Devendra and Nagendra were both of the same family; but over the generations, the family had divided into two branches, to the extent that there was no converse between the Babus of Devipur and the Babus of Govindapur. There had been litigation between the two branches for generations. Nagendra’s grandfather had defeated Devendra’s grandfather in a big court case, and the Devipur Babus had become powerless. They lost everything through the execution of a decree—the Govindapur Babus bought up all their property. Since then, Devipur had become of little account, and Govindapur had prospered. There was no reconciliation between the two families; Devendra’s father sought a means to rebuild something of their wealth and pride. Another zamindar, called Ganesh Babu, lived in the Haripur district. His only child was Haimavati. He gave Haimavati to Devendra in marriage. Haimavati had many qualities—she was ugly, garrulous, disagreeably-spoken and selfish. Up to the time of Devendra’s marriage to her, his character had been spotless. He put particular effort into his studies, and his nature was gentle and truthful. But this marriage was his ruin! When he reached adulthood, he saw that because of his wife’s qualities there was no hope of happiness for him at home.
By the tendencies natural to his age, a thirst for beauty awoke in him, but this was not allayed in his own home. By the tendencies natural to his age, the desire for conjugal love awoke in him—but this desire fled at the very sight of the disagreeably-spoken Haimavati. Devendra saw that it was hard for him to even live at home, let alone be happy, because of the pain caused by Haimavati’s poisonous words. One day, Haimavati said a filthy word to Devendra; Devendra had borne much—he bore no more. He seized Haimavati by the hair and kicked her. And from that day on, he forsook the house, and, giving orders for a building fit for him to live in to be built in the flower-garden, he went to Kolkata. Devendra’s father had already died. So Devendra was now independent. In Kolkata he became engaged in slaking his unappeased thirst for dalliance. A certain personal dissatisfaction arose from this, which he repeatedly tried to wash away with wine. Finally, there was no longer any need for this—he began to develop a taste for sin itself. After some time, having become very well educated in the ways of Babus, Devendra returned to the country and, taking up residence in the garden-house, devoted himself to such pursuits.
Devendra came back from Kolkata having acquired many affectations. On returning to Devipur, he announced himself to be a reformer. First, he established a Brahmo Samaj. Many Brahmos, including Taracharan, gathered; there was no end to their eloquence. From time to time there was a lot of noise about starting a school for girls, but not much was done about it. There was great enthusiasm for widow remarriage. So much so that marriages were arranged for several lower-class widows; but the bridegrooms were of the same quality as the brides. Devendra agreed with Taracharan on the subject of breaking the chains of the prison of the zenana—both used to say: ‘Bring out your daughters.’ In this matter, Devendra Babu became particularly active—but his ‘bringing out’ was in a special sense.
After returning from Govindapur, divesting himself of his Vaishnavi clothes, and resuming his own form, Devendra went and sat down in the adjoining room. A servant, Shramhari, prepared tobacco and gave him a pipe; Devendra spent some time serving the Tobacco Goddess, destroyer of all fatigue. He who has not enjoyed the happiness of the favour of this great goddess is not a human being. O pleaser of the minds of all people, fascinator of the world! May our worship of you be constant. May your vehicles, the hubble-bubble, the hookah, the water-pipe and your other heavenly attendants be always before our eyes: the very sight of them is salvation to us. O hookah! O hubble-bubble! O emitters of coiling smoke! O serpent of a tube, surpassing snakes! O beautiful one, crowned with silver! How the fringe slipping from your diadem sparkles! How beautiful is the curved end of your mouthpiece, ornamented with chain-like rings! How deep is the sound of the cool waters in your inner parts! O satisfier of the universe! You take away the fatigue of all men, care for the idle, destroy the mental disturbance of those scolded by their wives, give courage to those in fear of their masters! What do fools know of your greatness? You give consolation to those who mourn, hope to the fearful, understanding to the foolish, peace to the enraged. O giver of favours! O giver of all happiness! May you be unfailingly present in my house. May your fragrance increase from day to day! May the sound of the tumult of your inner waters, like the roaring of clouds, be always there! May your mouthpiece be never separated for an instant from my lips.
