Asha replied, ‘I don’t know all that—but I must have sinned too, somewhere, somehow, or such impossible doubts would not have come to your mind. Why would I have to hear things that I cannot imagine in my wildest dreams?’
Mahendra said quietly, ‘That is because you cannot imagine, even in your wildest dreams, what an appalling person I am.’
Asha was distressed. ‘Not again! Don’ t say that. But my mind is made up—I will go to Kashi.’
Mahendra laughed. ‘All right then, go. But what will you do if I fall to my ruin in your absence?’
Asha said, ‘Don’t you threaten me like that—as though I am quaking in my boots!’
Mahendra said, ‘But it needs to be given a thought. If you allow such a great husband of yours to get ruined, who will you blame for it?’
Asha replied, ‘I won’t blame you, don’t you worry.’
Mahendra said, ‘Will you accept your part in it?’
Asha said, ‘Most certainly.’
Mahendra said, ‘All right. Then I’ll go tomorrow, speak to Anukulbabu and make the arrangements.’
He added, ‘It’s very late now,’ and turned over to sleep.
A little later he turned to her again and suddenly said, ‘Chuni, forget it, don’t go.’
Asha was desolate. ‘Why are you saying this again? If I don’t go just this once, your accusation will stare me in the face. Even if it’s for a couple of days, please send me away.’
Mahendra said, ‘Fine.’ He turned over and went to sleep.
The day before she left for Kashi, Asha hugged Binodini and said, ‘Bali, promise me one thing.’
Binodini pinched her cheeks and said, ‘What is it, my sweet? You know I’d keep my word to you.’
Asha said, I’m not so sure, you have changed these days. You refuse to come in front of my husband.’
Binodini replied, ‘Don’t you know the reason for that? You heard what Mahendrababu said to Beharibabu the other day. After such words are spoken, do you think I should stand before him ever again—you tell me?’
Asha was aware that Binodini had a point. She herself had recently had a taste of how embarrassing such words could be. Still she said, ‘Words come and go; if you cannot rise above them, what’s love all about, my dear? You must forget all that.’
Binodini said, ‘As you wish—I’ll forget it.’
Asha said, ‘Look, I leave for Kashi tomorrow. You must keep an eye on what my husband needs and see that he doesn’t miss anything. You cannot hide from him the way you’ve been doing.’
Binodini was silent. Asha held her hands and said, ‘For my sake, dear Bali, you must promise me this.’
Binodini said, ‘Yes, I promise.’
26
WHEN THE MOON SETS, THE SUN RISES. ASHA HAD LEFT, BUT MAHENDRA STILL could not catch sight of Binodini. He walked around aimlessly, sometimes stepping into his mother’s room on a slight pretext—but Binodini managed to give him the slip every time. From Mahendra’s desolate, forlorn air Rajlakshmi thought, ‘Now that his wife is away, Mahin doesn’t seem to like being in this house any more.’ She felt hurt that nowadays Mahendra’s wife was more indispensable to his well-being than his mother. And yet, his lost and despondent air disturbed her. She sent for Binodini, ‘Ever since that attack of flu I have developed asthmatic tendencies. I can’t go up and down the stairs as easily as before. Child, you must look after Mahin yourself, whether he’s eating properly or not. All his life he’s been used to being pampered. Ever since Asha left, he’s looking so lost. And speaking of the girl—I don’t know how she could go, leaving him like this!’
Binodini curled her lip and scratched at the bedcovers. Rajlakshmi said, ‘What is it, child, what are you thinking? There’s nothing to think about; whatever anyone may say, you are no stranger to us.’
Binodini said, ‘Aunty, let it be.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Fine, let it go. Let me see what I can do myself.’ She made as if to get up and climb the stairs to Mahendra’s room on the second floor. Binodini hastily stopped her, ‘You are unwell, you mustn’t go. I’ll go. Please forgive me, Aunty, your wish will be my command.’
Rajlakshmi never paid heed to what people said. Ever since her husband’s death, with the exception of Mahendra nobody had meant anything to her. She didn’t like Binodini hinting at social criticism where Mahendra was concerned. She had known him all his life—there wasn’t a better man to be found anywhere! Criticism about her Mahin! If anyone dared to criticize him, may their tongue fall off! Rajlakshmi had a natural tendency to defy the entire world where something that she considered good was concerned.
