Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1

by Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay

  Nagendra said, ‘What was the Brahmin’s name? Where was his home?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Shrishchandra said.

  Making up his mind about something, Nagendra asked, ‘And then?’

  Shrishchandra said, ‘Suryamukhi went with the Brahmin as one of his family as far as Barhi. To Kolkata by boat, from Kolkata to Raniganj by rail, from Raniganj by bullock-train; thus far, she didn’t need to walk.’

  Nagendra said, ‘Did the Brahmin then say farewell to her?’

  Shrishchandra said, ‘No; Suryamukhi herself said farewell. She was no longer going to Kashi. How long could she go without seeing you? Intending to see you, she set out from Barhi on foot.’

  As he spoke, tears came to Shrishchandra’s eyes. He looked at Nagendra’s face. Seeing Shrishchandra’s tears, Nagendra dissolved into tears himself. He clung to Shrishchandra’s neck, and, laying his head on his shoulder, wept. Until his arrival at Shrishchandra’s house, Nagendra had not wept—his grief was beyond tears. Now his pent-up grief streamed out. With his face on Shrishchandra’s shoulder, Nagendra wept for a long time like a child. By this, his suffering was greatly alleviated. Grief without tears is a messenger of death.

  Once Nagendra had become a little calmer, Shrishchandra said, ‘There is no point now in going over everything that happened.’

  Nagendra said, ‘What more is there to tell? I can imagine what else happened. She went from Barhi to Madhupur on foot. Suryamukhi fell ill from the effort of walking, from hunger, from sun and rain, from lack of shelter and from her mental suffering, and was facing death.’

  Shrishchandra was silent. Then he said, ‘Brother, why should we needlessly go over these things any more? You are not at all to blame. You did nothing without her consent or against her word. It is not sensible to repent for that which was not your fault.’

  Nagendra did not accept that. He knew that all the fault was his alone: why had he not uprooted the seed of the poison tree from his heart?

  40

  The Fruit of Hira’s Poison Tree

  HIRA HAD SOLD A GREAT JEWEL FOR A FARTHING. VIRTUE IS MAINTAINED BY constant effort, but is destroyed in one day’s carelessness. So it had been with Hira. The gain for which Hira sold this great jewel was a useless farthing. For Devendra’s love was like the water of a flood; as fleeting as it was muddy. In three days, the water of the flood retreated, leaving Hira stuck in the mud. As certain individuals, miserly yet greedy for fame, who have for so long guarded the wealth they have amassed, at the risk of their lives, spend it all for a day’s happiness on the occasion of a son’s wedding or some other such festival, so Hira, having spoiled her long and carefully preserved virtue for one day’s happiness, found herself standing, like a miser who has given up all his money, on the path of eternal regret.

  At first, Hira—abandoned by Devendra like an unripe, barely-tasted mango thrown away by a playful boy—felt great pain in her heart. But she was not only abandoned—the way she had been abandoned and mortified by Devendra was even more deeply unendurable for a woman.

  When, on the last day of their meeting, Hira fell at Devendra’s feet and said, ‘Do not abandon your slave,’ Devendra told her, ‘It was only in the desire for Kundanandini that I have honoured you so much—if you can arrange a meeting with Kunda for me, then I will talk to you—otherwise this is the end. I have requited you for your pride. Now put this disgrace in your offering tray and take it home on your head.’

  Rage darkened Hira’s sight. When her head cleared, she stood before Devendra with frowning brows and reddened eyes, and rebuked him volubly—as only sharp-tongued, sinful women can. This put Devendra out of patience. He kicked Hira and drove her away from the flower-garden. Hira was sinful—Devendra was sinful and a brute. This is what the vows of eternal love of the two of them had ripened into.

  Hira, spurned, did not go home. A Chandal physician used to practise in Govindapur. He only treated Chandals and other such low-caste people. He knew nothing about treatment or medicines—he put an end to people’s lives with the help of poisonous pills. Hira knew that he kept a collection of quick-acting poisons: plant poisons, mineral poisons, snake poisons and others. That very night, Hira went to his house, called him, and said in a whisper, ‘Every day a jackal comes and eats from my pot. Unless that jackal dies, I can’t go on. I thought that I would mix poison with the rice—then when it came to eat from the pot, it would eat the poison and die. You have many poisons; can you sell me a poison that will act quickly?’