Devendra, addicted to pleasure, abundantly enjoyed the favour of this great goddess—but he was not satisfied by that. He prepared to worship another great power. A servant appeared, carrying a straw-covered bottle in his hands. Then, on a soft, spread-out white bed, on a silver-plated seat, with a colour like that of ruddy clouds in an evening sky, in a demonish vessel called a decanter, the great Liquor Goddess appeared. A cut-glass worship vessel was put down, and a plated jug became the ceremonial copper pot; and from the kitchen a black-bearded priest brought a fragrant heap of flowers, called ‘roast mutton’, on a ritual flower container called a ‘hot-water plate’. Then Devendra Datta, devoutly, according to the scriptures, sat down to worship the goddess.
Afterwards, a group of singers and musicians, with tabla, sitar and other instruments, came in. They performed the music necessary for worship.
Finally, a pleasant, graceful young man of Devendra’s own age came in and sat down. This was Surendra, the son of Devendra’s maternal uncle; he was, in his qualities, the opposite of Devendra in all respects. Even Devendra loved him for his natural qualities. Devendra heeded no one in his family except for him. Surendra came once every evening to hear Devendra’s news. But he did not stay long, because of the alcohol. When everyone else had gone, Surendra asked Devendra, ‘How is your health?’
Devendra said, ‘The body is the temple of disease.’
Surendra said, ‘Especially yours. Did you take your temperature today?’ Devendra said, ‘No.’
Surendra asked, ‘And that pain in your liver?’
Devendra said, ‘The same as before.’
Surendra persisted, ‘Then wouldn’t it be better to stop all this, now?’
Devendra said, ‘What—drinking wine? How long will you keep saying this? Wine is my most faithful companion.’
Surendra asked, ‘How so? It did not come with you—nor will it go with you. Many give it up—why don’t you give it up too?’
Devendra retorted, ‘What would I gain by giving it up? Those who give it up have other happinesses—they give it up in the hope of gaining them. I have no other happiness.’
Surendra persisted, ‘Then give it up in the hope of living, in the desire for life.’
Devendra said, ‘Let those who enjoy living give up wine in the hope of life. What benefit to me is there in living?’
Surendra’s eyes overflowed with tears. Then, filled with a friend’s affection, he said, ‘Then give it up because I ask you to.’
Tears came to Devendra’s eyes too. He said, ‘There is no longer anyone except you who asks me to walk the right path. If I ever do give up wine it will be because you ask me to. And—’
‘And what?’
Devendra said, ‘And if you ever bring me the news of my wife’s death—then I will give up wine. Otherwise, it’s the same to me whether I live or die.’
Surendra, with tears in his eyes, cursing Haimavati a hundred times in his heart, left the house.
11
Suryamukhi’s Letter
DEAREST KAMALAMANI, MAY YOU LIVE FOR EVER— I am ashamed to write this blessing to you again. Now you, too, are someone—the mistress of a house. However that may be, I cannot think of anything to talk to you about except my young sister. I brought you up. I taught you to write your first ‘A, B, C’, but seeing your handwriting I am ashamed to send you these scribblings of mine. What is the point of feeling this shame? Those days are gone. If they had not, why would I be in this state?
Which state? This i
s not to be told to anyone—it both saddens me and shames me to tell it. But unless I tell someone, I cannot bear the pain which is in my heart. And whom can I tell? You are the sister of my soul—no one loves me as you do. And I cannot speak of your brother to anyone except you.
I myself have prepared my own funeral pyre. If Kundanandini had died of starvation, how would that have harmed me? God helps so many people, would he not have arranged for her relief? Why did I bring her home and feed her myself?
When you saw that unfortunate, she was a girl. Now she is seventeen or eighteen years old. That she is beautiful, I acknowledge. That beauty has become my ruin.
