The more Ramesh harangued Umesh out of suspicion, the closer he seemed to grow to Kamala. With Chakraborty taking Kamala’s side, her team became quite autonomous. Ramesh was ranged on one side with his hair-splitting judgement, while Kamala, Umesh and Chakraborty were united against him by their mutual work, affection, and fun and laughter. Ever since Chakraborty’s arrival, the infectious warmth of his enthusiasm had made Ramesh regard Kamala with greater interest than before, but he could not join them. His condition was similar to that of the big ship which wanted to moor on the banks, but was forced to drop anchor at a distance because the water was too shallow, while the small boats and dinghies went up all the way to the edge of the land quite easily.
One morning, as the full moon was approaching, a mass of black clouds appeared, filling the sky. A wild wind sprang up, blowing in all directions. Bursts of rain were followed by hints of sunlight. There were virtually no boats mid-river, and the one or two that were visible were clearly apprehensive. The women who had come to gather water wasted no time at the river. A bright light was being dispersed by the clouds on the water, and the river seemed to tremble between its banks.
The steamer progressed normally. Kamala managed to continue with the cooking despite the inclement weather. With a glance at the sky, Chakraborty said, ‘We must plan so that there is no need to cook for the night, Ma. You’d better put some dal and rice to boil to make the khichuri, I’ll make the chapatis.’
It was late by the time they finished eating. The force of the wind kept increasing, while the water began to swell. It was not possible to tell whether the sun had set. The steamer dropped anchor early.
The evening passed. The moonlight emerged through gaps in the clouds, like an ashen smile. The wind blew furiously and a torrential rain began.
Kamala had been drowned once – she could not ignore the buffeting of the storm. ‘The steamer is in no danger, Kamala,’ Ramesh assured her. ‘You can sleep in peace, I shall be awake in the next room.’
Coming up to her door, Chakraborty said, ‘Don’t worry, Ma, not even the father of the storm would dare touch you.’
It was difficult to gauge the audacity of the father of the storm, but Kamala was aware of the power of a storm. Rushing to the door, she said anxiously, ‘Come and sit inside, Khuro-moshai.’
Chakraborty said with hesitation, ‘It is time for you to go to bed, Ma, how can I…’
Entering, he did not see Ramesh inside. Surprised, he asked, ‘Where has Ramesh-babu gone in this weather? He’s not in the habit of stealing vegetables.’
‘Is that Khuro? I’m right here, in the next room.’
Peeping in, Chakraborty found Ramesh half-sitting, half-lying in bed, reading by the light of a lamp.
‘But Bouma is frightened by herself. Your book does not fear the storm, there is no harm in putting it aside for now. Come in here.’
Forgetting herself in an inexorable rush of emotion, Kamala grasped Chakraborty’s hand, saying, ‘No, Khuro-moshai, no.’ Ramesh could not hear her over the fury of the storm, but Chakraborty turned to her in surprise.
Laying down his book, Ramesh entered the room. ‘What’s the matter, Chakraborty-Khuro?’ he asked. ‘Did Kamala tell you to…’
Without looking at him, Kamala intervened quickly. ‘No, I called him to listen to his stories.’
If Kamala had been asked what she was protesting against, she would not have had an answer. The ‘no’ signified ‘No, I am not frightened. No, I do not need company’.
The next instant Kamala said, ‘It’s late, Khuro-moshai, you should go to bed. Can you check on Umesh, please? He might be frightened…’
‘I don’t fear anyone, Ma,’ came a response from the door.
Umesh was sitting at Kamala’s door, all wrapped up. Her heart melted. Going out at once, she said, ‘Why are you getting drenched in the rain, Umesh? Go to sleep along with Khuro-moshai, you wretch.’
Particularly pleased at being addressed as a wretch, Umesh went off to bed with Chakraborty-Khuro.
‘Should I wait for you to fall asleep?’ asked Ramesh.
‘No, I’m very sleepy,’ said Kamala.
It wasn’t as though Ramesh did not understand the state of Kamala’s mind, but he did not protest; with a glance at her sulking expression, he departed for his own cabin.
