After a night of wakefulness and weeping, sleep came to Kunda at dawn. Overcome by sleep, she had for the second time a vivid dream.
In it, the light-filled figure that had taken her mother’s shape and appeared to her in a dream as she slept her father’s deathbed in her father’s house, four years before—that same light-filled, calm figure appeared again above Kunda’s head. But this time she was not within the flawless bright circle of the moon. She was descending, riding in a dense blue raincloud. All around her, waves of deep blue vapour full of darkness were thrown up; within that darkness, a human form was smiling slightly. Gradually it lightened. Kunda saw with fear that this smiling face was that of Hira. She saw further that her mother’s compassion-filled beauty was now informed with seriousness. Her mother said, ‘Kunda, you did not come with me—have you now seen sorrow?’
Kunda wept.
Then her mother spoke again, ‘I told you that I would come once again; so I have come. Now if you have had your fill of earthly happiness, come with me.’
Then Kunda, weeping, said, ‘Mother, take me with you. I do not want to stay here any longer.’
Hearing this, her mother was pleased, and said, ‘Then come.’ With these words the shining one vanished. When she awoke, Kunda remembered her dream, and prayed to the deity, ‘This time may my dream bear fruit.’
In the morning Hira entered the room to serve Kunda. She saw that Kunda was weeping.
Since Kamalamani’s arrival, Hira had behaved meekly to Kunda. The cause of this was the news that Nagendra was coming. As if in expiation for her ancestors’ behaviour, Hira indeed spoke even more sweetly and was even more obedient to Kunda than before. Anyone else would have able to see through this trickery—but Kunda was unusually simple and easily satisfied—so she was not suspicious or displeased at Hira’s new agreeableness. Hence Kunda now considered Hira to be as worthy of trust as before. She had never considered her untrustworthy apart from her rough-speaking.
Hira asked, ‘Mistress, why are you weeping?’
Kunda said nothing. She looked at Hira. Hira saw that Kunda’s eyes were swollen, and her pillow soaked. Hira said, ‘What is this? Have you wept all night, then? Why, did the master say something?’
Kunda said, ‘Nothing.’
With these words she began to weep again with increased force. Hira saw that something particular had happened. Seeing Kunda’s distress, her heart was flooded with joy. Donning a sorrowful expression, she asked, ‘Did the master speak to you when he came home? He spoke to the maidservants.’
Kunda said, ‘He said nothing.’
Astonished, Hira, said, ‘What is this, mistress! Seeing you after so long! He said nothing at all?’
Kunda said, ‘He has not seen me.’
As she said this, Kunda’s weeping became unrestrainable. Hira was secretly pleased. Smiling, she said, ‘Fie, mistress, what is there to weep at that? How many great sorrows fall on how many people’s heads—and you are weeping because of a small delay in seeing him?’
‘Great sorrows’ of what sort, Kunda could not at all understand. Then Hira said, ‘If you had had to bear as much as I have—then you would have committed suicide long since.’
The great, ominous word ‘suicide’ sounded terribly in Kundanandini’s ears. She sat shuddering. In the night she had thought many times of suicide. Hearing that word on Hira’s tongue seemed to underline it.
Hira said, ‘Then listen while I tell you the story of my sorrows. I, too, once loved someone more than my life. He was not my husband—but what is the point of hiding from you the sin I committed—it is good to confess it clearly.’
Kunda did not hear these shameless words. The word ‘suicide’ was resounding in her ears. It was as if a spirit was saying in her ears, ‘You can commit suicide; which is better, this suffering, or death?’
Hira said, ‘He was not my husband; but I loved him more than a hundred thousand husbands. He did not love me. I knew that he did not love me. And he loved another sinner, a hundred times inferior to me.’ Saying this, Hira shot one sharp, angry, sidelong look at downcast-eyed Kunda, and then said, ‘Knowing this, I did not approach him; but one day we both became foolish.’ Beginning thus, Hira gave Kunda a brief account of her own great suffering. She used no names; Devendra’s and Kunda’s names both remained unspoken. And she said nothing by which Hira’s beloved, or that beloved’s beloved, could be identified. Everything else she briefly disclosed. Finally, after recounting that she had been kicked, she said, ‘What did I do then, do you think?’
Kunda said, ‘What did you do?’
Hira, with animated face and hands, went on, ‘I went straight to the Chandal physician’s house. He has all the poisons which will kill a person as soon as they take them.’
Calmly, mildly, Kunda said, ‘And then?’
Hira said, ‘I bought the poison in order to kill myself with it, but in the end I thought, “Why should I die for someone else?” Thinking this, I put the poison in a little container and put it away in a box.’
With these words, Hira fetched the box from within her room. Hira kept the box there to hide in it gifts from the master’s house, rewards, and things she had stolen.
In that box, Hira had kept the little packet of poison she had bought. Opening the box, Hira showed Kunda the little packet of poison within its small container.
