The Notebook (also translated as: "The Exercise-Book" or "The Copy-Book") 

From the moment Uma learned to write, she became an intolerable nuisance. On the walls of every room in the house, she would draw crooked lines with charcoal and write, in large, clumsy letters:

"Water falls, leaves sway."

She discovered her sister-in-law's copy of Haridas's Secret Tales, which had been hidden beneath a pillow, and scribbled across page after page in pencil:

"Black water, red flower."

In the family's new almanac, used by everyone throughout the year, she obliterated most of the dates and lunar constellations by writing over them in enormous letters.

In the middle of her father's daily account book, right between the entries of income and expenses, she wrote:

"Whoever studies and learns rides in carriages and horses."

No one had stopped her literary pursuits until then. But one day a serious incident occurred.

Uma's elder brother, Gobindalal, looked remarkably harmless, yet he was always writing for the newspapers. Anyone listening to him speak—whether relatives or neighbors—would never suspect him of being a thoughtful man. In fact, it would be unfair to accuse him of ever thinking deeply about any subject. Yet he wrote, and on most matters his opinions were in perfect agreement with those of the majority of Bengali readers.

Gobindalal had once composed a substantial article arguing that European scientists entertained several grave misconceptions about human physiology. Without relying on a single logical argument, he vigorously demolished these supposed errors solely through the force of sensational language, producing what he considered an excellent essay.

One lonely afternoon, Uma took her brother's pen and ink and wrote across the top of that article in huge letters:

"Gopal is a very good boy. He eats whatever he is given." 
[William Radice's translation: "So well-behaved is young Gopal / Whatever you give he eats it all"] 

I do not believe that, by writing "Gopal," Uma had any particular intention of referring to the readers of Gobindalal's article. But her brother's anger knew no bounds. He first gave her a beating, and then confiscated her meager stock of writing materials—a tiny pencil, a blunt pen coated from end to end with ink, everything she had so carefully treasured. Unable to understand why she had been subjected to such severe humiliation, the little girl sat in a corner of the room and wept bitterly with a wounded heart.

After the period of punishment had passed, Gobindalal felt somewhat repentant. He returned the articles he had taken from Uma and, in addition, presented her with a well-bound, ruled notebook in an attempt to soothe her hurt feelings.

Uma was then seven years old. From that day onward, the notebook spent its nights beneath her pillow and, during the day, was almost always clasped to her bosom.

When she set out for the village girls' school with her little braid tied neatly and the maidservant accompanying her, the notebook always went with her. At the sight of it, some of the girls were filled with wonder, some with envy, and others with jealousy.

During the first year, she carefully filled its pages with lines such as:

"All the birds begin to sing; the night has passed."

Sitting on the floor of her bedroom, clutching the notebook tightly, she would read and write aloud in a singsong voice. In this way she gradually collected a good many passages of prose and verse.

By the second year, however, an occasional original composition began to appear. They were exceedingly brief, yet remarkably full of meaning—without introduction, without conclusion.

A few examples may be given.

On one page of the notebook, beneath a copied version of the fable of the tiger and the crane from Kathamala, there appeared a single sentence unlike anything that had ever been found either in Kathamala or anywhere else in contemporary Bengali literature:

"I love Jashi very much."

Let no one suppose that I am about to invent a love story. Jashi was not some eleven- or twelve-year-old boy from the neighborhood. She was an old household servant whose real name was Yashoda.

Yet the single sentence, "I love Jashi very much," does not by itself provide conclusive evidence of the little girl's true feelings toward her. Anyone wishing to write a trustworthy history of the matter would, a couple of pages later in the same notebook, find an explicit contradiction of that very statement.

Indeed, contradictions abound in Uma's writings. At one place we read:

"I shall never speak to Hari again as long as I live."

(The Hari in question is not Haricharan but Haridasi, a classmate at school.) Yet not far away there is another passage from which one would readily conclude that Uma had no friend in all the three worlds dearer than Hari.

