Hira was now twenty years old. She was younger than most of the other maidservants. Because of her intelligence and character, she was now considered the best of the maidservants.
Hira was known as a child widow in Govindapur. No one had ever heard any reference to her husband. But no one had heard of any stain on Hira’s character either. Yet Hira was very talkative, dressed her hair like a married woman’s, and was very fond of nice clothes.
Hira was beautiful, as well—with glistening dark limbs, and eyes like lotus petals. She was short in stature; her face was like a cloud-covered moon; her tresses swung like a cobra’s hood. Hira sang songs behind a screen; she started quarrels among the servants in order to watch the show; she frightened the cooks in the dark; she incited the boys to ask for marriages; if she saw someone taking a nap she would paint them like clowns with lime and ink.
But Hira had many more faults. These will be revealed as the story progresses. For the time being, I will content myself by saying that Hira would no sooner see some attar of roses than she would steal it.
Suryamukhi sent for Hira and said, ‘Do you know this Vaishnavi?’
Hira said, ‘No. I never go beyond this neighbourhood—how would I know a Vaishnavi beggar? Ask the women of the thakur bari. Karuna or Shitala may have brought her.’
Suryamukhi said, ‘She is not a Vaishnavi of the thakur bari. I want you to find out who this Vaishnavi is. Who she is, and where she lives. And why there is such a friendship between her and Kunda. If you can find out all this and tell me, I will give you a new Benarasi sari and let you go and see the processions.’
At the mention of a Benarasi sari, Hira drew a deep breath, and asked, ‘When am I to go and find out?’
Suryamukhi said, ‘When you please. But if you don’t follow her now, you won’t discover her address.’
Hira answered, ‘Very well.’
Suryamukhi warned her, ‘But see that the Vaishnavi doesn’t suspect anything. And that no one else does either.’
At this point, Kamala returned. Suryamukhi told her all about her plan. Kamala was happy to hear it. She said to Hira, ‘And if you can, give the woman a couple of blows with acacia thorns.’
Hira said, ‘I can do all this, but I want more than just a Benarasi sari.’
Suryamukhi asked, ‘What do you want?’
Kamala said, ‘She wants a husband. Arrange a marriage for her.’
Suryamukhi said, ‘Very well, that can be arranged—do you fancy my brother-in-law? If so, Kamala will negotiate for you!’
Hira said, ‘I will see. But there is a husband to my liking at home.’
Suryamukhi asked, ‘Who, then?’
Hira said, ‘Death.’
16
‘No’
THAT EVENING, KUNDANANDINI SAT BESIDE THE LAKE IN THE GARDEN. THE lake was very wide; its water was very clear, and always shining blue. The reader may remember that behind this lake was a flower-garden. Within the flower-garden was a marble pergola. In front of the pergola was a flight of steps descending to the lake. These steps were made of stone-like bricks, very well made and smooth, and on either side, were two huge, old bakul trees. Under these trees, on the steps, alone in the twilight, sat Kundanandini, watching the reflection of the sky with all its stars in the heart of the lake. Here and there crimson flowers could be seen indistinctly in the darkness. On the other three sides of the lake, amra, kantal, rose-apple, citrus, lychee, coconut, kul, bel and other flowering trees, merging in dense rows, looked like an uneven-topped wall in the darkness. Occasionally, a machar bird in the branches gave a great cry which resounded over the still lake. A cool breeze across the lake set the lotus buds faintly trembling, quivered the image of the sky, murmured in the leaves of the bakul trees over Kundanandini’s head and spread the fragrance of the bakul flowers, opened by the heat, all around. Bakul flowers dropped silently on Kundanandini’s limbs and all around her. From behind came the fragrance of innumerable mallika, yuthika and kamini flowers. All around in the darkness, fireflies rose, fell, lifted, dropped over the clear water. One or two bats called—one or two jackals barked a warning—one or two clouds were wandering in the sky, having lost their way—one or two stars fell sorrowfully. Sorrowfully, Kundanandini was thinking. What thoughts she was thinking! Thus—‘Well, then, everyone has died already—my mother died, my brother died, my father died—why did I not die? Since I didn’t die, why did I come here? Well, then, do people become stars when they die?’ Kunda no longer thought at all of the dream she had seen on the night of her father’s death; it was never in her mind, and was not now. Only a hint of it came to her. Only this was in her mind, that she had once seen her mother in a dream and that her mother had seemed to speak to her from the stars. Kunda thought, ‘Well, then, do people become stars when they die? Then have Father, Mother and everyone become stars? But which stars are they? That one? Or that one? Who is which? How shall I know? Can I see which is which? I weep so much—let that go, let me not think of it any more—I should weep again. What good is weeping? Weeping is my fate—if not, Mother—that word again! Let it go—well, then—how about dying? How? By drowning? Fine! If I die, I shall become a star—then what will happen? I shall see—day after day I shall see—whom? Can I not say whom? Why can I not say his name, then? There is no one here—no one will hear. Shall I say his name once? There is no one here—I name my heart’s longing. Na—Nag—Nagendra! Nagendra, Nagendra, Nagendra. Nagendra, Nagendra, Nagendra! Nagendra, my Nagendra! Oh! My Nagendra? Who am I? Suryamukhi’s Nagendra! What difference does it make however many times I say it? Well—if he hadn’t married Suryamukhi, if he’d married me—let it go—let me drown myself. Well, if I drown myself now—tomorrow I’ll float to the surface—then everyone will hear of it—Nagendra will hear—Nagendra!—Nagendra!—Nagendra! I will say it again—Nagendra, Nagendra, Nagendra—what will Nagendra think when he hears? I won’t drown myself—I should become all swollen—I should look like a demon. If he saw me? Can I die by poison? What poison shall I take? Where would I get it—who would get it for me? If they did—would I be able to die? I can—but not just yet—let me for once think of satisfying my longing—he loves me. What was Kamala about to say? It was that. Well, then, is it true? But how would Kamala know? I could not disgrace myself by asking. Does he love me? How could he love me? What does he love about me, my appearance or my qualities? Appearance? Let me see.’ (With these words, she looked to see her own image in the dark, clear face of the lake, but she could see nothing, and resumed her former position.) ‘Let it go, why do I think of what is not so? Suryamukhi is more beautiful than I; Haramani is more beautiful than I; Vishu, Chandra, Prasanna, Bama, and Pramada are more beautiful; even Hira the maidservant is more beautiful. Even Hira is more beautiful? Yes; what if her complexion is dark—her face is more beautiful than mine. So my appearance is of no account—what about qualities? Well, let me think—I can think of nothing. Who knows! But I will not die, I’ve decided that. It is a useless idea! I think it is a useless idea. I shall think of a better idea. But to go to Kolkata—I cannot go: I won’t be able to see him. I cannot go—I cannot go—I cannot go. But if I don’t go, what shall I do? If what Kamala said is true, then I am bringing ruin on those who have done so much for me. I can understand something of what is in Suryamukhi’s mind. Whether it is true or false, I must therefore go to Kolkata. I cannot do it. So let me drown myself. I must die. O Father! Did you leave me so that I might drown myself—’
Then Kunda put her hands over her eyes and wept. Suddenly, like a light in a dark house, the details of that dream of hers came into her mind. Kunda stood up as if touched by lightning. ‘I forgot everything—why did I forget? My mother showed me—knowing my destiny, my mother told me to go to that world of stars—why did I not listen to her—why did I not go! Why am I still not dying? I will die now.’ With this thought, Kunda slowly started to descend the steps. Kunda was very weak—very timid-natured—at every step she was afraid—at every step her limbs t
rembled. But determinedly, with the purpose of obeying her mother’s command, slowly she went. And then someone behind her very slowly touched her back. ‘Kunda!’ Kunda saw—in the darkness she instantly recognized—Nagendra. Kunda did not die that day.
And Nagendra! Is this your long-standing good character? Is this your long-standing learning? Is this your return for Suryamukhi’s self-denying love! Fie! Fie! Look, you are a thief! Even worse than a thief. What would a thief have done to Suryamukhi? He would have stolen her ornaments and gone off with her money, but you have stolen her life. A thief, to whom Suryamukhi has given nothing, simply steals. Suryamukhi has given you everything—and you have stolen more than a thief would. Nagendra, it would be better if you were dead. If you have the courage, then go and drown yourself.
