Rajalakshmi was secretly pleased that Asha had called upon Mahendra to look after his mother. Outwardly, she asked, ‘Bouma, I sent you to bed; why did you drag Mahendra here?’
Without offering any reply, Asha sat at her back, and began fanning her. ‘Go, Bouma, go to bed.’
‘He has asked me to remain here,’ replied Asha in a low voice. She knew that Rajalakshmi would be pleased to know that Mahendra had deployed her in his mother’s service.
44
When it became clear to Rajalakshmi that Asha was unable to hold Mahendra’s interest, she thought, ‘If Mahendra is forced to stay on account of my illness, even that would be fine.’ She began to feel afraid that her disease might be completely cured. Behind Asha’s back, she began to throw away her doses of medicine.
In his absent-mindedness, Mahendra did not take much notice of such things. But Asha could see that Rajalakshmi’s illness seemed to be worsening, instead of getting better. She thought that Mahendra was not prescribing the treatment with adequate thought and care; in his distracted state, even his mother’s distress could not bring him to his senses. Asha could not help secretly condemning Mahendra for such a major failing. If a man was ruined in one area of his life, did that ruin him in all other aspects as well?
One evening, while suffering a bout of asthma, Rajalakshmi thought of Bihari. How long it had been since Bihari had visited them! ‘Bouma, do you know where Bihari is, nowadays?’ she asked Asha. Asha realized that in times of illness and discomfort, it was Bihari who had always nursed her mother-in-law. Hence, in her moment of pain, it was Bihari her mother-in-law had remembered. Alas, even Bihari—always and forever their sole unwavering support—was lost to them. Had Bihari Thakurpo been present, Ma would have been lovingly looked after during this crisis; he was not heartless like Asha’s husband. Asha let out a heartfelt sigh.
‘Has Mahin quarrelled with Bihari, then? That was very wrong of him, Bouma. Mahin has no friend or well-wisher like Bihari.’ As she spoke, tears gathered at the corners of Rajalakshmi’s eyes.
One by one, Asha recalled many things. Bihari had tried so hard in so many ways to warn the blind, foolish Asha in time, but for his efforts he had increasingly earned her disfavour; today, thinking of this, she sharply reprimanded herself. Why would destiny not punish the ungrateful idiot who insulted her only well-wisher and drew her only enemy to her bosom? Would not the broken-hearted Bihari’s parting sigh hang over the house like a curse?
After a long, worried pause, Rajalakshmi suddenly remarked: ‘Bouma, if Bihari had been here, he could have protected us during these bad times; things would not have come to such a pass.’
Asha was silent, deep in thought.
‘If he gets news of my illness, he cannot help but come,’ sighed Rajalakshmi. Asha understood that Rajalakshmi wanted Bihari to receive this news. In Bihari’s absence, she felt utterly helpless, nowadays.
Having put out the light inside the room, Mahendra stood silently at the window, in the moonlight. He didn’t enjoy studying anymore. There was no happiness in the house. Once there is a breach in the easy relationship with one’s nearest and dearest, they cannot be casually cast aside like strangers, nor can they be readily accepted like close friends; they are irrevocably one’s own, and this weighs like an unbearable burden upon one’s heart, day and night. Mahendra felt no inclination to appear before his mother; he was wounded by the expression of fearful anxiety with which she gazed at him whenever he approached her unexpectedly. If Asha came near him for any reason, it was difficult to speak to her, and equally painful to remain silent. It was becoming hard to pass his days in this fashion. Mahendra had vowed that he would not see Binodini at all, for seven days. There were still two days to go: how would he pass those two days?
Mahendra heard footsteps behind him. He realized that Asha had entered the room. Pretending not to have heard her approach, he remained motionless. Asha understood his pretence, but still did not leave the room. Standing behind him, she said, ‘There is something I have to say; I shall leave as soon as I have said it.’
Turning around, Mahendra asked, ‘Why must you leave, why not sit here awhile?’
Ignoring this gesture of politeness, Asha remained standing motionless. ‘We should inform Bihari Thakurpo of Ma’s illness,’ she said.