The following year, when the little girl was nine years old, the sound of the shehnai began to fill their house one morning. It was Uma's wedding.

The bridegroom's name was Parimohan, a fellow writer and associate of Gobindalal. Though he was still quite young and had received a modest education, not the slightest trace of modern ideas had entered his mind. For this the people of the neighborhood praised him without end. Gobindalal himself tried to imitate him, but never quite succeeded.

Dressed in a Banarasi silk sari, her tiny face hidden beneath a veil, Uma wept as she departed for her father-in-law's house.

Her mother instructed her: "My child, obey your mother-in-law, attend to the household duties, and don't bury yourself in reading and writing."

Gobindalal added: "Mind you, don't go scratching on the walls over there. That isn't the sort of house where such things are tolerated. And whatever you do, don't you dare put your pen to any of Parimohan's writings."

The little girl's heart trembled.

For the first time she understood that the place to which she was going would not forgive her as her own home had done. She would have to learn—after many rebukes and only with the passage of time—what people there regarded as faults, offenses, and wrongdoing.

That morning, too, the shehnai was playing. But whether there was a single person in that great gathering who truly understood what was passing through the trembling heart of the little girl, hidden beneath her veil and adorned in her Banarasi silk sari and wedding ornaments, is doubtful.

Jashi went with Uma. The arrangement was that she would remain for a few days, settle Uma into her new home, and then return.

With affectionate foresight, Jashi had thoughtfully brought Uma's notebook along. That notebook was a fragment of her father's house; a cherished keepsake from the brief days she had spent in her childhood home. It was a little history of the shelter of her parents' love, written in large, crooked, childish letters. Amid the premature responsibilities of being a housewife, it was the one small possession that still carried the sweet taste of a child's freedom.

For the first few days after arriving at her in-laws' house, she wrote nothing. She had neither the time nor the opportunity.

At last, after some days, Jashi returned to her old home.

That afternoon, Uma shut the door of her bedroom, took the notebook out of her tin trunk, and, weeping as she wrote, inscribed:

"Jashi has gone home. I want to go to Mother too."

Nowadays she had neither the leisure nor, it seems, even the desire to copy passages from Charupath or Bodhodoy. Thus there were no longer long intervals between her own brief compositions. Immediately after the sentence quoted above appears another:

"If Brother takes me home just once, I will never spoil his writing again."

It is said that Uma's father often tried to bring her home for visits. But Gobindalal joined forces with Parimohan in opposing him.

Gobindalal argued that this was the proper time for Uma to learn devotion to her husband. If she were repeatedly taken away from her husband's home and returned to the old affection of her parental household, her mind would only be disturbed without reason.

On this subject he wrote an essay, so artfully laced with irony, that every one of his like-minded readers was compelled to acknowledge the irrefutable truth of its arguments.

It was after hearing such talk repeated by others that Uma wrote in her notebook:

"Brother, I fall at your feet. Please take me home just once. I will never make you angry again."

One day Uma had shut the door to her room and was writing some trivial, seemingly meaningless words in her notebook. Her sister-in-law Tilakmanjari became intensely curious. She wondered what her sister-in-law did whenever she locked the door, and decided she must find out. Peering through the keyhole, she saw Uma writing.

She was astonished.

Never before had the goddess Saraswati made so secret a visit to the women's quarters of their household.

Her younger sister Konakmanjari came and took a peek as well.

Then the youngest, Anangamanjari, balancing herself on the tips of her toes, with great effort managed to penetrate the mystery of the locked room through the tiny opening.

As Uma was writing, she suddenly heard the familiar giggling of the three sisters outside the room. At once she understood what had happened. Hastily locking the notebook away in her trunk, she buried her face in the bed, overcome with shame and fear.

When Parimohan learned of the incident, he became seriously concerned. Once a woman began to study, novels and plays would inevitably find their way into the house, and preserving the proper order of domestic life would become an impossible task.

