‘Why, Mahendra, what were you discussing for such a long time?’ demanded Rajalakshmi.
‘We were not discussing anything. I came to get some paan.’
‘But your paan has been prepared and kept in my room.’
Mahendra left without offering any further explanations.
Seeing Annapurna’s tear-swollen eyes as she entered the room, Rajalakshmi immediately jumped to her own conclusions. ‘Why, Mejothakrun! Were you after my son?’ she hissed, like a serpent, and swept out of the room without waiting for a reply.
2
Mahendra had almost forgotten about going to see the prospective bride, but Annapurna had not. To fix the date for the meeting, she wrote to the girl’s jyatha—her father’s elder brother and her guardian—at his Shyambazar address.
‘Why did you act so fast, Kaki?’ protested Mahendra, when he heard that the date had been fixed. ‘I have not even told Bihari yet.’
‘What’s to be done, Mahin?’ Annapurna replied. ‘What will they think if we don’t go to see the girl now?’
Mahendra sent for Bihari and told him everything. ‘Just come along,’ he insisted. ‘If the girl is not to your liking, you can’t be forced into marrying her.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. After going to see her, I won’t have the heart to say that Kaki’s bonjhi is not to my liking.’
‘That’s very magnanimous of you.’
‘But it was unfair of you to have done this, Mahinda. To travel light yourself, you should not have placed the burden on someone else’s shoulders. It will be very difficult for me to hurt Kaki’s feelings.’
Offended and rather embarrassed, Mahendra asked, ‘What do you wish to do, then?’
‘Since you have raised her hopes on my behalf I shall go through with the marriage. There is no need to make a pretense of going to see the girl.’
Bihari revered Annapurna as if she were a goddess.
Ultimately, Annapurna herself sent for Bihari. ‘How is that possible, my boy?’ she demanded. ‘Getting married without seeing the bride is out of the question. I insist; you must not consent to the marriage if the girl does not please you.’
On the appointed day, Mahendra returned from college and said to his mother, ‘Please take out my silk shirt, and the dhoti from Dhaka.’
‘Why, where are you going?’
‘Something urgent has come up, Ma. Just give me my clothes; I’ll tell you about it later.’
Mahendra could not resist grooming himself for the occasion. Even if it is for somebody else, the very idea of viewing a prospective bride impels a young man to add a slight curl to his hair, a dash of perfume to his shawl.
The two friends set out to see the bride.
With his self-gotten wealth, the girl’s jyatha, Anukulbabu of Shyambazar, had built a house—a three-storey structure that towered above the rest of the neighbourhood—with a garden.
After the death of his impoverished brother, Anukulbabu had brought his orphaned niece to live in his own house. ‘Let her stay with me,’ the girl’s mashi, her mother’s sister Annapurna, had suggested. That would indeed have diminished his expenditure, but for fear of losing his prestige, Anukul had not agreed. In fact, he never even sent the girl to her mashi’s house on a social visit, so particular was he about his own social standing.
Eventually, it was time to think of getting the girl married, but in today’s world, when it comes to marrying off a girl, the thought alone is not enough. Along with the thought of marriage, one also requires money. But whenever the question of dowry arose, Anukul would say, ‘I have daughters of my own, after all. How much expenditure can I bear by myself?’ And so the days passed by. It was at this juncture that Mahendra entered the scene, all dressed up and perfumed, with his friend in tow.
At the end of a warm Chaitra day, it was almost time for sunset. The south-facing second-floor veranda was paved with fine tiles of patterned porcelain. Arranged at one end of the veranda for the two visitors were fruits and sweets on silver plates and iced water in silver glasses frosted over with droplets of moisture. Rather embarrassed, Mahendra sat down to this repast, with Bihari beside him. Downstairs, the gardener was watering the plants with a hose. Laden with the tender fragrance of moist earth, the southerly Chaitra breeze stirred the end of Mahendra’s white, perfumed, pleated shawl. Through the slatted doors and windows around them came sounds of suppressed laughter, whispered words, and the tinkle of jewellery.
When the meal was over, Anukulbabu glanced towards the interior of the house. ‘Chuni, bring us some paan,’ he called.