Kamala did not have enough peace of mind to wait quietly for sleep. Still, she forced herself to go to bed. The roar of the water became louder with the fury of the storm. The deckhands’ voices could be heard. From time to time the bell rang out in the engine room under the bo’sun’s orders. The engine was switched on to keep the vessel still in the face of the raging storm.
Getting out of her bed, Kamala went outside the cabin. The rain had relented briefly, but the wind was as rampant as a beast with an arrow stuck in its side. In spite of the clouds, in the faint light of the night before the full moon, the sky had taken on an indistinct but turbulent and destructive form. The banks could not be seen, the river was dimly visible. But, above and below, near and far, seen and unseen, an unspeaking frenzy, a blind turmoil, seemed to have taken on a grotesque shape, tossing its head repeatedly like the black bull of the god of death with its upraised horns.
It was impossible to say with certainty whether it was with fear or with joy that Kamala’s heart began to twist when she looked at this frenzied night, this passionate sky. The unobstructed force, the unfettered freedom that existed within this cataclysm seemed to awaken something hidden within Kamala. The impulse of this upheaval, which seemed to cover the entire world, stirred Kamala’s heart. What was this revolt against? Could the answer be heard in the roar of the storm? Or was it as unarticulated as Kamala’s feelings? What web of unspecified, intangible untruths, dreams, and darkness was the sky and the earth trying to break out of with these convulsions, with these tears of fury? From the edge of the world where there were no roads, the wind had come galloping up in the middle of the night, screaming, ‘No, no!’ There was only this enormous denial. Of what? She could not tell, but it was no, never, never, never, never.
30
The next morning the force of the storm had abated, but it had not stopped entirely. Undecided whether to weigh anchor or not, the bo’sun gazed at the sky anxiously.
Chakraborty entered the cabin next to Kamala’s early in the morning. He found Ramesh still in bed – but Ramesh jumped up on seeing him. Realizing that Ramesh had slept here, the pieces from last night’s incidents fell into place. ‘So you slept here last night?’ he asked.
Avoiding the question, Ramesh said, ‘How terrible the weather is. Did you sleep well last night, Khuro?’
Chakraborty said, ‘I look like a fool and my conversation is foolish, but even at this age I have had to reflect on several abstruse subjects and arrive at solutions. Still, yours appears the most difficult of all.’
Ramesh’s face reddened momentarily, but he controlled himself the next moment and said with a smile, ‘Difficulty isn’t always a crime, Khuro. Telugu books for children are difficult too, but to little boys from Telangana they are very easy. Don’t be quick to judge what you don’t understand, and do not ever hope to decipher a script you cannot read simply by casting an unblinking eye on it.’
‘Forgive me, Ramesh-babu,’ said the old man. ‘It is insolent of me to attempt an understanding of something I have no relationship of comprehension with. But chance sometimes brings one to a person with whom a relationship is established at first glance. For evidence, ask that bearded bo’sun there, he will have to acknowledge kinship with Bouma at once. He has no choice; if he does not, I shall not acknowledge that he is Muslim. The sudden intrusion of the Telugu language in this situation makes things very difficult. It’s no use being angry without reason, Ramesh-babu, think about it.’
Ramesh said, ‘It is because I have thought about it that I cannot be angry. But whether I lose my temper or not, and whether you are hurt or not, the Telugu language shall remain the Telugu language – such
is the cruel law of nature.’
Ramesh sighed.
Meanwhile, he had begun to wonder whether it would be appropriate to go to Ghazipur. He had originally concluded that his acquaintance with Chakraborty would help set up home in a new city. But now he realized that this had its share of problems too. Kamala would be tormented if his relationship with her were to become the subject of enquiry and investigation. It would be better to look for sanctuary where they were strangers, where there would be no one to ask questions.
The day before they were to reach Ghazipur, Ramesh told Chakraborty, ‘I don’t think this place will be good for my law practice, Khuro. I have decided to travel on to Kashi for now.’
Smiling at the certainty in Ramesh’s voice, the old man said, ‘Changing your decision frequently is no decision at all – it is indecision. Be that as it may, is going to Kashi your final decision?’