That day Mahendra came back from college, went into his room and looked around in stunned disbelief. The minute he opened the door the scent of sandalwood and incense had filled his senses. The mosquito nets were adorned with pink tassels. The mattress on the floor glimmered with fresh sheets, and instead of the old cushions on it there were foreign-made, square cushions with embroidered silk and wool covers. The embroidery was the outcome of Binodini’s hard labour of many months. Asha had often asked her, ‘Who are you making these for?’
Binodini had laughed and said, ‘For my deathbed. Death is my only intimate now.’
There were coloured yarns twisted decoratively into knots at the four corners of Mahendra’s photo-frame and beneath it, on the floor on either side of a teapoy, were a pair of vases with fresh flowers, as though Mahendra’s likeness had been worshipped by an unknown devotee. All in all, the room was transformed. The bed was shifted slightly from its old position; it was screened by the clothes rack and the clothes that hung on it, thereby dividing the room into two discrete spaces. The curio-cabinet which held all the little assortments, dolls and things that Asha held dear, was decorated with scrunched-up red fabric stuck on the inside of the glass panels, so that nothing within it was visible now. The deft touch of a new pair of hands had shrouded all that was reminiscent of the room’s past.
Weary from his day’s work, Mahendra lay down on the mattress and rested his head on the new cushions. Immediately, an aroma assailed his senses—the stuffing in the pillows were generously mixed with a fragrant pollen and some essence.
Mahendra’s eyes drifted shut. He perceived the touch of the hands, light as a feather, that had done such subtle work on the pillows. Now the maid brought in fruits and sweets on a silver plate and iced pineapple juice in a glass tumbler. All this was different from the way things were done earlier. There was great attention to detail and novelty in every gesture. Mahendra’s senses were dulled by this onslaught of freshness in every smell, every touch and every sight.
He finished his meal with great satisfaction. Binodini stepped into the room slowly with paan and mouth-freshner in a silver box. She laughed and said, ‘Thakurpo, forgive me for not being present all these days, tending to your meals. For my sake, I beg of you, do not tell my Chokher Bali that you have been neglected. I try to do my best—but I have to look into all the household chores, you see.’
Binodini held the box of paan before Mahendra. Today the paan was scented differently—a new kind of lime paste had been used.
Mahendra said, ‘It’s good to slip up sometimes, even while tending so assiduously.’
Binodini asked, ‘And why is that?’
Mahendra replied, ‘Then later it can be held against you and greater penalties exacted.’
‘So, Mr Shylock, what has the interest come to?’
Mahendra said, ‘You weren’t present when I had my meal. Now, after the event, you must stay longer and make up for it.’
Binodini laughed, ‘Oh dear, you are so particular with the accounts that woe betide anyone who falls into your trap.’
Mahendra said, ‘Whatever the accounts say, have I succeeded in exacting payment?’
Binodini said, ‘What is there to exact?You hold me a prisoner as it is.’ She turned the jest into mock-seriousness by heaving a slight sigh.
Mahendra too grew sombre. ‘Bali, is th
is a prison for you then?’
The bearer interrupted them, coming in to place the lamp on the teapoy.
Binodini shielded her face from the sudden glare of the lamp and answered with lowered eyes, ‘I don’t know.Who can beat you at wordplay? I must go now, there’s work to be done.’
Mahendra grabbed her hand and said, ‘Since you’ve admitted to being captive, where do you want to run?’
Binodini said, ‘Oh for pity’s sake, let me go—why try to imprison one who has nowhere to escape?’
She snatched away her hand and rushed out of the room.
Mahendra lay there on the scented pillows. The blood roared in his veins. The silent dusk, a room to themselves, spring in the air and Binodini’s heart just within his reach—Mahendra felt he could hardly bear the intoxicating thrill of it all. Quickly, he blew out the lamp, bolted the door and went to bed long before his usual time.
It wasn’t his old, familiar bed. A few extra mattresses had made it softer than before. Yet another aroma, he couldn’t quite name the ingredient. Mahendra tossed and turned; he wanted to discover at least one marker of the past and cling to it. But nothing came to hand.
