I won’t say much to her myself; but I’ll offer her some contemporary English books. Let her gradually realize that it’s ‘modern’ to admire and accept desire as a reality. It’s not ‘modern’ to revere control as the greater and desire as the lesser virtue. If she only takes refuge in the word modern she’d gain a lot of courage, because women need a pilgrimage, a holy man, some set traditions; mere Idea alone is unappealing.
Anyway, let’s see this play through till the fifth act. I cannot proclaim that I am a mere spectator sitting on a royal seat in the balcony and clapping occasionally. My heartstrings feel stretched and the veins throb from time to time. At night when I switch off the lights and retire to bed, the slightest touch, the smallest look and the tiniest word resounds in the dark. When I wake up in the morning, my heart sparkles with joy and I feel as if a pleasant refrain is flowing in my veins.
In the photo-frames on this table, there was a photograph of Nikhil and one of the Bee. I’d taken her picture out of it. Yesterday I showed her the empty space and said, ‘The miser’s stinginess makes the thief steal. Hence, it’s only fair that the thief and the miser share the blame for the theft. What do you say?’
The Bee smiled a little and said, ‘That picture wasn’t a good one.
I said, ‘Can’t be helped. A picture cannot improve upon itself. I’ll have to be happy with whatever it is.’
The Bee opened a book and began leafing through it. I said, ‘If you’re upset, I’ll fill that empty space somehow.’
Today I’ve done it. This photo of mine was taken when I was younger; my face was more innocent then, as was my heart. I still believed in life beyond the here and now. Although such beliefs often cheat you, they have one good feature—they cast a soft glow on your soul.
My photo is placed beside Nikhil’s—the two friends.
Nikhilesh
I NEVER USED TO THINK OF MYSELF BEFORE. NOWADAYS I TRY TO SEE MYSELF from the outside quite often. I wonder how I look through Bimal’s eyes. Too stern, perhaps; I have the bad habit of taking everything too seriously.
It’s just that it is better to laugh away your troubles than drown them in buckets of tears. That’s what I am trying to do. Only because we brush aside all the sorrows that lie scattered at home and in the world, like a shadow or some illusion, that we can continue to eat and sleep; if we held onto them even for an instant as a reality, could we have swallowed a morsel or slept a wink? But I can’t see myself as a part of that brushing aside or flowing away. It feels as though the earth is laden with my sorrows which are accumulating like an eternal burden. Hence the grimness, and hence a close look at myself makes me want to burst into tears.
Well, wretched one, why don’t you stand in the world’s marketplace and compare yourself with the crores of people collected over centuries and beyond and then decide what Bimal is to you? She is your wife! Whom do you call a wife? You have puffed up that word with your own breath and go around carefully protecting it; do you know that one pinprick from outside and it’ll all deflate in a trice?
My wife, and hence she is all mine! If she wants to say, ‘No, I am myself’, immediately I’d say, ‘Impossible; you are my wife!’ Wife! Is that a reason! Is that a truth! Can you actually bind a person into that one word and lock her into it?
Wife! I have nurtured that word within my heart, lavished all that is gratifying, all that is pure upon it and never set it down upon the dusty earth. So many sacred incense sticks, musical flutes, spring blossoms and autumnal shefalis have gone into that name! If it suddenly drowns into the murky waters of the drain like the paper boats we played with, then along with it all my—
There I go, the same old seriousness! What are you calling the drain and which the murky waters? That was just spoken in anger. Something won’t change into something else just because it’d upset me, would it? If Bimal is not mine then she simply isn’t mine and all the persuasion and outbursts will only serve to make that clearer. My heart is bursting! Let it. It won’t make either the world or me a poor man. Man is far greater than all that he loses in one lifetime; salvation awaits him even at the end of all the oceans of tears; that’s why he weeps, otherwise he wouldn’t.
But in the eyes of society—oh, let society bother with all that and do what they please. I weep for myself and not for society. If Bimal says she is not my wife, then whether society considers her my wife or not, I must abdicate.