Like a cat greedy for meat, Kunda looked at it. Then Hira, as if absent-mindedly forgetting to lock the box, began to console Kunda. Just then, suddenly, in that morning in Nagendra’s house, there rose the auspicious sounds of the conch, and of women ululating. Astonished, Hira ran to see. Ill-fated Kundanandini took that opportunity to steal the packet of poison from its container.
48
Kunda’s Prompt Action
WHEN HIRA ARRIVED AND SAW WHAT THE CAUSE OF THE CONCH-SOUND was, she could not at first understand it at all. She saw that the women of the household, and the children, all mingled together, were circling around someone in a large room, and making a great uproar. The person around whom they were clamouring—that was a woman—Hira could only see her hair. Hira saw that Kaushalya and other maidservants had oiled that hair with the finest oil, and were colouring it with hair dye. Among those who were circling her, some were laughing, some weeping, some chattering, some invoking blessings. The children were dancing, singing and clapping their hands. Circling everyone, Kamalamani was blowing the conch, and ululating, and laughing as she wept—and, sometimes, looking this way and that, giving one or two skips.
Watching this, Hira was astonished. Hira craned her neck within the circle, and peered. She was overwhelmed with astonishment at what she saw. She saw that Suryamukhi was sitting on the floor, smiling sweetly and affectionately. Kaushalya and the others were smoothing her rough hair with flower-scented oil: someone was colouring it; someone was cleansing her body with moist body-oil. Someone else was putting on her all her abandoned ornaments. Suryamukhi was speaking sweetly to everyone—but smiling an abashed, somewhat guilty, sweet smile! Tears of affection were falling down her cheeks.
Suryamukhi had died; that she had returned and was again in the house, smiling a sweet smile, Hira could not at once believe, even seeing it. In a muffled voice, Hira asked one of the women of the house, ‘Who is that, then?’
The words reached Kaushalya’s ears. Kaushalya said, ‘Do you not recognize her? The Lakshmi of our house, and for you, Death.’ For so long Kaushalya had been like a thief in fear of Hira, today she turned her eyes frankly towards her.
When she was dressed, and had finished speaking with everyone, Suryamukhi said in Kamala’s ear, ‘Let us come and see Kunda. She has done nothing wrong to me—nor am I angry with her. She is now my younger sister.’
Kamala and Suryamukhi went alone to greet Kunda.
They were there for a long time. At last Kamalamani, with a fear-stricken face, came out of Kunda’s room. And in great anxiety she sent for Nagendra. When Nagendra came, summoned by the women, she showed him
Kunda’s room.
Nagendra entered it. At the door he met Suryamukhi. Suryamukhi was weeping. Nagendra asked, ‘What has happened?’
Suryamukhi said, ‘Disaster. I have known for a long time that there is not even one day’s happiness in my destiny—otherwise why, as soon as I become happy again, would such a disaster happen?’
Afraid, Nagendra asked, ‘What has happened?’
Suryamukhi, weeping again, said, ‘I brought Kunda up from girlhood; now she is my little sister; I came back longing to cherish her like a sister. That longing has turned to ashes. Kunda has taken poison.’
Nagendra exclaimed, ‘What?’
Suryamukhi said, ‘Stay with her—I will fetch the doctor.’
With these words Suryamukhi went away. Nagendra went alone to Kundanandini.
When he went in, Nagendra saw that darkness had pervaded Kundanandini’s face. Her eyes were lustreless; her body, exhausted, was failing.
49
After So Long, Speech
KUNDANANDINI WAS SITTING ON THE FLOOR, RESTING HER HEAD ON A side-post of the bed—when she saw Nagendra approaching, her eyes overflowed. When Nagendra was standing by her, Kunda fell forward like a creeper from a tree, her head at his feet. In a voice blurred with emotion, Nagendra said, ‘What is this, Kunda! For what fault are you leaving me?’
Kunda would never answer her husband—now, at the time of death, she spoke to her husband in a free voice; she said, ‘For what fault did you leave me?’
Then Nagendra, having no answer, sat down near Kundanandini with his head bowed. Kunda said again, ‘If, when you arrived yesterday, you had once called my name like this—if you had once, yesterday, sat down near me like this—then I would not have died. I had you just for a few days—I have not yet had enough of seeing you. I would not have died.’
At these love-filled, painful words, Nagendra rested his forehead on his knees, and remained silent.
Then Kunda said again—Kunda was now very talkative; she would have no further days in which to speak with her husband—Kunda said, ‘Fie! Do not remain silent like that; if I do not see your smiling face as I die—then even in my death there will be no happiness!’
Suryamukhi, too, had spoken in this way; at the time of death, all are equal.
Then Nagendra, wounded to the heart, said in a pained voice, ‘Why did you do such a thing? Why did you not once call me?’
Kunda smiled a soft, sweet, heavenly smile, like lightning within a cloud lying in dissolution on the ground, and said, ‘Do not think that. I only said what I did out of passion. I had already decided, before you came, that after seeing you I would die. I had decided that if my elder sister should ever return, I would leave you with her and die—but seeing you I do not want to die.’
