Binodini remained silent. Grasping her hand, Asha said, ‘Upon my word, my friend Bali, you must promise me this one thing.’
‘Very well,’ promised Binodini.
26
As the moon declines in one direction, the sun rises in another. Asha went away, but Mahendra was still not fortunate enough to sight Binodini. He would wander about, sometimes appearing in his mother’s chamber at odd hours, but Binodini continued to elude him, avoiding capture.
Seeing such a vacuum in Mahendra’s life, Rajalakshmi thought, ‘After his wife’s departure, nothing in this house appeals to Mahin anymore.’ It pierced her heart to think that, in comparison with Mahendra’s wife, she herself had become utterly redundant to his joys and sorrows; but still, she was pained at seeing Mahendra in such a wretched, dejected state. She sent for Binodini. ‘Ever since that bout of influenza, I have developed an asthma-like affliction,’ she told her. ‘I can’t climb the stairs frequently, as I used to before. My child, you must personally supervise Mahendra’s meals. It is his lifelong habit; Mahin can’t manage unless someone looks after him. Don’t you see how strange he has become ever since his wife’s departure? I wonder, too, at Bou’s behaviour—how could she go away like this?’
Slightly pursing her lips, Binodini started picking at the bed sheet ‘What is it, Bahu, what are you thinking?’ asked Rajalakshmi. ‘There is nothing to worry about. Let people say what they will, you are no stranger to our family.’
‘I’d rather not, Ma.’
‘Very well, then, you had rather not. Let me see, I’ll do what I can on my own.’ She immediately made as if to ascend to the third floor to set Mahendra’s room in order.
Flustered, Binodini said, ‘You are physically infirm; please don’t go. I’ll go instead. Forgive me, Pishima, I shall do as you command.’
Rajalakshmi did not take public opinion seriously. Since her husband’s death, nobody in the world, or in society, meant anything to her, except Mahendra. She was annoyed at Binodini’s suggestion that some social stigma might be attached to Mahendra. She had known Mahendra all his life; where would one find such a good boy? If people dared cast aspersions on a person such as Mahin, may their tongues fall off! When it came to acting upon her own judgment and her own preferences, Rajalakshmi stubbornly ignored what all the people in the world might say.
When Mahendra returned from college, he was amazed to see his own bedchamber. As soon as he opened the door, he found the room redolent of sandalwood and incense. The mosquito net was festooned with pink silk tassels. A dazzling white bedspread covered the divan, and on it, in place of the old pillows used previously, were square English-style cushions, embroidered in silk and wool. The intricate designs were the product of Binodini’s labour; she had spent days embroidering them. Asha would ask her, ‘Who are these items meant for, my friend?’ ‘For my final bed, the cremation pyre,’ Binodini would laugh. ‘Death is my only beloved.’
Mahendra’s framed photograph on the wall was embellished with expertly tied bows of coloured ribbon on all its corners. Below the picture, at the base of the wall, were bunches of flowers arranged in two vases placed on either side of a teapoy, as if Mahendra’s image had received the prayer offerings of some unknown devotee. The room looked altogether different. The bed had been moved slightly from its place. The room had been divided in two; lengths of fabric had been hung on two clotheshorses placed before the bed to create a secluded space, separating the night-time bed from the divan on the floor. Within the glass almira in which Asha’s favourite bric-a-brac and china dolls had been displayed, pleated red cotton was arranged; the contents of the cupboard were now invisible. The new décor, wrought by a different hand, had completely obscured all traces of the past history of the room.
Mahendra, reclining in fatigue on the white-covered divan, discerned a mild fragrance as soon as he placed his head on the new cushions; the cotton stuffing of the cushions was scented with the pollen of the nagkeshar flower, and some attar.
Mahendra’s eyelids grew heavy, and he began to feel as if he could smell the fragrance of the delicate, jasmine-like fingers that had produced the artwork on the cushions with such an expert touch.
At this moment, the maidservant brought a silver platter of fruits and sweetmeats, and iced pineapple juice in a glass tumbler. All this was somewhat different from the previous routine, and presented with great care and neatness. The pervasive touch of novelty in all he tasted, smelt or saw, overwhelmed Mahendra’s senses.