Of course I am sad. But one particular misery will be quite untrue and I’ll stop myself from feeling it at all cost. Like a coward, I refuse to feel that rejection has reduced the value of my life. My life is valuable; I wasn’t born to use up that worth to merely buy up the inner chambers of my home. A time has come for me to realize that a business venture the size of mine will never run short of funds.
Today, as I look at myself, I should also look at Bimal as an outsider. Until now, I had adorned her with some ideals of my own imagination. My ideal woman didn’t quite match with the Bimal of real life at all points; but still I have worshipped her through my fantasy.
It’s not my greatness, it’s my biggest drawback. I am greedy; I wanted to romance my perfect fantasy image in my mind and the actual Bimal only became an excuse. Bimal has always been what she is. She never really had to turn into the image of perfection for my sake. Obviously, the Maker does not work to meet my demands.
In that case, today I need to take clear stock of several things; I must firmly erase all the colourful doodles I have splattered with the colours of illusion. Until today, I have willingly turned a blind eye towards many things. Today it is obvious to me, that in Bimal’s life I am incidental; the person whom Bimal’s entire being can truly complement, is Sandip. Knowing this alone is enough for me.
This is not a day when I can be modest even to my own self. Sandip has many great qualities, which are attractive and they used to attract me too until recently; but, even on a modest scale, I’ll have to admit that on the whole he is in no way greater than me. If a swayamvara is held and the garland goes to Sandip and not to me, then through this rejection the gods would’ve judged the one who made the choice and not me. I say this today, not out of pride. Now, if I do not realize my own worth truly within myself, if I think this injury is the ultimate humiliation, then I’ll end up in the world’s garbage-dump like a piece of trash; I’ll be truly fit for nothing else.
Let the joy of freedom raise its head within me in spite of all the unbearable misery of this day. It’s good that I understood; I got to know the inner and the outer. After all the debit and credit, whatever remains is all of me. It’s not a physically handicapped me or an indigent me or even a feeble me raised on a convalescent’s diet in the inner chambers of the home; it is the I who has been fashioned by the strong hand of Fate. Whatever had to happen has happened and nothing worse could be in the offing.
Just now my teacher came up to me, placed his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Nikhil, go to sleep, it is one o’clock.’
It’s rather difficult for me to go to bed until Bimal is fast asleep, very late in the night. During the day I see her and even speak to her, but alone in the stillness of night in our bed, what can I say to her? My entire being shrinks in discomfiture.
I asked my teacher, ‘Why haven’t you gone to bed yet?’
He laughed ever so slightly and said, ‘My days of sleep are over, now it’s time to stay awake.’
I’d written thus far and was about to retire to bed when suddenly the thick clouds seen through my window parted a little and a lone star glimmered brightly through them, I felt it was saying to me, ‘So many relationships sever and tear, but I still remain; I am the eternal flame of the wedding night’s lamp, the everlasting kiss of a lovers’ night.’
At that moment my heart was full and I felt that behind the curtain of this worldly life, my perpetual lover sat still. In so many lives, in so many mirrors I have seen her face—so many broken, distorted, dusty mirrors. The moment I say, ‘Let me possess the mirror and put it insid
e a box,’ the face disappears. Let it be—how does my mirror or that reflection matter! Dear heart, your faith stays intact, your smile will never fade; the sindoor with which you’ve covered your hairline, glows bright every day with the sun’s rays.
A devil stood in a corner in the dark and said, ‘Your imagination is fooling the child in you !’ So be it, a child needs to be fooled—one lakh children, one crore children, one child after another—children cry so hard! Is it possible to fool so many children with anything but the truth? My love will not betray me—she’s Truth, the Truth—that’s why I see her again and again and will continue to see her always; I’ve seen her through my mistakes and through the mist of tears. In the midst of the marketplace of life I’ve seen her, lost her and found her again and when I slip through death’s jaws, I’ll see her again. Oh heartless one, don’t mock me anymore. If I have lost the way to the path on which you have walked, the breeze with the scent of your hair, please don’t punish me forever for that single blunder. That star whose veil has slipped, is telling me, ‘No , oh no, don’t be afraid. Whatever is eternal will always be there.’