After a while, a door at the rear opened hesitantly and a young girl came and stood near Anukulbabu, holding the box of paan in her hands, her entire body stiff with embarrassment. ‘Why are you so shy, my girl! Place the paandaan over there, before those gentlemen,’ he instructed.
Hands trembling, the girl bent to place the paandaan on the floor, beside the seated visitors. From the western end of the veranda, the glow of the setting sun illuminated her shy face. Mahendra took this opportunity to inspect the pitiful face of this shivering young girl.
As she was about to depart, Anukulbabu stopped her—‘Wait a bit, Chuni,’—and turned to his visitors. ‘Biharibabu, this is the daughter of my younger brother Apurbo. He is no more; now she has nobody but me,’ he sighed.
Mahendra’s heart was smitten with pity. He glanced once more at the orphaned girl.
Nobody would clearly declare her age. ‘She’d be about twelve or thirteen years old,’ her relatives said. In other words, fourteen or fifteen seemed more likely. But because she had been brought up on other people’s charity, her budding adolescence had been checked, or suppressed, by an air of diffidence and timidity.
‘What is your name?’ asked Mahendra, moved by compassion.
‘Speak, my dear, tell him your name,’ urged Anukulbabu.
Head bowed, with her habitual air of compliance, the girl answered, ‘My name is Ashalata.’
Asha! It seemed to Mahendra that the name was full of pathos and that her voice was very tender. Poor orphaned Asha!
The two friends came out onto the road and set off in their carriage.
‘Bihari, don’t let this girl go,’ said Mahendra.
Without offering a direct answer, Bihari remarked, ‘The girl reminds me of her mashi. I think she will be just as sweet-natured as her aunt.’
‘The burden I have placed on your shoulders probably doesn’t seem so heavy anymore.’
‘No, I’ll probably be able to bear it.’
‘Why suffer needlessly?’ Mahendra said. ‘What if I take your burden onto my own shoulders? What do you say?’
Bihari looked gravely at Mahendra’s face. ‘Mahinda, do you mean it?’ he asked. ‘Tell me for certain; it’s not too late. If you were to agree to the marriage, Kaki would be much happier, for she would be able to keep the girl with her always.’
‘Are you mad? If that were so, it would have happened long ago.’
Bihari departed without raising too many objections. Mahendra, too, left the direct route for a longer one, and went home slowly, after a long delay.
His mother was busy frying luchis at the time. His kaki had not yet returned from her bonjhi’s house.
Alone, Mahendra walked up to the terrace, spread out a mat and lay down. On this seventh night of the lunar cycle’s bright quarter, the crescent moon was silently spreading its exquisite magic over the clustered roofs of the grand edifices of Kolkata. When his mother announced dinner, Mahendra declared lazily, ‘I’m quite comfortable, I can’t get up now.’
‘Why don’t I bring your meal here?’
‘I won’t have any more to eat today, I have dined already.’
‘Where did you dine?’
‘That’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.’
Offended by her son’s unusual behaviour, Rajalakshmi turned to leave without replying.
Instantly pulling himself together, an apologetic Mahendra said, ‘M
a, please serve my food here.’
‘Why eat if you’re not hungry?’
After mother and son sniped at each other in the same vein for some time, Mahendra had to sit down to a meal once again.
3
Mahendra did not sleep well that night. Early the next morning, he arrived at Bihari’s doorstep. ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I’ve thought things over and it seems to be Kakima’s heartfelt desire that I should marry her bonjhi.’
‘There was no need to think things over all of a sudden. She has expressed this desire in many different ways.’
‘That is why I think that if I don’t marry Asha, there will remain an unfulfilled desire in Kakima’s heart.’
‘That is indeed possible.’
‘I think that would be very wrong of me.’
With somewhat unnatural enthusiasm, Bihari exclaimed, ‘That’s wonderful! If you consent to the marriage, there’s nothing more to be said. If only this sense of duty had dawned on you yesterday!’
‘If it has dawned a day later, where’s the harm in that?’
