Then I grew inspired to provide money for my jamai’s addictions, unbeknownst to my daughter. When Manorama got to know of this, she came to me one day and wept, telling me all about her husband’s scandalous behaviour. Then I struck my forehead in self-reproach. My grief was indescribable. It was one of my deors who had ruined my jamai with his evil company and wicked ideas. When I withdrew my monetary support, my jamai began to suspect that it was my daughter who had forbidden me. The matter could be concealed no longer. Now he began to torment my daughter so extremely, insulting her so publicly, that to prevent it I again started giving him money behind my daughter’s back. I knew I was condemning him to hell, but I could not rest in peace when I heard that he was subjecting Manorama to unspeakable torture.
Ultimately, one day—I remember that day so clearly! Towards the end of Magh, the summer having set in early that year, we were saying: ‘The trees in our back garden are already laden with mango-blossom!’ One afternoon, that Magh, a palki came and stopped at our door. I saw Manorama approach us, smiling; then she came and touched my feet.
‘Why Manu,’ I asked, ‘what news?’
‘Can’t one visit one’s mother just like that, even if there is no news?’ laughed Manorama.
My beyan, Manorama’s mother-in-law, was not a bad person. She sent me a message that as Bouma, her daughter-in-law, was expecting, she would be better off staying with her mother until the child was born. I took that for the truth. But I had no inkling that my jamai had started assaulting Manorama even in her condition, and that it was from fear of a disaster that my beyan had sent her daughter-in-law to me. Manu and her mother-in-law kept me deluded in this way. If I tried to give my daughter an oil massage and a bath, Manorama would elude me on various pretexts; she did not want to expose the scars on her tender body, even to her mother’s eyes.
Occasionally, my jamai would come and create a scene, wanting to take Manorama back with him. Because my daughter was staying with me, it prevented him from seeking my indulgence with requests for money. Gradually, even this obstacle ceased to deter him. He began to pester me for money even in Manorama’s presence. ‘You must not give him money under any circumstances,’ Manorama would stubbornly insist. But I was extremely vulnerable; I could not refrain from giving my jamai some money, lest he become too annoyed with my daughter.
One day, Manorama said: ‘Ma, I’ll take care of all your money.’ She now took charge of my keys, cashbox, everything. When my jamai found no further possibility of extracting money from me, and failed to make Manorama unbend by any means, he began to insist: ‘I’ll take Mejobou home.’ ‘Give him, ma, give him some money and get rid of him,’ I would urge Manorama, ‘or who knows what he might do!’ But my Manorama could be as firm as she was tender. ‘No,’ she would declare, ‘he must not be given money under any circumstances.’ One day, my jamai came and announced, glaring at us:
‘I shall send the palki tomorrow evening. If you don’t let Bou go, I warn you of dire consequences.’
‘Ma, let’s delay no more,’ I urged Manorama when the palki arrived before dusk the following day. ‘I’ll send for you again next week.’
‘Not today, let it be,’ pleaded Manorama. ‘I don’t feel like leaving today, Ma. Ask them to return after a couple of days.’
‘Ma, will my insane jamai spare us if I turn away the palki?’ I persisted. ‘Let’s not try that, Manu. Please go today itself.’
‘No, Ma, not today,’ Manu begged. ‘My father-in-law is away in Kolkata. He is expected back in mid-Phalgun. I’ll go back then.’
Still I said: ‘No, ma, we’d best not do that.’
At this, Manorama went to prepare for her departure. I busied myself arranging meals for the attendants and palki-bearers from her in-laws’ household. I did not get the opportunity to spend a little time with her before she left, to give her special care that day, to dress her with my own hands, to feed her some favourite dishes before bidding her goodbye. Just before she mounted the palki, she touched my feet and said:
‘Ma, I’ll take your leave, then.’
How was I to know that she was really leaving me! She had not wanted to go, but I forced her to depart—my heart burns with grief at that thought, even today. Nothing has quenched that fire!