And fie! Fie, Kundanandini! Why did you tremble at the touch of a thief? Fie! Fie, Kundanandini!—why did a thief’s words make your body shiver? Kundanandini!—Look, the water of the lake is clear, cool, and fragrant—within it, the stars tremble in the wind’s waves. Will you sink into it? Will you not drown yourself? Kundanandini does not want to die.
The thief said, ‘Kunda! Are you going to Kolkata?’
Kunda said nothing—she wiped her eyes—she said nothing.
The thief said, ‘Kunda! Are you going of your own will?’
Of her own will? Oh God! Kunda wiped her eyes again—she said nothing.
‘Kunda—why are you weeping?’ At this, Kunda burst into tears. Then Nagendra said, ‘Listen, Kunda! I have borne much suffering for so long, but I can bear it no longer. I cannot say through what suffering I have gone. Fighting with myself I have been wounded. I have sunk low, I drink wine. I cannot go on. I cannot give you up. Listen, Kunda! Widow remarriage is taking place these days—I will marry you. I will marry you at a word from you!’
Now Kunda spoke. She said, ‘No.’
Again Nagendra spoke. ‘Why, Kunda? Is widow remarriage against the shastras?’ Kunda said again, ‘No.’
Nagendra said, ‘Then why not? Speak, speak—speak—will you become mistress of my house or not? Do you love me or not?’
Kunda said, ‘No.’
Then, as if with a thousand mouths, how many unchecked, heart-piercing, love-filled words did Nagendra utter! Kunda said, ‘No.’
Then Nagendra looked and saw that the lake was clear and cool—scented with flowers—with stars trembling within it in the undulating breeze—and he thought, ‘How would it be to lie there?’
It was as if Kunda said from the sky, ‘No.’ Widow remarriage is in the shastras. It was not that. But why did Kunda not drown herself? Clear water—cool water—stars dancing below—why did Kunda not drown herself?
17
Birds of a Feather
HARIDASI VAISHNAVI CAME TO THE GARDEN-HOUSE, WAS TRANSFORMED INTO Devendra Babu, and sat down. Beside him on one side was a hubble-bubble. This hubble-bubble, bound with garlands of decorated silver chains, offering the delight of sweet warbling music, stretched out its beautiful long lips for a kiss—on top of its head the fire of affection burned. On the other side, in a crystal container, a golden-complexioned daughter of confusion shone clearly. Before him, seated near the dishes of food like a tame tomcat, was a sycophant, his nostrils distended with his desire for favour. The hookah said, ‘Look! Look! I am offering my mouth!’ The maiden said, ‘Caress me first! See how fair I am! Come, come! Take me first!’ The nose of the one desiring favour said, ‘Give something to the one I belong to.’
Devendra complied with all the requests. He kissed the hubble-bubble—its love rose in smoke. He took the daughter of confusion into his belly, and she rose slowly to his head. He satisfied Master Tomcat’s nose—which, after several glasses, began to rumble. The servants, addressing him as, ‘Teacher, teacher,’ removed him to another room.
Then Surendra came and sat by Devendra, and after asking about his health and so on, said, ‘Where did you go again today?’
Devendra said, ‘Has even this come to your ears?’
Surendra said, ‘You are making yet another mistake. You think that you hide everything—that no one can find you out; but the drum sounds from quarter to quarter.’
Devendra said, ‘By God! I don’t want to deceive anyone at all—which bugger should I deceive?’
Surendra answered, ‘Do not consider that is to your credit, either. If you had some shame, then we would have some hope for you. If you had some shame, would you any more go from village to village in a Vaishnavi’s garb, behaving scandalously?’
Devendra laughed, ‘But such an interesting Vaishnavi, brother? Seeing the Vaishnavi mark, weren’t you interested?’
Surendra said, ‘I have not seen that disgraceful face; if I had seen it, I would have destroyed the Vaishnavi’s Vaishnava play with two whips.’
Then, snatching away the wine-container from Devendra’s hand, Surendra said, ‘Now stop for a bit, and while you still have your senses, listen to one or two things. After that, drink.’
Devendra said, ‘Speak on, brother! It seems I see great rancour now—has Haimavati’s wind touched your body, or what?’
Surendra, not listening to the foul-mouth’s words, said, ‘Whom do you wish to destroy, that you disguised yourself as a Vaishnavi?’
