. After that I’ll
depart.”
When the day before Rajlakshmi had
put her hand into Jdahendra’s, Asha had
dismissed all bitterness from her mind and
had once more completely surrendered
herself to him. At the sight of
Binodini standing before her to-day the
wound of her severed love broke out afresh.
Mahendra had loved this woman once,
love for her might still be lurking in his
heart, this was the thought that beat
against her breast in wave after wave. In
a little while Mahendra would be awake,
and would sec Binodini—in what light,
was the question. Last night Asha had felt
her path thorn-free This morning the
thorns had sprung up at her very threshold. So little room was there to safely
stow away from harm her life’s happiness.
With a heavy heart Asha stepped into
Rajlakshmi’s room, and whispered penitently: "Go to bed at once, Kaki, you’ve
been up the whole night.” Annapurna
took a gbod look into her face and then instead of going to bed took Asha away into
her own room. "Chuni,” she said, "if you
really want to be happy, forget all that’s
past and gone.”
"I’ve no desire to cling on to the past,
Kaki,” wailed Asha, "I’d do anything to
forget, but how can I?’’
Annapurna.—"You’re right, child. It’s
easy to tell what to do, but not how it’s
to be done. Still let me try. Try not to
show that you remember. Begin to forget
from without and then it’ll come within.
Mind, Chuni, if you don’t forget, you’ll
keep others remembering. If your heart
doesn’t tell you to do it, do it as my bidding, treat Binodini as if she hadn’t
harmed you, as if you do not fear her.”
"Tell me exactly what to do,” said Asha
meekly.
"Binodini’s making tea for Yihari now,”
said Annapurna. "Do you get the cups and
milk and sugar and help her to serve him.”
As Asha rose to obey Annapurna continued: "So far it’s easy. But the next
thing’s more difficult, still you must do
that too. Mahendra’s sure to come across
Binodini more than once ; I know what
you’ll feel like then. But don’t even try to
peep from the corner of your eve to see
what they do. Be calm even though your
heart be breaking. Let neither be reminded for a moment that they' have done
wrong. Then only will the old wounds
heal without a scar. Take this not as my
advice, Chuui,but as my command, and remember it even when I am gone back to
Rena res.”
Asha got the rest of the tea things and
went upto Binodim. "Is the water ready?”
she asked. "I ’ve brought the milk and
sugar.” .
Binodini stared at Asha in her surprise.
"Brother Vihari is sitting in the balcony,’*
she said at length. "Will you take the tea
to him while I warm the milk for Pishima.
She’ll be waking presently.”
Binodini would not take Vihari’s tea
herself. She felt a hesitation in lightly exercising the right which Vihari’s declaration of his love had conferred upon her.
She would not display- the wealth she
gloried in. She would go when he himself
wanted her, not on an excuse of her own
contriving.
As they- were conversing, Mahendra
came upon the scene. Though Asha’s heart
gave a great thump she managed to
control herself and say in a natural tone:
"You’re up early. 1 kept the shutters
closed so as not to wake you.”
Mahendra felt as if a stone had rolled
off his heart to hear Asha talking so
naturally in Binodini’s presence. "I came
to see how mother’s getting on,” he said.
"Is she still asleep?”
“Yes,” returned Asha."Don’t go in now.
Brother Vihari says she’s been much better
and has slept well for the. first time since
many' a night.”
"Where’s Kaki?” asked Mahendra
greatly relieved. Asha pointed towards her
room.
Her wonderful self-control was quite
a revelation to Binodini.
"Kaki!” called Mahendra at her door.
Annapurna had just finished her bath
preparatory to her devotions. Nevertheless she replied: "Come in, Mahin, come
in.”
Mahendra took the dust of her feet as
he said, "I feel ashamed to come near you
Kaki, soiled as I am with my sin.”
"Nonsense, my boy,” replied Annapurna,
"what makes you say th at! Don’t dusty
children come to their mothers’ arms?”
Mahendra.—"But my dust can’t be
brushed off, Kaki.”
Annapurna—“Of course it can, if you’ll
only try’. It’s been all for the best Mahin.
