You will say that if a man may have two wives, then should not a woman have two husbands? The answer is, that if a woman had two husbands there would be the likelihood of much harm occurring; there is not that likelihood in the case of a man marrying twice. If a woman had two husbands, then it would not be certain who the father of her child was—it is the father who is the child’s supporter—from that uncertainty, social anarchy might arise. But in the case of a man with two wives, there is no uncertainty about who is the mother. As well as this, many more things could be said.
It is that which is harmful to the majority of the people which is contrary to justice. If you consider that a man’s marriage is contrary to justice, then you must demonstrate that it is harmful to the majority of the people.
You will give me the argument of disputes in the home. I will put forward one argument. I am childless. If I were to die, the name of my father’s line would be lost. If I make this marriage, there is the possibility of a child—is this not an argument?
A final objection—Suryamukhi. Why do I give a loving wife the thorn of a co-wife? The answer is that Suryamukhi is not saddened by this marriage. It is she who has proposed the marriage—she who has induced me to make it—she who is arranging it. Then who else has any objection?
Then for what reason is this marriage of mine censurable?
26
Who Has Any Objection?
KAMALAMANI READ THE LETTER AND SAID, ‘FOR WHAT REASON CENSURABLE? God knows. But what a mistake! It seems men understand nothing. However that may be, let my counsellor dress himself. We must go to Govindapur.’
Shrish said, ‘Will you be able to prevent the marriage?’
Kamala said, ‘If I can’t, I’ll die in front of my brother.’
Shrish laughed, ‘You can’t do that. But we shall be able to cut off your brother’s new wife’s nose. Come, let’s go with that purpose.’
Then they both prepared to set out for Govindapur. The next day, in the morning, they boarded a boat. In due course, they arrived in Govindapur.
Even before they entered the house, they met maidservants and village womenfolk; many of them, indeed, came to fetch Kamalamani from the boat. Both she and her husband were extremely anxious to know whether the marriage had taken place or not, but neither of the two asked anyone this—how could they open their mouths to ask other people such a shameful thing?
Extremely anxious, Kamalamani entered the inner building; she forgot that now Satish was left behind. Having entered the house, she asked the maidservants, in a clear voice, bereft of courage, ‘Where is Suryamukhi?’ She was afraid lest someone should say that the marriage had taken place—lest someone should say that Suryamukhi was dead.
The maidservants told her that Suryamukhi was in her bedroom. Kamalamani ran to the bedroom.
She went in, and at first could see no one. For a moment she looked from one side to the other. Finally, she saw that in a corner of the room near a window, a woman was sitting with her head down. Kamalamani could not see her face; but she knew that it was Suryamukhi. Then Suryamukhi, hearing her step, got up and came over to her. Seeing Suryamukhi, Kamalamani could not ask whether the marriage had taken place or not—Suryamukhi’s shoulder-blades stood out—Suryamukhi’s young-deodar-like body was like a broken bow; Suryamukhi’s shining, lotus-petal eyes were sunken—Suryamukhi’s lotus-face had lengthened. Kamalamani understood that the marriage had taken place. She asked, ‘When did it happen?’ Suryamukhi said in the same gentle voice, ‘Yesterday.’ Then the two women sat there silently and wept—neither saying anything. Suryamukhi hid her face in Kamala’s lap and wept—Kamalamani’s tears fell on her breast and on her hair.
Meanwhile, Nagendra was sitting in his reception hall thinking, ‘Kundanandini! Kunda is mine! Kunda is my wife! Kunda! Kunda! Kunda! She is mine!’ Shrishchandra was sitting nearby—Nagendra could not speak to him properly. From time to time, he thought, ‘Suryamukhi has arranged the marriage—so who else has any objection to this happiness of mine!’
27
Suryamukhi and Kamalamani
WHEN, IN THE TWILIGHT, BOTH CALMED DOWN AND WERE ABLE TO SPEAK clearly to each other, Suryamukhi told Kamalamani the whole story of Nagendra’s marriage. Kamalamani was astonished at it and said, ‘It was by your efforts that this marriage took place—why did you yourself make arrangements for your own death?’