Now let me go and take a look at my Bimal; she’s sprawled on the bed, in deep slumber. Let me place a kiss on her forehead without waking her. That kiss is my offering of devotion. I believe after death I’ll forget everything—all mistakes, all tears—but the evocative resonance of this kiss will stay somewhere, because through life after life these kisses are being strung into a garland to be thrown around my lover’s neck.
At this time my second sister-in-law entered my room. The clock in our hall chimed two o’ clock in strident tones.
‘Thakurpo, what are you up to? Please, dear brother, go to sleep—don’t torment yourself like this. I cannot bear to look at the state you are in.’
As she spoke, tears trickled down her cheeks.
Silently, I bent down, touched her feet and proceeded to my room.
Bimala
INITIALLY, I DIDN’T SUSPECT ANYTHING OR FEEL ANY APPREHENSION; I thought I was surrendering myself to the work of the country. There’s such terrible exultation in total surrender! That day I discovered for the first time that the greatest pleasure lay in wrecking one’s own self.
I don’t know if this obsession would have evaporated amidst some vague emotions. But Sandipbabu couldn’t wait, he made himself very clear. His tone of voice seemed to caress me like a touch, his glances seemed to fall at my feet, pleading.Yet, it held such furious desire, as if it wanted to drag me by my hair and tear me away like a heartless brigand.
I’ll be honest: the destructive image of this rampant desire attracted me day and night. I began to feel there’d be a strange thrill in ruining myself totally. It’d bring such shame, such fear and yet, it was a bittersweet treat.
There was also unbridled curiosity—the mystery of his livid lust, of a person whom I don’t know very well, a person whom I wasn’t sure of having, a person whose powers were immense, whose youth burned in a thousand flames—it was great, it was immense ! I had never ever dreamed of this. The ocean, which was far away and of which I’d only read in books, suddenly swelled up in a ravenous flood, overcame all barriers and laid itself down in all its timelessness, foaming at my feet in the backyard pond where I wash utensils and draw water.
To start with, I’d begun to revere Sandipbabu. But that reverence soon washed away. I don’t even respect him—in fact I disrespect him. I have understood very clearly that he cannot compare with my husband. And gradually, if not at the very outset, I have even come to believe that the quality which one tends to mistake for manliness in Sandip is nothing but flightiness.
Yet, this veena of mine made of flesh and blood, thoughts and ideas, began to play in Sandip’s hands alone. I’d like to hate those hands and this veena—but yet, it has sung for him! And when those tunes filled my days and nights, I didn’t have any mercy anymore. Each throb of my veins and each surge in my blood repeated to me, ‘You and all that you possess should now sink to the nadir of that tune and revel in it.’
There is no denying it anymore: I have something that—what should I say? Something for which, it’s best for me to die.
Whenever the teacher has some time to spare, he comes and sits by me. He has a strength: in an instant he can take your mind to such a great height that you can clearly see the entire range of your life spread out before your eyes—what I’ve always considered to be the limit suddenly doesn’t appear to be the limit any longer.
But what’s the use! I don’t want to see things that way. I can’t even say that I want to be free of the seduction that has me in its grip. Let the home suffer, let the Truth within me grow darker by the minute and die, but I can’t stop myself from wishing that my addiction should continue forever. When my cousin Munu’s husband got drunk, he beat her and later repented for it and wailed and vowed never to touch that stuff again; he’d reach for the liquor the very next day and I used to seethe with rage. Today I find that my liquor is far more dangerous than his—this alcohol doesn’t need to be bought from the store or poured into a glass—it spawns by itself in my blood. What should I do! Is this how I’ll spend my whole life?
