on the bank of the pool.
Obeisance obeisance obeisance
To the goddess with crown in hand
at the door of the house.
Obeisance obeisance obeisance
To the goddess in the form of a hag
in my house
Obeisance obeisance obeisance.12
‘So—Aunt Gardener! what do you think?’
Before this, Hira, following the Vaishnavi in daylight, had discovered that Haridasi Vaishnavi and Devendra Babu were the same person. But why was Devendra coming and going to and from the Datta household disguised as a Vaishnavi? It was not easy to discover this. After some thought, Hira had boldly resolved to come to Devendra’s house at this time. She had secretly entered the garden, stood at the window, and listened to Devendra’s talk. Having heard from concealment Devendra’s conversation with Surendra, Hira had been going away, her question answered, when she had carelessly let fall the Venetian blind—and thus made her mistake.
Now Hira was impatient to escape. Devendra again put a glass of wine in her hand. Hira said, ‘Drink it yourself.’ Devendra swallowed it immediately. That glass filled Devendra to capacity—he swayed once or twice—then fell to the floor. Then Hira got up and fled. And Devendra sang drowsily:
Her age is sixteen
She is dark to look at and hear,
Next mouth she will die
And I’ll burn at home.
That night Hira did not return to the Datta house, but went to her own house and slept there. At dawn on the following day, she went to Suryamukhi and told her about Devendra. Devendra went to and fro in Vaishnavi garb on account of Kunda. That Kunda was innocent Hira did not say, nor did Suryamukhi understand this. Why Hira hid this point—the reader will in due course come to know Suryamukhi had seen Kunda talking secretively with the Vaishnavi—consequently, Suryamukhi believed her to be guilty. Hearing Hira’s story, Suryamukhi’s lotus-petal-like eyes became red with anger. The veins in her forehead swelled and stood out. Kamala also heard everything. Suryamukhi sent for Kunda. When she came, Suryamukhi said, ‘Kunda! We have learned who Haridasi Vaishnavi is. We know who she is to you. You knew who she was! We do not give room in our house to women like you. Go from this house immediately. Or Hira will drive you away with a broom.’
Kunda’s body trembled. Kamala saw that she was about to fall. Kamala took her to her bedroom. There she comforted her affectionately, and said, ‘Let that woman say what she likes; I do not believe a single word she says.’
18
Protectorless
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, WHEN EVERYONE IN THE HOUSE WAS ASLEEP, Kundanandini opened the door of her bedroom and came out. With only the clothes she stood up in, she left the house. In that deep night, in her simple clothes, the seventeen-year-old, protectorless girl plunged alone into the ocean of the world.
The night was very dark. Little by little clouds gathered; where was the path?
Who would tell her where the path was? Kundanandini had never been outside the Datta establishment. She knew not which path led where. And where indeed should she go?
The great dark body of the buildings loomed against the sky’s body—Kundanandini began to circle that darkness. It was in her mind that she would be able to see the light from Nagendra’s bedroom windows. She would console her eyes with one look at that light before she went away.
She knew his bedroom—as she went on she could see it—light was coming from its windows. The shutters were open—the sashes were closed—the three windows shone in the darkness. Against them flying insects fell. Seeing the light, they flew towards it, but unable to enter—the path being closed—they dashed themselves against the glass. Kundanandini’s heart suffered for those tiny insects.
Kundanandini stared with fascinated eyes at the light from the windows—she was unable to leave that light. There were several tamarisk trees in front of the bedroom—Kundanandini sat down under them, facing the windows. The night was dark, all around was darkness, in the trees the glitter of fireflies, in thousands, blossomed, went out; went out, blossomed. In the sky, black clouds chased black clouds—after them even blacker clouds chased—and after them, even blacker ones still. There were only one or two stars in the sky, sometimes diving into the clouds, sometimes floating. All around the house were rows of tamarisk trees which stood like nocturnal ghouls lifting their heads into that cloud-filled sky. In the lap of night, these terrible beings spoke, at the wind’s touch, in their own ghoulish language, above Kundanandini’s head. Even the owls, in fear of the terrible night, seldom spoke. As the wind blew, the open shutters of the windows would rap once against the wall. A screech owl, perched on top of the building, called. Occasionally a dog, seeing some other animal, ran quickly forward. Now and then, tamarisk leaves or flowers fell. In the distance, the dark tops of the coconut palms slowly tilted: from the distance, the rustle of the leaves of the tal trees came to her ears; above all, the light of that row of windows shone—and the insects came again and again towards it. Kundanandini kept gazing towards it.