You were too proud of your virtue, you
trusted yourself overmuch, the storm of
sin has broken this pride of yours but it
hasn’t done you any other damage.”
Mahendra.—"Kaki, you mustn’t leave us
any more. Your going away brought on
my ruin.”
Annapurna.—"The ruin that required
my staving off was better allowed to
happen.Now you won’t need me any more.”
There was another call at the door,
"Kaki, are you at your devotions?”
"No, Vihari, come in.”
Yihari entered, and finding Maliendra
up so early said: "Is this the first sunrise
you’ve seen in your life, Dada?”
"Yes, Vihari, this is indeed the first sunrise of my life. You’ll be wanting a talk
with Kaki—I’m going.”
"We’ll make you a cabinet minister too,”
said Vihari smiling. " I ’ve never kept
anything back from you and, if you don’t
mind, I won’t do so to-day either.”
Mabendra.—“M i n d .1 mayn’t have the
right, but if you can take me into your
confidence once more, that’ll give me liack
my self-respect!”
It was not eas3F to be talking on every
subject in Mahendra’s presence now-a-days.
Vihari’s words seemed to want to stick in
his throat, nevertheless he manfully went
on: "The question of my marrying Binodini has been suggested. I’ve come to
have that matter out with Kaki.”
"What an extraordinary suggestion!”
exclaimed the startled Annapurna.
Mahendra with a supreme effort got rid
of all hesitation*. "There's no occasion for
such a marriage,” he said with decision.
"Had Binodini anything to do with such
a proposal?” asked Annapurna.
"Nothing whatsoever!” replied Vihari.
"Would she consent?" pursued Annapurna.
"Why shouldn’t Binodini consent?”
broke in Mahendra. "I know she is devoted
to Vihari. Is she likely to lose the chance
of being under his protection?”
"/ proposed marriage to Binodini,
Dada,” saidVihari coldly, "and she rejected
it as a shameful suggestion.”
Mahendra was reduced to silence.
LI1I
Kajlakshmi passed the next few days
sometimes a little worse, sometimes a
little better. Then came a day when her
countenance cleared up, and the violence
of her pains abated. She sent for Mahendra and said: "I haven’t much time left—
but I’m departing in great peace, Mahin,
I leave no regrets behind. The pure joy 1
uced to feel when you first came into my
lap is filling 1113’ breasl! to-day. You rav
alvva3'S the chile! in my arms td me—the
child of m3' bosom; my great joy is that
I am taking away with me all your ailments.” She kept stroking him all over
his face and body as she was speaking.
Mahendra could not control his tears, he
sobbed out aloud.
"Don’t grieve, Mahin,” said Rajlakshmi.
" I ’m leaving an angel to look after 3'ou.
Give mv keys to my little mother. Everything’s in order, 3'ou’ll find nothing wanting. There’s another matter about which
1 want to speak to you, but don’t talk to
anyone else about it. I have currency
notes for two thousand rupees put away
in my box, which I leave to Binodini.
She’s a widow and all alojie, the interest
of this money will be enough for her needs.
—But Mahin, I entreat you, don’t keep her
in the house!”
Kajlakshmi then sent for Vihari.
"Vihari, my son," she said to him, "Mahin
was talking me yesterday that you’re trying to do something for poor clerks. May
God give you long life to do good to the
poor. My father-in-law gave me a small
estate as a wedding present. 1 leave that
to you for the poor. May it add to my
father-in-law’s merit.”
When after Rajlakshmi’s death, the
Shradh* ceremony was over, Mahendra
said:"Vibari, old fellow, I’m also a medical
man. Take me with you into your good
work. Chunihasgot to ben splendid housewife, she’ll also assist us. We’ll all live
together in the villa.”
“Give the matter further thought,
Dada,” said Vihari. "Is it likely you’ll like
this work for long?Don’t take up a permanent burden on the spur of a generous
impulse.”
"Do you give further thought also,
Vilmri," returned Mahendra. "Is it possible
for me to go on with the burden of uselessness I’ve been accumulating all my life?
