Hearing this, Asha wept copiously. She pressed her aanchal to her face. In this way, in the invalid’s home, the joyless day passed at a slow pace. Even in the midst of their petulance, the two women still harboured the secret hope that Mahendra would suddenly appear. Both could sense the way they started at the slightest sound. Gradually, the daylight waned; the glimmer of dusk in the heart of Kolkata had neither the cheerfulness of daylight, nor the cover of darkness. It turned dejection into a deadweight, and despair into a tearless state, it robbed one of the ability to work with assurance, yet did not bring the peace that comes with restfulness and detachment. In the sickroom, in that drab, gloomy twilight, Asha silently got up to fetch a lighted lamp. ‘Bouma, I don’t like the light, please put the lamp outside,’ protested Rajalakshmi.
Asha placed the lamp outside and came back to her place in the room. As the darkness deepened, bringing the endless night into this tiny chamber, Asha asked Rajalakshmi in a low voice, ‘Ma, should I send for him?’
‘No, Bouma, I insist, don’t send for Mahendra,’ declared Rajalakshmi firmly.
Asha remained silent; she no longer had the strength to cry.
‘There is a letter from Babu,’ the attendant called from outside the room. Rajalakshmi thought for an instant that Mahendra must have fallen ill, and unable to come, he had sent the letter. Full of remorse, she anxiously asked Asha, ‘See, Bouma, what has Mahin written?’
By the light of the lamp outside, Asha read the letter, holding it in trembling hands. Mahendra had written that he had been feeling unwell for some days, and was therefore travelling west for a vacation. There was no particular cause for anxiety regarding his mother’s illness. He had told Doctor Nabin to examine her regularly. The letter contained instructions for dealing with sleeplessness or headache, should his mother develop such complaints. Along with the letter, Mahendra had also sent two tins of light, wholesome dietary supplements obtained from the clinic. In a postscript to the letter, Mahendra had requested that news of his mother’s health definitely be sent to him at the Giridih address.
As she read this letter, Asha was stunned. Fierce contempt overtook her sorrow. How could she read such cruel words to her mother-in-law?
As Asha was taking rather long, Rajalakshmi grew even more anxious. She said, ‘Bouma, quickly read to me what Mahin has written.’ She sat up in her eagerness.
Entering the room, Asha slowly read out the entire letter. Rajalakshmi asked, ‘What does Mahin say about his health, read out that bit to me again.’
Asha read aloud again, ‘For several days now, I have not been feeling too well, hence I …’
‘Let it be, let it be, there’s no need to read any further. How can he feel well? His old mother refuses to die, yet continues to plague him with her illness. Why did you have to inform Mahin about my illness? He was at home, studying in a corner of the house, not interfering in anyone’s business. What pleasure did you get from mentioning his mother’s illness, driving him away from the house? If I had died here, what harm would that have done anybody? Even in so much sorrow, you did not have this little bit of intelligence in your head.’
With these words, she sank back on the bed.
Outside, the sound of shoe-clad footsteps could be heard. The bearer announced in Hindi, ‘Doctorbabu is here.’
The doctor coughed before entering the room. Asha quickly covered her head and stood behind the bedstead. ‘What is your complaint?’ the doctor enquired.
‘What do you think my complaint might be?’ retorted Rajalakshmi angrily. ‘Will you not let a human being die? Just because I have taken your medicine, must I live forever?’
In a consoling tone, the doctor answered, ‘I may not be able to make you immortal, but the attempt to reduce your suffering …’
‘The best treatment for suffering was when widows burnt themselves to death; now, it’s simply a question of keeping us chained to make us die slowly. Go, Doctorbabu, go away. Don’t trouble me anymore, I want to be left alone.’
Timidly, the doctor suggested, ‘A look at your pulse …’
In a tone of extreme exasperation, Rajalakshmi cried, ‘I am asking you to leave. My pulse is fine. This pulse is not likely to fail me in a hurry.’
