‘How can you say that! You, a Brahman’s daughter!’
‘So what if I’m a Brahman’s daughter? I have given up Brahman practices, haven’t I? Just recently, at Mahim’s wedding, the bride’s family had threatened to create trouble about my Khristani ways. So I had deliberately remained aloof, not said a word. The entire world calls me a Christian, and many other things besides, but I accept everything, saying: Aren’t Christians human beings, after all! If you are of such high caste and so dear to the Almighty, why does He let you suffer defeat at the hands of Pathans, Mughals and Christians, in turn?’
‘That’s a long story. You’re a woman. Such things are beyond your comprehension. But you do understand don’t you, that there is something called a community, which you should respect?’
‘I have no need to understand such things. I only understand that having reared Gora as my son, if I now pretend to be orthodox, my faith will certainly be lost, whether the community remains or not. It is out of respect for religion that I have never concealed anything. I let everyone know that I don’t follow any restrictions, and suffer everyone’s contempt in silence. There’s only one thing I’ve concealed, and for that I live in constant fear of what Thakur might do to me someday. Look, I think we should tell Gora everything. After that, let destiny take its course.’
‘No, no, not as long as I live!’ cried Krishandayal in agitation. ‘You know Gora. There is no saying what he might do if he gets to know. And it will throw our community into a turmoil. And that’s not all. There’s no saying what the government might do, either. Gora’s father died fighting, and I know his mother’s dead as well, but we should have informed the magistrate after all that turbulence had subsided. Now, if trouble breaks out over all this, it will put an end to all my prayers and rituals, and who knows what other problems may arise.’
Anandamoyi remained silent, offering no reply. ‘As for Gora’s marriage, I have thought of a plan,’ resumed Krishandayal after a while. ‘Poresh Bhattacharya, my former classmate, has recently settled in Kolkata after retiring from his position as school inspector. He is a dedicated Brahmo. And he has several daughters, I’m told. If we can introduce Gora to his family, he might even take a fancy to one of Poresh’s daughters in the course of his visits to their house. Then it’s up to Prajapati, the god of marriage.’
‘How can you suggest that! Gora visit a Brahmo household? He’s past all that now.’
As Anandamoyi spoke, Gora entered the room. ‘Ma!’ he called, in his deep, thundering voice. He was rather surprised to see Krishnadayal there.
‘Yes baba, what is it you want?’ Anadamoyi asked, quickly rising to go up close to Gora, her eyes shining with affection.
‘No, it’s nothing important. Let it be for now,’ Gora answered, preparing to leave.
‘Stay awhile,’ said Krishandayal, ‘there’s something I want to say. A Brahmo friend of mine has recently arrived in Kolkata. He stays at Hedotola.’
‘It isn’t Poreshbabu is it?’
‘How do you know him?’
‘Binoy lives close to his house. He has told me about them.’
‘I would like you to go and enquire after their well-being.’
‘Very well, I’ll go there tomorrow itself,’ said Gora suddenly, after some consideration. Anandamoyi was rather surprised. Gora paused again to think, then said: ‘No, I can’t go tomorrow, after all.’
‘Why?’ asked Krishnadayal.
‘I must travel to Triveni tomorrow.’
‘Triveni!’ exclaimed Krishandayal, in astonishment.
‘Tomorrow’s solar eclipse calls for a holy bath,’ Gora informed him.
‘You amaze me, Gora!’ said Anandamoyi. ‘If you want a holy bath, there’s the Ganga in Kolkata. No bath except at Triveni! I must say you have outdone all your countrymen!’
Gora left the room without offering any reply. He had decided to bathe at Triveni because many pilgrims would gather there. Merging with that mass of humanity, he wanted to surrender to the vast current of national life, and to feel the nation’s turbulent pulse within his own heart. At the slightest opportunity, Gora wanted to forcefully cast aside all constraints and prejudices, to come down to the level the general public, and declare with all his heart: ‘I am yours, and you are mine!’
~7~
Awakening at dawn, Binoy found that the sky had cleared overnight. The morning light had dawned, pure as the smile of a suckling infant. A few white clouds floated aimlessly in the sky. As he stood on the balcony, rapt in the memory of another pure dawn, he saw Poresh walking slowly down the road, grasping a stick in one hand and Satish’s hand in the other. Spotting Binoy on the balcony, Satish at once clapped his hands. ‘Binoybabu!’ he called. Raising his head, Poresh also saw Binoy. As Binoy hurried downstairs, Poresh entered his house, accompanied by Satish.
