II
Gopinath attended nearly every performance at the Gandharva Theatre. Labanga was playing the title-role in Manorama; and Gopinath and his followers sat in the front row and cheered and threw pouches of money on to the stage. The noise they made was sometimes very annoying to the rest of the audience. But the theatre-managers never had the courage to stop them.
One day Gopinath, rather the worse for drink, got into the Green Room and caused complete uproar. He somehow thought he had been slighted by one of the actresses, and was now assaulting her. The whole theatre was aroused by the actress’s screams and Gopinath’s stream of abuse. This was more than the managers could stand. The police were called to throw him out.
Gopinath was determined to get his own back for this insult. A month before the pūjā-holiday, the managers announced – with great publicity – further performances of Manorama. Calcutta was festooned with playbills; it was as if the goddess of the city was wearing a nāmābali with the author’s name inscribed. But meanwhile Labanga, the leading actress in the play, disappeared, whisked away on a boat-trip by Gopinath.
The theatre-managers were completely flummoxed. They waited for some days, but eventually had to rehearse a new actress in the role of Manorama, delaying the opening night. Not that this did much harm. The theatre was full to bursting. Hundreds of people had to be turned away at the door. The critics were ecstatic – and news of this reached Gopinath, far away though he was. He could not keep away any longer. Consumed with curiosity, he returned to Calcutta to see the play.
In the first half, the curtain rose on Manorama in her in-laws’ house, meanly dressed like a servant, going about her housework in furtive, cowed, timid fashion, saying nothing and hiding her face. In the second, her greedy husband had sent her back to her parents’ house so that he could marry a millionaire’s daughter. On examining his new bride after the wedding, he found she was Manorama again, this time dressed not as a servant but as a princess: her incomparable beauty, decked in jewels and finery, shone all around. In childhood she had been stolen from her rich parents’ home and brought up in poverty. Many years later, her father had found her again, and brought her back to his house. Now, with new lavishness, she was married to her husband for the second time. A post-wedding ‘Fury Appeased’ scene now began.
But all hell had broken loose in the audience. While Manorama’s face had been hidden by a servant’s dirty veil, Gopinath had sat quietly. But when she stood up in the bridal chamber, in all her beauty, unveiled, dressed in red, glittering with jewels, inclining her head with indescribable hauteur, directing at all, but especially at Gopinath, a fiercely contemptuous stare, sharp as lightning, so that all the hearts of the audience leapt and the whole theatre rocked with a barrage of applause: it was then that Gopinath jumped up and yelled, ‘Giribala, Giribala!’ He ran and tried to leap on to the stage – but the musicians restrained him.
Outraged by this interruption to their pleasure, the audience shouted in English and Bengali, ‘Get him out, throw him out.’
Choking like a madman, Gopinath screamed, ‘I’ll kill her, I’ll kill her.’
The police came and ragged him from the theatre. All of Calcutta continued to feast their eyes on Giribala’s performance; all except for Gopinath.
hākurdā
I
The zamindars of Nayanjor were at one time regarded as true gentlemen – ‘Babus’ – a title that in those days was not at all easy to achieve. Today, no one can be called ‘Raja’ or ‘Raybahadur’ without the ritual of dances, dinners, horse-races, flattery and connections; likewise in those days great efforts were needed to win from the public the name of ‘Babu’.
The ‘Babus’ of Nayanjor used to tear off the borders of their Dhaka muslins before they wore them, because the borders were too coarse for their aristocratic skins; they spent lakhs of rupees on marrying their pet kittens; and on one particular festive occasion they were said to have turned night into day not only by the number of lights but by showering real silver tinsel to simulate the sun’s rays. Such grandeur could obviously not be handed down intact to their heirs. Like oil in a multi-wicked lamp, it was soon burnt away.
Our friend Kailaschandra Raychaudhuri was a burnt-out scion of the famous Nayanjor Babus. At his birth, the lamp was nearly out of oil; with his father’s death, it spluttered in a final show of funereal excess and then went out completely. Assets were sold to pay off debts; the remainder was far too little to keep up the name of the family. So Kailas Babu left Nayanjor and came with his son to Calcutta; but before long his son too abandoned a faded existence in this world for the world beyond, leaving an only daughter.