At times, startled, I look at myself and feel that all of this is a nightmare; this me isn’t the real one. This is a terrible contradiction; there is no connection between the beginning and the end; this is dark disgrace painted in the shades of a rainbow by an illusory magician. I can’t understand what happened and how it all happened.
One day my second sister-in-law came in, laughed and said, ‘Our Chhotorani is very hospitable. She takes such good care of her guest that he doesn’t want to budge from the house. In our times too, there were guests coming and going, but they never got so much care. In those times there were some customs, husbands needed some care as well. Just because Thakurpo was born in these times, he’s been swindled. He should have come to this house as a guest—then perhaps he’d have stayed awhile—now, one wonders. Little brute, don’t you even have the heart to glance at his face once and see what he’s become?’
There was a time when these accusations didn’t bother me in the least. I used to think they didn’t have the capacity to understand the vow that I’d taken. There was a shield of emotion around me then; I’d thought that since I was giving up my life for my country, I had no room for shame and dishonour.
For some days now, there’s been no talk of the country. Now the discussion revolves around the relationship between men and women in the modern times and other varied subjects. Under that pretext, there’s also an exchange of English and Vaishnav poetry. The tenor of those poems is a very coarse one. I’d never had a taste of this tune in my home; I began to feel, this was the strain of manliness, of the powerful.
But today there are no shields anymore. I have no answer for queries like why Sandipbabu is staying on thus for days on end and why I hold forth with him for no reason whatsoever. So, that day, I was very angry with myself, my second sister-in-law and the entire establishment and I said, ‘No, I’ll not go into the sitting room again; not even if I die.’
For two days I didn’t step out. In those two days it became clear to me just how far I’d gone. I felt all the joy had gone from my life. I felt like throwing away everything that came my way, within my reach. My entire being seemed to wait for someone; the blood in my veins seemed to be waiting for a response from out there.
I tried working very hard. The floor of my room was clean enough; yet, I personally supervised it and had it scrubbed clean with pots and pots of water. Everything was arranged in one way in the almirah; I took it all out, needlessly, dusted it and rearranged everything. That day it was nearly two in the afternoon when I had my bath. That evening I didn’t tie my hair. I just put it up in a bun and managed to hassle everyone into reorganizing the pantry. I found that a lot has been stolen from there in this time. But I didn’t dare scold anyone for it, in case someone, even in their mind, retorted, ‘Where were your eyes all these days?’
&n
bsp; I went through the hustle-bustle of the day like one possessed. The next day I tried reading. I don’t remember what I read, but suddenly I found myself, absent-minded and book in hand, standing in the corridor leading outside and silently peering through the blinds. Through it, a row of rooms outside on the north side of our yard was visible. Of those, I felt one room had slipped far away from the ocean of my life and ships couldn’t ply there anymore. I looked and looked! I felt I was a ghost of the day before yesterday, there in all the places and yet not there.
At one point Sandip stepped out into the balcony, newspaper in hand. I could clearly see the impatience stamped on his face. It felt as though he was getting angry at the yard, at the railings of the balcony. He hurled the newspaper away. If he could, he’d perhaps have torn away a bit of the sky. My vow almost broke down. Just as I was about to turn towards the sitting room, I found my second sister-in-law standing behind me.
‘Well, well, quite a show!’ She threw the comment in the air and walked away. I didn’t go outside.
The next day Gobinda’s mother came and said, ‘Chhotoranima, it’s time you handed out the food that’ll be cooked today.’
I said, ‘Ask Harimati to do it.’ I threw down the bunch of keys and continued with the needlework that I was doing. At this time, the bearer came and handed me a letter and said, ‘Sandipbabu gave it,’ Look at his nerve: just imagine what the bearer must have thought! My heart was fluttering. I opened the note and found there was no greeting; just these words: ‘Urgent need. Country’s work. Sandip.’
Forget sewing! Hurriedly I checked my hair before the mirror. I changed my jacket and not the sari. I knew that in his eyes this jacket of mine had a special identity.
The Tagore Omnibus, Volume One Page 31