The sound of Bihari’s name wounded Mahendra to the quick. Pulling himself together, he demanded, ‘Why should we? Do you have no faith in my medical treatment?’
Asha’s heart was full of reproach at the fact that Mahendra was not paying adequate attention to his mother’s treatment. ‘Why, Ma’s illness is far from cured; it seems to worsen day by day,’ she blurted out.
Mahendra sensed the inner rage concealed within these simple words. Asha had never rebuked him so severely before this. His pride was wounded. ‘I must learn medicine from you, it seems,’ he remarked in mock surprise.
His sarcasm acted as an unexpected provocation, arousing the pain that had been accumulating in Asha’s heart. In the darkened room, the ever-silent Asha spoke without hesitation today. ‘You may not learn medicine from me, but you may well learn to take care of your mother,’ she declared, burning with fury.
At this reply from Asha, Mahendra’s amazement knew no bounds. Her unaccustomed sharpness made him cruel. ‘You know why I have forbidden your Bihari Thakurpo to visit this house. I suppose you are thinking of him again,’ he accused her.
Asha rushed from the room in a storm of shame. The shame was not for herself, but for a man who could utter such unjust accusations while steeped in sin himself. No degree of atonement could make up for such monstrous shamelessness.
As soon as Asha had left, Mahendra realized that he had been completely defeated. He had not imagined that she could ever, under any circumstances, condemn him in this fashion. Where he had once reigned supreme, Mahendra saw himself now condemned to languish in the dust. At last, the fearful possibility dawned on him that Asha’s pain might change to contempt.
Meanwhile, the thought of Bihari made him restless with worry about Binodini. Had Bihari returned from the west by now? Binodini might have found out his address in the meantime; it was not impossible that she should meet Bihari. Mahendra found it hard to keep his vow.
At night, Rajalakshmi’s respiratory trouble increased; unable to bear it, she herself sent for Mahendra. Pronouncing the words with difficulty, she pleaded, ‘Mahin, I have a great desire to see Bihari, it has been so long since he visited us.’
Asha was fanning her mother-in-law. She lowered her head. Mahendra replied, ‘He is not here, he has gone west.’
‘My heart tells me that he is here, but is staying away because he is upset with you,’ said Rajalakshmi. ‘I insist, you must visit his house tomorrow.’
‘Very well, Ma.’
Everyone wanted Bihari. Mahendra felt that the whole world had abandoned him.
45
Early the next morning, Mahendra arrived at Bihari’s house. He saw servants loading household goods onto several bullock carts standing at the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ Mahendra asked Bhoju.
‘Babu has acquired a garden estate next to the Ganga at Bali; the things are being sent on there.’
‘Is Babu at home?’
‘He spent just two days in Kolkata, and then left for the garden estate.’
Hearing this, Mahendra’s heart was filled with anxiety. He was left in no doubt that Binodini and Bihari must have met in his absence. In his imagination, he saw goods being loaded onto bullock carts in front of Binodini’s flat as well. He felt certain that this was the reason why Binodini had tricked him into staying away from the house.
Without delaying an instant longer, Mahendra mounted his carriage and asked the coachman to drive fast. From time to time, he swore at the coachman, complaining that the horses were too slow. Arriving at the door of the flat in the narrow lane, he found no preparations for a journey in progress. He feared that the arrangements might have been compl
eted already. He struck the door hard. As soon as the old servant opened the door, Mahendra asked, ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, sir, everything is all right.’
Mahendra went upstairs and found that Binodini had gone for her bath. Entering her empty bedchamber, Mahendra flung himself on the bed she had slept in the previous night. Extending both arms, he gathered the soft sheet to his bosom, breathing in the smell, holding it to his face. ‘Cruel! How cruel!’ he began to lament.
Having given vent to his emotions in this way, Mahendra rose from the bed and began to await Binodini impatiently. As he paced about the room, he saw a Bengali newspaper lying open on the divan. Absent-mindedly, he picked it up to pass the time; his eyes fell on Bihari’s name. In an instant, his full attention was focussed on that section of the newspaper. A correspondent had written that Bihari had acquired a garden estate on the banks of the Ganga at Bali, to provide free medical treatment and nursing facilities to poorly paid, impoverished clerks when they were sick. There were arrangements to accommodate five patients at a time, et cetera.