‘Binoybabu, you promised to visit us the other day, but you didn’t come!’ complained Satish, grasping Binoy’s hand. Binoy smiled, patting Satish affectionately on the back.
Carefully propping his stick against the table, Poresh took a chowki. ‘Without you, we would have been in deep trouble that day,’ he said. ‘You did us a great favour.’
‘How can you say that! I hardly did anything at all!’ said Binoy, flustered. ‘Tell me, Binoybabu, don’t you have a dog?’ Satish suddenly inquired.
‘A dog?’ laughed Binoy. ‘No, I don’t have a dog.’
‘Why?’ asked Satish. ‘Why haven’t you kept a dog?’
‘I never thought of keeping a dog.’
‘Satish visited you the other day, I’m told,’ said Poresh. ‘He must have really pestered you. He talks so much, his didi has named him Bakhtiar Khiliji, the Orator.’
‘I too have the gift of the gab,’ replied Binoy. ‘So we’ve become great friends, the two of us. What do you say, Satishbabu!’
Satish did not reply. But he became anxious not to let his new name lower his dignity in Binoy’s eyes. ‘Well, why not?’ he said. ‘Bakhtiar Khiliji is a fine name. Tell me, Binoybabu, Bakhtiar Khiliji was a warrior, wasn’t he? Didn’t he conquer Bengal?’
‘He used to be a warrior once,’ answered Binoy with a smile. ‘But now he has no need to engage in combat. Now he only delivers speeches. And he still manages to conquer Bengal.’
Thus they conversed for a long time. Poresh spoke least of all, smiling occasionally with a cheerful serenity, and making only a couple of remarks. When it was time to leave, he rose from the chowki and said:
‘To get to our House, number 78, you need to keep to the right …’
‘He knows our house,’ Satish interrupted. ‘He escorted me all the way to our own doorstep, the other day.’
There was nothing embarrassing about this, yet Binoy felt secretly ashamed, as if he had been caught red-handed somehow.
‘You know our house then,’ said the old man. ‘So, if you ever …’
‘Of course. Whenever …’
‘We belong to the same neighbourhood, after all,’ Poresh said. ‘It’s only because this is Kolkata that we haven’t yet become acquainted.’
Binoy escorted Poresh down to the street. He lingered at the door for a while. Poresh walked slowly, leaning on his stick, with Satish prattling away by his side. ‘I have never seen an old man like Poreshbabu,’ Binoy said to himself. ‘I feel like bowing at his feet in reverence. And what a wonderful lad Satish is! If he lives, he will be a special person, as bright as he is simple!’ However worthy the old man and the boy might have been, such an effusion of admiration and affection could not have occurred under normal circumstances, after so short an acquaintance. But such was Binoy’s mental state, he did not wait to get better acquainted.
After this, Binoy began to think: ‘For civility’s sake, I must visit Poreshbabu’s house.’ But he seemed to hear Gora’s voice warn him on behalf of their own group’s version of Bharatvarsha: ‘It’s not acceptable for you to frequent their house. Watch out!’ At every step, Binoy had followed many restrictions impo
sed by their group’s image of Bharatvarsha. He had often hesitated, but had obeyed, all the same. Today, his heart rose in rebellion. He began to feel that Bharatvarsha was only a figure of negation.
The servant came to announce the midday meal, but Binoy had not even bathed yet. It was already noon. Suddenly, Binoy shook his head vehemently and declared, ‘I shall not eat. Leave me alone, all of you.’ So saying he picked up an umbrella and emerged into the street, without even a chador on his shoulder.
He went straight to Gora’s house. Binoy knew that an office of the Hindu welfare society had been set up in rented premises on Amherst Street. Gora would go there everyday at noon, and write letters to inspire his party members everywhere in Bengal. This was where his devotees came to hear his words of wisdom, and to seek glory in supporting him. That day as well, Gora had gone to the office for some work. Binoy rushed to Anandamoyi’s chamber in the private antahpur of Gora’s house. Anandamoyi was at her meal. Lachamiya sat by her side, fanning her.
‘Why, Binoy! What’s the matter with you?’ Anandamoyi exclaimed.
