44
By the Dim Lamp
BY NAGENDRA’S ORDERS, THE SERVANTS HAD PREPARED HIS BED IN Suryamukhi’s bedroom. When she heard of this, Kamalamani shook her head.
At night, when all the inmates of the house were asleep, Nagendra went to Suryamukhi’s bedroom. He did not sleep—he wept. Suryamukhi’s bedroom was very spacious and pleasing; it was the temple of Nagendra’s overflowing happiness, so he had furnished it with care. The room was spacious and high; the floor was laid with black and white marble. On the walls, blue, yellow and red creepers, fruits, flowers and so on were painted; perched on them were different kinds of small birds, eating the fruit. On one side was a costly bed, made, with artistry, of wood inlaid with ivory; on the other side were several kinds of seats covered with many-coloured cloth, and other furnishings including a large mirror. Several paintings hung on the walls. These paintings were not European. Suryamukhi and Nagendra had together chosen the subjects of the paintings, and had them painted by a Bengali painter. The Bengali painter was the student of an English painter; he drew well. Nagendra had had them framed in expensive frames and hung in the bedroom. One painting was taken from the Kumarasambhava. Shiva sat meditating on a dais on the top of a mountain. At the entrance to a bower was Nandi, with a golden ferrule in his left hand—with a finger to his mouth he was forbidding sound in the forest. The forest was still—the bees hid in the leaves—the deer were sleeping. Into this scene had come Madan, to break Shiva’s meditation. With him came the dawn of spring. Parvati, adorned with spring flowers, had come forward to make obeisance to Shiva. She was depicted stooping before Shiva, one knee on the ground, the other on the point of touching it, head and shoulders bent. One or two red flowers were falling from the ringlets over her ears, dislodged by the bending of her head; her dress had fallen a little from her breast, and from a distance Madan, hidden in the spring-blossomed forest, one knee on the ground, was fixing a flower-arrow to his elegant, full-drawn, flowery bow. In another painting, Rama was bringing Sita back from Lanka; the two of them sat in a bejewelled chariot, travelling through the sky. Rama had one hand on Sita’s shoulder, and with the other was pointing out the beauties of the earth below. On all sides of the flying chariot, multicoloured clouds—blue, ruddy and white—were moving, tossed up in thick waves. Below, other waves were breaking in the wide, blue sea—the waves were sparkling like diamonds in the rays of the sun. On one side was ‘Lanka, adorned with many buildings’—the gold-ornamented tops of its palaces were sparkling in the sun’s rays. On the other side, was the darkly beautiful ‘azure with tamal and tal forests’ seashore. In-between, in the sky, lines of swans were flying. In another painting, Arjuna was carrying off Subhadra in his chariot. The chariot was travelling through the sky among the clouds; behind it, countless Yadavi soldiers were running: in the distance could be seen their banners and the clouds of dust they raised. Subhadra herself, as charioteer, was driving the chariot. The horses had turned their heads towards each other, and were pounding the clouds with their stride; Subhadra, delighted with her skill as a charioteer, had turned her head and was looking sidelong at Arjuna; she was biting her lower lip with her jasmine-white teeth in suppressed laughter; in the wind of the chariot’s speed, her tresses were flying—one or two locks of hair, damp with perspiration, lay in ringlets on her forehead. In another painting, Ratnabali, dressed as Sagarika, under a tamal tree in the clear sky, was preparing to hang herself. A creeper full of bright flowers was trailing from the branches of the tamal tree; Ratnabali was with one hand draping the end of the creeper round her throat, and with the other hand wiping tears from her eyes; the flowers of the creeper beautifully adorned her tresses. In another painting, Shakuntala was taking an imaginary sharp blade of kusha grass from her foot in order to look at Dushyanta—Priyamvada was laughing without malice—Shakuntala, from anger and shame, did not lift her head—she could not look in Dushyanta’s direction—neither could she go away. In another painting, the mighty prince Abhimanyu, like a young lion, dressed for battle, was taking leave of Uttara to go to war—Uttara would not let him go and was standing at the door herself, keeping it closed. Abhimanyu, seeing her fear, was laughing, and playfully showing her how he would break the lines of battle, drawing on the ground with the point of his sword. Uttara was seeing nothing of this. She was weeping, with both hands over her eyes. In another painting, Satyabhama’s weighing-vow was depicted. There was a wide courtyard of stone; on one side, the king’s city was shining with the golden tops of the beautiful buildings. In the middle of the courtyard, a great silver weighing machine had been set up. Filling one side of it sat Krishna, Lord of Dwarka, adorned with many ornaments, in his mature aspect, like a cloud burning with lightning. That side of the scales was touching the ground; on the other side were piled heaps of gold