We were neighbours of Kailas Babu. Our own history was entirely different. My father had earned his wealth through his own efforts, counting every paisa, economizing even in the length of his dhoti,1 and never aspiring to be a ‘Babu’. As his only son, I was grateful to him. I was proud to have acquired some education, to have enough means to hold my head high without too much effort. It’s better to inherit Company Bonds in a small iron box than an empty store of ancestral glories.
Probably this is why I was so irritated when Kailas Babu tried to draw hefty cheques on the failed bank of his ancestry! I felt that he somehow despised my father for earning his own money. It made me furious – who was he to despise us? A man who had sacrificed a lot, resisted many temptations, had no desire to be famous; who had through effort and care, intelligence and skill beaten all obstacles, seizing every chance to make his pile, building it with his own hands: he was not to be despised because he didn’t wear his dhoti below his knees!
I was young then, this was why I reacted like this, fumed like this. Now I’m older, and it doesn’t bother me any more. I’m well off; I lack for nothing. If a man who has nothing gets pleasure from sneering, it doesn’t cost me a penny, and maybe the poor fellow gets some consolation from it.
It was striking that no one found Kailas Babu irritating except me, for he had a rare sort of innocence. He involved himself totally in the feelings and activities of his neighbours. He had smiles for them all, from the youngest to the eldest; he took pleasure in inquiring kindly about everyone, whoever they were and wherever they were. At every encounter he would launch into a stream of questions: ‘How are you? How is Shashi? Is your father well? I hear that Madhu’s boy has fever – is he better now? I haven’t seen Haricharan Babu for a long time now – has he been ill? How about Rakhal? Is everyone at home well?’ – and so on.
He was always beautifully dressed. He didn’t own many clothes, but he daily aired them in the sun: his waistcoat, chadar and shirt – together with his pillowcase, mat and ancient bedspread – were brushed and hung on a line, then folded and placed neatly on the ālnā. He seemed when one saw him to be always out in his Sunday best. His room, though poorly furnished, was spotless; he appeared to be better off than he was. For lack of servants, he would shut the door of his room and neatly crimp his dhoti himself, and carefully press his chadar and shirt-sleeves. He had lost his family’s huge estates, but had managed to keep from the jaws of poverty a valuable rose-water spray, a pomatum-pot, a gold saucer, a silver hookah, an expensive shawl, an old-fashioned pair of pyjamas, and a turban. If occasion arose, he would get these out and revive the glory and world-wide fame of the Babus of Nayanjor.
Gentle and natural though he was, he could sometimes be conceited – but only out of loyalty to his ancestors. People indulged this: they found it rather charming. They called him ‘hākurdā’ – Grandfather – and constantly gathered at his house. But lest the cost of tobacco became too much for his slender means, someone would bring some along and say, ‘hākurdā, have a taste of this – it’s beautiful.’ hākurdā would take a few puffs and say, ‘Not bad, not bad at all’, then speak of tobacco that cost 60 or 65 rupees an ounce: would anyone like to try it? But to say ‘yes’ would mean a hunt for the key, or the assertion that his old servant Ganesh, that rascal, must have put the tobacco heaven knows where – a charge that
Ganesh accepted serenely – till everyone chorused, ‘Don’t worry, hākurdā, it wouldn’t have agreed with us: this tobacco will be fine.’
hākurdā smiled at this, and didn’t repeat his offer. When people got up to leave, he would say, ‘Well then, when are you coming to have a bite with me?’ ‘We can fix that another time,’ they would answer. ‘Fine,’ said hākurdā, ‘let it rain a bit, and get a bit cooler. We can’t have a proper blow-out in this heat.’ When the rain came, no one reminded him of his promise; and if ever the subject came up, everyone said, ‘Better wait till the rains are over.’
His friends would agree that it did not befit him to live in such a small place, that it must be very trying for him; but it was so difficult to find a decent place in Calcutta! It could take five or six years to find a good-sized rented house. ‘Never mind that, my friends,’ said hākurdā, ‘it’s a pleasure to live so near you. I have a big house at Nayanjor, but I don’t feel at home there.’ I’m sure that hākurdā knew that everyone understood his true position; and when he pretended that the defunct estate at Nayanjor still existed, and everyone played along with this, he knew in his heart that this mutual deception was just an expression of friendship.