If there is any happiness for me in this world, it is my husband; if I am aware of anything in this world, it is my husband; if I have any wealth in this world it is my husband: Kundanandini is snatching my husband away from my heart. If I have any desire in this world, it is for my husband’s affection. Kundanandini is cheating me of that affection.
Do not think ill of your brother. I am not blaming him. He is virtuous, and even an enemy could not malign him. Every day I can see how he exerts every ounce of strength to control his mind. As far as he can, he never casts his eyes in Kundanandini’s direction. Except when it is absolutely necessary, he does not utter her name. He even treats her harshly. I have even heard him rebuke her for no fault.
But why do I bother you with all these details? It would be very hard to explain this matter to a man, if he asked; but you are a woman, you will have understood already. If Kundanandini was as other women in his eyes, why would he be so eager not to look at her? Why would he be so careful not to say her name? Because of Kundanandini he feels himself to be guilty. That is why he sometimes rebukes her without reason. His anger is not at her but at himself. He rebukes himself, not her. I understand this. I have been devoted to him for so long, I have watched only him—I can tell the words of his heart from seeing his shadow—what could he hide from me? Sometimes, absent-mindedly, his eyes seek here and there—do I not understand that? Seeing, he becomes confused again and turns his eyes away; do I not understand? At mealtimes, with food in his hand, he turns his head to hear the sound of her voice; do I not understand? The rice in his hand stays in his hand, he cannot get it to his mouth, but he turns his head to listen—why? Then as soon as he hears Kunda’s voice, he starts to cram food into his mouth: do I not understand? My beloved always looked bright—why is he now so absent-minded? If I speak to him, the words do not reach him and he answers, absent-mindedly, ‘Hm.’ If I say, angrily, ‘I am dying,’ he answers without listening, ‘Hm.’ Why such absent-mindedness? If I ask him, he says, ‘I am preoccupied with a legal case.’ I know that legal cases have no place in his mind. When he speaks of legal cases, he speaks laughingly. Another thing—one day a group of old women from the neighbourhood were speaking of Kunda, and pitying her for being a young widow and an orphan. Your brother was there. Screened from view, I saw that his eyes filled with tears—suddenly he went away quickly.
We have now a new maidservant. Her name is Kumud. My husband calls her, by her name. Sometimes instead of ‘Kumud’ he says ‘Kunda.’ And he becomes so embarrassed! Why embarrassed?
I cannot say that he is careless or lacking in affection towards me. Rather he shows me more care and affection than before. I understand the reason for this. He feels himself guilty towards me. Care is one thing, love is another—we women readily understand the difference between them.
Another ironic thing—there is this great pandit in Kolkata called Ishwar Vidyasagar,9 who has brought out another book on widow remarriage. If he who advocates widow remarriage is a pandit, who is a fool? Now when Bhattacharya Brahmins10 come to the reception hall, they have heated arguments about this book. On one such day, a logic-chopping Brahmin, like Saraswati’s favourite, argued the case for widow remarriage and went away with ten rupees from my husband for the repair of the school. The day after this, the Brahmin Sarvabhaum objected to widow remarriage. I had nine hundred grains of gold made into bangles for his daughter’s wedding. No one else was much in favour of widow remarriage.
I have inflicted this long story of my misery on you. I do not know how much angry you will be. But what can I do, sister—if I do not tell you, whom can I tell? My story is still not finished—but out of consideration for you I have stopped. Do not tell anyone about all this. Do not, I adjure you, show this letter to my brother-in-law, either.
Will you come to see us? Do come—your presence would be a great comfort in my distress.
Write with news of your son, and of your husband, soon.
Yours
Suryamukhi
P.S. Another thing. If the offender could be sent away, I could live. Where could I send her? Could you take her? Or would you be afraid?
In reply, Kamala wrote:
You are mad. Otherwise, why would you doubt your husband’s heart? Do not lose faith in your husband. And if indeed you cannot retain your faith—then go and drown yourself in the lake. I, Kamalamani, offer a logical prescription: tie a pitcher to yourself to help you drown. She who cannot retain faith in her husband—it is better for her to die.