If I don’t lighten it with work, it’ll drag
me down to despair. You really must give
me a place in your scheme."
That was at last settled.
Annapurna and Vihari were talkihg
over old times with a peaceful sadness.
Tfie time for parting was drawing near.
Binodini came upto the door asking. "May *
I come and sit with you awhile, Kaki?
, "Come in, child*come and sit down.”
When •Binodini had been seated, Annapurna, after exchanging a few1 words with
her, rose and stepped out into the balcony
on the pretext of looking after the airing
of the bed clothes.
"Tell ufie what further commands you
have for me,” then said Binodini to Vihari.
Vihari.—“Tell me rather, friend Binodini,
what is it you’d like to do?”
Binodini.—"I’m told you've taken a
villa as a nursing home for the poor. Let
me do something there. If nothing else,
I can cook for you.”
Vihari.— ‘I’ve given much thought to
that question, friend. Many complications
have tangled the thread of our lives. We
must now set# to work undoing them one
by one. Let everything be cleared up
first. 1 dare not put temptation in the
way of my heart. Had the past been
kinder, I could have filled my whole life
with you alone. As it is, 1 must deprive
myself Of you. The quest, for happiness
would be futile now. I’ll have to busy
myself repairing all damages so as to be
well prepared for the end."
As Annapurna returned to the room
Binodini said to her, "Mother, you must
give me a little space at your feet. Don’t
thrust me away because I've sinned.”
"Come, my little mother, come along
with me.”
When the day of their departure came
round, Vihari contrived an opportunity of
seeing, Binodini alone. "Friend, Binodini,”
said he, "I would keep some token of you
near me.”
"What have 1,” replied Binodini, "that
can serve as a token worth keeping near
you?”
Vihari overcoming a bashful hesitation
said at length: "The English have a custom of treasuring a lock of hair of those
they love as a keepsake.”
"What a horned idea,” exclaimed Binodini. "How rtiuld 1 possibly give you an
unclean thing like a dead lock of hair as a
token of myself? Unfortunate that I am
1 can’t Work for you. Will you let me give
vou something that will work for me?—Do
say you’ll accept it.”
'"I will,” said Vihari.
Binodini drew out from the folds of her
garment the two thousand rupee notes,
and placed them in Vihari’s hand.
Vihari remained looking at Binodini’s
THE
face with unutterable emotion. After a
long pause he said, "M ay I not give you
something?”
"You’ve already given me a token which
I carry about as my only ornament, and
which you can’t deprive me of, even if yob
would. I want nothing more.” With which
Binodini showed him the scar on her elbow.
"You didn’t know this,” she said, as he
stared at her in amazement. "This was
your wound—a gift entirely worthy of you,
and one which you cannot take back!”
Asha had not been able to get rid of all
misgivings about Binodini in spite of her
Kaki’s commands. They had attended on
Kajlakshmi together, but the sight of
Binodini had each time given her a shock.
She had never been able to converse with
ease, and every attempt at a smile had
meant an effort. She had not been able to
bring herself to accept the least service at
Binodini’s hands. If she had been unable
to avoid taking a pan offered by Binodini,
it was only to throw it away at the first
opportunity.
Now that they were about to depart,
now that her Kaki was for a second time
forsaking their household, Asha’s Leart
had melted into tears, and with that came
pity for Binodini. Asha was sure Binodini
loved Mahendra ; but after all why' shouldn’t she? Asha knew from her own heart
how inevitable it was that Mahendra
should be loved! The pain of leaving
Mahendra for ever was something too
terrible to wish even for her worst enemy.
She wept at the very idea. She had once
loved Binodini ; a touch of that love returned to her. She went up to Binodini
and said gently, pityingly, lovingly: "So
sister, you’re leaving us?”
Binodini tapped her under the chin with
a smile, "Yes, sister, it’s time, I should. You
used to love me once ; keep a little of that
love for me in your happy days to come,
and forget the rest.”
Mahendra came and prostrated himself
at her feet.* "Forgive me, sister,” he simply said as the tears started to his eyes.
"Do you also forgive me,” replied
Binodini. "And may God grant you eternal
happiness.”