Doctor Nabin had no choice but to leave the room. He sent for Asha and asked for a full account of the patient’s illness. Having received a complete description in reply, he re-entered the room with a grave face. ‘Please understand, Mahendra had made me particularly responsible in this matter,’ he insisted. ‘If you don’t allow me to treat you, he will be hurt.’
The suggestion that Mahendra might feel hurt seemed laughable to Rajalakshmi. ‘Don’t worry too much about Mahin. In this world, everyone must suffer. This suffering will not affect Mahendra unduly. You may go now, Doctor. Please let me sleep.’
Doctor Nabin realized that it was not a good idea to agitate the patient. He left the room slowly and, before departing, instructed Asha on all that needed to be done.
When Asha entered the room, Rajalakshmi said, ‘Go, my child, go and rest a little. You have been sitting by the patient’s side all day. Send Haru’s mother here; let her sit in the next room.’
Asha understood Rajalakshmi. This was not an affectionate request; it was an order, one that she had to obey. Sending Haru’s mother there, she went in the darkness to her own room and lay down on the cool divan.
Her body and mind were worn out and fatigued from having fasted and suffered discomfort all day. That day, from time to time, there were sounds of wedding music from a neighbouring house. At this moment, the shehnai struck up again. Assaulted by that sound, the darkness of the night seemed to pulsate, stinging Asha repeatedly. Every minor detail of her own wedding night seemed to come alive, filling the night sky with dream images; the bright lights, the hubbub and crowds of that night; the garlands, sandalwood paste, new garments and the fragrance of incense; the deep trembling of the new bride’s heart, her anxiety, shyness and joy. The more these memories haunted her, the more acute became the agony in her heart. Like a starving, famine-stricken child that strikes its mother, demanding food, these memories of happier days hammered tearfully at Asha’s breast, demanding something to feed on. They would not allow the tired Asha to remain supine any longer. As she folded her hands in prayer, the pure, tender image of Mashima, the only living image of divinity in her life, appeared in Asha’s tear-filled heart. All these days, she had vowed not to drag the female ascetic into worldly problems again. But tonight, she could see no other way; in the deep, pervasive sorrow that surrounded her, there was no other recourse. She lit the lamp, placed a sheet of paper on a notebook in her lap and, frequently wiping away her tears, began to write a letter:
Respected Mashima,
Today I have nobody but you to turn to; please come and take this unhappy woman onto your lap, or else, she will not survive. I don’t know what else to write. I bow at your feet a hundred thousand times.
Your affectionate
Chuni.
47
Returning from Kashi, Annapurna softly entered Rajalakshmi’s room, and touched her feet. In spite of the intervening estrangement, Rajalakshmi greeted her sister-in-law as if she had recovered some long-lost treasure. Now that Annapurna was here, Rajalakshmi realized how much she had missed her. Today, in an instant, it became clear to her that much of her recent fatigue and anger was really due to Annapurna’s absence. Instantly, her whole heart, in its agony, claimed its accustomed place. Even before Mahendra was born, as brides of the house, these two jas, sisters-in-law, had taken upon themselves the joys and sorrows of the entire family.
During religious occasions and festivals, in times of grief and loss—the two had been fellow passengers in the journey of life. Today, in an instant, Rajalakshmi’s heart was enveloped in the intimacy of those bygone days. After many ups and downs in their relationship, the same childhood companion with whom she had begun her life in the distant past came to her side at this time of supreme sufferin
g. She was the only reminder of all the pleasures and sorrows, all the cherished events, of those days. Where was he, the person for whose sake Rajalakshmi had cruelly hurt her friend and companion?
‘Didi!’ said Annapurna, when she was at the bedside of the invalid, taking her right hand in her own.
‘Mejobou!’ Rajalakshmi could say no more. Tears began to flow from her eyes. Asha could not bear to watch this scene. Going into the adjacent room, she sank to the floor and wept.
Annapurna did not dare question Rajalakshmi or Asha about Mahendra. Sending for Sadhucharan, she asked him, ‘Mama, where is Mahin?’
Sadhucharan told her all about Binodini and Mahendra.
‘What news of Bihari?’ Annapurna asked him.
‘He has not been here in a long time,’ replied Sadhucharan. ‘I don’t really have news of him.’
