THE VERY NEXT MORNING MAHENDRA LANDED UP AT BEHARI’S house. He found the servants at the gate, loading furniture onto several bullock carts. Mahendra asked Bhoju, ‘What ‘s up?’
Bhoju said, ‘The master has acquired a farmhouse by the river Ganga in Bally and everything is being moved there.’
Mahendra asked, ‘Is the master at home?’
Bhoju said, ‘He spent just two days in Kolkata and yesterday he went back to Bally.’
Mahendra’s heart sank. He was sure that Binodini and Behari had met in his absence. In his mind’s eye he could see a similar queue of bullock carts at Binodini’s door, and furniture being loaded onto them. He felt certain that for this very reason Binodini had made him, the senseless fool, stay away from her house.
Without a second’s delay, Mahendra leaped onto his carriage and barked orders at the coachman. He swore continuously at the coachman for the tardiness of the horses. Once inside the lane at Patoldanga, he found that there were no preparations for a move or transfer. He was afraid that it had all been accomplished already. He banged on the door loudly. The minute the old servant opened the door, Mahendra asked, ‘Is everything all right?’ He replied, ‘Yes sir, everything’s fine.
Mahendra went upstairs. Binodini was in the bathroom. Mahendra stepped into her bedroom and threw himself on Binodini’s unmade bed. He gripped the soft mattress with both hands, buried his face in the pillow and took in the scent with a deep bream as he said, ‘Heartless! Heartless!’
Thus he emptied his heart of its turbulent emotions, left the bed and began to wait impatiently for Binodini. As he paced the floor he noticed a Bangla daily lying open upon the mattress on the floor. He picked it up casually to pass his time. But from the first spot on which glance fell, Behari’s name leaped out at him. In an instant his whole being was concentrated on the newspaper. A report said that Behari had acquired a property in Bally, beside the Ganga, where he proposed to provide free treatment to poor and needy gentlefolk—the clinic could accommodate five people at a time, etc. etc.
Binodini had obviously seen this piece of news. What did she feel? Mahendra felt sure that Binodini yearned to go away to Bally. He was further agitated at the throught that this new step taken by Behari would only enhance Binodini’s respect for him. As for himself, Mahendra labelled Behari a ‘humbug’ and his new venture a ‘vagary’; he throught, ‘Behari has always had a penchant of making a show of doing good.’ As opposed to Behari, Mahendra tried to laud himself as a very spontaneous and genuine person, thinking, ‘I abhor the attempt to con simple folk under the guise of philanthropy and altruism.’ But alas, perhaps people, and one person in particular, would not really appreciate the worth of his sincerity and lack of subterfuge. Mahendra began to feel this was another way in which Behari had unfairly scored over him.
As he heard Binodini’s footsteps, Mahendra folded up the newspaper and sat upon it.When a freshly bathed Binodini entered the room Mahendra looked up at her—and reeled in shock. What a change had come over her—she seemed to have endured austere penance through fire in the last few days. She had grown thin and a strange glow emanated from behind her pallid face.
Binodini had given up all hopes of hearing from Behari. Imagining Behari’s obvious indifference towards her, she had suffered in silence every minute of the day. She knew no ways of liberating herself from this torment. She felt Behari had gone away after rejecting her and she had no way of reaching him any more. Binodini, who loved to do the housework to perfection, felt stifled in the walled confines of this house where she had nothing to do—all her energies turned inwards and lacerated her instead. When she imagined her entire future within the confines of this loveless, joyless, activity-less house, when she contemplated this narrow lane and thoughts of living there forever, her rebellious nature made vain attempts at battering away at the sky in mute frustration against providence. Binodini felt relentless hatred and disgust for Mahendra, the senseless fool who had closed out all her escape routes and constricted her life thus. She realized that she would no longer be able to keep Mahendra at arm’s length. In this tiny house, Mahendra would inch relentlessly closer to her—every day he’d edge closer, propelled by an invisible attraction; she knew that disgusting battles would be fought within this black hole, on this grimy bed of an immoral life, between hatred and attraction. How could she protect herself from the deadly whiplash of the dragon’s tail when she had dug out with her own hands, this drooling, lusting, filthy beast from the depths of Mahendra’s heart? On the one hand was her anguished heart, on the other was her entrapment in this tiny house and added to that the waves of Mahendra’s desire crashing away at the door—Binodini’s soul recoiled in fear. Where would all this end? When would she be free of it all?
