The watchman said, ‘She did not tell us—we do not know.’
Mahendra roared in anger, ‘You don’t know!’
The watchman folded his hands and bowed low, ‘No sire, we don’t know.’
Mahendra decided his mother must have tutored them to supply these answers. He said, ‘Fair enough!’
On the streets of the metropolis dusk had fallen; the ice-candy man was hawking his ice-candy and the fish seller was yelling out the names of the kinds of fish he carried. Mahendra waded into the throng of noisy people and disappeared in their midst.
37
BEHARI HAD NEVER SAT DOWN TO MEDITATE UPON HIMSELF. HE HAD NEVER turned himself into a subject of analysis for his own mind. Books, chores and friends had kept him busy. He was happy to give the whole world around him more attention than he gave himself. But all of a sudden, one day, everything had crashed to pieces around him. Amidst the darkness and the destruction, he had found himself standing alone on the peak of the colossal mountain of anguish. Ever since, he had feared his own company; he had drowned himself in work and more work so that this unwanted companion of his, his own shadow self, wouldn’t have access to him.
But on this particular day, Behari was powerless in keeping his inner self at bay. The previous night he had taken Binodini to her village. Since then, wherever he was and whatever he tried to keep himself busy with, he felt his agonized heart pointing him to his own immeasurable loneliness.
Behari felt defeated by fatigue and heartache. It was around nine at night; the south-facing terrace adjacent to Behari’s room was aflutter with a summer breeze. Behari sat alone on the terrace, under a moonless sky. He hadn’t been able to teach Vasant that evening; he’d sent him to bed early. His heart wept for the days of his old, familiar past like a motherless child; arms outstretched, it searched for something in the dark of the universe, yearned for consolation, for solace of some sort. His determination, his control over himself, had all washed away. He felt like running to the same people that he had once vowed never to think of again. There was no way of controlling his emotional turbulence.
Like a map marked in different colours for land, water, hills and rivers, the various images of his long friendship with Mahendra and its unfortunate conclusion unfolded before Behari’s eyes. He mulled over the precise moment at which his world had come crashing down and all that he held dear to him had been lost forever. Who had been the first to break the charmed circle? The bashful face of Asha, coloured by the rays of the setting sun, etched itself in the twilight. The blowing of the conch shell, auguring good omens at dusk, rang in his ears at the same time. Asha, Behari thought, was something of a benevolent planet that had made its place between the two friends, casting her influence on both. She had brought with her a little conflict, and a strange kind of pain that could neither be spoken of nor nurtured in the heart. And yet, this conflict, this pain were covered in a pleasant light, full of love and affection.
But then had come the malevolent planet and that had ripped apart the friendship, the romance, the peace and purity of the family. Behari tried to push away Binodini’s image with great revulsion. But wonders never cease! The push was no more than a gentle thrust, barely touching her. That incredibly beautiful mirage with her dark eyes brimming with inscrutable mystery, stood still before him in the dense dark of the night. The fulsome breeze of the summer night touched him like her breath. Gradually, her still, steady gaze wavered; the dry, intense eyes overflowed with tears as emotion overcame them; like a flash the mirage dropped at his feet and grasped his knees to her breast with all her might. And then she wove herself around him like a human creeper and raised a pair of lips as fragrant as a flower, up to his own. Behari closed his eyes and tried with all his might to banish the image from his mind. But he felt powerless to hurt her in any way—an incomplete, fervent kiss hung on his lips, and he was suffused with a strange exhilaration.
Behari could no longer stay in the solitary darkness of the terrace. He rushed into his lamp-lit room in order to distract himself. In one corner, on a teapoy, was a framed photograph covered with a silk scarf. Behari uncovered it and sat down to gaze at it under the bright light.
It had been taken soon after Mahendra and Asha’s wedding, with the couple smiling happily. Behind the photograph Mahendra had written his name and Asha had added hers in her childish scrawl. The sweetness of new-found romance still hung over the photo. Mahendra sat on a chair looking very pleased with his newly married status. Asha stood beside him shyly. The photographer had insisted on her dropping her veil, but he couldn’t rid her of her shyness. Today, this same Mahendra was about to leave Asha in tears and go far away. But the Mahendra of the photograph still looked as much in love with her as ever—his emotions were frozen in time, ignorant of the irony of fate that time would unfold.