That very night, Manorama died of a miscarriage. Before I received the news, she had already been hastily cremated in secret. You will not understand, any of you, the kind of grief that leaves nothing to be said, nothing to be done, no end to one’s thoughts, nor any relief to be found in tears. Such grief is best not understood.
So I lost everything, but my problems did not end there. From the time I lost my husband and son, my deors had been eyeing my property. They knew they were sole heirs to my property after my demise, but they could not bear to wait so long. For this, nobody is to blame; it was truly a crime for a wretch like me to remain alive at all. How could people with diverse worldly needs tolerate it if people like myself, with no needs at all, should unaccountably remain alive, occupying their rightful space?
As long as Manorama was alive, I did not let myself be deluded by any of my deors’ arguments. I did my best to defend my property rights against them. I had vowed, as long as I lived, to save money for Manorama and bequeath it to her. It was my effort to save for my daughter that had become intolerable for my deors, who felt it was their wealth I was stealing. Nilkanta, a trusted old retainer of my husband, was my only support. If I tried to arrive at a mutual settlement by surrendering my claim to something that was rightfully mine, he would never agree. ‘I’d like to see who touches a single paisa that is ours by right,’ he would declare. Amidst this struggle over our rival claims, my daughter passed away. The very next day my deor came to me and advised me to renounce the world.
‘Boudi,’ he urged, ‘Ishwar has placed you in such circumstances now, that it would no longer be appropriate for you to cling to a worldly existence. For the remainder of your life, retire to a place of pilgrimage and turn your mind to holy things. We shall arrange for your upkeep.’
I sent for our Guruthakur, our spiritual guide.
‘Thakur,’ I begged, ‘please tell me how I may escape the clutches of sorrow. Whatever I do, I can find no consolation anywhere. I seem to be trapped in a fence of fire; wherever I go, whichever way I turn, I cannot see the slightest way out of my agony.’
My guru led me to the puja-room and said: ‘This deity Gopiballav is your husband, son, daughter, your all in all. In his service alone can you fill the vacuum in your life.’
Day and night I sojourned in the puja-room. I began to try to devote myself wholeheartedly to the deity, but how could I give unless He was willing to receive? He did not accept my offering, did he?
Sending for Nilkanta, I said: ‘Niludada, I have decided to sign over all my life’s possessions to my deors. They will give me some money every month to take care of my needs.’
‘That cannot be allowed under any circumstances,’ Nilkanta declared. ‘You are a woman; don’t involve yourself in such matters.’
‘What need have I of property anymore?’ I inquired.
‘How can you say such a thing?’ exclaimed Nilkanta. ‘Why should we give up our rights? Don’t take such an irrational step.’
In Nilkanta’s eyes nothing was greater than one’s rights. I was in a quandary. Worldly matters were anathema to me, but Nilkanta was the only person I trusted in this world. How could I hurt him? After all, he had suffered a lot trying to protect those ‘rights’ of mine. Ultimately one day, unbeknownst to Nilkanta, I signed a document. I had not properly understood what was written there. Why should I be afraid to sign, I had thought; what did I wish to keep that I could not bear to be defrauded of? After all everything belonged to my father-in-law; if it went to his sons, let them have it.
When the legal procedures had been registered, I sent for Nilkanta and said: ‘Niludada, don’t be angry, I have signed over everything I had. I have no further need of anything.’
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��What!’ cried Nilkanta in agitation. ‘What have you done!’
When he read the document drafted by the agent and realized that I had indeed surrendered all I possessed, Nilkanta’s anger knew no bounds. Ever since his master’s demise, protecting my ‘rights’ had become the mainstay of his life. All his thoughts and strength had been tirelessly devoted to this sole purpose. Litigation and court proceedings, trips to the lawyer’s house, unearthing relevant legal clauses—he had found pleasure in these things alone. So much so, he did not even have the time to attend to his own personal affairs. When those ‘rights’ vanished at a single stroke of a woman’s pen, Nilkanta could not be pacified.