The sight of Binodini’s gaunt, pallid face lit the fires of jealousy in Mahendra’s heart. Did he have any powers by which he could, forcefully, uproot all thoughts of Behari from this woman’s heart? The eagle flies down and snatches away the lamb in one fell swoop and flies back to its nest atop the insurmountable mountain. Wasn’t there one such spot, shrouded in the clouds and beyond all memories, where a lone Mahendra could hold his gentle, pretty captive to his bosom? The heat of envy augmented the force of his desire. Now he could no longer let Binodini go out of his sight, even for an instant. He must keep the nightmare of Behari at bay; he didn’t dare to give Behari even an inch of opportunity hereafter.
Mahendra had read in Sanskrit poetry that the anguish of separation lent a softness to a woman’s beauty. Today, the more he looked at Binodini he realized the truth of it, and his heart was astir with a cavernous sorrow tinged with pleasure.
After a few moments of silence Binodini asked Mahendra, ‘Have you had tea?’
Mahendra said, ‘I may have, but please don’t let that stop you from making me another cup with your hands—fill my cup, oh beloved!’
Perhaps quite deliberately, Binodini chose to cruelly lash out at this burst of passion from Mahendra, asking abruptly, ‘Do you happen to know where Behari-thakurpo is right now?’
Mahendra lost colour in an instant as he replied, ‘He is not in Kolkata now.’
Binodini said, ‘What is his new address?’
Mahendra replied, ‘He doesn’t wish to disclose that to anyone.’
Binodini said, ‘Is it possible to look for him and locate it?’
Mahendra said, ‘I have no urgent need to do that.’
Binodini said, ‘Need is not everything. Isn’t a friendship as old as this worth something?’
Mahendra said, ‘Behari may be a very old friend of mine, but you have known him for a very short while—yet I sense that you have a greater urgency to find out where he is.’
Binodini retorted, ‘That should tell you something; hasn’t a friend like that taught you the meaning of the word friendship?’
Mahendra replied, ‘No, and that’s no great loss to me. But if I had learnt the art of stealing a woman’s heart by deception, it would have stood me in good stead now.’
Binodini said, ‘That particular art requires skill and not just intent.’
Mahendra said mockingly, ‘If you know the guru’s whereabouts please divulge it to me—at this age I’m ready to go and take tuitions from him. Then we shall see about skill.’
Binodini said, ‘If you fail to locate your friend’s address, do not utter words of love to me. After the way you have treated Behari-thakurpo, who can trust you?’
Mahendra said, ‘If you didn’t trust me totally, you would not have humiliated me thus. If only you hadn’t been supremely confident of my love, I would have suffered less today. Behari knows the art of not-being-tamed and if he had taught me that art, he’d have been a true friend indeed.’
‘Behari-thakurpo is human and hence he cannot be tamed,’ Binodini said as she stood by the window as before, her black tresses snaking down her back. Suddenly, Mahendra stood up, bunched up his fists and shouted in fury, ‘How do you have the nerve to humiliate me like t
his time and again? Is it your belief in my goodness or your superiority that makes you so sure I won’t retaliate? If you truly believe I am sub-human, know me to be a brute indeed. I am not so unmanly as to be unable to inflict a wound when I’m hurt.’ He gazed at Binodini’s face for a few silent seconds. Then he said, ‘Binod, let’s go away from here. Let’s begin our journey—be it the west or the mountains, wherever you wish to go. This is no place to live—it s killing me.
Binodini said, ‘Let’s go right away then—let’s go towards the west.’
Mahendra said, ‘Where in the west?’
Binodini said, ‘Nowhere in particular; we shan’t stay in the same place for more than two days, we’ll keep moving.’
Mahendra said, ‘That’s good; let’s leave tonight.’
Binodini agreed and went away to cook Mahendra’s meal.
Mahendra understood that the news item about Behari had escaped Binodini’s notice. She no longer had the powers of deliberation necessary to concentrate on a newspaper. He spent the whole day on edge, lest that particular news reached Binodini somehow.