At nine o’clock there was a knock on his door. Binodini spoke from outside, ‘Thakurpo, I have brought you dinner. Open the door.’
Mahendra sat up with a start and reached for the bolt. But he didn’t open the door. He dropped down on the floor and said, ‘Oh no, I am not hungry. I shan’t have dinner.’
Binodini sounded concerned, ‘Are you unwell? Shall I get you some water? What would you like to have?’
Mahendra said, ‘I don’t want anything, I don’t need anything.’
Binodini said, ‘For God’s sake, don’t play the fool. All right, even if you’re not sick, just open the door.’
Mahendra shook his head vehemently. ‘No, I won’t, never. Go away.
He got into the bed hastily. In that empty bed and in his restless state, he desperately groped for memories of the absent Asha.
When sleep eluded him till late at night, he lit the lamp again, sat at his desk and wrote to Asha.
Asha, please don’t leave me alone for too long now. You are the goddess of my heart. When you are gone, I scarcely know how all my instincts run away with me and lead me astray. Where is the light that would light my way—it rests in the loving gaze of your eyes brimming with trust. Please come back soon, my innocence, my eternal, my only one. Make me strong, save me, fulfil my heart. Retrieve me from this nightmare of forgetting you for even an instant, of committing the blunder of sinning against you.
Thus Mahendra wrote, long into the night, goading himself towards Asha. Several clocks on church towers in the distance struck three. The roads of Kolkata were silent, devoid of traffic. At one end of the lane, a singer, invited to a house, had struck up a melody that had also now subsided into silence and slumber. Mahendra felt greatly relieved after meditating on Asha and pouring his heart out in a long letter. He lay his head on the pillow and was immediately claimed by sleep.
When he woke up, it was late in the day and sunlight was streaming into the room. Mahendra sat up with a start. A good night’s sleep put the events of the night before in better perspective in his mind. He left the bed and looked at the letter on his desk, written to Asha the previous night. He read it over and thought, ‘What have I done! Thank goodness I haven’t sent it yet. What would Asha think if she reads this? She wouldn’t be able to make sense of this.’ Mahendra was embarrassed by the excess of his emotions the previous night; he tore the letter into tiny bits. Then he wrote another letter to Asha in simpler language—‘Will you be away for much longer? If Anukulbabu has plans to stay longer, drop me a line; I shall go and fetch you. I don’t like it here all alone.’
27
WHEN ASHA ARRIVED IN KASHI SOON AFTER MAHENDRA HAD LEFT, Annapurna was truly concerned. She began to interrogate Asha, ‘Chuni, didn’t you tell me that this Chokher Bali of yours is the most talented and competent girl in the whole world?’
‘It’s true, Aunty, I am not exaggerating. She is as smart as she is pretty and efficient.’
‘Well, she’s your friend and so you’re bound to feel that way about her. But what does everyone else in the house feel about her?’
‘Mother is extremely fond of her. If she so much as mentions going back, Mother gets all worked up. There’s no one like her when it comes to nursing someone. Even if a maid or a servant is sick, she nurses them like a member of the family.’
‘What does Mahendra feel about her?’
‘You know him well, Aunty. He doesn’t take to anyone unless they are truly near and dear. Everyone is fond of my Chokher Bali; but he doesn’t get on too well with her.’
‘Why?’
‘I worked so hard on getting them to meet. But now they hardly speak a word to each other. You know how reserved your nephew is—people think he’s arrogant; but Aunty, except for a handful, he really doesn’t like too many people.’ The last few words had slipped out inadvertently and suddenly Asha was embarrassed. Her cheeks turned red. Annapurna was relieved and said, ‘So that’s the reason why Mahin didn’t say a word about your Bali when he was here.’
Asha was miffed. ‘That’s the problem with him. If he doesn’t love someone, she doesn’t exist for him. He behaves as if he is not aware of their existence.’
Annapurna smiled serenely. ‘But when he does love someone, it’s as if he has eyes only for her, doesn’t he?’
Asha didn’t answer. She looked at the ground and smiled. Annapurna asked, ‘Chuni, tell me about Behari. Won’t he ever get married?’