Suryamukhi smiled and said, ‘Who am I?’—she gave this answer with a soft, thin smile—as lightning shows through torn clouds at the edge of the sky after rain, smiling a smile like that—she answered, ‘Who am I? Come and look at your brother just once—come and see the joy which fills his face—then you will know how happy he is. If I see him so happy, is not my life successful? In the hope of what happiness could I keep happiness away from him? I saw day and night the unhappiness in him, the sight of whose unhappiness for an hour makes me want to die—he was preparing to leave home, renouncing all happiness—but would any happiness for me have remained? I said, “Lord! It is your happiness which is my happiness—marry Kunda—I shall be happy”—so he married her.’
Kamala said, ‘And are you happy?’
Suryamukhi said, ‘Why do you question my words again; who am I? If I ever saw a pebble under my husband’s foot, I would think, “Why didn’t I lay my breast there, so that my husband could rest his foot on my breast.”’
Saying this, Suryamukhi remained silent for a while—her clothes were soaked with her tears—then suddenly she lifted her head and asked, ‘Kamala, in which country do they kill girls?’
Kamala understood what was on her mind and said, ‘What if we are girls—that which is in our destiny will happen!’
Suryamukhi said, ‘Whose destiny is better than mine? Who is so fortunate? Who has such a husband? Beauty, wealth, property—and all those are trifles—whose husband has such qualities? My destiny is a fortunate one—yet why has it turned out like this?’
Kamala replied, ‘This, too, is destiny.’
Suryamukhi said, ‘Yet why is my mind in this torment?’
Kamala said, ‘You are happy to see your husband’s now joy-filled face—yet you say, why is your mind in such torment? Are both things true?’
Suryamukhi answered, ‘Both are true. I am happy in his happiness—but that he should kick me aside, that he should have such joy in kicking me aside!—’
Suryamukhi could say no more, her voice choked—her eyes overflowed; but Kamalamani understood her unfinished words. She said, ‘Your heart’s pain is because he has kicked you aside. So why do you say, “Who am I?” Your mind is still half-full of yourself; otherwise why, even after renouncing yourself, would you speak thus?’
Suryamukhi said, ‘I do not repent. I have no doubt that I have done well. But it is still painful to die. Reckoning my death good, I have died by my own hand. But even so, shall I not weep at the time of my death?’
Suryamukhi wept. Kamala held her head to her own heart. Not everything was said in words—but heart spoke to heart. Heart to heart, Kamalamani understood how miserable Suryamukhi was. Heart to heart, Suryamukhi understood that Kamalamani understood her misery.
Both checked their weeping and wiped their eyes. Then Suryamukhi stopped speaking of herself and spoke of others. She had Satishchandra fetched, and cuddled him, and had a conversation with him. She spoke long with Kamala of Satish and Shrishchandra. There was much happy discussion of Satishchandra’s education, marriage and so on. Thus they both talked until late into the night; then Suryamukhi warmly embraced Kamala, and took Satishchandra on her lap and kissed him. As she said goodnight to both of them, Suryamukhi’s tears again became unrestrainable. Weeping, she blessed Satish, saying, ‘Child! I wish for you the imperishable qualities of your uncle. I know no greater blessing.’
Suryamukhi spoke in her natural gentle voice, but Kamalamani was startled at her tone. She said, ‘Sister! What is in your mind—what? Tell me?’
Suryamukhi said, ‘Nothing.’
Kamala
mani said, ‘Do not hide from me.’
Suryamukhi answered, ‘I have hidden nothing from you.’