‘Yes,’ answered Ramesh.
The old man left without a word and prepared to pack.
‘Not talking to me today, Khuro-moshai? Have we quarrelled?’ Kamala asked.
‘I quarrel with you every day, but I never win,’ the old man answered.
‘Why have you been running away from me all day?’
‘You people are trying to run away from me for good, and yet I’m the one who’s blamed.’
Kamala looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Hasn’t Ramesh told you yet, then?’ the old man said. ‘It has been decided that you will go to Kashi.’
Kamala neither confirmed nor denied this. A little later, she said, ‘You can’t do it, Khuro-moshai, let me pack for you.’
Kamala’s indifference about going to Kashi hurt Chakraborty deeply. ‘Just as well,’ he told himself, ‘why tie myself down all over again at this age?’
Meanwhile, Ramesh came to tell Kamala of the decision to go to Kashi. ‘I was looking for you,’ he said.
Kamala continued packing Chakraborty’s bags. Ramesh said, ‘We’re not going to Ghazipur this time, Kamala. I have decided to practise law at Kashi. What do you think?’
Without lifting her eyes from Chakraborty’s suitcase, Kamala said, ‘No, I shan’t go anywhere but Ghazipur. I have packed all my things.’
Ramesh was taken aback at Kamala’s firmness. ‘Are you planning to go alone?’ he asked.
Raising her kind eyes to look at Chakraborty, Kamala said, ‘Not at all, Khuro-moshai will be there.’
Chakraborty was caught unaware. ‘If you’re going to be partial to your child, Ma, Ramesh-babu won’t be able to stand the sight of me.’
All Kamala said in response was, ‘I shall go to Ghazipur.’
Her voice did not suggest that she was waiting for anyone’s approval.
‘Then Ghazipur it is, Khuro,’ said Ramesh.
After the storm and rain, there was clear moonlight that night. Sitting in his deck-chair, Ramesh told himself, ‘Things cannot go on this way. My problems will worsen with a rebellious Kamala. It is very difficult to be near her and yet maintain a distance. It is Kamala who is my wife – I did accept her as my wife, after all. It is wrong to hold back only because the rituals have not been completed. The god of death himself brought Kamala to me as my bride and linked us on the desolate bank of the river. Who could be a better priest than him?’
An entire battlefield lay between Hemnalini and Ramesh. Only by overcoming obstacles, humiliation and mistrust could Ramesh win the war and walk up to Hemnalini with his head held high. But the thought of the battle frightened him – he had no hope of victory. How was he to prove his claim? And attempting to prove it would make the whole thing appear so ugly and be so injurious to Kamala that it was difficult to even entertain the possibility.
Therefore it would be best for everyone if he hesitated no more like a coward and acknowledged Kamala as his wife. Hemnalini hated him, after all – this hatred would help her surrender her heart to a suitable boy. With this thought, Ramesh sighed, giving up all hope.
31
‘Well, where do you think you’re going?’ asked Ramesh.
‘I’m going with Ma-thakrun,’ answered Umesh.
‘But I have bought a ticket for you up to Kashi. This is Ghazipur. We’re not going to Kashi.’
‘Nor am I.’
Ramesh had not considered the possibility of Umesh becoming a permanent fixture in their lives, but he was astonished at the boy’s unshakeable determination. He asked Kamala, ‘Are we supposed to take Umesh too, Kamala?’
‘Where will he go if we don’t?’ said Kamala.
‘He has relatives in Kashi.’
‘No, he has said he will come with us. You’d better stay with Khuro-moshai, Umesh, or you will be lost in the crowd.’
Kamala had decided on their destination and their companions on her own. She used to defer to Ramesh’s wishes earlier, but she seemed to have overcome this deference over the past few days.
Therefore Umesh accompanied them with his little bundle, without any further discussion.
Chakraborty had a small bungalow halfway between the town and the neighbourhoods where the British lived. There was a mango orchard behind the house and a draw-well in front, with a low wall running around the building. The water from the well had helped the garden flourish with peas and cauliflowers.
Ramesh and Kamala put up at this bungalow after their arrival.