‘That’s it, then,’ he declared. ‘My links with this place are broken. I’ll take my leave.’
Was it my ultimate misfortune in my in-laws’ home that Niludada would abandon me in such fury? I called him back, pleading:
‘Dada, please don’t be angry with me. Let me give you these five hundred rupees from my savings. When you acquire a daughter-in-law, give her my blessings and use this money to order some jewelry for her.’
‘I have no further need of money,’ Nilkanta asserted. ‘Now that my employer has lost everything, accepting those five hundred rupees will bring me no happiness. Let it be.’ With these words, my husband’s last true friend left me and went away.
I took refuge in the prayer room.
‘Go and take up lodgings in a holy place,’ my deors urged me. ‘My father-in-law’s ancestral property is a holy place to me,’ I declared. ‘And where my deity resides, there I shall take refuge.’
But they could not bear to let me occupy any portion of the house. They had already decided who would use the rooms and how, once their belongings had been transferred to our house. Ultimately they said:
‘You may carry your deity’s image with you, we shall not object.’
‘What will you live on if you stay here?’ they demanded, when I demurred even at this suggestion.
‘Why, the allowance you have assigned me will suffice for my needs,’ I replied.
‘But there’s no mention of any allowance!’ they told me.
At this, taking my deity’s image with me, exactly thirty-four years after my marriage, I left my marital home and set out on my own one day. Enquiring after Niludada, I heard that he had already departed for Brindavan. I accompanied pilgrims from our village to Kashi. But my sinful heart found no peace anywhere. Daily I would call upon my deity and say, ‘Thakur, please become as real for me as my own husband and children had once been!’ But he didn’t answer my prayers, did he? My heart finds no solace, ceaseless tears wrack my body and soul. Baap re baap, how harsh the human heart can be!
Ever since I entered my marital home at the age of eight, I could not visit my parents even for a day. I had tried very hard to attend your mother’s wedding, but to no avail. Afterwards, I received news of your birth in a letter from my father, and news of my sister’s death as well. Until now, Ishwar has not given me an opportunity to draw you two motherless children into my lap.
Travelling in holy places, when I found my heart still enslaved by the illusion called maya and my inner thirst for an object of love still unquenched, I began to enquire after all of you. I had heard that your father had abandoned his religion, abandoned his community and broken free. But what could I do about that! Your mother was my sister after all, born of the same womb.
I have come here after a gentleman in Kashi informed me of your whereabouts. Poreshbabu doesn’t believe in deities I’m told, but you only have to see his face to realize that Thakur, the almighty Lord, is happy with him. Prayers alone do not melt Thakur’s heart, as I know only too well; I shall find out how Poreshbabu won Him over. Anyway, bachha, it is not yet time for me to live in isolation—that is beyond my power. Thakur may grace me with his favour when He pleases, but without having all of you close to my lap, I cannot stay alive.
~38~
In Borodasundari’s absence, Poresh had given shelter to Harimohini. Offering her the secluded room on the terrace, he had made all arrangements to ensure that her observance of orthodox rituals could proceed unimpeded. Upon her return, Borodasundari was aflame with fury at finding such an unimaginable presence in her household.
‘I can’t accept this,’ she protested very sharply to Poresh.
‘You can tolerate all of us, but not this widow who has no support?’ Poresh reproached her.
Borodasundari knew that Poresh had no practical sense; every now and then, he would suddenly do something outrageous, never sparing a thought for matters of worldly advantage. Subsequently, one may rave or rant, scold or weep, but he would remain unmoved as a statue. Who could cope with such a man? Which woman could live with a man who could not even be provoked into a quarrel when necessary!