Devendra said, ‘Do you not know that? Don’t you remember that Taracharan married a divine girl? That girl is now a widow, and is shut up in the Datta establishment. So I went to see her.’
Surendra said, ‘Why, are you not sated with so much wrongdoing that you must work the downfall of that protectorless girl? See here, Devendra, you are so very sinful, so cruel, so outrageous that I believe I can no longer live with you.’
Surendra spoke these words with such firmness that Devendra was struck silent. Then Devendra said, seriously, ‘Do not be angry with me. I can’t control my mind. I can give up everything, but I cannot give up hoping for this woman. From the day I first saw her in Taracharan’s house, I have been stricken by her beauty. In my eyes, there is no such beauty elsewhere. The kind of thirst a sick person suffers in fever—since then, that is the kind of thirst I suffer in longing for her. Since then, I have employed so many strategems in order to see her, but have not been able to. Until now, I have not been able to—finally, I have used this Vaishnavi garb. You need have no misgivings—the woman is very virtuous.’
Surendra asked, ‘Then why do you go?’
Devendra said, ‘Only to see her. I cannot tell you what satisfaction there is for me in seeing her, speaking with her, singing songs for her.’
Surendra said, ‘I tell you truly—I am not jesting. If you will not give up this wicked behaviour—if you go along this path again—then your converse with me is finished from now on. I, too, become your enemy.’
Devendra said, ‘You are my only friend. I can do without half my things, but not without you. But if I must do without you, I must: I cannot give up seeing Kundanandini.’
Surendra said, ‘So be it. This is my last meeting with you.’
With these words Surendra, with a sorrowful heart, went away. Devendra, greatly saddened by the loss of his only friend, sat there morosely for some time. Finally, after careful thought, he said, ‘Let it go! Who has what in this world! I have myself!’ With this, he filled his glass and drank some brandy. Under its influence, he soon became cheerful. Then Devendra, lying back and closing his eyes, began to sing:
My name is Hira Gardener
I live in Radha’s bower, my sister-in-law is humpbacked.
Ravana says—Chandrabali,
you are my lotus bud,
hearing this Krishna strikes down the bamboo
and rescues Draupadi!
Then, all his companions having gone, Devendra, like a raft on the bosom of a river without boats, sat alone and rose and sank in the waves of pleasure. Whales and monsters, in the form of diseases, hid in such waters—there was only evil water and evil moonlight!
At this point, there came a kind of rustling sound from the directio
n of the window—as if someone had lifted the Venetian blind to look in, and had suddenly let it go. Perhaps Devendra was hoping for someone—he said, ‘Who is shaking the blind?’ Receiving no answer, he looked towards the window, and saw a woman running away. Seeing the woman fleeing, Devendra opened the window, jumped out, and ran staggering after her.
The woman could easily have escaped, but whether it was that she did not want to escape or whether she lost her way in the garden in the darkness, it is impossible to say. Devendra seized her and looked into her face, but was unable to recognize her in the darkness. In a slurred voice, besotted with wine, he said, ‘Help! From what tree have you come?’ Then he dragged her into the house, and, holding a light, looked at her from one side and then the other, and said in the same way, ‘Whose spirit are you, then?’ Finally, not being able to decide on anything, he said, ‘I couldn’t! Go away now, at new moon I’ll offer bread and a goat and give a puja—now, just drink a little brandy and go.’ With this, the drunkard sat the woman down in the sitting room and put a glass in her hand.
Not accepting it, the woman put it down.
Then the drunkard brought the light close to the woman’s face. Moving the light, he solemnly examined her from this direction, that direction, and all around; and finally, suddenly throwing the light down, he began to sing,—‘O who are you, I know you—I have seen you somewhere.’
Then the woman, thinking that she had been found out, said, ‘I am Hira.’
Saying ‘Hurrah! Three cheers for Hira!’ the drunkard jumped up. Then, lying on the floor again, he touched Hira’s feet and, with glass in hand, started to sing a hymn of praise:
Obeisance obeisance obeisance
To the goddess in the form of shadow
under the banyan tree.
Obeisance obeisance obeisance
To the goddess in the form of Hira
in the Datta’s house.
Obeisance obeisance obeisance
To the goddess with basket in hand
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 16