‘Go at once to Bihari’s house, and enquire after him.’
Sadhucharan returned to inform her, ‘He is not at home; he has gone away to a garden estate on the shores of the Ganga at Bali.’
Sending for Doctor Nabin, Annapurna asked about the patient’s condition.
‘Along with a weak heart, there are symptoms of stomach problems,’ the doctor told her. ‘Nobody can predict when death might come.’
In the evening, when Rajalakshmi’s sufferings increased, Annapurna asked her, ‘Didi, should I send for Doctor Nabin?’
‘No, Mejobou, Doctor Nabin can do nothing for me.’
‘Then tell me who you would like me to send for.’
‘It would be good if you could send word to Bihari.’
Annapurna was pierced to the heart. To this day, she had not been able to forget the pain she had felt that evening, far away in exile, when she had insulted Bihari at her doorstep and banished him into the darkness. Never again would Bihari return to her door. In this life, she had no hope of ever making amends for having spurned him.
Annapurna visited Mahendra’s room on the terrace, once the abode of joy in the house. Today, the room had no charm. The bedclothes were awry, the décor untended, the flowerpots on the terrace not watered, the plants shrivelled and dry.
Sensing that Mashima had gone up to the terrace, Asha, too, slowly followed her. Drawing her to her bosom, Annapurna kissed her face. Bowing down, Asha clasped her aunt’s feet and touched her head to them, again and again. She said, ‘Mashima, please grant me your blessings, please give me strength. I could never have imagined that human beings might endure such suffering. O Ma, how long must I bear all this?’
Annapurna sat down, Asha lying prone on the ground at her feet. Taking Asha’s head onto her lap, Annapurna prayed silently, with folded hands. Entering the deepest recesses of Asha’s heart, Annapurna’s silent, affectionate blessing brought a sense of peace at long last. She felt that she had almost achieved her goal. God might ignore a fool like herself, but He could not fail to heed Mashima’s prayers.
Feeling stronger and more confident at last, Asha sat up with a sigh of relief. ‘Mashima, please write to Bihari Thakurpo, asking him to come here.’
‘No, there will be no letters.’
‘Then how will you send word to him?’
‘Tomorrow, I shall personally go and meet Bihari.’
48
While wandering in the west, Bihari had felt that he would have no peace unless he bound himself to some task. So, he had accepted the responsibility of providing medical treatment and nursing facilities to the poor clerks of Kolkata. Like the fish in a summer pond, somehow leading a slender existence, floundering in slime and very little water, the deprived clerks dwelt in the alleys, expecting little, weighed down by family responsibilities. For a long time, Bihari had felt sorry for this pale, lean, anxious group of gentlemen; he decided to offer them the gift of forest shade and the open air of the Ganga shore.
Acquiring the garden estate in Bali, he deployed workmen to begin building small, beautiful cottages. But his mind found no peace. As the date for taking up his task drew closer, his mind increasingly turned against his own decision. His heart kept telling him, ‘There is no pleasure in this task, no interest, no beauty; it is just a dry burden.’ The prospect of work had never troubled Bihari like this before.
There was a time when Bihari had no particular needs; he could easily apply himself to any task at hand. Now, a strange hunger gnawed at his mind, demanding appeasement before he could be involved in anything. By force of habit, he would try out something or other, but he would at once feel like escaping it.
The youthful instincts that lay dormant in Bihari, to which he had never given any thought, had been awakened by Binodini’s magic wand. Like the newborn Garuda, he scoured the whole world for his sustenance. Bihari had no former acquaintance with this voracious creature; he was now very busy attending to its needs. He had little time for the weak, worn-out, short-lived clerks of Kolkata.
Before him flowed the Ganga in its monsoon flood. From time to time, on the other shore, dark clouds would gather, hanging low over the dense rows of trees; like a sword made of steel, the surface of the river assumed a dark brilliance in places; in places, it glittered like fire. As Bihari’s gaze fell upon this early monsoon scene, the doors of his heart flew open, and a solitary female figure emerged into the moist blue radiance of the sky. Who was she, the woman standing there with her freshly washed, thick, wavy, dark, open tresses, gathering in her eyes all the scattered rays of light that sliced their way through the clouds of the monsoon sky, to fix upon his face alone the glowing pathos of her unblinking gaze?