Then Kamala went to her bed with an easy mind. But Suryamukhi had hidden one thing. Kamala found that out in the morning. In the morning, she went to Suryamukhi’s bedroom in search of her, and saw that Suryamukhi was not there, but there was a letter on her unslept bed. When she saw the letter, Kamalamani’s head spun—she did not need the letter—she understood without reading it. She understood that Suryamukhi had fled. She had no desire to open the letter and read it—she crushed it in her hand. Hitting her head with her hand, she sat down on the bed. She said, ‘I am mad. Otherwise, why did I not understand yesterday when I was leaving her?’ Satish was standing near her; seeing his mother strike her forehead and weep, he too began to wail.
28
Letter of Blessing
ONCE THE FIRST SPATE OF GRIEF HAD BEEN CHECKED, KAMALAMANI OPENED the letter and read it. It was addressed to her. The letter went thus:
On the very day that I heard from my husband’s lips that he had no more pleasure in me, that he would go mad, or die, on account of Kundanandini, I resolved that if I ever found Kundanandini I would give her hand to my husband to make him happy. Having given my husband to Kundanandini, I would myself leave the house; for I should not be able to look at my husband who had become Kundanandini’s. Now I have found Kundanandini and given her to my husband. And I have left the house.
I would have left the house the night before last, after the wedding. But I wanted to see with my own eyes the happiness of my husband, for which I have sacrificed my life. And I wanted to see you once more before I went. I wrote to you to come—I knew that you would be sure to come. Now these two desires have been fulfilled. I have seen that he who is dearer than life to me is happy. I have said farewell to you. Now I have gone.
By the time you read this letter I shall be far away. The reason I did not tell you that I was going was that if I had, you would not have let me go. Now I beg this of you all, that you do not search for me.
There is no hope that I shall ever see you again. I will not come back to this place while Kundanandini is alive—it is no use searching for me. I have now become a beggar on the roads—I shall wander from place to place in the guise of a beggar-woman—I shall live by begging—who will recognize me? I could have taken money with me, but I have not. I have gone away, giving up my husband—should I take gold and silver with me?
Do one thing for me. Convey to my husband my thousand, thousand obeisances at his feet. I tried many times to write to him of my going, but I could not. I could not see the letter for tears—the paper became soaked and spoilt. I tore up the paper and threw it away, and wrote again—again tore it up—and again—but the words to say what I had to say could not be written in any letter. Give him this news of me in whatever way seems best to you. Explain to him that I have not gone away in anger at him. I am not angry at him, I never shall be. How can there be anger at him whom it is a joy to think of? The unchanging devotion that I have towards him remains, and will remain for as long as this clay is not mingled with the earth. For I can never forget his thousand virtues. No one else has so many virtues. It is because no one else has such virtues that I am his servant. If I could forget his thousand virtues because of one fault I should not be worthy of being his servant. I have said farewell to him for the rest of this life. You will be able to understand with what sorrow I have left everything, having said farewell to my husband for the rest of this life.
I have said farewell to you for the rest of this life too; I pray that your husband and son will live long and that you will be always happy. And I pray that you will die before you lose your husband’s love. No one prayed that prayer for me.
29
What Is the Poison Tree?
THE POISON TREE FROM THE SOWING OF WHOSE SEED TO THE BEARING OF whose fruit and its consumption I have been expounding, grows in everyone’s courtyard. Its seed is the power of the six deadly vices. Circumstances ensure that it is scattered in every field. There is no person whose mind is untouched by passion, envy, lust, anger and the rest. Even wise people, according to circumstances, are troubled by all these vices. But the difference between one person and another is this, that some can control their inflamed faculties and keep steady: such an individual is a great soul; others do not control their own minds; it is for these that the seed of the poison tree is sown. Inability to control the mind is its shoot, and from that the poison tree grows. This tree is very strong; once it is nourished, it cannot be destroyed. And its beauty is greatly pleasing to the eye; from a distance its multicoloured leaves and opening buds are very pleasant to see. But its fruit is poisonous; those who eat it, die.
In different fields there are varied fruits on the poison tree. In different people they produce different effects—disease, grief, and so on. In the matter of controlling the mind, first the desire to control the mind, and second the power to control the mind is necessary. Of these, power is born of practice; and desire is born of education. Habit, too, depends on education. Consequently, it is education which is the foundation of controlling the mind. But I am not speaking only of education by the teachings of a guru; it is the heart’s suffering which is the best education.