Sucharita was about the same age as Manorama. Harimohini began to feel that she even resembled Manorama a great deal. She appeared similar in temperament as well, calm but firm by nature. At times, when Sucharita’s back was turned, Harimohini’s heart would miss a beat, looking at her. When she sometimes wept silently in the evening, if Sucharita approached her, Harimohini would clasp her to her bosom, eyes shut tight, and say:
‘Aha, I feel as if it is she herself I have found, here in my heart. She did not want to go but I forced her to leave. Can I ever, under any circumstances, be pardoned! I have suffered the punishment that was my due. Now she is here. Here she is, back with me, back with the same smiling countenance. Here’s my ma, my jewel, my treasure!’ Saying this, she would stroke Sucharita’s face all over, kiss her, shed floods of tears. Tears would stream from Sucharita’s eyes as well. Throwing her arms around Harimohini’s neck, she would declare:
‘Mashi, I too could not enjoy my mother’s love for long, but now my lost mother has returned. How often, when things were difficult, when I lacked the strength to pray to Ishwar, when my heart had shrivelled within, I would call out to my Ma! Today, my Ma has come, in response to my call.’
‘Don’t, please don’t say such things,’ Harimohini would plead. ‘Your words bring me such joy that I feel apprehensive. O Thakur, please spare us from the evil eye! I plan to avoid any further attachments, wanting my heart to turn to stone, but indeed I can’t! I’m very weak. Have pity on me, strike me no more. O my Radharani, go, go, go away from me. Don’t entangle me further, please don’t! O my Gopiballav, Lord of my life, my Gopal, my priceless jewel, what predicament have you placed me in this time!’
‘You can’t get rid of me by force, Mashi,’ Sucharita would reply. ‘I’ll never let you go—I’m here to stay by your side forever.’ Like an infant she would nestle her head in Harimohini’s bosom, and fall silent.
In no time, a deep bond evolved between Sucharita and her mashi, not to be measured by the yardstick of time. This too irked Borodasundari.
‘Just look at this girl’s behaviour. As if we never looked after her, all of us. Where was her mashi all these days, I’d like to know? We raised her right from childhood, and now she swoons at the very mention of her mashi! I’ve always told my husband, this Sucharita you all laud as such a wonderful person, makes an outward show of decency, but it’s impossible to win her heart. All we’ve done for her all along has indeed proved futile!’
Borodasundari knew Poresh would not understand her agony. Moreover, she also had no doubt that she would lose respect in Poresh’s eyes if she expressed her hostility to Harimohini. That infuriated her even more. She began to rally support to prove that whatever Poresh might say, most intelligent people would be in agreement with her. She started discussing the Harimohini affair with all members of their social circle, eminent or otherwise. There was no end to her laments and complaints about Harimohini’s orthodox Hindu views, her idol worship, and the bad example she set for youngsters in the family.
Borodasundari not only complained to others, but also began to trouble Harimohini in all sorts of ways. She would choose her
moment to assign other tasks to the milkman deployed as bearer to draw water for Harimohini’s cooking and other chores. If the matter came up she would say, ‘Why, Ramdeen is available, isn’t he?’ Ramdeen being a low caste Dosad, she knew Harimohini would not accept water drawn from the well by him. If anyone pointed this out she would retort: ‘If she was so fussy about Brahmanical ways, why come to our Brahmo household? Here, it won’t do to be so finicky about caste. I shall never encourage it.’ On such issues her sense of duty became very aggressively manifest. The Brahmo Samaj, she felt, had gradually become very slack in matters concerning the community; that was why it could not accomplish enough. She would try her best not to participate in such leniency. No, never. If someone misunderstood her, she was ready to take it; if even her kinfolk turned against her, she would humbly accept that too. She began to remind everyone that all great men of the world who had performed noble deeds had been compelled to tolerate criticism and opposition.
No inconvenience could vanquish Harimohini. She seemed to have vowed to attain the ultimate heights of self-mortification. As if to match the rhythm of the unbearable suffering her heart had inwardly undergone, she seemed to constantly torment herself outwardly with her strict observance of rules. Her endeavour was to voluntarily embrace sorrow, in order to master it through intimacy. When Harimohini faced trouble obtaining water, she gave up cooking altogether. She began to live on milk and fruits that she had dedicated to her deity as holy prasad. Sucharita was extremely distressed at this. Her mashi tried hard to convince her:
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