Today, it seemed to Bihari that all his bygone days of happiness and contentment had done him irreparable harm. So many such overcast evenings, so many moonlit nights had come and gone, approaching the door of Bihari’s empty heart with a bowl of nectar in hand, only to be silently turned away. At those rare, auspicious moments, there was no counting the songs that had remained unsung, the festivals that remained uncelebrated. The red glow of Binodini’s proffered kiss the other night rendered all his previous memories pale and insignificant. How could he have spent the greater part of his life as Mahendra’s shadow? How could he think it worthwhile? In his blindness, Bihari had not even guessed, before this, how the pangs of love could produce such music, resounding from the innermost depths of earth, water and sky. How could Bihari ever forget the Binodini whose embrace had suddenly transported him to this exquisitely beautiful realm? Her gaze and her desire had become all pervasive today; day and night, her deep, yearning breath coursed through Bihari’s blood, and the tender warmth of her touch enveloped Bihari, coaxing his enraptured heart to blossom like a flower.
But still, why did Bihari keep himself at such a distance from Binodini? The reason was that he could not imagine any relationship with Binodini that would be worthy of the beautiful state into which she had initiated him. When a lotus is uprooted, slime rises to the surface. What could he say, where could he find a place for her to ensure that the beautiful did not transform into the hideous? Besides, if it caused a tussle with Mahendra, the whole affair would take an unthinkably ugly turn. Having enthroned the goddess of his imagination in the solitude of the Ganga shore, surrounded by celestial music, Bihari burned his heart like incense at the shrine of love. Lest he receive news that might dispel this web of pleasing illusion, he did not write to enquire after Binodini.
One cloudy dawn, Bihari lay silently beneath the fruit-laden blackberry tree at the southern end of his garden, idly watching the pinnace plying to and fro from the cottages; gradually, it grew quite late. The servant came to ask if he wanted his meal. ‘Not now,’ Bihari replied. The chief mason came to call him, to inspect the work and offer his advice. ‘After a while,’ he said.
Suddenly, Bihari was startled to see Annapurna standing before him. Flustered, he rose to his feet, and clasping her feet in both his hands, he touched his head to the ground in obeisance. With deep affection, Annapurna touched Bihari’s head and body with her right hand. In a tear-choked voice, she inquired: ‘Bihar
i, why have you grown so thin?’
‘Kakima, it was to regain your affection.’
At these words, tears gushed forth from Annapurna’s eyes.
‘Kakima, haven’t you eaten yet?’ asked Bihari anxiously.
‘No, I haven’t had the time.’
‘Come, I shall make arrangements for you to cook,’ said Bihari. ‘Today, after a long time, I shall draw new sustenance from food cooked by you, and prasad—food blessed by your touch—from your plate.’
Bihari made no mention of Mahendra and Asha. Annapurna herself had once slammed the door on that possibility. With wounded pride, he obeyed that stern admonition.
At the end of the meal, Annapurna proposed: ‘The boat is ready at the ghat, Bihari; please come with me to Kolkata.’
‘What is the need for me to visit Kolkata?’
‘Didi is very ill; she has asked to see you.’
Bihari was startled to hear this. ‘Where is Mahinda?’ he asked.
‘He is not in Kolkata; he has gone west.’
At these words, Bihari’s face instantly grew pale. He remained silent.
‘Don’t you know everything?’ Annapurna asked him.
‘I know some of it, but I don’t have the latest deatils.’
Then Annapurna told him that Mahendra had travelled west with Binodini. Instantly, earth, water and sky changed colour for Bihari, and the nectar collected in his imagination turned bitter. ‘Did the sorceress Binodini play games with me that evening, then? Her surrender to love was a deceitful trick! Leaving her village, she has shamelessly gone west with Mahendra! Shame upon her; and shame on me, that I was foolish enough to trust her for a single moment.’