Prabha had not called me like this for a long time – had not, of her own accord, come and showed that sort of affection. So her tender touch this evening went straight to my heart.
A little later I returned to the house and saw Prabha lying on the bed. She looked worn out, and her eyes were slightly closed; she lay like a flower, shed at the end of the day. I felt her brow: it was very warm; her breath was hot too; the veins in her temple were throbbing. I realized now that the girl, distressed by the onset of illness, had gone to her father longing with all her heart for his care and affection; and her father had at the time been engrossed in thinking up a scorching reply for the Jahir paper to print.
I sat down next to her. Saying nothing, she pulled my hand into the feverishly warm palms of her hands and, placing her cheek on it, lay quietly.
I made a bonfire of all the Jahir and Ahir papers. I never wrote my riposte. And giving up like that gave me greater happiness than I had ever known.
When her mother died, I held Prabha in my lap. Now, after cremating her stepmother – my writing – I lifted her into my arms again and carried her indoors.
Punishment
I
When the brothers Dukhiram Rui and Chidam Rui went out in the morning with their heavy farm-knives, to work in the fields, their wives were already quarrelling and shouting. But the people near by were as used to the uproar as they were to other customary, natural sounds. As soon as they heard the shrill screams of the women, they would say, ‘They’re at it again’ – that is, what was happening was only to be expected: it was not a violation of Nature’s rules. When the sun rises at dawn, no one asks why; and whenever the two wives in this kuri-caste household let fly at each other, no one was at all curious to investigate the cause.
Of course this wrangling and disturbance affected the husbands more than the neighbours, but they did not count it a major nuisance. It was as if they were riding together along life’s road in a cart whose rattling, clattering, unsprung wheels were inseparable from the journey. Indeed, days when there was no noise, when everything was uncannily silent, carried a greater threat of unpredictable doom.
The day on which our story begins was like this. When the brothers returned home at dusk, exhausted by their work, they found the house eerily quiet. Outside, too, it was extremely sultry. There had been a sharp shower in the afternoon, and clouds were still massing. There was not a breath of wind. Weeds and scrub round the house had shot up after the rain: the heavy scent of damp vegetation, from these and from the waterlogged jute-fields, formed a solid wall all around. Frogs croaked from the pond behind the cowshed, and the buzz of crickets filled the leaden sky.
Not far off the swollen Padma looked flat and sinister under the mounting clouds. It had flooded most of the grain-fields, and had come close to the houses. Here and there, roots of mango and jackfruit trees on the slipping bank stuck up out of the water, like helpless hands clawing at the void for a last fingerhold.
That day, Dukhiram and Chidam had been working at the zamindar’s office-building. On the sandbanks opposite, paddy had ripened. The paddy needed to be cut before the sandbanks were washed away; the poorest villagers were busy there either in their own fields or in other people’s fields; but a bailiff had come from the office and forcibly engaged the two brothers. As the office roof was leaking in places, they had to mend that and make some new wickerwork panels: it had taken them all day. They couldn’t come home for lunch; they just had a snack from the office. At times they were soaked by the rain; they were not paid normal labourers’ wages; indeed, they were paid mainly in insults and sneers.
When the two brothers returned at dusk, wading through mud and water, they found the younger wife, Chandara, stretched on the ground with her sari spread out. Like the sky, she had wept buckets in the afternoon, but had now given way to sultry exhaustion. The elder wife, Radha, sat on the verandah sullenly: her eighteen-month son had been crying, but when the brothers came in they saw him lying naked in a corner of the yard, asleep.
Dukhiram, famished, said gruffly, ‘Give me my food.’
Like a spark on a sack of gunpowder, the elder wife exploded, shrieking out, ‘Where is there food? Did you give me anything to cook? Must I walk the streets to earn it?’