and jewels, but the first side was not rising at all. Beside the scales was Satyabhama; Satyabhama was mature, beautiful, with upright figure, with a ripe grace, enhanced with much tending, with eyes like lotus petals; but seeing the position of the scales her face had become pale. She was taking the ornaments from her limbs and throwing them into the scales; with her champak-white fingers she was taking the jewels hanging from her ears; from shame, drops of perspiration were on her brow, tears of misery had come to her eyes, her nostrils were flaring with anger, she was biting her lower lip: in such a state the painter had drawn her. Behind, like a golden image, Rukmini was watching. Her face, too, was sad. She, too, had taken the ornaments from her limbs and was giving them to Satyabhama. But her eyes were on Krishna; she was glancing sidelong towards her husband and smiling just a little with the corners of her lips, yet Krishna saw clearly the joy of the co-wife in that smile. Krishna’s face was grave and still, as if he knew nothing; but he too was looking sidelong towards Rukmini, and there was in that sidelong look, too, a little smile. In the middle was the sage Narada, in white clothes, beautiful as the evening star; he was watching everything as if delighted, and his scarf and beard were flying in the breeze. All around, the many members of the household, dressed in various clothes and ornaments, brightened the scene. Many Brahmin beggars had come. A number of the household guards were quelling the hubbub. Under this painting, Suryamukhi had written with her own hand, ‘As the deed, so the result. Are gold and silver equal to a husband?’
More than two prahars of the night had elapsed when Nagendra entered the room, alone. It was indeed, a terrible night. From evening onwards, little by little, rain had started to fall, and the wind had risen. Now rain was falling repeatedly, and the wind had gained a furious force. Where doors were open in the house, they were banging with a noise like thunder. The windows were all rattling. When Nagendra entered the room, he closed the door. The sound of the gale was then reduced. Beside the bed another door was open—no wind was coming through it, and that door remained open.
Having entered the bedroom, Nagendra sighed deeply and sat down on a sofa. No one knew for how long Nagendra wept, sitting there. How many words of happiness had he spoken, sitting with Suryamukhi, how many times, face to face on that sofa.
Again and again, Nagendra kissed that inanimate sofa. Lifting his head again, he looked towards Suryamukhi’s beloved paintings. A bright lamp was burning in the room—in its restless rays, all the painted figures seemed alive. Nagendra saw Suryamukhi in every painting. He remembered that one day Suryamukhi, looking at Uma’s adornment of flowers, had felt the desire to wear flowers herself. Nagendra had gathered and brought flowers from the garden himself, and with his own hands had decked Suryamukhi with blossoms. How happy Suryamukhi had been at that—is any woman decked with jewels as happy as she was? Another day, looking at Subhadra’s charioteering, Suryamukhi wanted to drive Nagendra’s carriage. Nagendra, loving his wife, at once had two little Burmese horses harnessed to a small carriage and brought into the garden of the inner courtyard for Suryamukhi to drive. The two of them got into the carriage. Suryamukhi took the reins. The horses started to move of their own accord. Suryamukhi, like Su
bhadra, turned her face towards Nagendra, and bit her lower lip in suppressed laughter. Seeing the main gateway close by, the horses took this opportunity to go right out into the open road with the carriage. Then Suryamukhi, distressed by the fear of public disgrace, drew her veil. Seeing her unhappy state, Nagendra took the reins in his own hands and brought the carriage back to the inner courtyard. And when they both got off, how much they laughed. Going to her bedroom, Suryamukhi shook her fist at Subhadra’s image and said, ‘You are a causer of great ruin and a source of much danger.’ How Nagendra wept, remembering this. Unable to bear more pain, he got up and began to pace about. But in whichever direction he looked—there were signs of Suryamukhi. The creeper that the painter had drawn on the walls—Suryamukhi had drawn a creeper in a desire to imitate it. It was still there. One day, during Holi, Suryamukhi had thrown gulal at her husband—it had missed Nagendra and hit the wall. The mark of the red powder still remained. When the room had been finished, Suryamukhi had written in one place with her own hand:
In the year 1854
THIS TEMPLE
was established
for the installation of
HER DEITY
her husband
by his servant Suryamukhi
Nagendra read this. How many times Nagendra read it—his longing was not quenched by reading—again and again tears blurred his vision—wiping his eyes, he read again. He turned and saw that the lamp was on the verge of going out. Then Nagendra sighed and went to lie down on the bed. Just as he sat down on the bed, the storm blew up with suddenly increased force; from all sides came the sound of doors protesting. The lamp, empty of oil, was nearly extinguished—only a little light, like that of a fire-fly, remained.