Once Mahendra had allowed his mind to dwell on matrimony, it became impossible for him to remain patient. He began to think, ‘It’s better to go through with the ceremony instead of prolonging our deliberations.’
He went to his mother and announced, ‘Very well, Ma, I shall heed your request. I am ready to get married.’
‘Now I understand why mejobou suddenly went to see her bonjhi the other day, and why Mahendra went out looking so well-groomed,’ Rajalakshmi thought to herself.
The fact that Annapurna’s ploy had succeeded where her own repeated pleas had failed roused her ire against the whole universe. ‘I shall look for a suitable girl,’ she promised.
‘But the girl has been found.’
‘Let me tell you, my boy, that girl will not do.’
Controlling himself, Mahendra responded mildly, ‘Why, Ma, the girl is not unsuitable.’
‘She has nobody in the world; if you marry her, I will have no prospect of enjoying a relationship with your in-laws.’
‘I will not regret the lack of social interaction with my in-laws, but I do like the girl, Ma.’
Her son’s obstinacy further hardened Rajalakshmi’s heart. She accosted Annapurna reproachfully: ‘Would you turn my only son against me by marrying him to an ill-starred girl whose father and mother are dead? What an evil ploy!’
Weeping, Annapurna pleaded, ‘I have not discussed the subject of marriage with Mahin. Whatever he has said to you is of his own free will; I know nothing of it.’
Mahendra’s mother did not believe a word. Annapurna sent for Bihari. ‘The match was arranged with you in mind. Why have you turned everything upside down?’ she demanded, tearfully. ‘It’s you who must consent to this marriage, once more. If you don’t save the situation, I shall be placed in a very shameful position. The girl is extremely sweet-natured; she would not be unworthy of you.’
‘Kakima, you needn’t tell me that. When the girl is your niece, there can be no question of my turning her down. But Mahendra …’
‘No, Bihari, Mahendra cannot marry her under any circumstances. To tell you the truth, I would be most relieved if you were to marry her. I am averse to the idea of her marrying Mahin.’
‘Kaki, if you are averse to the idea, then there’s nothing more to be said.’
He went to Rajalakshmi and announced, ‘Ma, my marriage to Kakima’s bonjhi has been fixed. In the absence of female relatives, I had to overcome my embarrassment and break the news to you myself.’
‘Is that so, Bihari! I am very happy. She’s a sweet girl, suitable for you. Don’t let this girl slip out of your hands on any account.’
‘Why would I let her slip out of my hands, Ma? Mahinda himself approved the match.’
All these hindrances redoubled Mahendra’s agitation. Enraged at his mother and kaki, he took refuge in a shabby hostel for students.
Rajalakshmi came to Annapurna’s room in tears. ‘Mejobou, Mahin has left home in dejection. Please rescue him.’
‘Didi, be patient, his anger will subside in a couple of days.’
‘You don’t know him. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he is capable of anything. By whatever means, a match with your bonjhi …’
‘Didi, how is that possible? The match with Bihari is almost fixed.’
‘It wouldn’t take long to cancel that!’ Rajalakshmi sent for Bihari and urged him, ‘My son, I’ll find a good match for you, but you must relinquish this girl. She is not even worthy of you.’
‘No, Ma, that’s not possible. The matter has been settled.’
Rajalakshmi went to Annapurna once again and pleaded: ‘Upon my word, Mejobou, I fall at your feet. If you would only speak to Bihari, the matter would be sorted out.’
‘Bihari, it is very difficult for me to say this to you, but I have no choice,’ Annapurna told Bihari. ‘I would have felt extremely relieved if Asha had been placed in your care, but you know all that has happened.’
‘I understand, Kaki. It will be as you say. But you must never again urge me to marry.’
With these words, Bihari departed. Annapurna’s eyes filled with tears, but she wiped them away for fear that they would bring misfortune upon Mahendra. Again and again, she tried to persuade herself that the step taken was for the best.
In this way, amidst such cruel, secret, silent exchanges between Rajalakshmi, Annapurna and Mahendra, the wedding day arrived. Lights shone brightly, the notes of the shehnai rang out melodiously, and there was no lack of sweetness in the sweetmeats prepared for the occasion.