Slowly, a window-sash was opened. The shape of a man became outlined against the light. Hari! Hari! It was Nagendra’s shape. Nagendra—Nagendra! If you could see the small Kunda-blossom in the darkness at the foot of that tamarisk tree! If you could hear the sound of her heartbeats—thud! thud!—as she gazes at you through the window! If you could know how her happiness at seeing you is spoiled by the fear that you will move away again now and become invisible! Nagendra! You are standing in front of the lamp—stand, just once, with the lamp in front of you! Stand there—do not move—Kunda is very miserable. Stand there—then she will no longer think of the clear, cool water of the lake, and the reflections of the stars in its depths.
Listen to that! The screech owl calls! If you move away, you will frighten Kundanandini! It is lightning you see! Do not move away—you will frighten Kundanandini! Look at the battle between the black clouds pressed by the wind. There will be much rain. Who will offer shelter to Kunda?
Look—you have opened the window and clusters of insects have come and entered your bedroom. Kunda wonders what, in this world, is needed to be born as an insect. Kunda! The insects are burned and die! Kunda desires that. She thinks, ‘Why did I not burn and die?’
Nagendra closed the sash and moved away. Pitiless one! What a wound that inflicts! No, you have no business to be awake in the night—go to sleep—or you will become unwell. If Kundanandini dies, let her die. Kundanandini desires that you should not fall ill.
Now it was as if the light-filled window became dark. Gazing, gazing, gazing, wiping tears from her eyes, Kundanandini got up. She moved slowly along the path she found in front of her. Where was she going? The nocturnal ghouls asked in the murmuring of the tamarisk trees, ‘Where are you going?’ The tal trees, rustling, asked: ‘Where are you going?’ The owl’s deep voice said, ‘Where are you going?’ The bright row of windows said, ‘You may as well go—we will not show you Nagendra again.’ Yet Kundanandini, foolish Kundanandini, kept turning back to look at them.
Kunda went on, went on—only went on. Even more clouds raced into the sky—the clouds all gathered into one and made darkness in the sky, too—lightning laughed—and laughed again—and again! The wind roared, the clouds roared—the wind and the clouds, merged into one, roared. The sky and the night, merged into one, roared. Kunda! Where will you go?
The storm grew. First, sound, then the dust rose, then the wind itself came, tearing away the leaves of the trees! Finally, pitter-pat, plop, plop, whoosh! The rain came! Kunda! Where will you go?
By the flash of the lightning, Kunda saw beside the path a small house. The four walls of the house were of clay; above them was a small thatched roof. Kundanandini, coming to its shelter, sat beside the door. At the touch of her back, the door made a sound. The occupant of the house was awake, and heard the sound of the door. She thought, ‘It is the storm’; but a dog was lying beside the door—it rose and started to bark. Then the oc
cupant of the house was afraid. Fearfully, she opened the door to look. She saw it was only a shelterless woman. She asked, ‘Who are you, then?’
Kunda said nothing.
‘Who are you, woman?’
Kunda said, ‘I stopped because of the rain.’
The occupant of the house said, anxiously, ‘What? What? What? Say that again?’
Kunda said, ‘I stopped because of the rain.’
The occupant of the house said, ‘I know that voice. Don’t I? Come into the house, then.’
The occupant of the house took Kunda inside. She kindled a light. Then Kunda saw—Hira.
Hira said, ‘I understand that you have fled from recriminations. Don’t be afraid. I shall tell no one. Stay in this place of mine for a couple of days.’
19
Hira’s Anger
HIRA’S HOUSE WAS ENCLOSED WITH A WALL. THERE WERE TWO NEAT, EARTHEN rooms. On them were designs painted in rice flour—lotuses—birds—gods. The courtyard was swabbed with a solution of cow-dung—on one side were red vegetables, near them were dopati and mallika flowers, and roses. The gardener at the Babu’s house had himself brought and planted seedlings of flowering plants—if she had wanted it, he would probably have moved the garden itself to her house. Amongst the gardener’s gains was this, that Hira prepared tobacco for him with her own hands. The gardener went home at night thinking of Hira, wearing thin black bangles, holding in her hands the hookah and offering it to him.
Hira lived with her grandmother; the grandmother slept in one room, and Hira in the other. Hira made a bed for Kunda with her for the night. Kunda lay down—she did not sleep. The next day, Hira kept her there. She said, ‘Stay here now for a couple of days; see whether they are still angry, then go wherever you like.’ Kunda stayed. Following Kunda’s wishes, Hira kept her concealed. She gave Kunda the key, without her grandmother seeing her. Then she went to work at the Babu’s house. When the grandmother went to bathe, at the second prahar, Hira came and bathed Kunda and gave her food. Then, giving her the key again, she went away. In the evening she returned and, when Kunda unlocked the door, the two of them made up their beds.