Behari tried to cast Binodini far away by hurling abuse at her, with the photograph on his lap. But those loving, youthful arms of hers still held on to his knees, strong as ever. Behari said, ‘You went and destroyed such a loving, happy relationship!’ But Binodini’s face, raised for his kiss, silently told him, ‘I have loved you. From all the men in this whole wide world I have chosen you.’
But was that an answer! Could these words obscure the pained shriek that arose from a household torn asunder? What a witch!
Witch! Was this only a rebuke or was there some indulgence mixed in the word? When Behari was left standing like a beggar, robbed of all the love he had ever counted on in his life, was he in a position to reject, from the bottom of his heart, such an outpouring of love that came unwarranted and unasked for? In comparison, what had he ever got? He had sacrificed his entire life in search of some crumbs of love. But when the goddess of love had sent him a golden plate replete with her blessings, how could he have the strength to turn his back on the feast?
He sat there with the photograph on his lap, lost in his thoughts. Suddenly a sound beside him made him look up—Mahendra stood at his side. Startled, Behari stood up in a rush and the photo dropped to the floor—he didn’t even notice.
Mahendra asked without any preamble, ‘Where is Binodini?’
Behari stepped closer to Mahendra, took his hand and said, ‘Mahin da, do have a seat. We can discuss everything by and by.
Mahendra said, ‘I don’t have the time to sit and discuss things. Tell me, where is Binodini?’
Behari said, ‘Your question cannot be answered quite so simply. You must calm down and have a seat.
Mahendra said, ‘Sermonizing, are we? Spare me the trouble. I have read the holy books when I was a child.’
Behari said quietly, ‘I have neither the power nor the right to sermonize.’
Mahendra said, ‘Perhaps it’s reproach, then? I know I am a scoundrel, the worst kind, and whatever else you may choose to call me. But the point is, do you know where Binodini is?’
Behari replied, I do.’
Mahendra said, ‘And you won’t tell me?’
Behari said, ‘No.’
Mahendra yelled, ‘You have to. You have stolen her away and hidden her. She is mine; give her back to me.’
Behari stood in stunned silence for a while. Then he spoke with firm determination, ‘She is not yours. I have not stolen her away; she came to me of her own free will.’
Mahendra barked, ‘Liar!’ He turned and banged on the closed door of the next room. ‘Binod, Binod!’ he yelled.
The sounds of weeping from inside the room made him say, ‘Don’t be afraid, Binod! It’s me, Mahin. I shall rescue you—no one can keep you locked away.’
Mahendra pushed hard and the door gave way. He rushed inside and found the room in darkness. He noticed a shadowy figure on the bed sobbing in fear and pressing the pillow to its chest. Behari stepped in hurriedly, picked Vasant up in his arms and consoled him gently, ‘Don’t worry Vasant, it’s all right, everything’s all right.’
Mahendra rushed out and searched all the rooms in the house. When he was back, Vasant was still
crying out in fear even as he slept. Behari had the lights on in his room and was trying to stroke him gently to sleep.
Mahendra came and asked, ‘Where have you kept Binodini?’
Behari said, ‘Mahin da, do be quiet. You have needlessly terrified this child so much that he may be sick. I assure you, you needn’t concern yourself with Binodini’s whereabouts.’
Mahendra said, ‘Brilliant! A saint! Spare me your homilies, you impostor. Which god were you meditating on, with my wife’s photograph on your lap at this time of the night?’ Mahendra hurled the photo to the floor and stamped on it with his boots. The glass shattered into tiny shards. He picked up the photograph, tore it into tiny bits and hurled it at Behari. His crazed behaviour made Vasant wail with fear again. Behari could barely speak as he pointed to the door and said, ‘Leave!’
Mahendra ran out like a mad man.
