Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1

by Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay

  Devendra said, ‘You need not fear for me.’

  Hira said, ‘If I don’t fear for you, I fear for myself. If someone sees me with you, what will my situation be?’

  Devendra said diffidently, ‘Then go. Is there a possibility of conversing once with your new mistress?’

  In the dim light, Devendra did not see clearly the malicious glance which Hira cast at him when she heard this. Hira said, ‘How can you meet her?’

  Devendra said modestly, ‘By your favour, all is possible.’

  Hira said, ‘Then wait here and be careful; I will go and call her.’

  With those words, Hira went out of the pavilion. Having gone some distance, she sat down in beneath a tree, and her pent-up tears began to flow. Then she got up and went into the house, but she did not go to Kundanandini. She went out and said to the gatekeepers, ‘Come quickly, there’s a thief in the flower-garden.’

  Then all the gatekeepers, with thick bamboo clubs in their hands, ran through the inner building towards the flower-garden. Devendra heard the sound of their shoes and slippers from a distance, and from a distance saw their great black beards; and leaping from the pavilion, he quickly fled. The tribe of gatekeepers followed a little behind. They did not quite catch Devendra. But Devendra did not get away without some reward. I cannot say for certain whether or not he received a taste of the bamboo clubs, but I have heard that he was referred to by the gatekeepers as ‘Bastard’, ‘Bugger’ and other such sweet terms of endearment. And one day, having drunk a ration of leftover brandy, his servant told his concubine that the following day ‘while I was massaging the Babu, I saw that there was a bruise on his back’.

  Having reached home, Devendra resolved two things. First, that he would not go to the Dattas’ house while Hira remained there. Second, that he would be revenged on Hira. In the end, he did wreak great retribution on Hira. Hira’s great sin was severely punished. Hira’s punishment was so severe that, seeing it, finally, even Devendra’s stony heart was pierced. This is not to be described in detail; I will briefly narrate those events later.

  34

  By the Roadside

  IT WAS THE RAINY SEASON. THE WEATHER WAS FOUL. IT HAD BEEN RAINING all day. The sun had not come out even once. The sky was covered with clouds. The surface of lime on the main road to Kashi had become rather slippery. There was hardly anyone on the road—who travels when it is soaking wet? Only one traveller was moving along the road. The traveller’s garb was that of a brahmachari. He wore ochre-coloured clothes—there was a rosary around his neck—a streak of sandal-paste on his brow—no great display of matted hair, only small, somewhat whitened locks of hair. In one hand he held a palm-leaf umbrella, and in the other, a metal vessel—rain-soaked, the brahmachari travelled on. The very day had been dark, and now night had fallen, so that the earth was black—the traveller could scarcely make out which was road and which was not. Yet the traveller moved on, unravelling the road—for he had renounced the world, he was a brahmachari. For him who has renounced the world, darkness, light, a bad road, a good road: all are equal.

  It was late at night. The earth was dark—there was a dark covering over the sky’s face. The treetops could be made out only as domes of denser darkness. It was only by the gaps in the treetops that the line of the path could be perceived. Drops of rain were falling. Now and again lightning flashed—darkness was better than that light. The world did not look so terrible in the darkness as it did in the lightning flashing briefly in the darkness.

  ‘Oh, Mother!’

  As he was proceeding in the darkness, the brahmachari suddenly heard in the middle of the road this faint, drawn-out, sighing call. The call was unearthly—nevertheless, one could tell that it came from a human throat. The call was very soft, yet one could tell that it expressed great pain. The traveller stood still on the road. He stood waiting for the next flash of lightning. Streaks of lightning were coming in quick succession. By the next flash, the traveller saw that something had fallen by the roadside. Was it a person? The traveller thought so. But he waited for another flash of lightning. By its light, he decided that it was indeed a person. Then the traveller called out, ‘Who are you, fallen on the road?’

  No one answered. Again he asked—this time an inarticulate distressed utterance briefly reached his ears. Then the brahmachari put down his umbrella and rosary on the ground, noted the place, and began to reach out from side to side. Soon his hands touched the soft body of a person. ‘Who are you?’ His hands touched the head, and found a sheaf of long hair. ‘Durga! It is a woman!’