After a whole day of toil and humiliation, to return – raging with hunger – to a dark, joyless, foodless house, to be met by Radha’s sarcasm, and especially by that last insinuation, was suddenly unendurable. ‘What?’ he roared, like a furious tiger, and then, without thinking, plunged his knife into her head. Radha collapsed into her sister-in-law’s lap, and in minutes she was dead.
‘What have you done?’ screamed Chandara, her clothes soaked with blood. Chidam pressed his hand over her mouth. Dukhiram, letting the knife drop, fell to his knees with his head in his hands, stunned. The little boy woke up and started to wail in terror.
Outside there was complete quiet. The herd-boys were returning with the cattle. Those who had been cutting paddy on the opposite side of the river were crossing back five or six to a boat, with a couple of bundles of paddy on their heads as payment, and were now nearly all home.
Ramlochan Chakrabarti, pillar of the village, had been to the post office with a letter, and was now back in his house, placidly smoking. Suddenly he remembered that his sub-tenant Dukhiram was very behind with his rent: he had promised to pay some today. Deciding that the brothers must be home by now, he threw his chadar over his shoulders, took his umbrella, and stepped out.
As he entered the Ruis’ house, he felt uneasy. There was no lamp alight. On the dark verandah, the dim shapes of three or four people could be seen. In a corner of the verandah there were fitful, muffled sobs: the little boy was trying to cry for his mother, but was stopped each time by Chidam.
‘Dukhi,’ said Ramlochan nervously, ‘are you there?’
Dukhiram had been sitting like a statue for a long time; now, on hearing his name, he burst into tears like a helpless child.
Chidam quickly came down from the verandah into the yard, to meet Ramlochan. ‘Have the women been quarrelling again?’ Ramlochan asked. ‘I heard them yelling all day.’
Chidam, all this time, had been unable to think what to do. Various impossible stories occurred to him. All he had decided was that later that night he would move the body somewhere. He had never expected Ramlochan to come. He could think of no swift reply. ‘Yes,’ he stumbled, ‘today they were quarrelling terribly.’
‘But why is Dukhi crying so?’ asked Ramlochan, stepping towards the verandah.
Seeing no way out now, Chidam blurted, ‘In their quarrel, Choṭobau struck at Baṛobau’s head with a farm-knife.’
When immediate danger threatens, it is hard to think of other dangers. Chidam’s only thought was of how to escape from the terrible truth – he forgot that a lie can be even more terrible. A reply to Ramlochan’s question had come instantly to mind, and he had blurted it out.
‘Good grief,’ said Ramlochan in horror. ‘What are you saying? Is she dead?’
‘She’s dead,’ said Chidam, clasping Ramlochan’s feet.
Ramlochan was trapped. ‘Rām, Rām,’ he thought, ‘what a mess I’ve got into this evening. What if I have to be a witness in court?’ Chidam was still clinging to his feet, saying, ‘Thākur, how can I save my wife?’
Ramlochan was the village’s chief source of advice on legal matters. Reflecting further he said, ‘I think I know a way. Run to the police station: say that your brother Dukhi returned in the evening wanting his food, and because it wasn’t ready he struck his wife on the head with his knife. I’m sure that if you say that, she’ll get off.’
Chidam felt a sickening dryness in his throat. He stood up and said, ‘Thākur, if I lose my wife I can get another, but if my brother is hanged, how can I replace him?’ In laying the blame on his wife, he had not seen it that way. He had spoken without thought; now, imperceptibly, arguments that would serve his own interest were forming in his mind.
&n
bsp; Ramlochan took the point. ‘Then say what actually happened,’ he said. ‘You can’t protect yourself on all sides.’
In no time after he had hurried away, the news spread round the village that Chandara Rui had, in a quarrel with her sister-in-law, split her head open with a farm-knife. Police charged into the village like a river in flood. Both the guilty and the innocent were equally afraid.
II
Chidam decided he would have to stick to the path he had chalked out for himself. The story he had given to Ramlochan Chakrabarti had gone all round the village; who knew what would happen if another story was circulated? But he realized that if he kept to the story he would have to wrap it in five more stories if his wife was to be saved.