Binodini had read this item of news. What had been her mental state upon reading it? Her heart was surely yearning to escape to that place. Mahendra grew even more agitated at the thought that Bihari would earn even greater respect in Binodini’s eyes on account of his noble resolve. In his mind, Mahendra called Bihari a humbug, and termed his project a crazy impulse. He told himself, ‘Ever since childhood, Bihari has had this wild urge to be a do-gooder.’ Mahendra tried to give himself credit for being utterly guileless and natural, unlike Bihari: ‘I disdain any attempt to deceive ignorant people by making a pretence of benevolence and self-sacrifice.’ But alas, the greatness of this supremely uncontrived naturalness would perhaps be lost on people, on one person in particular. Mahendra began to feel that this, too, was a trick played on him by Bihari.
Hearing Binodini’s footsteps, Mahendra quickly folded the newspaper and sat down on it. Freshly bathed, Binodini entered the room; Mahendra was surprised at her appearance. She seemed to have undergone an exquisite transformation. It was as if she had spent the last few days meditating before a burning fire. Her body had become lean, and penetrating through that leanness, a sort of glow emanated from her pale face.
Binodini had given up hope of receiving a letter from Bihari. Thinking of his extreme indifference towards her, she had been consumed day and night by an inner fire. She had no way of escaping its flames. It was as if Bihari’s departure for the west was meant as a rebuke for her; Binodini had no means of reaching him. Without any work, the active, energetic Binodini felt stifled in these tiny lodgings. All her energy seemed to turn upon herself, assaulting and wounding her. At the thought of spending the rest of her life confined in this loveless, workless, joyless house, in this stifling blind alley, her rebellious nature seemed to beat its head against the sky in vain, resisting a destiny beyond her control. There was no limit to Binodini’s contempt and hostility towards the foolish Mahendra who had so restricted her life, closing off all avenues of escape. Binodini had realized that she could keep Mahendra at arm’s length no longer. In this tiny abode, he would come closer, face to face with her, advancing towards her little by little each day, drawn by an invisible attraction. In this dark hellhole, this bed of slime and mire that was the degraded condition of their life, torn between contempt and desire, a monstrous daily conflict would inevitably ensue. How was Binodini to protect herself from the coils of the greedy-tongued, lascivious serpent she had unleashed by delving into the innermost recesses of Mahendra’s mind? The agony in her heart, this tiny, confined dwelling, and the incessant pressure of Mahendra’s desire—contemplating all this, Binodini shuddered in terror. Where would all this end? When would she break free?
At the sight of Binodini’s pale, thin face, Mahendra’s mind was inflamed with envy. Was there no power in his possession, by which he might force this female ascetic’s mind away from thoughts of Bihari? Like the impregnable nest, high up in the mountains, to which the eagle carries the lamb it has swiftly snatched, was there no cloud-covered place, secluded from the world, where Mahendra could keep this tender, beautiful prey to himself, close to his breast? The scorching fire of envy redoubled the force of his desire. He could no longer let Binodini out of his sight for an instant. Day and night, he must fight the monstrous threat posed by Bihari, for Mahendra could no longer dare to trust him an inch.
Mahendra had read in a Sanskrit verse that a woman’s beauty is enhanced by the pangs of separation. Today, observing Binodini, the more clearly he recognized the truth of these words, the more violently his heart was churned by waves of happiness mixed with sorrow.
‘Have you had tea?’ Binodini asked Mahendra after a brief pause.
‘Even if I have, you should not be miserly in making me another cup by your own hand. ‘Pyala mujhe bhar de re—fill my cup to the brim,’ he added in Hindi.
Perhaps deliberately, Binodini struck a cruel blow at Mahendra’s exuberance. ‘Do you have any news of Bihari Thakurpo’s whereabouts?’
Instantly, Mahendra grew pale. ‘He is not in Kolkata now.’
‘What is his address?’
‘That is something he doesn’t want to disclose.’
‘Isn’t it possible to find out?’
‘I see no urgent necessity for that.’
‘Is necessity all that matters? Does childhood friendship count for nothing?’