  The Chandal did not believe the story of the jackal. He said, ‘I have what you want, but I cannot sell it to you. If they find out I have sold poison, the police will seize me.’

  Hira said, ‘Don’t worry. No one will know that you have sold it to me—I swear it by my god and by the Ganga. Give me enough poison to kill two jackals and I will pay you fifty rupees.’

  The Chandal was certain that she was going to kill someone. But he could not resist the temptation of earning fifty rupees. He agreed to sell the poison. Hira fetched the money from her house and gave it to him. The Chandal wrapped some strong poison, fatal for humans, in a paper and gave it to Hira. Hira said as she left, ‘Take care you don’t tell anyone about this—if you do, it will be worse for both of us.’

  The Chandal said, ‘Mother! I do not even know you.’ Then Hira, relieved of fear, went home.

  When she reached home she wept for a long time with the packet of poison in her hand. Then she wiped her eyes and thought, ‘For what crime should I take poison and die? Why should I die without killing him who killed me? I will not take this poison. I will give it to him who has put me in this condition; or else I will give it to his lady-love, Kundanandini. I will kill one of them, and then I will die when I must.’

  41

  Hira’s Grandmother

  Hira’s granny’s old.

  There’s cow-dung in her basket.

  She walks bent over.

  She cracks pebbles in her teeth.

  She eats thirty jackfruits.

  HIRA’S GRANDMOTHER WAS GOING ALONG, BENT OVER, USING A STICK, AND a flock of boys were dancing behind her, clapping their hands in rhythm and reciting this strange little poem.

  It is doubtful whether there was any particular condemnation in this poem or not—but Hira’s grandmother became very angry. She ordered the boys to go to the house of Yama—and prescribed very unjust food and so on for their forefathers. This used to happen nearly every day.

  When she reached Nagendra’s gates, Hira’s grandmother was delivered from the hands of the boys. When they saw the glossy black beards of the gatekeepers, they broke off the battle and fled. As they fled, one boy said:

  Ramacharan the gatekeeper

  Sleeps in the evening

  If a thief comes, where will he run?

  Another said:

  Ram is a poor rustic

  He goes around with a stick on his shoulder

  If he sees a thief he runs off to the pond’s bank.

  Another said:

  Lalachand Singh

  Dances around skipping,

  No dal or bread, but, at work, horses’ eggs.15

  The boys, called by the gatekeepers various words not found in the dictionary, ran away.

  Tapping with her stick, Hira’s grandmother made her way to the doctor’s office in Nagendra’s house. Seeing the doctor, the old woman said, ‘Oh, sir—where is the doctor?’ The doctor said, ‘I am the doctor.’ The old woman said, ‘Sir, I can’t see well any more—I’m one or two score and three-quarters old—what can I say of my sorrows—I had a son, and gave him to Death—now I have a granddaughter, and she, too, has—’ and she began to wail and weep noisily.

  The doctor asked, ‘What has happened to you?’

  Without answering this, the old woman started to tell her life’s story, and when, after much weeping, she had finished, the doctor had to ask again, ‘What do you want now? What has happened to you?’

  Then the old woman started the
strange story of her own life all over again, but abandoned it as the doctor grew angry, and started to recount instead the life-stories of Hira and Hira’s mother, and Hira’s father, and Hira’s husband. The doctor had great difficulty in understanding the gist of these—for they were mixed with a great deal about herself and a bit of weeping.

  The gist was this, that the old woman wanted some medicine for Hira. Her illness was that she was behaving oddly. While Hira was in the womb, her mother had become insane. Become insane, and after suffering from her mental illness, had eventually died from it. From her childhood, Hira had been very intelligent—there had never been any sign of her mother’s disease to be seen in her, but now the old woman had some doubts. Hira now sometimes laughed when she was alone—wept alone, or sometimes danced through the doors of the house. Sometimes she cried out. Sometimes she fainted. The old woman wanted medicine for this from the doctor.

  The doctor considered and said, ‘Your granddaughter has hysteria.’

  The old woman asked, ‘Oh, sir! Is there no medicine for wish-juice?’16

  The doctor said, ‘Certainly there is medicine for it. Keep her warm, and take this castor-oil and give it to her every morning. Later, I will give you some other medicine.’ This was as far as the doctor’s medical knowledge went.