With her beautifully bedecked body and bashful, rapt face, Asha stepped for the first time into her new home; her gentle, trembling heart never sensed the presence of a thorn anywhere in this nest. The prospect of being close to Annapurna, her only mother-substitute in the world, filled her with reassurance and joy, dispelling all anxiety or doubt.
After the wedding, Rajalakshmi sent for Mahindra. ‘I think bouma, the bride, should go and stay with her jyatha for a few days.’
‘Why, Ma?’
‘You have your examinations now; your studies may be affected.’
‘Am I a callow youth? Can I not use my own judgement?’
‘It’s only a matter of one more year, Mahin.’
‘If my bride had a father or a mother, I would not object to her visiting them, but I can’t keep her at her jyatha’s house.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Rajalakshmi thought to herself. ‘He’s the master, and the mother-in-law’s opinion doesn’t count! So much sympathy after being married for just one day! We, too, were brides once, married to the masters of the house. But in those days, there was no such uxoriousness, nor such arrogance!’
‘Have no fear, Ma,’ declared Mahendra emphatically. ‘My examinations will not suffer at all.’
4
Thereafter, Rajalakshmi showed a sudden zeal for training the bride in household duties. Asha’s days were spent in the store room, kitchen and prayer room. At night, as compensation for the loss of her own relatives, Asha was made to share Rajalakshmi’s bed.
After careful consideration, Annapurna thought it best to maintain a distance from her bonjhi.
Mahendra’s condition was like that of a greedy boy who watches in desperation as his powerful mentor chews upon a sugarcane stick until almost all its juice is exhausted. He could not bear to watch his youthful bride’s sweetness being relentlessly wrung out of her by the pressures of housework.
‘Kaki, I can’t bear to see the way Ma is working my wife to death,’ Mahendra protested to Annapurna.
Annapurna knew that Rajalakshmi was carrying things to an extreme, but she replied, ‘Why, Mahin, it’s a good thing that your wife is being taught some domestic skills. Would it be better if she lived like the girls of today, reading novels, weaving rugs and leading a life of leisure?’
Agitated, Mahendra declared, ‘A girl of today will be like other modern girls, whether you like it
or not. If my wife can read a novel and appreciate it as I do, then I see no cause for reproach or mockery.’
Hearing her son’s voice in Annapurna’s room, Rajalakshmi dropped everything and came there. ‘What’s this!’ she demanded, sharply. ‘What are the two of you plotting?’
‘We’re not plotting anything, Ma,’ insisted Mahendra in the same agitated manner. ‘I can’t allow my wife to labour over household chores like a slave.’
Controlling her burning fury, his mother spoke slowly, but sharply: ‘What is to be done with her ladyship, then?’
‘I shall teach her to read and write.’
Rajalakshmi swept out of the room without replying. She returned an instant later, dragging her daughter-in-law along. ‘Here she is. Teach your bride to read and write.’
She turned to Annapurna, the aanchal of her sari wrapped about her neck in contrition, and said, with folded hands, ‘Forgive me, Mejoginni, please forgive me. I was not aware of your bonjhi’s prestigious position. I have stained her tender fingers with turmeric; now you must cleanse and scrub her and groom her like a lady before handing her over to Mahin. Let her ladyship learn to read and write in luxury, while I slave away at housework.’
With these words, Rajalakshmi rushed into her room and slammed the door. Annapurna sank to the floor in sorrow. Failing to understand the significance of this sudden domestic upheaval, Asha grew pale with shame, fear and pain. Enraged, Mahendra told himself, ‘No more of this; I must take responsibility for my own wife. It would be wrong of me not to.’
The flame of desire was instantly fanned by a sense of duty. Throwing college, examinations, demands of friendship and social obligations to the wind, Mahendra ensconced himself in his room along with his wife to strive for her intellectual improvement. He paid no heed to his work, and not the slightest attention to other people.
A petulant Rajalakshmi declared to herself, ‘Even if Mahendra and his bride came to my door begging for forgiveness, I would still ignore them. Let’s see how he manages with his wife, after having excluded his mother.’