Chidam asked Chandara to take the blame on to herself. She was dumbfounded. He reassured her: ‘Don’t worry – if you do what I tell you, you’ll be quite safe.’ But whatever his words, his throat was dry and his face was pale.
Chandara was not more than seventeen or eighteen. She was buxom, well-rounded, compact and sturdy – so trim in her movements that in walking, turning, bending or squatting there was no awkwardness at all. She was like a brand-new boat: neat and shapely, gliding with ease, not a loose joint anywhere. Everything amused and intrigued her; she loved to gossip; her bright, restless, deep black eyes missed nothing as she walked to the ghāṭ, pitcher on her hip, parting her veil slightly with her finger.
The elder wife had been her exact opposite: unkempt, sloppy and slovenly. She was utterly disorganized in her dress, housework, and the care of her child. She never had any proper work in hand, yet never seemed to have time for anything. The younger wife usually refrained from comment, for at the mildest barb Radha would rage and stamp and let fly at her, disturbing everyone around.
Each wife was matched by her husband to an extraordinary degree. Dukhiram was a huge man – his bones were immense, his nose was squat, in his eyes and expression he seemed not to understand the world very well, yet he never questioned it either. He was innocent yet fearsome: a rare combination of power and helplessness. Chidam, however, seemed to have been carefully carved from shiny black rock. There was not an inch of excess fat on him, not a wrinkle or pock-mark anywhere. Each limb was a perfect blend of strength and finesse. Whether jumping from a river-bank, or punting a boat, or climbing up bamboo-shoots for sticks, he showed complete dexterity, effortless grace. His long black hair was combed with oil back from his brow and down to his shoulders – he took great care over his dress and appearance. Although he was not unresponsive to the beauty of other women in the village, and was keen to make himself charming in their eyes, his real love was for his young wife. They quarrelled sometimes, but always made peace again, for neither could defeat the other. There was a further reason why the bond between them was firm: Chidam felt that a wife as nimble and sharp as Chandara could not be wholly trusted, and Chandara felt that her husband had roving eyes – that if she didn’t keep him on a tight rein he might go astray.
A little before the events in this story, however, they had a major row. Chandara found that her husband used work as an excuse for travelling far and for staying extra days away, yet brought no earnings home. Finding this ominous, she too began to overstep the mark. She kept going to the ghāṭ, and returned from wandering round the village with rather too much to say about Kashi Majumdar’s middle son.
Something now seemed to poison Chidam’s life. He could not settle his attention on his work. One day he bitterly rebuked his sister-in-law, laying the blame on her: she threw up her hands and said in the name of her dead father, ‘That girl runs before the storm. How can I restrain her? Who knows what ruin she will bring?’
Chandara came out of the next room and said sweetly, ‘What’s the matter, Didi?’ and a fierce quarrel broke out between them.
Chidam glared at his wife and said, ‘If I ever hear that you’ve been to the ghāṭ on your own, I’ll break every bone in your body.’
‘That would be a blessed release,’ said Chandara, starting to leave. Chidam sprang at her, grabbed her by the hair, dragged her back to the room and locked her in.
When he returned from work that evening he found the doors open, the house empty. Chandara had fled three villages away, to her maternal uncle’s house. With great difficulty Chidam persuaded her to return, but now he had to give in. It was as hard to restrain his wife as to hold a handful of mercury; she always slipped through his fingers. He did not use force any more, but there was no peace in the house. Ever-fearful love for his elusive young wife wracked him with intense pain. He even once or twice wondered if it would be better if she were dead: at least he would get some peace then. Human beings can hate each other more than death.
It was at this time that the crisis hit the house.
When her husband asked her to admit to the murder, Chandara stared at him, stunned; her black eyes burnt him like fire. Then she slowly shrank from him, as if to escape his devilish clutches. She turned her heart and soul quite away. ‘You’ve nothing to fear,’ said Chidam. He taught her repeatedly what she should say to the police and the magistrate. Chandara paid no attention – sat like a wooden idol whenever he spoke.