  The old woman went away, tapping with her stick, the phial of castor-oil in her hand. On the way, she met one of her neighbours. This woman asked, ‘Well, then, Hira’s grandmother, what is that in your hand?’

  Hira’s grandmother said, ‘Hira has got wish-juice, so I went to the doctor, and he gave me some Krishna-juice. Is it true that Krishna-juice is good for wish-juice?’

  The neighbour thought for a long time and said, ‘That could be so. Krishna is everyone’s wish. His treatment could be good for wish-juice. Well, Hira’s grandmother, where did your granddaughter get so much juice from?’ Hira’s grandmother said, after much thought, ‘It’s because of her age.’

  The neighbour said, ‘Give her the urine of a new-born calf to drink. I’ve heard that that will help to digest lots of juice.’

  When the old woman reached home, she remembered that the doctor had talked of warmth. The old woman brought a pan of coals and put it in front of Hira. Hira said, ‘Help! Why the fire?’

  The old woman said, ‘The doctor told me to keep you warm.’

  42

  Dark House—Dark Life

  IN GOVINDAPUR, THE DATTA’S GREAT ESTABLISHMENT, THE SIX-PART HOUSE—without Nagendra and Suryamukhi all was dark. The clerks sat in the office building, and in the inner building there was only Kundanandini, living with the kinswomen who were always to be provided for. But in the moon’s absence, is the sky’s darkness lessened by the moon-god’s wife? There were spider webs in the corners—heaps of dust in the rooms, pigeons’ nests on the cornices, sparrows in the rafters. In the gardens there were piles of dead leaves, and algae in the lake. There were jackals in the courtyards, wilderness in the flower-gardens, and rats in the storerooms. Things were draped with covers. On many, fungus had taken hold. Much had been gnawed away by rats. Muskrats, scorpions, bats and flittermice wandered about day and night in the darkness. Cats had eaten most of Suryamukhi’s tame birds. Their remains were lying here and there. The geese had been killed by jackals. The peacocks had become wild. The bones of the cows stood out—they no longer gave milk. Nagendra’s dogs had no spirit—they did not play or bark but remained tied up. One had died—one had gone mad, one had run away. The horses were suffering from various illnesses—or were beyond illness. In the stables, straw, dried leaves, grass, dust and pigeon feathers were everywhere. The horses sometimes got grass and grain, and sometimes not. The grooms hardly showed their faces in the stables; they stayed in their married quarters. In places, the parapets of the buildings were broken; in places, the stucco had fallen off; in places, window panes, Venetian blinds and railings were broken. There was rainwater on the matting, marks on the paint on the walls, weevils’ nests on the bookcases, the straw of sparrows’ nests on the chandeliers’ shades. There was no Lakshmi in the house. Without Lakshmi, even Vishnu’s abode is wretched.

  As a single rose or lily-of-the-valley sometimes flowers in a garden without a gardener, which has become overgrown with grass, Kundanandini lived alone within this household. Kunda ate what everyone else ate. If someone spoke to her as to the mistress of the house, Kunda would think, ‘They are mocking me.’ If the steward sent to ask about something, Kunda’s breast would thud with fear. In fact, Kunda was very afraid of the steward. There was a reason for this, too. Nagendra did not write to Kunda; therefore, Kunda used to ask for the letters Nagendra wrote to the steward, and read them. Having read them, she did not return them—reading them had become akin to reading the scriptures for her. She was always afraid lest the steward should ask for them. Because of this fear, Kunda’s face paled at the very sound of the steward’s name. The steward had learned of this from Hira. He did not ask for the letters. He used to keep copies of the letters himself before he gave them to Kunda to read.

  Suryamukhi had indeed suffered—was Kunda not suffering? Suryamukhi had loved her husband—did Kunda not love him? Within that little heart was immeasurable love! Because she did not have the power to express it, it was constantly belabouring that heart of Kunda’s, like a confined wind. Before the marriage, Kunda had loved Nagendra since childhood—she had told no one, no one had known. She had not intended to win Nagendra—neither had she hoped to do so: she had borne her own despair by herself. The moon in the sky had been put into her hand. After that—where was the moon now? For what fault had Nagendra spurned her? Day and night Kunda thought of this, and day and night she wept. Well, then, let it be that Nagendra did not love her. He might come to love her; Kunda’s fortune could be thus—why did Kunda not get to see him even once? Only that? He thought that it was Kunda who was the cause of all this trouble; everyone thought that it was Kunda who was the cause of the damage. Kunda thought, ‘For what fault am I the cause of all the damage?’