After he had eaten with relish, Binodini slowly entered the room, carrying paan and spices in a silver bata. ‘Forgive me, Thakurpo, for I have not been able to attend to your meals in person these last few days,’ she smiled. ‘Whatever else you do, give me your solemn promise that you will not inform my Chokher Bali of the neglect that you have suffered. I am doing my best, but I can’t help it, my friend, all the work of the household is upon my shoulders.’
Binodini pushed the casket of paan towards Mahendra. Even the paan had the special new fragrance of keya-khoyer, catechu with a floral flavour.
‘All the better if there are occasional lapses of this sort,’ observed Mahendra.
‘Why is that, I’d like to know?’
‘Afterwards, by delivering a few jibes, one can extract compensation with interest.’
‘How much interest has accumulated, Mister Usurer?’
‘You were not present at mealtime; now, having made up for your absence by attending upon me after lunch, you still owe me something more.’
‘What a tough reckoner!’ laughed Binodini. ‘Once one has fallen into your clutches, there can be no rescue.’
‘Whatever the reckoning, have I been able to extract anything from you?’
‘What do I possess that you can extract from me? Yet you hold me captive.’ As she spoke, she suddenly turned jest into seriousness, letting out a small sigh.
Mahendra, too, became a little grave. ‘My friend Bali, is this a prison house, then?’ he asked.
At this moment, the bearer brought in the lamp as usual, placed it on the teapoy, and left.
Shielding her eyes with her hand from the sudden glare of light, Binodini said with lowered gaze, ‘How would I know, my friend! Who can match you in argument? Let me go now, I have work to do.’
Mahendra suddenly grasped her hand. ‘Now that you have acknowledged your own bondage, where would you go?’ he said.
‘For shame, let me go; why confine a person who has nowhere to escape?’ Snatching her hand away, Binodini left.
Mahendra remained on the bed, reclining on the scented pillow, the blood pounding in his chest. The hushed evening, the secluded room, the fresh spring breeze, the anticipation of Binodini’s near-surrender—maddened by all this, he felt he would soon lose his grip on himself. He quickly turned off the light and secured the entrance to his room, then fastened the glass paned door, and, even before it was time to retire, lay down in his bed.
But this was not his old, familiar bed. With the addition of four or five light mattresses, the bed felt much softer than before. Again, a fragrance—whether it was aguru, the scented wood, or cuscus, the aromatic pearl-millet root, he couldn’t tell for sure. Mahendra tossed and turned, as if in search of some trace of the past that he could cling to. But nothing came to hand.
At nine o’clock, there was a knock on the closed door. From outside the room, Binodini called, ‘Thakurpo, here is your dinner, please open the door.’
Starting up, Mahendra at once reached for the bolt on the glass door to open it. But he refrained. Flinging himself to the ground, he cried, ‘No, no, I am not hungry, I shall not eat.’
From outside the door came an anxious query: ‘You are not ill, are you? Shall I fetch some water? Is there anything you need?’
‘I want nothing at all. There is no need for anything.’
‘I insist, you must not pretend with me. If you are not ill, please open the door, just once.’
‘No, I shan’t open the
door,’ declared Mahendra. ‘Never! Please go away.’ Mahendra rose quickly to his feet and climbed into bed once again. He lay down, and in the dark, he began to grope within the empty bed and inside his restless mind for memories of the absent Asha.
When sleep refused to come, Mahendra turned on the lamp and sat down with pen and ink to write a letter to Asha: Asha, don’t leave me alone much longer. You are Lakshmi, my goddess of well-being and prosperity; in your absence, all my instincts break loose, dragging me I know not where. Where is the light for me to see my way? That light is to be found in the gaze of your trusting, tender, loving eyes. Come soon, my benefactor, my lodestar, my only one. Keep me steadfast, protect me, make me whole. Save me from the great sin of doing you the slightest wrong, the horror of forgetting you for a single moment.
Thus, to force his mind to concentrate on Asha, Mahendra stayed up late, writing. In the distance, the clock towers of several churches rang out the chimes for three o’clock. On the streets of Kolkata, the sound of carriages had almost ceased; even the song of a prostitute, rendered in the ragini bihag and audible from the far end of the neighbourhood, had been drowned by an atmosphere of all-encompassing peace and somnolence. Fixing his mind on the memory of Asha, and expressing his mental agitation in diverse ways in his long letter, Mahendra felt greatly consoled, and he fell asleep as soon as he lay down on the bed.