Chink—chink—chink—jingle—clang! The outer door’s chains cautiously stirred. Hira was surprised. Only one person sometimes stirred the chains. That was the gatekeeper at the Babu’s house, who came in the dead of night calling and shaking the chains. But in his hands the chains shook and said, ‘Clang, clang, jangle! Bolt and socket and shank stay firm!’ This was not what the chains were saying. They were saying, ‘Clink, clink, jingle! Let me see how my Hira is! Chink, chang, chonk. My Hira rise up! Tink, tink, tinky, tingle—Come, my jewel of a Hira.’ Hira got up and went to see; opening the outside door, she saw a woman. At first she did not recognize her, and then she did—‘What fortune is this! Is it you, Ganga Water!’13 Hira’s Ganga Water was Malati Goyalini. Malati Goyalini’s home was Devipur—near Devendra’s house—and she had a very fine sense of humour. She was thirty years old, wore a sari, had bangles on her arms, and a paan-stained mouth. Malati Goyalini was nearly fair-complexioned—a little ruddy—with reddish spots on her face and a snub nose—and a tattoo on her forehead. There were tobacco stains at the corners of her mouth. Malati Goyalini was not a servant of Devendra’s—she was one of his dependants—but she was very devoted to him and to his many orders—what others could not do, Malati would accomplish. Seeing Malati, crafty Hira said, ‘Dear Ganga Water! May I see you in my last moments! But why now?’
Ganga Water whispered, ‘Devendra summons you.’
Hira, slinging mud, said smilingly, ‘Will you not get something for this?’
Malati poked Hira with two fingers and said, ‘Oh hell! Think what you like! Now come!’
Hira wanted to. She said to Kunda, ‘I must go to my father’s house—he has sent for me; who knows why?’ She put out the lamp, skilfully dressed herself in the dark and went with Malati. In the darkness, the two of them joined their voices:
I strive to get a jewel to my liking
Churning the sea, I will raise up a lover
and my body will fall.
They went along singing this song.
Hira went alone to Devendra’s sitting room. Devendra was worshipping the goddess, but this time with more restraint. His mind was alert. He conversed with Hira in a different manner. He sang no hymn of praise. He said, ‘Hira, that evening I had drunk a lot of wine and could not understand anything of the significance of what you said. Why had you come? I sent for you in order to ask you this.’
Hira said, ‘I came only to see you.’
Devendra smiled. He said, ‘You are very intelligent. Nagendra Babu was fortunate to get a maidservant like you. I know that you had come in search of Haridasi Vaishnavi. You came to find out what was in my mind. You came to find out why I dress as a Vaishnavi, why I go to the Datta house. And you went away having found this out, in a fashion. Nor will I hide these things from you. No doubt you received a reward from your master for doing this. Now do something for me: I, too, will reward you.’
It is very painful to write down clearly all the words uttered by those whose characters are steeped in mortal sin. Devendra, observing that Hira had a great desire for much wealth, spoke of her selling Kunda to him. Hearing this, Hira’s eyes became red and her ears turned hot with anger. She got up and said, ‘Sir! You have spoken to me as to a servant. I cannot give you an answer. I will tell my master. He will give you a fitting answer.’
With these words, Hira swiftly went away. For some moments, Devendra, embarrassed and discouraged, was silent. Then his spirits lifted and he drank two glasses of brandy. After that, restored to his normal self, he sang softly:
A young heifer came to eat oil-cake
in a strange cowshed—
20
Hira’s Malice
AT DAWN, HIRA GOT UP AND WENT TO WORK. FOR THE PAST TWO DAYS there had been disturbance in the Datta household—Kunda could not be found. Everyone in the household knew that she had gone away in anger; of the people in the neighbourhood, some knew and some did not. Nagendra heard that Kunda had left the house and gone away—why she had gone away, no one told him. Nagendra thought, ‘After what I said to her, Kunda went away because she thought it improper to stay any longer in my house. If that was so, why did she not go with Kamala?’ Nagendra’s face was sombre. No one had the courage to go near him! No one knew what Suryamukhi had done wrong, but there was no communication between him and Suryamukhi. He sent out women messengers secretly in search of Kundanandini, from village to village and neighbourhood to neighbourhood.
Although Suryamukhi was overwhelmed with anger and jealousy, she was greatly distressed when she learned of Kunda’s flight. Particularly when Kamalamani explained that nothing that Devendra said was ever trustworthy. For if Kunda had secretly had an affection for Devendra, it would never have remained undisclosed. Kunda’s nature was such that this was most unlikely. Devendra was a drunkard, and, under the influence of wine, uttered boastful lies. Suryamukhi understood all this, and her remorse became stronger. Because of this, she suffered even more inner pain at her husband’s continuing displeasure. A hundred times she reproached Kunda; a thousand times she reproached herself. She, too, sent people out to search for Kunda.