Binoy sat down facing her. ‘Ma, I am very hungry,’ he said. ‘Please give me something to eat.’
‘Now you’ve put me in a fix!’ said Anandamoyi, flustered. ‘Bamun-thakur, the Brahman cook, has left. Because all of you …’
‘As if I’ve come to taste Bamun-thakur’s cooking! Then the Bamun in my own home would have done as well. I want prasad from your own platter—food sanctified by your touch, Ma. Go Lachhmia, fetch me a glass of water!’
Binoy gulped down the water Lachhmia brought him. With loving care, Anandamoyi mashed the rice on her own thala and served portions of it to Binoy on another thala. He began to devour the morsels as if he had been famished for days.
A source of anguish was removed from Anandamoyi’s heart. The sight of her cheerful face also made Binoy’s heart feel lighter. She settled down to sew a pillowcase. From the adjacent room came the fragrance of keya blossoms, collected to prepare the screwpine-flavoured catechu called keyakhoyer. Binoy reclined at Anandamoyi’s feet, head propped on his arm, and prattled on joyfully just as in previous times, forgetting everything else.
~8~
When this dam burst, the new flood in Binoy’s heart seemed to grow even more turbulent. Emerging from Anandamoyi’s room, he flew down the street as if on winged feet. He wanted to proudly proclaim to everyone the secret feelings that had been making him feel so awkward these last few days. At the very moment when Binoy reached the door of House 78, Poresh also arrived there from the opposite direction.
‘Welcome, welcome, Binoybabu! What a pleasure!’ With these words, Poresh ushered Binoy into the sitting-room facing the street. On one side of a small table was a bench with a back-rest, and on the other, a chair made of wood and cane. On one wall hung a painting of Jesus Christ, and on the wall opposite, a photograph of Keshabbabu. On the table, under a glass paperweight, lay the folded newspapers of the past few days. Books by Theodore Parker were arranged in rows on the upper shelves of a small almira in the corner. On top of the almira was a globe, covered with cloth. Binoy sat down, his heart racing. What if someone entered the room through the door behind him?
‘On Mondays, Sucharita goes to tutor my friend’s daughter,’ Poresh informed him. ‘Satish has also accompanied her, because a boy of his own age lives there. I have just returned after dropping them there. A little more delay, and I would have missed you.’
At this news, Binoy’s heart simultaneously felt a pang of disappointment and a sense of relief. He could now chat with Poresh at ease. Poresh learnt all about Binoy in the course of their conversation. Binoy was an orphan. His khuro and khurima lived in the ancestral village and supervised property matters. Their two sons, Binoy’s paternal cousins, used to stay with him while they pursued their studies. The elder one became a lawyer and practised in the local district court. The younger brother had died of cholera while still in Kolkata. The khuro wanted his nephew to aim for the district magistrate’s post, but Binoy made no effort in that direction, busy instead with all sorts of trivial pursuits.
Almost an hour passed by in this fashion. It would seem uncivil to linger there needlessly any longer.
‘It’s a pity I didn’t get to meet my friend Satish,’ said Binoy, rising to his feet. ‘Please tell him that I had come.’
‘If you had stayed on a little longer you could have met them,’ responded Poreshbabu. ‘It won’t be long before they return.’
Binoy found it embarrassing to change his mind merely at this assurance. A little more persuasion, and he might have stayed on. But Poresh was a man of few words, not given to pressuring anyone, so Binoy had to leave.
‘It would be nice if you dropped by now and then,’ said Poresh.
Out in the street, Binoy felt no need to go back home. He had nothing to do there. He wrote for the papers. People praised his writings in English, but these last few days, when he sat down to write, no words would come to mind. He felt so restless, it was hard to spend much time at his desk. So he now headed in the opposite direction, for no reason at all.
He had barely walked a few steps when he heard a boyish voice cry: ‘Binoybabu, Binoybabu!’ Looking up, he saw Satish calling out to him, leaning out of the door of a hired cab. The glimpse of a sari corner and a white blouse-sleeve left him in no doubt about the identity of the passenger within. Constraints of Bengali respectability made it difficult for Binoy to stare at the cab. Meanwhile, Satish dismounted at that very spot, and grasped his hand.
‘Come, let’s go to our house,’ he urged.
‘But I’ve just left your house,’ Binoy protested.