But I found it disgusting! When one is young one wants to stamp on vanity, however harmless, and foolishness is less forgivable than many more serious sins. Kailas Babu was not exactly stupid; everyone sought his help and advice; but concerning the glories of Nayanjor, he had no sense at all. People loved him too much to object to the nonsense he spoke, so he gave it free rein; and if anyone sang the praises of Nayanjor, he happily swallowed the lot, never suspecting for a moment that others might doubt it.
Often I wished I could openly knock down, with a couple of cannon-shots, the old and false fortress in which he lived, which he thought to be permanent. If a hunter sees a bird conveniently perched on a nearby branch, he wants to shoot it; if a boy sees a hanging boulder on a mountainside, he wants to send it rolling down with a kick. To give a final push to a thing which is just on the point of falling, but which still hangs on, is a satisfying act and brings applause from spectators. Kailas Babu’s lies were so simple-minded, so slenderly based; they danced so wantonly before the guns of Truth, that I longed to destroy them in a trice: only my laziness and deference to convention held me back.
II
In so far as I can analyse my past state of mind, I think there was another deep-seated reason for my malice towards Kailas Babu. This needs some explanation.
Although I was a rich man’s son, I passed my MA on time; and despite my youth, I did not indulge in low pleasures or company. Even after my parents’ death, I was not corrupted by becoming master of the family. As regards my appearance, to say I was handsome would be conceited, but it would not be untrue. So my value in the marriage-market of Bengal was certainly high, and I was determined to capitalize on it fully. A beautiful, educated, only daughter of a rich man was what I wanted.
Proposals came from far and wide, offering dowries of 10,000 or 20,000 rupees. I weighed them up carefully and objectively, but none of them seemed quite right. I found myself agreeing with Bhababhuti:
Who knows if my equal can be born?
The world is wide and life is long –
but I wondered if so rare an article would ever be found within Bengal’s modest confines.
Parents fulsomely sang my praises, and offered me various pūjās; and this (whether I liked their daughters or not) was quite congenial to me. A decent fellow like me deserved their pūjās! In the Shastras one reads that whether the gods grant favours or not, they are angry if they don’t receive their proper pūjās: regular offerings to me gave me equally high ideas.
I have mentioned that hākurdā had an only granddaughter. I had often seen her, but had never considered her beautiful. I had therefore no thought of marrying her. I expected, though, that Kailas Babu – personally or through some intermediary – would have made an offering to me, with his granddaughter’s marriage in mind, simply because I was a good catch. But he didn’t do that. I heard that he had said to some friend that the Babus of Nayanjor never on any account made the first move: even if it meant that his granddaughter remained unmarried, he would never break this rule. I was very offended by this, and my anger lasted for a long time. It was only my good breeding that made me keep quiet about it.
My nature was such, however, that in my anger there was a spark of humour, like lightning linked to thunder. I could not do outright injury to the old man, but I was tempted by an amusing plan. I described earlier how people used to come out with all sorts of fibs in order to please him. A retired Deputy Magistrate living nearby often said, ‘Ṭhākurdā, whenever I met the Lieutenant-Governor he always asked about the Babus of Nayanjor – he said that the Rajas of Burdwan and the Babus of Nayanjor were the only really noble families in Bengal.’ Ṭhākurdā was very chuffed at this, and if he met the retired Deputy Magistrate would ask amidst other pleasantries, ‘How is the Lieutenant-Governor? And the memsāheb? And are all their children well?’ He intended to visit the Lieutenant-Governor one day soon. But the Deputy Magistrate knew that many Lieutenant-Governors and Governor-Generals would come and go before the famous four-horse coach of Nayanjor would be ready for the visit.
One morning I went to Kailas Babu and, taking him aside, said confidentially, ‘Ṭhākurdā, yesterday I was at the Lieutenant-Governor’s levee. He started talking about the Babus of Nayanjor, and I told him that Kailas Babu of Nayanjor was living in Calcutta. He was very sorry that he had not been to see you all this time, and said that he would visit you privately today at noon.’