12
The Seed Sprouts
WITHIN A FEW DAYS, NAGENDRA’S WHOLE CHARACTER CHANGED. CLOUDS appear in a clear sky—like a summer sky at evening, his character became overcast. Seeing this, Suryamukhi wiped her eyes with the end of her sari.
Suryamukhi thought, ‘I will follow Kamala’s advice. Why should I doubt my husband’s heart? His mind is as steady as a mountain—it is I who am mistaken. He must have some disease.’ Suryamukhi was building a dyke of sand.
There was a doctor of sorts in the house. Suryamukhi was the mistress of the house. She spoke to everyone from behind a screen, which hung beside the veranda; Suryamukhi would stand behind that screen. The individuals she spoke to stayed on the veranda; between them a maidservant was stationed; Suryamukhi spoke through her. In this way, Suryamukhi spoke to the doctor. Having called him, Suryamukhi asked, ‘The master is ill, why do you not give him some medicine?’
The doctor said, ‘What illness, I know nothing of it. I have heard nothing about any illness.’
Suryamukhi said, ‘The master has said nothing?’
The doctor said, ‘No—what illness?’
Suryamukhi said, ‘You are the doctor, if you do not know, how should I know?’
The doctor was embarrassed at this. ‘I will go and ask,’ he said, and prepared to depart; but Suryamukhi called him back and said, ‘Do not ask the master anything—give me some medicine.’
The doctor thought that that was not a bad way of proceeding. ‘Certainly, madam, there’s no problem about medicine,’ he said, and fled. Then he went to his dispensary and mixed together a little soda, a little port wine, a little syrup of iron salts and a little of this and that, filled a bottle with it, stuck on a label and wrote this prescription on it: Take twice a day. Suryamukhi gave the medicine to Nagendra; Nagendra looked at the bottle in his hand and threw it at a cat—the cat fled—its tail sent the medicine flying.
Suryamukhi said, ‘You will not take the medicine—tell me, what illness do you have?’
Nagendra asked angrily, ‘What illness?’
Suryamukhi said, ‘Look at what has happened to your body,’ and held a mirror in front of him. Nagendra took the mirror from her hand and threw it away. The mirror broke into many pieces.
Tears fell from Suryamukhi’s eyes. Seeing this, Nagendra’s eyes turned red with anger, and he got up and went away. Going to the parlour, he beat a servant for no fault. That beating fell on Suryamukhi’s limbs.
Previously, Nagendra had been exceedingly mild-tempered. Now every word enraged him.
Not only rage. One day, the time for the evening meal had passed but Nagendra had not come to the inner building. Suryamukhi sat waiting for him. It became very late. By the time Nagendra returned it was quite late; Suryamukhi was astonished at the very sight of Nagendra. His face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot—he
had been drinking. Nagendra never touched wine. Suryamukhi was astounded.
From then on, it was the same every day. One day, Suryamukhi clasped Nagendra’s feet, and, somehow repressing her tears, pleaded with him; she said, ‘If only for me, give it up.’ Nagendra asked, ‘What’s the harm in it?’ The manner of his question forbade any answer. Yet Suryamukhi answered, ‘I do not know what harm. What you do not know, I do not know either. I know only my plea.’
Nagendra answered again, ‘Suryamukhi, I am a drunkard; drunkards are respected, respect me. Otherwise let it go.’
Suryamukhi left the room. Ever since the servant had been beaten, she had sworn not to weep in front of Nagendra.
The steward sent word: ‘Speak to the mistress—the property is melting away, there will be nothing left.’
‘Why?’
‘The master sees to nothing. In the city and the country, the clerks do as they like. In the absence of interest on the master’s part, they pay no attention to me.’
Suryamukhi said, ‘If he whose property it is maintains it, it will remain. If not, let it go.’
Previously Nagendra had supervised everything himself.
One day, three or four thousand tenants came to Nagendra’s office building and stood there with hands joined in respect. ‘Save us, Lord—we cannot survive under the rent-collectors’ oppression. They have robbed us of everything we have. Who will save us if you do not?’
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 14