When Mahendra awakened, it was late in the day and sunlight was pouring into the room. He sat up quickly; all the events of the previous night seemed to have faded in his mind. Getting off the bed, he saw, placed under the inkpot on the teapoy, the letter that he had written to Asha the previous night. Reading the letter again, he thought, ‘What have I done! It reads like a novel. Thank goodness I did not dispatch it! If Asha had read it, what would she have thought? She wouldn’t even have understood half the things I’ve said.’ Mahendra was embarrassed at the excessive anguish he had suffered the previous night over a trifling reason; he tore the letter to shreds. In simple language, he wrote a brief missive to Asha: How much longer will you stay away? If your Jyathamoshai has no plans of returning soon, let me know. I shall fetch you myself. I don’t like being alone here.
27
When Asha arrived in Kashi a few days after Mahendra’s departure from there, Annapurna was alarmed. She began to ask Asha all sorts of questions: ‘Tell, me, Chuni, do you truly feel that there is no woman in the world more talented than this Chokher Bali of yours?’
‘Truly, Mashi, I am not exaggerating. She is as intelligent as she is beautiful, and equally adept at housework.’
‘She is your friend and companion; of course you would regard her as blessed with every talent. But what do other members of your household say about her, I wonder?’
‘Ma is all praise for her. Chokher Bali has only to speak of returning to her native place for Ma to grow agitated. Nobody can match her capacity for devoted service. Even when our servants and housemaids fall ill, she tends to them like a sister, or a mother.’
‘What does Mahendra think of her?’
‘You know him, Mashi, he simply does not like anyone except for close members of the family. Everyone loves my Bali, but she has not been able to get along with him, until now.’
‘How is that?’
‘Even if I make a great effort to bring them together, they barely speak to each other. You know what a cloistered life he likes to lead; people mistake it for arrogance, but that is not so, Mashi, he can’t tolerate any but two or three people in his life.’
Having uttered the last statement, Asha was suddenly embarrassed; her cheeks flushed red. Pleased, Annapurna smiled to herself. ‘That is so indeed,’ she agreed. ‘When he came here the other day, Mahin didn’t even mention your Bali to me.’
‘That is the trouble with him,’ complained Asha. ‘If he doesn’t love someone, he acts as if they don’t exist. He behaves as if he has never seen her, never made her acquaintance.’
‘But then, if he loves someone, he acts as if she is the only one he has ever seen or known, all his life,’ pointed out Annapurna, with a gentle smile. ‘He has this other tendency, too. What do you say, Chuni?’
Without replying, Asha lowered her gaze and smiled. Annapurna asked, ‘Chuni, tell me, what news of Bihari? Will he never marry?’
Instantly, Asha’s countenance grew grave; she could not think of a suitable reply. Alarmed at Asha’s silence, Annapurna exclaimed, ‘Tell me the truth, Chuni: he has not fallen ill, has he?’
In this childless woman’s affections, Bihari reigned supreme, an image of her ideal son. Ever since she had chosen exile, she was plagued daily by the knowledge that before leaving home, she had not seen Bihari settled in domestic life. She had attained a measure of fulfilment in all other areas of her circumscribed life; only the memory of Bihari’s unmarried, uncared-for condition prevented her from detaching herself completely from worldly matters.
‘Mashi, don’t ask me about Bihari Thakurpo,’ begged Asha.
‘But why?’ asked Annapurna in surprise.
‘That I can’t tell you.’ With these words, Asha rose and left the room.
Sitting in silence, Annapurna began to think, ‘Could a fine boy like Bihari have changed so much in such a short time that Chuni would leave the room at the mention of his name? This is a game of destiny. Why was Chuni proposed as a match for him, and why, then, did Mahendra snatch Chuni away from him?’
After many days, Annapurna’s eyes again overflowed with tears. She told herself, ‘Ah, if my poor Bihari has done something unworthy of him, then he must have acted under great provocation; such behaviour could not have come easily to him.’ The thought of Bihari’s pain tormented her.