Asha’s face fell in an instant. She didn’t know what to say.
Asha s silence worried Annapurna and she asked, ‘Tell me honestly, Chuni, is he in good health or is he unwell?’
For this childless woman with a golden heart, Behari had the honoured position of an ideal son. That she had left Kolkata without seeing him settled with a family bothered Annapurna every day in this far-off land. Her meagre demands from life had been fulfilled. The only thought that broke her concentration and stopped her from surrendering herself completely to an ascetic life, was of Behari, unsettled and drifting.
Asha said, ‘Aunty, don’t ask me anything about Behari-thakurpo.’
Taken aback, Annapurna asked, ‘But why?’
Asha said, ‘Oh, I cannot tell you that.’ She left the room.
Annapurna sat in silence, thinking, ‘How could that gem of a boy, Behari, change so much in this short while that the very mention of his name makes Chuni leave the room? It is destiny. If only his wedding hadn’t been fixed with Chuni and if only Mahin hadn’t snatched her away from him!’
After many months, Annapurna s eyes filled with tears again. She said to herself, ‘If my Behari has done anything unworthy of him, he has done it from a lot of pain; he wouldn’t do that unless pushed to it.’ She imagined his pain, his sorrow and felt misery welling up in her heart.
In the evening, when Annapurna was at her prayers, a carriage came to a stop at the door. The coachman called out to open the door, and thumped on it loudly. Annapurna called out from the puja room, ‘Oh dear, it had slipped my mind entirely—Kunja’s mother-in-law and her two nieces were supposed to come here from Allahabad today. That must be them now. Chuni, could you please take the lamp and open the door?’
Asha held the lantern up and opened the door. She found Behari standing there. He said, ‘Bouthan! But I was told you weren’t coming to Kashi!’
Asha dropped the lantern in confusion. She ran upstairs as if she’d seen a ghost, and pleaded with Annapurna, Aunty, please tell him to go away.’
Annapurna started as she looked up from her puja, and asked, ‘Who is it, Chuni?’
Asha said, ‘Behari-thakurpo has come here too.’ She rushed to the next room and slammed the door shut.
Behari had heard everything from the bottom of the stairs. He wanted to rush out immediately—but when Annapurna finished her puja and came downst
airs, she found him sitting on the doorstep, ashen-faced and very stiff.
Annapurna hadn’t brought the light. In the dark she couldn’t see Behari’s face and neither could he see her.
She called out, ‘Behari.’
Alas, gone was that caring, mellow tone of the past. This voice held the thunder of judgement and punishment. Mother Annapurna, on whom were you raising your sword of justice? In this darkness, the unfortunate Behari was here to lay his weary head on your compassionate feet.
Behari started as if he had been whipped. He raised his numb body and said, ‘Aunty, no more—don’t say another word. I am leaving.’
Behari bent to the ground and bowed to her without touching her feet. Annapurna set him adrift into the dark night, the way unfortunate mothers cast their children into the Ganga; she didn’t call him back. The carriage disappeared from sight.
The same night Asha wrote to Mahendra, ‘Behari-thakurpo was here all of a sudden this evening. I don’t know when my uncle plans to go back home—please come soon and take me away from here.’
28
AFTER STAYING UP HALF THE NIGHT, MAHENDRA WAS GRIPPED BY A STRANGE lassitude the next morning. It was early March and the days were beginning to get warmer. On other days Mahendra sat with his books in a corner of his room. But today he leaned back on the pillows and lay flat on the mattress. The day wore on and he didn’t go for his bath. The street-vendors called out as they peddled their wares in the street. The road echoed with sounds of traffic, of the people rushing to office. A neighbour was adding a new floor to his house—the artisans struck up a monotonous tune as they hammered away at their work. The delicate, warm breeze cast a languorous spell on Mahendra’s senses. No harsh vows, intricate endeavours, or battles with the mind seemed worthy of this slack, lethargic spring day.
‘Thakurpo, what’s wrong with you—won’t you have your bath? Your meal is ready. Why are you in bed still—are you unwell? Do you have a headache?’ Binodini walked up to him and touched his forehead.