  In an evil hour, Nagendra had married Kunda. As they who sit under the upas tree die, so those who were touched by the shadow of this marriage were ruined.

  Again, Kunda thought, ‘Suryamukhi’s situation is because of me. Suryamukhi saved me—she loved me like a sister—I made her a beggar on the roads; is there anyone else as luckless as I am? Why did I not die? Why do I not die now?’ Again she thought, ‘I will not die now. Let her come back—let me see her once more—will she not come back again?’ Kunda had not heard the news of Suryamukhi’s death. So she said to herself, ‘Why should I die now, for nothing? If Suryamukhi returns, then I will die. I will not be a thorn on the path of her happiness any more.’

  43

  Return

  THE THINGS TO BE DONE IN KOLKATA HAD BEEN DONE. THE DEED OF GIFT had been drawn up. In it were special provisions for rewarding the brahmachari and the unknown Brahmin. It was to be lodged at the Haripur registry, so Nagendra returned with the deed of gift to Govindapur. Shrishchandra had made great efforts to prevent him from arranging the deed of gift and so on, and from travelling on foot and other such actions; but these efforts had been fruitless. Perforce, he followed him, by river. Kamalamani could not do without her counsellor, so she too, without being asked, went on board Shrishchandra’s boat, taking Satish with her.

  Kamalamani had been to Govindapur earlier, and at the sight of her it seemed to Kundanandini that there was again one star in the sky. Since Suryamukhi had left home, Kamalamani had been very angry with Kundanandini; she had refused to see her. But this time, when she arrived and saw Kundanandini’s pale figure, Kamalamani’s anger evaporated—she was saddened. She tried to cheer Kundanandini up, and when she told her that Nagendra was coming, she saw a smile on Kunda’s face. Following that, she had to give her the news of Suryamukhi’s death. At this, Kunda wept. Hearing this, many of the fair readers of this book will laugh to themselves, and say, ‘The cat weeps at the fish’s death.’ But Kunda was very
stupid. It did not occur to her dull mind that the death of a co-wife was to be greeted with laughter. The foolish girl wept a little for her co-wife. And you, lady! You who say, laughing, ‘The cat weeps at the fish’s death’—if you weep a little when your co-wife dies, I shall be very pleased with you.

  Kamalamani calmed Kunda. Kamalamani herself had become calm. At first, Kamala had wept and wept—then she had thought, ‘What will I achieve by weeping? If I weep, Shrishchandra becomes unhappy—if I weep, Satish weeps—weeping will not bring Suryamukhi back; so why do I make them weep? I will never forget Suryamukhi; but if I laugh Satish will laugh, so why should I not laugh?’ Thinking thus, Kamalamani left off weeping, and became her former self.

  Kamalamani said to Shrishchandra, ‘The Lakshmi of this abode of Vishnu has left it. So if my brother goes there, will he sleep on a banyan leaf?’

  Shrishchandra said, ‘Come, let us all put it in order.’

  So Shrishchandra set masons, labourers, cleaners and gardeners to work wherever there was need. Meanwhile, under Kamalamani’s stern eye, there was great consternation amongst the muskrats, bats and flittermice in the buildings; the pigeons flew cooing from this crevice to that; the sparrows were anxious to escape—where the windows were closed they were circling around trying to open a way through by pecking at the glass; the maidservants, with brooms in hand, were hastening to conquer everything and everyone. Soon the house was again smiling with pleasure.

  Finally, Nagendra arrived. It was evening by then. As a river flows very swiftly in its first spate, but when the flood is at its height the deep water assumes a peaceful aspect, so the full flow of Nagendra’s grief had now developed an appearance of deep peace. Nothing of his sorrow had diminished, but his restlessness had abated. He spoke calmly with the people of the house and inquired after everyone. He spoke of Suryamukhi with no one—but, seeing his calmness, everyone was saddened by his grief. The older servants, going to offer their respects, wept spontaneously. Nagendra wounded only one heart. He did not visit the ever-sorrowing Kundanandini.