  Then the brahmachari, not waiting for an answer, lifted the dying or unconscious woman in his arms. His umbrella and rosary remained where they were on the road. The brahmachari left the road and went across the dark fields in the direction of a village. The brahmachari knew the roads, landings, and villages of this region extremely well. He was not strong, but he moved over that difficult-to-traverse path carrying the dying woman like a child in his arms. Those who help others, whose love for others is strong, never feel the want of physical strength!

  The brahmachari reached a thatched hut on the outskirts of the village. He went to the door of that hut, with the solitary woman in his arms. He called, ‘Hara, child, are you at home?’ A woman called from within the hut, ‘That’s the guru’s voice I hear. When did you arrive?’

  The brahmachari said, ‘Just now Open the door quickly—I am in great difficulty.’

  Haramani opened the door of the hut. Then the brahmachari told her to light a lamp, and gently he laid the woman on the floor within the hut. Hara lit a lamp and brought it close to the face of the dying woman; and, looking at her closely, they both saw that she was not old. But her physical state was such that they could not estimate her age. Her body was extremely emaciated—and showed signs of terrible suffering. She might once have been beautiful, but now there was no trace of beauty. Her wet clothes were very dirty—and torn in a hundred places. Her dishevelled hair was rough. Her eyes were sunken. Now those eyes were closed. She was breathing—but unconscious. She seemed near death.

  Haramani asked, ‘Where did you find her?’

  The brahmachari told her everything, and said, ‘She looks to be near death. But perhaps with warmth and fomentations she may live. Do as I say.’

  Then Haramani, following the brahmachari’s directions, skilfully changed the wet clothes for dry ones of her own. She dried the water from the limbs and hair with a dry cloth. Then, preparing a fire, she applied heat. The brahmachari said, ‘She probably has not eaten for a long time. If there is milk in the house, try and see if you can feed her milk, a little at a time.’

  Haramani had a cow—there was milk in the house. She warmed some milk and gave it to the woman sip by sip. The woman drank it. As the warmth penetrated her body, her eyes opened. Seeing this, Haramani said, ‘Mother, where have you come from?’

  The now-conscious woman said, ‘Where am I?’

  The brahmachari said, ‘I found you in a state of near-death on the road, and brought you here. Where are you going?’

  The woman said, ‘A long way.’

  Haramani said, ‘There is a conch-shell bracelet on your arm. Have you a husband?’

  The woman frowned. Haramani was abashed.

  The brahmachari said, ‘Child, what shall I call you? What is your name?’

  The helpless woman hesitated a little and said, ‘My name is Suryamukhi.’

  35

  In Hope

  THERE WAS NO HOPE OF SURYAMUKHI’S RECOVERY. THE BRAHMACHARI, NOT being able to interpret the signs of her illness, sent for the village physician the next morning.

  Ramakrishna Ray was very learned. He was a great scholar of Ayurveda. He was famous in the village for his remedies. He noted the symptoms and said, ‘She has tuberculosis. She is feverish. The illness is deadly, it is true. But it is possible that she may survive.’

  All this was said out of Suryamukhi’s hearing. The physician prepared some medicine—seeing
the helpless woman, Ramakrishna Ray said nothing about fees. Ramakrishna Ray was not a money-grubber. When the physician had taken his leave, the brahmachari sent Haramani away to another job, and sat down by Suryamukhi in order to speak uninterruptedly with her. Suryamukhi said, ‘Sir! Why are you taking so much trouble for me? There is no need to worry about me.’

  The brahmachari said, ‘What trouble am I taking? It is my work. I have no one. I am a brahmachari. My obligation is to care for others. If I were not engaged in doing things for you, I would be doing things for someone else like you.’

  Suryamukhi said, ‘Then leave me, and go and help someone else. You may be able to help someone else—you cannot help me.’

  The brahmachari asked, ‘Why?’

  Suryamukhi said, ‘It will not benefit me if I survive. It is dying which will do me good. When I fell on the road last night—I hoped very much that I would die. Why did you save me?’

  The brahmachari said, ‘I do not know how great your sorrow is—but however great your sorrow, it is a great sin to kill yourself. Never think of killing yourself. Killing yourself is as sinful as killing another.’