‘Bihari may be my childhood friend, but his friendship with you is a recent affair. All the same, your sense of urgency seems far greater.’
‘That should make you feel ashamed. Could you not learn the art of friendship from such a friend as he?’
‘I have fewer regrets on that count; but had I learnt from him the art of stealing a woman’s heart through deception, it might have proved useful today.’
‘To acquire that art, desire is not enough, you must have the ability as well.’
‘If you know the guru’s address, give it to me. Let me be initiated as his disciple at this advanced age; my ability can be tested afterwards.’
‘If you cannot find out your friend’s address, don’t talk to me of love. Who can trust you after the way you have behaved with Bihari Thakurpo?’
‘If you did not have implicit faith in me, you would not insult me so. If you had not been so secure about my love for you, perhaps I would not have suffered such unbearable pain. Bihari knows the art of remaining untamed; had he taught this wretch the same art, he would have acted as a true friend.’
‘Bihari is a human being, that is why he cannot be tamed.’ Having uttered these words, Binodini remained standing at the window as before, her open hair spread across her shoulders.
Suddenly rising to his feet, Mahendra clenched his fists and roared in an angry voice, ‘Why do you dare to insult me again and again? If you receive no retaliation for your insults, is it because of your power or my goodness? If you have taken me for an animal, then know me to be a beast of prey. I am not such a coward as to be incapable of violence.’ For a short while, he remained still, gazing at Binodini’s face. Then he burst out, ‘Binod, let’s go away somewhere! Let’s get out of here. Let’s go west, to the hills, wherever you please. We have no room for survival here. I am dying.’
‘Come, let’s go right away. Let’s go west.’
‘Where in the west would you go?’
‘Nowhere. We shall not halt for more than a day in any place—we’ll be constantly on the move.’
‘Very well, let’s leave tonight.’
Assenting to this, Binodini went to arrange for Mahendra’s meal.
Mahendra realized that Binodini had not noticed the news item about Bihari. She no longer had the ability to concentrate on the newspaper. He remained on his guard all day, lest she should chance upon the news item.
46
In the expectation that Mahendra would return with news of Bihari, his food had been kept ready for him at home. When it got very late, Rajalakshmi?
??s agony increased. Already exhausted from a sleepless night, she was also fretting for Mahendra; observing her torment, Asha enquired after Mahendra and was informed that his carriage had returned empty. From the coachman, they learnt that Mahendra had gone to the Potoldanga lodgings after stopping at Bihari’s. Hearing this, Rajalakshmi turned her face to the wall and lay completely still. Rigid as a painted image, Asha sat by her head, fanning her. On other days, Rajalakshmi would order Asha to have her meals on time. Today, she said nothing. If, in his frenzied state, Mahendra had rushed off to Binodini even after witnessing his mother’s terrible suffering the previous night, there remained nothing in this world for Rajalakshmi to question, or strive for, or desire. She was aware that Mahendra had taken her illness lightly; he had assured himself that her symptoms were temporary, like previous recurrences of her ailment from which she had always recovered. But to Rajalakshmi, this lack of concern and worry seemed extremely callous. Intoxicated with love, Mahendra had no room in his heart for any anxiety, any sense of duty; hence, he made light of his mother’s illness and suffering. At the first opportunity, he had shamelessly escaped to Binodini for fear that he might be confined to his mother’s sickbed. Rajalakshmi no longer had the slightest urge to recover from her illness; in a terrible fit of wounded pride, she wanted to prove that Mahendra’s indifference was unfounded.
‘Ma, it’s time to take your medicine,’ Asha reminded her at two in the afternoon.
Rajalakshmi remained silent. When Asha got up to fetch her medicine, she said, ‘There is no need for medicine, Bouma, you may go.’
Asha understood her mother-in-law’s petulance; as bitterness welled up in her heart, doubling her inner turmoil, Asha could contain herself no longer. Trying to suppress her tears, she sobbed out loud. Slowly turning over to face Asha, Rajalakshmi began gently stroking her arm, full of affection and pity. ‘Bouma, you are very young, you still have time to find happiness. Don’t struggle anymore on my behalf, my child; I have lived long enough. What is there to live for, now?’