In the evening, when Annapurna was at her prayers, a carriage came and stopped at her door, and the coachman began banging on the closed door, shouting to those within. From inside the prayer room, Annapurna called out, ‘Oh dear, I had completely forgotten. Kunja’s mother-in-law and her two bonjhis are supposed to arrive from Allahabad today. It must be them. Chuni, just take the lamp and open the door.’
Carrying the lantern, Asha opened the door to find Bihari standing there. Bihari exclaimed, ‘What is this, Bouthan, I was told you would not be travelling to Kashi after all!’
The lantern fell from Asha’s hand. As if she had seen a ghost, she ran breathlessly up to the first floor and cried out in an anguished voice, ‘Mashima, I fall at your feet and beg of you, please ask him to leave immediately.’
Starting up from the prayer mat, Annapurna asked, ‘Ask whom, Chuni? Who is it?’
‘Bihari Thakurpo has followed me here as well.’ With these words, she went into the adjoining room and shut the door.
From downstairs, Bihari heard all that was said. He prepared to rush away immediately, but when Annapurna abandoned her prayers and came downstairs, she found that Bihari, drained of all his strength, had collapsed to a sitting position on the ground, near the door.
Annapurna was not carrying a light. In the dark, she could not see Bihari’s expression, nor could he see hers.
‘Bihari!’ cried Annapurna.
Alas, where was the honeyed, affectionate tone that she had always used in the past! Her voice resonated with the thunder of harsh condemnation. Mother Annapurna, against whom did you raise your scimitar! Tonight, the unfortunate Bihari had come to you in the darkness to lay his head at your sacred feet, seeking your benediction.
Bihari felt a shock run through his body, as if he had been struck by lightning. ‘Kakima, no more, please, don’t say another word. I take your leave.’
With these words, Bihari bowed and touched his forehead to the ground; he did not even touch Annapurna’s feet. Like a mother who ritually drowns her offspring in the waters of the Gangasagar, Annapurna silently surrendered Bihari to the darkness of the night; she did not even call him back. In an instant, the carriage, with Bihari in it, had vanished.
The same night, Asha wrote to Mahendra: Bihari Thakurpo arrived here suddenly
this evening. It is uncertain when Jyathamoshai and the others will return to Kolkata; please come soon to take me away from here.
28
After the sleeplessness and emotional turbulence of that night, Mahendra’s mind and body felt a certain fatigue the next morning. It was mid-Phalgun, the beginning of hot weather. On other days, Mahendra would sit with his books at a table in the corner of his bedchamber. Today, he reclined on the cushions of the divan. The day grew long, but he did not have a bath. A hawker went down the road, calling out his wares. There was the ceaseless sound of office carriages on the road. The neighbours were building a new house; as they beat the roof to flatten it, the women labourers began singing together in a monotonous rhythm. In the slightly warm southerly breeze, Mahendra’s troubled nerves had relaxed; on this languid, drifting morning in spring, no difficult decision, challenging effort or mental conflict seemed appropriate.
‘Thakurpo, what’s the matter with you today? Will you not bathe? Your food is ready. What is this, my friend, why are you lying down? Are you ill? Do you have a headache?’ With these words, Binodini came up to Mahendra and touched his forehead.
His eyes half-shut, Mahendra said indistinctly, ‘I don’t feel too well today; I shall not have a bath.’
‘If you won’t bathe, at least have something to eat.’ Binodini coaxed Mahendra to go up to the dining area, and with anxious care, she persuaded him to eat.
After his meal, Mahendra again came to lie down on the divan; Binodini sat by his head, and gently massaged his forehead. Opening his eyes, Mahendra said, ‘My friend Bali, you have not eaten yet; please go and have your meal.’
Binodini could not be persuaded to go. In the warm, languid afternoon breeze, the curtains of the room began to flutter, and the meaningless murmur of the swaying coconut trees near the boundary wall wafted into the room. Mahendra’s heartbeat steadily increased, and in the same rhythm, Binodini’s deep breaths began to ruffle the locks of hair on Mahendra’s forehead. Neither uttered a word. Mahendra began to think, ‘Drifting along in the endless stream of universal life, how does it matter where and when one’s boat momentarily touches the shore? How long would it continue to matter, anyway?’