Kamala postponed her return to Kolkata. She reproached no one—even to Suryamukhi she uttered not the slightest reproof. She took off her necklace and said to everyone in the household, ‘I will give this necklace to the person who brings Kunda back.’
Sinful Hira saw and heard all this, but said nothing. At the sight of Kamala’s necklace she felt a few pangs of desire—but she restrained these. For the second day, after work, at the second prahar, after her grandmother’s bath-time, she fed Kunda. Then, when night came, the two of them made up their beds and lay down. Neither Kunda nor Hira slept—Kunda lay awake because of the sorrow in her heart. Hira lay awake because of the happiness and sorrow in her own heart. She, too, like Kunda, lay in bed thinking. What she
was thinking could not be expressed in words—it was a deep secret.
O Hira! Fie! Fie! Hira! Her face was not ill to look at—she was so young, so why was there so much cruel deceit in her heart? Why? Why had God cheated her? God had cheated her and she in turn wanted to cheat everyone else. If she had been put in Suryamukhi’s place, would Hira have been cruelly deceitful? Hira says ‘No.’ It was because Hira was put in Hira’s place that she was Hira. People say, ‘Everything is the fault of the wicked.’ The wicked say, ‘I would have been a good person—but I became wicked through the fault of others.’ People say, ‘Why was five not seven?’ Five says, ‘I would have been seven—but seven is five plus two—if God, or people created by God, had given me another two, then I would have been seven.’ So Hira was thinking.
Hira thought—‘Now what will I do? If God had given me the chance, then everything would not be spoilt as it is, through His own fault. Meanwhile, if I take Kunda back to the Datta house, then Kamala will give me her necklace, and the mistress will also give me something—and will I exempt the master himself? And if I give Kunda into Devendra’s hands, then I will receive a lot of money. But I could not bear that. Well, then, does Kunda seem so beautiful to Devendra? We eat only by working hard; if we ate well, dressed well and lived in separate rooms like the ease-loving women in paintings, then we too could look like that. And could such a weak-hearted, whining, whimpering one understand Devendra Babu’s heart? The lotus does not flower without mud; and if Kunda were not there, Devendra Babu would not be attracted to her! Why am I angry at what is somebody’s fate? Why am I angry? Ha! Fate! What is the use any more of hiding my feelings from myself? I used to laugh at the talk of love. I used to say, “All that is only words, only people’s set phrases.” Now I no longer laugh. I used to think, “Let those who love, call it love, I will never love any one.” God said, “Stay, I show you pleasure.” In the end, I bathed in the water of the Ganga under duress. Catching another’s thief, my own life has been stolen. What a face! What a figure! What a voice! Has anyone else such attributes? And the fellow says to me, “Bring Kunda and give her to me!” As if he doesn’t have to say more! I will punch his nose. Aha, it would be a pleasure to punch his nose. Let it go, let all this go. On that path, too, are the thorns of religion. For a long time, I have attributed to God the happiness and suffering of this life. Because of that, I cannot give Kunda into Devendra’s hands. The very thought of it sets my body aflame; rather, I will do whatever may prevent Kunda from falling into his hands. What will achieve that? If Kunda stayed where she was, she would be out of his hands. Let him dress as a Vaishnavi, let him dress up as Vasudeva himself, he could not seize her in his teeth in that house. So that means returning Kunda there. But Kunda will not go—she will not consider turning towards that house again. But if everyone together called her “dear child” and took her back, then she could go. And there’s another idea in my mind; will God do it! Will Suryamukhi’s pride be humbled? If God acts, even that may happen. Well, why am I so angry with Suryamukhi? She has never done me any harm; rather, she has favoured me and treated me well. So why am I angry? Does Hira not know that? Does Hira not know? Will I say why? Suryamukhi is happy and I am miserable; this is why I am angry. She is important; I am insignificant. She is the employer, I am the servant. Therefore, I am very angry with her. If you say, God made her important, what fault is it of hers? Why do I harm her?—To that I say, God has harmed me, for what fault of mine? Even so, I do not actually want to harm her; yet if I harm her I shall profit, so why not? Who does not seek their own good? So, let me work it out; how can it be done? Now, I need some money, and I can’t be a servant anymore. Where will the money come from? Apart from the Datta household, where is there money? So here is a way of taking money from the Dattas—everyone knows that Nagendra’s eye has fallen on Kunda—the Babu worships Kunda now. He is an important man, he can do whatever he wants. It is only because of Suryamukhi that he cannot. If there were to be a quarrel between the two of them, then he would no longer take much notice of Suryamukhi. Now I must do something which will result in their quarrelling.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 17