  Suryamukhi said, ‘I did not try to kill myself. Death had itself come to me—that was what I hoped for. But my happiness is not in death.’

  ‘Happiness is not in death’—at those words Suryamukhi’s voice choked. Tears fell from her eyes.

  The brahmachari said, ‘I have seen that whenever there is talk of death, tears fall from your eyes. Yet you want to die. Ma, I am like your child. Think of me as a son, and tell me the desires of your heart. If there is a way to dispel your sorrow, I will do so. It was to say this to you that I sent Haramani away and came and sat with you alone. From your speech, I know that you must be the daughter of gentlefolk. I know, too, that you are suffering from terrible mental agony. Why not tell me what it is? Think of me as your child, and tell me.’

  With tears in her eyes, Suryamukhi said, ‘I am waiting to die. Why should I be bashful now? And my sorrow is nothing—only the sorrow of not seeing my husband’s face as I die. My happiness is in dying—but if I die without seeing his face, then there will be misery in dying, too. If I could see his face once more, then I would be happy to die.’

  The brahmachari wiped his eyes. He said, ‘Where is your husband? There is no way now of taking you to him. But if, receiving word, he can come here, I will write to him.’

  There was a flash of joy in Suryamukhi’s illness-ravaged face. Then, despondent again, she said, ‘He might come, but I do not know whether he would or not. I have offended him greatly—yet he is compassionate towards me—he might forgive me. But he is very far away—will I survive so long?’

  The brahmachari asked, ‘How far away is he?’

  Suryamukhi said, ‘The district of Haripur.’

  The brahmachari said, ‘You will.’

  Saying this, the brahmachari fetched a paper and pen, and, with Suryamukhi’s help, wrote a letter:

  I am unknown to you. I am a Brahmin—a brahmachari. Neither do I know who you are. I know only this, that Shrimati Suryamukhi is your wife. She is here in this village of Madhupur, critically ill, in Haramani Vaishnavi’s house. She has been given treatment—but there is no sign of her recovering. I write this letter to inform you of this. Her wish is to see you once before she dies. If you can forgive her offence, then please come to this place. I address her as ‘Mother’. I write this letter, as a son, with her permission. She has not the strength to write herself.

  If you consent to come, then take the road to Raniganj. Ask at Raniganj for Shriman Madhavachandra Goswami. If you mention my name, he will send someone to accompany you. Then you need not wander around searching for Madhupur.

  If you come, come quickly; if you delay, your purpose will not be achieved.

  Shri Shivaprasad Sharma.

  Having written the letter, the brahmachari asked, ‘To whom shall I address it?’

  Suryamukhi said, ‘I will tell Haramani.’

  After Haramani had come back, the brahmachari addressed the letter to Nagendranath Datta, and took it with him to post.

  When the brahmachari had gone away with the letter to post it, Suryamukhi, with tears in her eyes, folded hands, and uplifted face, begged God with body and mind, ‘O great Lord! If you are true, if I am devoted to my husband, may this letter bear fruit. I know nothing but to serve my husband always—if there is virtue in that, then I do not ask for heaven as a reward. I ask only this, that I may see my husband’s face before I die.’

  But the letter did not reach Nagendra. When it reached Govindapur, Nagendra had long since set out on his travels. The postman took it to the steward.

  Nagendra’s instructions to the steward were: ‘When I get to where I am going, I will write to you from there. When you receive my orders, send letters addressed to me there.’ Nagendra had, a while before, written a letter from Patna, saying, ‘I am going to Kashi by boat. I will write from Kashi. When you get that letter, send my letters and so on there.’ Awaiting that news, the steward kept the brahmachari’s letter locked in a box.

  In due course, Nagendra reached his residence in Kashi. Having arrived, he sent word to the steward. Then the steward sent off Brahmachari Shivaprasad’s letter, together with other letters. Having received the letter and grasped its contents, Nagendra clutched his brow and said, stricken, ‘God! Keep me conscious for a moment longer.’ These words reached God’s ears; for a moment Nagendra remained conscious; calling the overseer, he ordered, ‘I must go to Raniganj this very night—spend whatever you have to, but arrange it.’

  The overseer went away to make the arrangements. Then Nagendra fell to the ground and lay unconscious in the dust.