In that light, little better than darkness, something extraordinary came within his sight. Startled by the noise of the rain and wind, he turned his eyes towards the open door beside the bed. Through that open door, in the dim light, he saw a shadow-like figure. The shadow had the form of a woman, but at what else he saw, Nagendra’s flesh prickled and his limbs trembled. The woman-shaped image had Suryamukhi’s figure. As Nagendra identified this as Suryamukhi’s semblance, he fell from the bed to the ground and started to run towards the shadow. The shadow disappeared. At the same time, the light went out. Then Nagendra cried out and fell fainting to the ground.
45
Shadow
When Nagendra regained consciousness, the bedroom was still in deep darkness. Gradually, he came back to his senses. When he remembered his fainting, amazement gave birth to even greater amazement. He had fallen fainting to the ground; then where had the pillow under his head come from? Again a doubt shook him—was it a pillow? He touched the pillow—and found that it was not a pillow. It was somebody’s lap. From its softness he realized that it was a woman’s lap. Who had come and, while he was in a swoon, taken his head on her lap? Was it Kundanandini? To dispel his uncertainty, he asked, ‘Who are you?’ She who was cradling his head gave no answer—only several warm drops fell on Nagendra’s forehead. Nagendra realized that whoever she was, she was weeping. Receiving no answer, Nagendra touched her limbs. Then suddenly Nagendra’s senses became disoriented and his flesh prickled. He lay for a while inactive and inanimate. Then slowly, holding his breath, he lifted his head from the woman’s lap and sat up.
The storm had now stopped. There were no more clouds in the sky—dawn was lightening the east. Outside, there was a considerable amount of light—even within the room a little light was coming through the windows. Sitting up, Nagendra saw that the woman had risen to her feet—she was going slowly towards the door. Nagendra realized that this was not Kundanandini. It was not yet light enough to recognize anyone. But shape and posture were to some extent perceivable. Nagendra looked hard for a moment at the shape and posture. Then, he fell at the feet of that standing woman. ‘Whether you are goddess or human, I fall at your feet: speak to me just once. Otherwise I shall die.’
What the woman said, Nagendra was not destined to understand. But as the sound of her words reached his ears he swiftly got up to his feet. Then he went forward to embrace the woman. But then both his mind and body were overwhelmed with faintness—like a creeper falling from a tree, he fell once more at the feet of that bewitching figure. He said no more.
The woman sat down, and again took his head on her lap. When Nagendra rose out of swoon or sleep, day had dawned. There was light in the room. Outside the room, in the garden, the birds were warbling in the trees. From its path of light above, the rays of the young sun were falling into the room. Nagendra realized that his head was once again resting on someone’s lap. Without looking, he said, ‘Kunda, why did you come? I have been dreaming of Suryamukhi all night. In my dream I saw that I had laid my head on Suryamukhi’s lap. What joy it would be if you could become Suryamukhi!’ The woman said, ‘If you would be so happy to see that unfortunate woman, then I have become her.’