46
MAHENDRA’S LUNCH WAS PREPARED AT HOME, IN THE HOPE THAT HE’D come back after looking up Behari. When he didn’t return, an ailing Rajlakshmi grew anxious. Lack of sleep the night before had already weakened her and worrying over Mahendra did her no good at this stage. Asha went to check and found that Mahendra’s carriage had returned. The coachman informed her that from Behari’s house Mahendra had gone to the flat in Patoldanga. At this news, Rajlakshmi turned her face to the wall and lay still. Asha sat by her head, her face turned to stone, and fanned her. On other days Rajlakshmi always urged Asha to go and have her meal on time.Today she didn’t say anything. If, even after seeing how ill she was the night before, Mahendra felt drawn towards Binodini today, Rajlakshmi had nothing left to live for. She was well aware that Mahendra was not taking her ailment seriously; he was secure in the knowledge that this time too, as on every other occasion, her illness was a temporary malady, curable in a few days. And this casual complacence struck Rajlakshmi as very cruel indeed. In the throes of passion, Mahendra refused to acknowledge any anxiety or any concern and hence he was making light of his mother’s pain; he rushed to Binodini at every brazen opportunity lest he found himself bound to his ailing mother’s bedside. Rajlakshmi lost all interest in recovery—in a fit of sorrow, she wanted to prove to Mahendra how unfounded his complacence was.
At two in the afternoon Asha said, ‘Mother, it’s time for your medication.’ Rajlakshmi didn’t respond. When Asha rose to go and fetch the medicine, she said, ‘There’s no need for medicines, Bou-ma. You may go.’
Asha could fathom Rajlakshmi’s pain and when its ripples touched her own heart, she could hold still no longer. She tried to stifle her sobs, but they broke forth nonetheless. Rajlakshmi half-turned on her side, took Asha’s hands in her own and stroked them with gentle compassion as she said, ‘Bou-ma, you are very young, there’s time yet for you to find happiness. But don’t work so hard on my account, my dear—I have lived long enough; there’s no point in going on.’
Asha’s sobs only increased at these words and she pressed her anchal over her lips.
In this way, the cheerless day dragged on. In spite of their misery and hurt, both Rajlakshmi and Asha hoped in their heart of hearts that Mahendra would arrive at any moment. Both of them realized that they were sitting up at every little sound that came to their ears. Gradually, twilight cast its shadow into the inner chambers of the house—it held neither the joy of light nor the comfort of darkness. It made sorrow weigh heavier and despondency tearless; it stole away the power to work or hope and yet, didn’t bring the peace of respite or liberation. In that withered, graceless dusk of the sick house Asha rose, lit a lamp and brought it into the room. Rajlakshmi said, ‘Bou-ma, the light bothers me. Keep it outside.’
Asha took the lamp outside and came back to sit by Rajlakshmi’s side. When the darkness grew thicker and brought the endless night from the outside into the tiny room, Asha asked in gentle tones, ‘Mother, should I send word to him?’
Rajlakshmi answered firmly, ‘No Bou-ma, this is my order to you—do not inform Mahendra.’
Asha stood there speechless. She didn’t even have the strength to weep.
Outside, the bearer said, ‘The master has sent a letter.’
In that instant Rajlakshmi thought that perhaps Mahendra was suddenly afflicted by some ailment and so he couldn’t come; hence he had sent the letter. Contrite and concerned, she said, ‘Go and take a look Bou-ma—see what Mahin has said.’
Asha held the letter with trembling fingers and read it in the light of the lamp outside the door. Mahendra wrote that he wasn’t keeping too well lately and so he was off to the west. There was no need to worry overmuch about Rajlakshmi’s health; he had instructed Nabin-doctor to check up on her regularly. He had left instructions for bouts of insomnia or headaches and along with the letter had sent two bottles of light and nutritious tonics that he’d fetched from the chemist’s. In the postscript there was a request to be kept posted on his mother’s health at an address in Giridih for the moment.
Asha stood there dumbfounded after she finished reading this letter. Her sorrow was overtaken by a terrible sense of guilt—how was she to convey this brutal news to Rajlakshmi?