38
THE GREEN FARMLANDS AND TREE-LINED VILLAGES FLASHED BY BINODINl’s window as she sat in a deserted train compartment. The sights brought back memories of the peaceful village life for her. She felt she’d be able to sit under the shade of those trees with her favourite books and have some respite from all the anger, sorrow and anguish of her sojourn in the city. As she took in the sun setting beyond the expanse of the barren fields of summer, she felt life was complete. She wished to drown in this green stillness and close its eyes, to take the boat away from the crashing waves of life, towards the shore, under the shelter of a banyan tree, and stay there, wishing for nothing else. The scent of green mango blossoms wafted in as the train hurtled on, and her heart came to terms with itself. She throught, ‘This is for the best; I cannot tug and pull at myself any more. Now I’ll forget, now I’ll sleep. I shall be one with the village, live a quiet, rural life and spend my days peacefully and in joy.’
Binodini walked into her tiny home with a heart parched for peace and quiet. But alas for that rare commodity—emptiness and poverty were all she could find. Everything around her was worn, dirty and faded. She choked on the vapid air inside, the house not having been aired for many months. The little furniture that the room held was nearly ruined by dust, termites and rats. The house that evening was joyless and dark. Binodini managed to light an oil lamp and in that meagre light the dismal condition of the house was sadly exposed. All the things that hadn’t bothered her before seemed to choke the very life out of her now and she muttered forcefully, ‘This won’t do for a single day.’ A few old books and magazines were gathering dust on the shelf. But she didn’t feel like touching them. Outside, in the still air the mosquitoes and insects struck up a dialogue that echoed through the night.
Binodini had an old aunt-in-law living with her earlier. She had gone to a distant village to visit her daughter, having locked up the house. Binodini went to visit her neighbours. They seemed to jump out of their skins when they saw her. My, my! Binodini’s complexion had really cleared up, her clothes were well turned out, almost like a lady’s. They nudged each other and gestured towards Binodini as they muttered among themselves: as though the rumours they’d heard were now confirmed.
At every step Binodini felt anew how distant she had become from her own village. She was exiled in her own home: there was not a moment’s peace for her anywhere.
The old postman knew her since she was a child. The next morning when Binodini was about to go to the pond for a bath, she saw him walking up the street with his bag of letters and she couldn’t control herself. She dropped her towel, rushed up to him and asked, ‘Panchu-dada, any letters for me?’
The old man said, ‘No.’
An anxious Binodini persisted, ‘There may be one; will you please check?’
She took the five or six letters he had for that area and leafed through them carefully; not one was for her. When she returned to the pond looking glum, a friend spoke with mock curiosity, ‘Bindi, why the rush for this letter?’
Another chatterbox butted in, ‘Oh, this is good; how many of us are lucky enough to get letters by mail? We have husbands, brothers and brothers-in-law working in far-off places, but the mailman never has pity on us.’
Thus the conversation took off, the words got more blunt and the jibes sharper. Binodini had pleaded with Behari that he should write to her at least twice a week, if not daily, even if it was just a few lines. She couldn’t really expect to have a letter from him so soon. But her craving was so strong that she couldn’t let go of the hope, the distant possibility. She felt she’d left Kolkata many months ago.
Thanks to friends and foes, Binodini was left in no doubt as to how her name was being bandied about in every household in the village, linked to Mahendra’s of course. Where was the peace!
She tried to distance herself from the people in the village. But the villagers took offence at that. They didn’t want to be deprived of the pleasure of mocking and loathing the sinful woman.
In vain did Binodini attempt to hide herself from the public eye in that tiny rural community. There was no space here to nurse her wounded heart in a dark, lonely niche; curious glances poked and pried at her all the time and worsened the wound. The more she thrashed about like a fish in captivity, the more she lacerated herself by smashing against the narrow confines of her prison. There was no space to even indulge in one’s own misery here.