Chakraborty claimed that his wife Haribhabini had failing health, but there was no external sign of any malady. She was by no means young, but her appearance was robust. A few strands of her hair had greyed, but most of her locks were dark. Infirmity may have been handed a decree allowing occupation of her body, but it had been unable to take possession.
The fact was that when they were a young couple, Haribhabini had been afflicted by a strong bout of malaria. Having no alternative but to shift to a better climate, Chakraborty had found himself a job as a teacher at a school in Ghazipur. Although his wife had recovered fully, he had not the slightest faith in her health.
Settling his guests into the drawing room, Chakraborty entered the inner chambers, calling out to his wife, ‘Shejobou!’
Shejobou was busy in the yard, supervising Ramkouli, the servant, as he threshed the wheat and setting out a variety of pickles in pots and pans to be dried in the sun.
‘Look at you!’ exclaimed Chakraborty the moment he saw her. ‘It’s cold – can’t you dress warm?’
‘Ridiculous!’ Haribhabini said. ‘What do you mean cold – the sun is scorching.’
‘That’s not good either. Is it impossible to find some shade to work in?’
‘Never mind all that, what took you so long?’
‘It’s a long story. For now, we have guests and they must be looked after.’
Chakraborty proceeded to introduce the guests. Strangers appeared in their home often, but Haribhabini was not prepared for a married couple. ‘Oh dear, where do I put you two up?’ she said.
Chakraborty said, ‘Make their acquaintance before you worry about a room. Where’s our Shaila?’
‘She’s giving the baby a bath.’
Chakraborty quickly escorted Kamala to the inner chambers. When Kamala stood up after bending to touch Haribhabini’s feet in respect, the woman touched Kamala’s chin with the fingertips of her right hand before kissing them and told her husband, ‘Have you noticed how much she resembles our Bidhu?’
Bidhu was their eldest daughter – she lived in Kanpur with her husband. Chakraborty smiled. He knew there was no likeness between Kamala and Bidhu, but Haribhabini could not accept the possibility that someone might outshine one of her daughters. Shailaja lived with them – lest direct competition lead to her defeat, the lady of the house had forced a comparison with the daughter who was absent, preventing a conflict.
‘I’m very glad they’re here, but the repairs in our new house are not complete, we’re barely surviving ourselves. They will be uncomfortable here,’ declared Haribhabini.
It was true that a small building of Chakraborty’s near
the market was being repaired, but it was a shop; there were neither facilities nor intentions of using it as a residence.
Without protesting against this lie, Chakraborty told his wife with a smile, ‘Would I have brought Ma here had she considered discomfort troublesome? Be that as it may, you’d better not linger outside, the autumn sun is dangerous.’
Chakraborty left to join Ramesh in the drawing room.
Haribhabini made extensive enquiries about Kamala. ‘So your husband is a lawyer? How long has he been practising? How much does he earn? Oh, he hasn’t started his practice yet. How do you survive, then? Does your father-in-law own a lot of land? What, you don’t know! What kind of girl are you! You know nothing about your husband’s family. How much does your husband give you every month for household expenses? Since you don’t have a mother-in-law, you have to run everything yourself. You’re not a little girl. My son-in-law hands over whatever he earns to Bidhu.’ It took Haribhabini very little time to establish with her barrage of questions and observations that Kamala was a nincompoop. On her part, Kamala realized with great clarity from Haribhabini’s interrogation how little she knew of Ramesh’s financial situation and personal history, and how inappropriate and socially shameful this ignorance was in the perspective of her relationship with him. When she thought it over, she recognized that she had not yet had the opportunity to discuss anything in detail with Ramesh – she was his wife but she knew nothing about him. She found this strange, and felt troubled by the ignominy of her own lack of knowledge.
Haribhabini resumed her attacks. ‘Let me see your bangles, Bouma. This gold doesn’t seem to be of high quality. Didn’t your parents give you any jewellery? All right, your father is dead, but that doesn’t mean you mustn’t wear ornaments. Didn’t your husband give you any? My son-in-law gives Bidhu some jewellery every other month.’