‘Bah, we weren’t there after all, so you must come again.’ Binoy could not ignore Satish’s importunations.
‘Baba, I’ve brought Binoybabu!’ announced Satish loudly, as soon as he had led his prisoner into the house.
‘You are in the clutches of a harsh captor,’ smiled the old man, emerging from his room. ‘You won’t escape in a hurry. Satish, send for your didi.’
His heart pounding, Binoy entered the room and took a seat.
‘Out of breath, aren’t you!’ Poresh observed. ‘Satish is a very mischievous boy.’
When Satish entered the room with his elder sister, Binoy first felt the whiff of a sweet fragrance. Then he heard Poreshbabu say:
‘Radhé, Binoybabu is here. You know him, of course!’
Binoy looked up with a start, to see Sucharita greet him with a namaskar before occupying the chowki opposite his. This time, he did not forget to return her greeting.
‘He was walking down the street,’ Sucharita explained. ‘There was no stopping Satish once he caught sight of him. He got off the cab and dragged him here. Perhaps you were out on some business. I hope this hasn’t inconvenienced you?’
Binoy had not even dared to hope that Sucharita would address him directly. Flustered, he quickly blurted out: ‘No, I was not out on any business. It was not inconvenient at all.’
‘Come on Didi, give me the keys,’ begged Satish, tugging at Sucharita’s sari. ‘Let me fetch our organ for Binoybabu to see.’
‘Here we go!’ laughed Sucharita. ‘For anyone Bakhtiar befriends, there is no respite. He must not only listen to the organ, but suffer much worse besides. Binoybabu, this friend of yours is tiny, but his friendship is a heavy burden. I wonder if you can bear it!’
Binoy could not summon up any easy response to Sucharita’s unselfconscious conversation. ‘No, not at all,’ he stammered somehow, despite his firm resolve not to be shy. ‘You, he—me—I rather like it!’
Extracting the keys from his didi, Satish fetched the organ and presented it before the company. Inside a square glass cover, on a bed of blue fabric meant to represent ocean waves, rested a toy ship. As soon as Satish wound it up, the ship began to sway to the organ’s musical rhythm. Glancing now at the ship, now at Binoy’s face, Satish could not contain his excitement. In this way, little by little, Satish’s mediation bro
ke down Binoy’s restraint. Gradually, Binoy even discovered it was not impossible to meet Sucharita’s gaze and exchange a few remarks with her.
‘Won’t you bring your friend here one day?’ asked Satish suddenly, out of the blue.
This led to questions about Binoy’s friend. Poreshbabu and his family were new to Kolkata, and knew nothing about Gora. Speaking of his friend, Binoy grew animated. Describing Gora’s rare genius, his largeness of heart and unswerving courage, he did not seem to know when to stop. Gora would one day shine above Bharatvarsha’s crest like the glory of the midday sun. ‘I have no doubt of that,’ Binoy declared. As he spoke, his face grew radiant, and all his diffidence seemed to evaporate. In fact, he even exchanged a few arguments with Poreshbabu regarding Gora’s opinions.
‘If Gora can unhesitatingly accept Hindu culture in its entirety, it’s because he regards Bharatvarsha from a very broad perspective,’ argued Binoy. ‘To him, Bharatvarsha appears in its entirety, all its features, major and minor, merged into a great unity, a vast harmony. Because all of us are not capable of such a vision, we constantly misjudge Bharatvarsha, seeing it in fragments and comparing it with foreign ideals.’
‘Do you say caste discrimination is a good thing?’ Sucharita asked. She spoke as if there was no scope for argument.
‘Caste discrimination is neither good, nor bad,’ Binoy declared. ‘In other words, it is good in some situations, bad in others. If you asked me whether the hand is a good thing, I would reply that it’s best judged in relation to the rest of the body. If you asked, is the hand good for flying?—I would reply in the negative; likewise, wings are not good for grasping things, either.’
‘I understand nothing of all this!’ exclaimed Sucharita, getting agitated. ‘My question is, do you believe in caste distinctions?’
‘Yes, I do!’ Binoy would have emphatically asserted, had he been arguing with someone else. But now he found it hard to insist, whether from timidity, or whether his heart on this occasion was unwilling to go so far as to declare categorically: ‘I believe in caste distinctions’, it cannot be said for certain. Lest the argument go too far, Poresh intervened at this point.
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