  That night, Nagendra left Kashi behind. Varanasi, beauty of the universe, what happy man could leave you behind with satisfied eyes on such an autumn night? The night was moonless. Thousands of stars burned in the sky—standing above the waves on the heart of the Ganga, in whatever direction one looked, there were stars in the sky!—with ceaseless fire, from eternity they shone—endlessly they shone, without rest. On the earth was a second sky!—the steady blue heart of the waves was like a blue cloth; on the banks, on the flights of steps and in the buildings like endless rows of hills, a thousand lights burned. Houses after houses, and after them more houses, endless lines of houses were thus adorned with rows of lights. And all these were reflected in the clear river. Nagendra wiped his eyes. He could not now bear earth’s beauty. Nagendra knew that Suryamukhi’s letter had been a long time in reaching him—where was Suryamukhi now?

  36

  Hira’s Poison Tree Flowers

  ON THE DAY THE GATEKEEPERS, WITH THICK BAMBOO CLUBS IN THEIR HANDS, chased Devendra away, Hira laughed uproariously to herself. But after that, she repented deeply. Hira thought to herself, ‘I did not do well to cause him that indignity. I do not know how angry he is with me. I had not achieved a place in his heart; now all my hopes are gone.’

  Devendra, too, was engaged in fulfilling the hope of achieving his heart’s desire, born of malice, to punish Hira. He sent for Hira, through Malati. Hira hesitated for a couple of days, and finally went. Devendra showed no anger at all—he made no reference to the recent occurrence. As a spider weaves a net for a fly, Devendra started to spread out a net for Hira. The greedy-hearted Hira-fly easily fell into the trap. She was captivated by Devendra’s sweet talk, and deceived by his flattery. She thought that this was love; that Devendra loved her. Hira was clever, but here her intelligence was dim. Under the influence of that power which the ancient poets hymned, describing it as being able to break the meditation of those who have subdued their passions and conquered death, Hira’s intelligence disappeared.

  Abandoning words, Devendra took up a tanpura and, stimulated by wine, began to sing. Then Devendra, with his skill and his heavenly voice, created such nectar-filled waves of music that Hira, overwhelmed by the sound, was totally enchanted. Her heart trembled; and her mind melted with love for Devendr
a. In her eyes, Devendra seemed then the most beautiful thing in the world, more precious than anything, most worthy of being appreciated by beautiful women. Tears of love streamed from Hira’s eyes.

  Devendra set down the tanpura, and with the hem of his own garment tenderly wiped Hira’s eyes. Hira’s body trembled with pleasure. Then Devendra, kindled by wine, started to utter such sweet words, mixed with wit and humour, and again spoke in such love-drenched, poetically-allusive phrases that foolish, rustic Hira thought, ‘This is the happiness of heaven.’ If Hira’s mind had been clear, and her intelligence refined through good company, she would have thought, ‘This is hell.’ As for words of love—Devendra had never felt anything of what people call love—Hira knew more of it—but Devendra was an expert in the clichés of the ancient poets. Hearing the praises of love’s ineffable glory from Devendra’s lips, Hira thought him superhumanly accomplished—and her whole body was suffused with love. Then Devendra again prepared to sing, humming like the first solitary bee in spring. Hira, overpowered by love, joined with it the sound of her own sweet, womanly voice. Devendra asked Hira to sing. Then Hira, with love-softened mind, widening her wine-flushed lotus-eyes, making play with her finely-drawn brows, her face blooming, started to sing full-throatedly. Because of the exuberance of her state of mind, her voice rose high and strong. What Hira sang spoke of love—it was full of pleading for love.

  Then, in that sinful house, the two sinful hearts, overwhelmed by sinful desire, pledged eternal love, in the form of eternal sin, to each other. Hira knew how to control her mind, but because she did not do so, she easily went, insect-like, into the flames. Knowing Devendra not to be in love with her she had controlled her mind, though only to a small extent; but she had acted in accordance with her own desires. When she had had Devendra under her control, she had, even though laughingly admitting her love to him, warded him off from dalliance. Again, she had only quelled that love, which ate into her heart like a worm in a flower, by engaging herself in work in another’s house. But when she believed that Devendra loved her, she no longer restrained her mind. By this lack of restraint, the fruit for her eating ripened on the poison tree.