Anyone else would have seen the absurdity of this, and even Kailas Babu himself would have laughed if he had heard it told about anyone else; but applied to himself he did not doubt the news in the slightest. He was both delighted and flustered: where would he seat the Lieutenant-Governor? What should he do for him? How should he welcome him? How should he keep up the honour of Nayanjor? He had no idea! On top of that he did not know English, so conversation would be a problem.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘He’ll have an interpreter with him. But the Lieutenant-Governor is particularly keen that no one else should be present.’
In the afternoon, when most inhabitants of the area were at their offices, or snoozing at home indoors, a carriage and pair drew up outside Kailas Babu’s residence. Liveried footmen announced, ‘His Excellency the Lieutenant-Governor.’ Ṭhākurdā was ready, dressed in old-fashioned white pyjamas and turban; the old servant Ganesh was dressed in his master’s dhoti, chadar and shirt. As soon as he heard the announcement, Ganesh ran panting and trembling to the door, and, bowing low in repeated salaams, showed into the room a close friend and contemporary of mine, dressed in English clothes.
Spreading his one valuable shawl on to a stool, and seating the bogus Lieutenant-Governor there, Kailas Babu delivered a long and excessively humble speech in Urdu. He then presented, on a gold plate, one of his carefully preserved heirlooms: a string of Moghul gold coins. Ganesh meanwhile stood at the ready with the rose-water sprinkler and pomatum-pot.
Kailas Babu repeatedly expressed regret that His Excellency had not visited him in his home at Nayanjor, where he would have been able to offer him proper hospitality. In Calcutta he was an exile, a fish out of water: he couldn’t do anything properly – and so on.
My friend shook his top-hatted head gravely. He should, according to English custom, have removed his hat indoors; but he tried to keep himself covered as much as possible in case he was found out. No one other than Kailas Babu and his besotted old servant would have fallen for the young Bengali’s disguise for a moment.
After ten minutes my friend bowed and made his exit. Footmen, well-rehearsed, took into the impostor’s carriage the string of coins on the gold plate, and the shawl from the stool; then, from Ganesh’s hands, the rose-water sprinkler and pomatum-pot. Kailas Babu assumed this was the Lieutenant-Governor’s custom. I watched all
this from the next room, and my ribs were close to cracking with suppressed laughter.
Finally, unable to bear any more, I ran into a room a bit further away: but no sooner had I collapsed into laughter when I saw a girl slumped on a low bed, sobbing. She stood up at once when she saw me. Choking with tears, darting fiery glances from her large, black eyes, she snapped, ‘What has my grandfather done to you? Why have you come to trick him? Why have you come?’ Then, unable to manage any more, she buried her face in her sari and burst into tears again.
So much for my fit of laughter! All this time it had not entered my head that there was anything other than humour in what I had done. Now I saw I had hit a very tender spot; the revolting cruelty of my action was glaringly exposed; and I slunk out of the room, ashamed and embarrassed, like a kicked dog. What harm had the old man done me? His innocent conceit had never harmed anyone! Why had my own conceit been so malicious?
My eyes were opened to something else as well. For a long time I had thought of Kusum as an item of merchandise waiting on the shelf till some unmarried man’s notice was attracted. She was there because I didn’t want her: let anyone who wanted have her! Now I understood that here in this house there was a girl with a human heart inside her, a heart whose array of feelings encompassed a land of mystery: to the east an imponderable past, to the west an unknowable future. Did anyone who had such a heart deserve to be picked by the size of her dowry or the shape of her nose and eyes?
I didn’t sleep at all that night. The next morning I crept like a thief to Ṭhākurdā’s house, carrying all the valuable things we had taken from the old man; I intended to hand them back to the servant without saying anything.
Flummoxed at not finding him, I heard the old man and his granddaughter talking somewhere inside the house. The girl was asking, with sweet affection, ‘Grandfather, what did the Lieutenant-Governor say to you yesterday?’ hākurdā cheerfully spun a long panegyric to the ancient house of Nayanjor, supposedly delivered by the Lieutenant-Governor. The girl received it eagerly.