Dukhiram relied on Chidam for everything. When he told him to lay the blame on Chandara, Dukhiram asked, ‘But what will happen to her?’ ‘I’ll save her,’ said Chidam. His burly brother was content with that.
III
This was what Chidam instructed his wife to say: ‘The elder wife was about to attack me with the vegetable-slicer. I picked up a farm-knife to stop her, and it somehow cut into her.’ This was all Ramlochan’s invention. He had generously supplied Chidam with the proofs and embroidery that the story would require.
The police came to investigate. The villagers were sure now that Chandara had murdered her sister-in-law, and all the witnesses confirmed this. When the police questioned Chandara, she said, ‘Yes, I killed her.’
‘Why did you kill her?’
‘I couldn’t stand her any more.’
‘Was there a brawl between you?’
‘No.’
‘Did she attack you first?’
‘No.’
‘Did she ill-treat you?’
‘No.’
Everyone was amazed at these replies, and Chidam was completely thrown off balance. ‘She’s not telling the truth,’ he said. ‘The elder wife first –’
The inspector silenced him sharply. Subjecting Chandara to a thorough cross-examination, he repeatedly received the same reply: Chandara would not accept that she had been attacked in any way by her sister-in-law. Such an obstinate girl was never seen! She seemed absolutely bent on going to the gallows; nothing would stop her. Such fierce, disastrous pride!1 In her thoughts, Chandara was saying to her husband, ‘I shall give my youth to the gallows instead of to you. My final ties in this life will be with them.’
Chandara was arrested, and left her home for ever, by the paths she knew so well, past the festival carriage, the market-place, the ghāt, the Majumdars’ house, the post office, the school – an ordinary, harmless, flirtatious, fun-loving village wife; carrying a stigma that could never be obliterated. A bevy of boys followed her, and the women of the village, her friends and companions – some of them peering through their veils, some from their doorsteps, some from behind trees – watched the police leading her away and shuddered with embarrassment, fear and contempt.
To the Deputy Magistrate, Chandara again confessed her guilt, claiming no ill-treatment from her sister-in-law at the time of the murder. But when Chidam was called to the witness-box he broke down completely, weeping, clasping his hands and saying, ‘I swear to you, sir, my wife is innocent.’ The magistrate sternly told him to control himself, and began to question him. Bit by bit the true story came out.
The magistrate did not believe him, because the chief, most respectable, most educated witness – Ramlochan Chakrabarti – said: ‘I appeared on the scene a little after the murder. Chidam confessed everything to me an
d clung to my feet saying, “Tell me how I can save my wife.” I did not say anything one way or the other. Then Chidam said, “If I say that my elder brother killed his wife in a fit of fury because his food wasn’t ready, will she get off?” I said, “Be careful, you rogue: don’t say a single false word in court – there’s no worse offence than that.” ’ Ramlochan had previously prepared lots of stories that would save Chandara, but when he found that she herself was bending her neck to receive the noose, he decided, ‘Why the hell should I run the risk of giving false evidence now? I’d better say what little I know.’ So Ramlochan said what he knew – or rather said a little more than he knew.
The Deputy Magistrate committed the case to a sessions trial. Meanwhile in fields, houses, markets and bazaars, the mirth and grief of the world carried on; and just as in previous years, torrential monsoon rains fell on to the new rice-crop.
Police, defendant and witnesses were all in court. In the civil court opposite hordes of people were waiting for their cases. A Calcutta lawyer had come on a suit about the sharing of a pond behind a kitchen; the plaintiff had thirty-nine witnesses. Hundreds of people were anxiously waiting for hair-splitting judgements, certain that nothing, at present, was more important. Chidam stared out of the window at the constant throng, and it seemed like a dream. A koel-bird was hooting from a huge banyan tree in the compound: no courts or cases in his world!