Besides, after considerable reflection, he had arrived at a highly subtle theory on the subject.

He maintained that the sacred power of marriage arose from the harmonious union of feminine energy and masculine energy. But if women were to become educated, feminine energy would overcome and transformed entirely into masculine energy, and then the collision of masculine energy with masculine energy would generate a destructive force so overwhelming that the sacred power of marriage would dissolve into a force of annihilation. The inevitable consequence, therefore, was that the woman would become a widow.

No one had yet succeeded in refuting this theory.

That evening, when Parimohan returned home, he gave Uma a stern scolding, seasoning it with a touch of mockery.

"Very well," he said, "we'll have to hire a servant. The mistress of the house will tuck a pen behind her ear [samla] and march off to the office."

Uma could not quite understand what Parimohan meant. She had never read any of his essays, and so her sense of such humor had not yet developed. But she shrank inwardly with shame. It seemed to her that only if the earth were to split open could she hide her embarrassment.

For many days afterward she wrote nothing.

Then, one autumn morning, a wandering woman singer came by, singing an Agamani song—the traditional songs welcoming the return of the goddess Uma (Durga) to her mother's home. Uma stood silently by the window, her face pressed against the iron bars, listening.

The autumn sunlight alone was enough to awaken memories of her childhood; and then, hearing the Agamani song, she could no longer contain herself.

Uma could not sing. But ever since she had learned to write, she had formed the habit that whenever she heard a song, she would copy down its words, as though writing it out could make up for her inability to sing it.

That day the poor singer was singing:

The townsfolk say, "Uma's mother,
Your lost star has returned."

Hearing this, almost beside herself with joy,
The queen runs out at once, crying,
"Where is Uma? Tell me, where is she?"

Weeping, the queen says,
"Has my Uma come?
Come to me once, my child, come just once;
Come just once, let me hold you in my arms."

Then, stretching out both her arms,
Clasping her mother's neck,
In wounded affection the daughter weeps and says to the queen:
"Where is the daughter you went to bring home?"

Uma's heart swelled with hurt, and her eyes filled with tears.

Secretly she called the wandering singer inside, shut the door, and began copying the song into her notebook, spelling the words in her own curious, childish way.

Tilakmanjari, Konakmanjari, and Anangamanjari watched everything through the little crack. Then, all at once, they burst into applause and cried out, "Sister-in-law! [Baudidi] What are you doing? We've seen everything!"

Uma hurriedly opened the door and came out. In a voice full of distress she pleaded, "Dear sisters, please don't tell anyone. I fall at your feet—please don't tell. I'll never do it again. I won't write anymore."

At last Uma realized that Tilakmanjari had fixed her eyes on the notebook. She rushed to it and clasped it tightly against her breast. Her sisters-in-law struggled to snatch it away by force, but failing to do so, Anang went and called her elder brother.

Parimohan came in and seated himself gravely upon the bed.

In a deep, thunderous voice he said, "Give me the notebook."

When his command was not obeyed, he lowered his voice another note or two and repeated, "Give it to me."

The little girl held the notebook tightly to her breast and looked up at her husband's face with a gaze of utter supplication. But when she saw him rise to seize it by force, she let it fall to the floor and, covering her face with both arms, threw herself down upon the ground.

Parimohan picked up the notebook and began reading the little girl's writings aloud.

As he read, Uma pressed herself closer and closer to the earth, as though trying to embrace it ever more tightly. Meanwhile, her three young sisters-in-law, listening, could scarcely contain themselves, laughing until they were breathless.

From that day on, Uma never got the notebook back.

Parimohan, too, possessed a notebook filled with his own essays, bristling with subtle theories [William Radice's translation: "Parimohan also had an exercise-book full of various subtly barbed essays"]. But there was no benefactor of humanity who would seize that notebook and destroy it.


This translation was made via generative AI.