Nagendra looked up. Astounded, he sat up. He rubbed his eyes. Again he looked. He held his head in his hands. Again he rubbed his eyes and looked. Then, bending his head once more, he said softly to himself, ‘Have I gone mad—or is Suryamukhi alive? Is this my final fate? I have gone mad!’ With these words, Nagendra lay on the ground, covered his eyes with his arms and wept again.
Now the woman took hold of his feet. Hiding her face at his feet, she bathed them with her tears. She said, ‘Rise, rise! My life’s all! Rise from the ground and sit. Now all the sorrow I have suffered is ended. Rise, rise! I did not die. I have come back to serve you.’
What misapprehension was left? Nagendra held Suryamukhi in a close embrace. And leaning his head on her breast he wept, wordlessly, ceaselessly. Then, with their heads on each other’s shoulders, how much they both wept. Neither spoke—how much they wept! What joy was in their weeping!
46
What Had Happened
IN DUE COURSE, SURYAMUKHI ALLAYED NAGENDRA’S CURIOSITY. SHE SAID, ‘I did not die—what the physician said about my dying—that was not true. The physician did not know. When, through his treatment, I regained strength, I became very anxious to come to Govindapur to see you. I pestered the brahmachari. Finally, he agreed to take me to Govindapur. One day, after the evening meal, I set out with him for Govindapur. When we arrived, we heard that you were not in the area. The brahmachari, introducing me as his daughter, left me at a Brahmin’s house six miles away from here, and went in search of you. He went first to Kolkata and met Shrishchandra. From Shrishchandra he heard that you were going to Madhupur. Hearing this, he went back to Madhupur. In Madhupur, he learned that on the very day we had left Haramani’s place, her house had burnt down. Haramani had been burnt to death in the house. In the morning, people looking at the burned body could not recognize it. They worked out that there had been two people in the house and that one had died and the other was not there. So they supposed that one had escaped and survived—and the other had burned to death. The one who had escaped was fit, the one who was ill was unable to escape. In this way they decided that Haramani had escaped and I had died. What was at first a mere inference, gradually became proclaimed as a certainty, as it was passed on. It was this that Ramakrishna Ray heard and told you. The brahmachari, learning all this, heard further that you, having gone to Madhupur and heard the news of my death, had come in this direction. Being very concerned, he returned in search of you. Yesterday afternoon he reached Pratappur; I, too, had heard that you would reach home within a day. In that expectation, I came home the day before yesterday. I have no difficulty now in walking six miles—I have learned how to walk the roads. You had not arrived, the day before yesterday, and hearing this I returned, and, after meeting the brahmachari again yesterday, I came back to Govindapur. When I arrived here, it was one prahar into the night. I saw that the back door was still open. I entered the house—no one saw me. I stayed hiding under the stairs. Then when everyone was asleep I climbed the stairs. I thought that you would certainly be sleeping in this room. I saw that this d
oor was open. I peeped through the door—you were sitting with your head in your hands. I longed very much to fall at your feet—but I was extremely afraid as well—the wrong that I had done you—what if you did not forgive that? I was happy just seeing you. I watched you from the shelter of the door; I thought, now I will show myself. I was coming forward to show myself—but as soon as you saw me in the doorway, you fainted. Then I sat down and took your head in my lap. I had not known that this happiness was in my destiny. But, fie! You do not love me. You did not recognize me even when your hand touched my body—I would know you from the feel of the very air your body displaced.’
47
The Simple-hearted and the Snake
WHILE NAGENDRA AND SURYAMUKHI, FLOATING ON AN OCEAN OF HAPPINESS, were having this life-restoring conversation, in another part of the house a life-destroying conversation was taking place. But first, it is necessary to say something about the previous night.
When he arrived at the house, Nagendra did not speak with Kunda. In her own bedroom, Kunda wept all night with her face in her pillow. She did not weep the easy tears of girlhood—she wept wounded to the heart. If anyone has, in childhood, given themselves unreservedly to someone and, in return for the priceless heart, received only disregard, they will know how this weeping cleaves the heart.
Then Kunda lamented, ‘Why have I stayed alive, longing for the sight of my husband?’
She thought, further, ‘In the hope of what happiness do I stay alive?’
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 25