Seeing the delay in Asha’s return Rajlakshmi grew more concerned. She called out, ‘Bou-ma, come here and tell me what Mahin has written.’ In her eagerness she sat up on the bed.
So Asha came in and read out the letter slowly. Rajlakshmi said, ‘What has he said about his health—just read that bit once again.’
Asha reiterated, ‘I haven’t been feeling too well lately and so I—’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘That’s enough, stop—how could he feel well! The old mother refuses to die and only bothers him with her sickness! Why did you have to tell him of my illness? At least he was at home; he sat in a corner with his books and didn’t meddle in anybody’s business. But you had to go and drag him into his mother’s troubles and where has that got you—he has left the house! If I had died in one corner of the house, would that have been too bad? Even after all this, you haven’t learnt a thing, Bou-ma.’ Rajlakshmi lay back on the pillows, panting.
Outside, there was the sound of boots. The bearer said, ‘The doctor is here.’
The doctor cleared his throat and stepped into the room. Asha quickly pulled her anchal over her head and moved to the side of the bed. The doctor asked Rajlakshmi, ‘Could you tell me what your complaints are?’
Rajlakshmi roared angrily, ‘What complaints! Won’t you let a woman die in peace? If I have your medication, will I live forever?’
The doctor spoke placatingly, ‘You may not live forever, but at least I can reduce the pain—’
Rajlakshmi exclaimed, ‘A true remedy for anguish was available to widows who jumped into their husband’s pyres. Now, it’s only a matter of prolonging the agony. Doctor, please go away—don’t bother me; I want to be alone.’
Apprehensively the doctor said, ‘May I check your pulse—’
Rajlakshmi spoke irately, ‘I’m telling you to leave. My pulse is fine—there’s no hope of it giving way in the near future.’
The doctor had no choice but to leave the room. From the door he sent for Asha. He quizzed her in detail about the symptoms of the ailment. After he had heard her out, he re-entered the room with a grave expression and said, ‘Look here, Mahendra has entrusted a responsibility to me. If you refuse to let me treat you, he’d be hurt.’
Mahendra feeling hurt sounded like a joke to Rajlakshmi. She said, ‘Don’ t worry too much about Mahin. Everyone is hurt some time in his life. This hurt will not kill Mahin. Please go now, doctor. Let me sleep a little.’
Nabin-doctor realized it was best not to disturb the patient further. He walked out slowly and gave explicit instructions to Asha about what had to be done.
When Asha came back Rajlakshmi said, ‘Child, you go
on and take some rest—you’ve been at my bedside all day long. Send the old maid here—she can sit in the next room while I rest.’
Asha knew Rajlakshmi well. This wasn’t an affectionate request—it was a command that had to be obeyed. She sent Haru’s mother, went into her own room and lay down upon the cool floor in the dark. The day-long fast and privation had left her feeling very weak. The wedding band was playing in some neighbour’s house. Now the shehnai struck up again. The notes of the tune echoed in the dark of the night and reverberated everywhere, wounding Asha continually. Upon the dreamscape of the night unfolded every minute incident of her own wedding night: the lights, the chaos, the people, the garlands, the sandal paste, the smell of new clothes and the fumes of the holy fire, the timid, shy, joyous trembling of her new bride s heart; the more the memories took shape and embraced her, the more her sorrow took root and the more her heartache grew. Just as the hungry child, in the midst of a terrible famine, strikes out at his mother, demanding food, these animated memories of past joys looked to Asha’s heart for nourishment and struck out at it vehemently when they found no response. A weary Asha could scarcely be quietly supine. She brought her palms together to pray to God; as she did so, the image of the only god she ever knew, that of her chaste and loving aunt, appeared within her tearful soul. Asha had vowed not to drag that saintly figure back into the murk and gloom of mundane lives ever again. But today she could see no way out for herself—the thick, dense anguish surrounding her did not permit even a tiny crack of hope. So Asha lit a lamp, pulled a notepad onto her lap and wrote a letter as she wiped away the tears that streamed from her eyes:
My respected Aunty,
You are all I have left in this world; please come over just this once and draw this unfortunate soul into your bosom. Or else I’ll surely die. I do not know what else to write. I place a hundred thousand salutations at your venerable feet.
Affectionately yours,
Chuni
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 20