On the second day, after the postman had gone his way again, Binodini shut the door to her room and sat down to write:
Thakurpo, don’t worry—this is not a love letter. You are my judge and I bow before you. For my sins you have awarded me a harsh sentence. I have accepted it with full humility; my only regret is that you cannot see just how harsh the punishment is on me. I have been deprived of the pity you’d have surely felt, if only you could see my condition, or know of it. With your memories and with my head bowed at your feet, I shall take this in my stride. But my lord, even the prisoner deserves two square meals a day. Not fancy meals—but the bare minimum that is needed to survive. A few lines written by you would be a feast for me in this exile. Deprived of them, this isn’t merely an exile; it’s a life-sentence. Please do not test me so cruelly, my lord. My sinful heart was full of arrogance—I never thought I would have to bow before anyone so humbly. You have won, my lord. I shall not rebel. But please have mercy on me—grant me life. Give me the meagre bit necessary to survive this exile. It will give me the strength to stay on the path charted by you. This is my only request to you. The other things that my heart is prompting me to tell you, I have vowed never to speak of again. I shall keep my vow.
Your Binod-bouthan
Binodini mailed the letter. Her neighbours continued their slander: ‘She shuts the door of her house, writes letters, attacks the postman for letters she expects—this is how one is ruined if one spends a few days in Kolkata!’
The next day went without a letter as well. Binodini was silent all day long and the lines on her face grew harsh. The torment and agony from within and without turned her defences—from the depths of the darkness in her heart—into a violent force that threatened to erupt. Binodini perceived the advent of that merciless brutality with fear and shut the doors to her house.
She had nothing of Behari—not a photograph, not a few lines on paper, nothing! She began to hunt for something in that barrenness. She wanted to hold something of his to her heart and bring tears to her arid eyes. She wanted to melt away the viciousness with her tears and place Behari’s sentence on the throne of love, on the gentlest spot in her heart. But her heart continued to smoulder like the parched sky at noon; there was no sign of a single droplet in the distant horizon.
Binodini had once heard that if you contemplate on someone with all your heart and soul, he had to come. So she folded her hands, closed her eyes and called on Behari, ‘My life is empty, my heart is empty, there is emptiness all around me—come unto this emptiness, even if for an instant, you have to come, I won’t let go of you.’
She said these words over and over and began to feel heartened. She felt that the pow
er of this love, this pleading, could not go in vain. But such tender bleeding of the heart at the roots of despair, such fierce concentration, made it weak and feeble. Still she felt stronger inside after this relentless meditation. She felt that her powerful yearning, neglecting all other worldly thoughts, by sheer will power alone could draw the desired one closer like a magnet.
When her lampless, dark room was suffused with thoughts of Behari, when the whole world, her village, her life and the entire universe lay in shambles before her, Binodini suddenly heard a hammering on her door. She stood up hastily, rushed to the door with heartfelt faith and trust, and opened it exclaiming, ‘You have come !’ She was convinced that no one other than Behari could stand on the other side of her door at that precise moment.
Mahendra replied, ‘Yes, I’ve come, Binod.’
Binodini shouted with revulsion and distaste, ‘Go. Go away from here. Leave right now.’
Mahendra stood there in stunned disbelief.
An elderly neighbour walked up to her door saying, ‘Bindi dear, if your aunt-in-law comes back tomorrow—’ As her glance fell on Mahendra, she stopped short, drew her anchal over her head and beat a hasty retreat.
39
THERE WAS AN UPROAR IN THE VILLAGE. THE ELDERS SAT AROUND THE TEMPLE courtyard and said, ‘This cannot be tolerated. It’s possible to ignore whatever happened in Kolkata. But she has the audacity to ply him with letters, bring him into her house here and be so brazen about it all! We cannot allow such a fallen woman to stay in the village.’
Today Binodini was sure Behari would write to her. But no letters came. Binodini thought, ‘What right does Behari have over me? Why should I obey him? Why did I give him the impression that I shall take his orders humbly and follow his instructions? All he cares about is saving his beloved Asha—he doesn’t really care about me. I have no rights, no demands over him—not even two lines in a note—am I so insignificant, such an object of hatred?’ The fumes of humiliation and hostility threatened to choke her; she said to herself, ‘I would have taken this pain for anybody else, but not for Asha. Why do I have to tolerate this poverty, exile, denigration and this continuous denial of all my desires, merely for Asha’s sake? Why did I have to accept such a farce? I should have stayed and fulfilled my promise of vengeance. Fool, I am a fool! Why did I have to love Behari?’
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 16