Nagendra had never had this education. God had put him on this earth in possession of all happiness. Graceful form; untold wealth; healthy body; wide-ranging intelligence; amiable character; faithful, affectionate wife: all these rarely fall to the lot of one person. They had fallen to Nagendra. Most importantly, Nagendra had always been happy in the virtues of his own character: he was truthful yet fair-spoken; philanthropic yet just; generous yet thrifty; affectionate yet resolute in doing his duty. While his father and mother were still alive he was extremely devoted and loving towards them; he was extremely devoted to his wife; he was a benefactor to his friends; compassionate towards his servants; a protector of those who served him, and free of enmity towards his enemies. He was wise in his advice; straightforward in his deeds; polite in conversation; eloquent in repartee. The reward of such a character is untroubled happiness—since his infancy this had been so for Nagendra. He had honour at home; fame abroad; obedient servants; devotion from his tenants; and from Suryamukhi unwavering, unstinted affection. If it had not been his fate to have been so happy, he would never have become so miserable.
If he had not become miserable, he would not have fallen into temptation. Temptation lies in that wherein there is a lack. Before looking at Kundanandini with covetous eyes, Nagendra had never fallen into temptation, for he had never known the lack of anything. Consequently, he had not had the mental practice or the education necessary for controlling temptation. Because of this, he was incapable of controlling his mind either. Untroubled happiness is the foundation of misery; without previous unhappiness, stable happiness does not develop.
I do not say that Nagendra was without fault. His fault was heavy; his also-heavy penance was beginning.
30
The Search
IT IS SUPERFLUOUS TO SAY THAT WHEN THE NEWS OF SURYAMUKHI’S FLIGHT spread through the house, people were speedily sent out to search for her. Nagendra sent people out in all directions, Shrishchandra sent people out, Kamalamani sent people out in all directions. The senior maidservants threw down their water-pitchers and ran; the Hindustani doorkeepers went with clubs in their hands, waistcoats of French chintz stuffed with cotton on their bodies, and their slippers making scuffling sounds—the table-servants, with napkins on their shoulders and ornamental girdles round their waists, went out to bring back the mistress. Many of her own people took carriages and went out on the main roads. The village people searched the fields and the landings; or formed committees under trees and smoked tobacco. The gentlefolk, too, sat in conference in such places as the festival place, the temple of Shiva’s terrace, and the school of the logic-chopping Brahmins. The lower-class women turned the bathing ghat into a court of petty sessions. There was a solemn festival in
the boys’ building; many boys started to hope that there would be a vacation from school.
At first, Shrishchandra offered hope to Nagendra and Kamala, saying, ‘She has never travelled on foot—how far could she go? She will be sitting down somewhere, having gone about a mile and a half; this present search will find her.’ But when two or three hours had elapsed, and still there was no news of Suryamukhi, Nagendra himself went out in search of her. After searching for a while in the sun, he thought, ‘I am out here searching, but perhaps all this time Suryamukhi has been brought home.’ So he went back. Returning home, he saw that there was no news of Suryamukhi. He went out again. Again he returned. So the whole day passed.
In fact, what Shrishchandra had said was true. Suryamukhi had never gone outside the house on foot. How far could she go? She had lain down in a mango grove beside a pool a mile away from the house. A steward, who used to go to and from the inner buildings, came there during the search and saw her. He recognized her and said, ‘Mistress, come!’
Suryamukhi gave no answer. He said again, ‘Mistress, come! Everyone at the house is very anxious.’ Then Suryamukhi said angrily, ‘Who are you to make me go back?’ The steward became nervous. Yet he stayed standing there. Suryamukhi said, ‘If you keep standing there, I will drown myself in the pool.’
Unable to do anything, the steward went quickly and told Nagendra. Nagendra took a palanquin there. But by then Suryamukhi was no longer there. He searched nearby, but in vain.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 20