Nagendra could make no answer. Now he was without answer before Kunda, the girl unskilled in speech.
Kunda was silent for a while. She was losing the power to speak. Death was taking possession of her.
Then Nagendra saw the fullness of love in that death-shadowed face. The smile that he saw then on that afflicted face, like dim lightning, remained engraved on his heart until the end of his days.
Kunda rested for a while longer, and then as if unsatisfied, breathing painfully, spoke again, ‘My thirst for speech is not allayed—I thought of you as a god—I never had the courage to open my mouth and speak to you. My longing is not fulfilled—my body is becoming exhausted—my mouth is drying up—my tongue is stiffening—I have no more time.’ With these words, Kunda relinquished the support of the bed, lay on the floor, rested her head on Nagendra’s body and, closing her eyes, remained silent.
The doctor came. When he had seen and heard what he had to, he offered no medicine—seeing that there was no hope, he went away sorrowfully.
Feeling the time near, Kunda asked to see Suryamukhi and Kamalamani. When they both came, Kunda took the dust of their feet. They both wept aloud.
Then Kundanandini hid her face in her husband’s feet. Seeing her silent, they both wept aloud again; but Kunda spoke no more. Gradually losing consciousness, her face still between her husband’s feet, in the freshness of youth, Kundanandini relinquished life. Barely opened, the Kunda-blossom withered.
Checking her first tears, Suryamukhi looked towards her co-wife and said, ‘Fortunate one! May my fate be as happy as yours. May I die thus with my head on my husband’s feet.’
With these words, Suryamukhi took her weeping husband by the hand and led him away. Later, Nagendra took Kunda, who had suffered so much, to the river-bank and, after a cremation in accordance with custom, committed that incomparable heavenly image to the water.
50
Conclusion
AFTER KUNDANANDINI’S DEATH, EVERYONE STARTED TO ASK WHERE Kundanandini had obtained poison. Everyone suspected that this was Hira’s doing.
Then, not having seen Hira, Nagendra sent for her. She could not be found. Since Kundanandini’s death, Hira had disappeared.
From then on, no one in that region saw Hira. Hira’s name was forgotten in Govindapur. Only once, a year later, she showed herself to Devendra.
Devendra’s poison tree was then bearing fruit. He had fallen ill with a loathsome disease. On top of that, because of his failure to abstain from wine, the disease had become difficult to treat. Devendra was on his deathbed.
Within a year of Kundanandini’s death, Devendra too was at death’s door. Several days before his death, he was lying on his sickbed in the house, unable to rise—when there was a great commotion at the gate of the house. Devendra asked, ‘What is it?’ The servants said, ‘A madwoman is asking to see you. She won’t accept a refusal.’ Devendra ordered, ‘Let her come in.’
The madwoman entered the room. Devendra saw that she was a poverty-stricken woman. No particular indication of her madness could be seen—but it was clear that she was a very poor beggar. She was young, and there were still signs of her former beauty. But now she was in a very pitiable state. Her clothing was very dirty, torn in a hundred places, patched in a hundred places, and so meagre that it did not reach below her knees and did not cover her back and head. Her hair was rough, undressed, and grey with dust—even somewhat matted. There was a dry crust of dirt on her oil-less limbs, and mud as well.
The beggar-woman came close to Devendra and gave him a sharp look of such a kind that Devendra could see that what the servants had said was true—this was a madwoman.
The madwoman looked at him for a long time and then said, ‘Do you not recognize me? I am Hira.’
Devendra saw that it was indeed Hira. Amazed, he asked, ‘Who brought you to this state?’
Hira, with a look blazing with anger, biting her lip, struck Devendra with her clenched fist. Then, becoming calm, she said, ‘You ask me—who brought me to this state? It was you who brought me to this state. Now you do not recognize me—but there was a time when you flattered me. Now you do not think of it, but there was a time when in this very room you sat and held this foot (as she said this, Hira placed her foot on the bed) and sang:
Allayer of love’s poison, place on my head
your beautiful, lotus-like feet.’
Reminding him thus of so many things, the madwoman went on, ‘Since the day you abandoned me, kicked me, and drove me away, I have become mad. I was going to poison myself—but a joyful idea came into my mind—I would not take the poison myself but would give it to you or to your Kunda. In that hope I somehow hid my disease for some days—this illness of mine sometimes surfaces, sometimes goes. When I was demented I would stay at home; when I was well, I did my work. Finally, I relieved my mind’s misery by getting Kunda to take the poison; after I saw her die my illness increased. I would no longer be able to hide it—realizing that, I left the region. I no longer had food—who gives food to a madwoman? Since then I have begged—when I am well, I beg; when my illness presses on me I lie down under a tree. Now, hearing that you were near death, I came rejoicing for once to see you. I pray that your place will n
ot be in hell too.’
With these words, the madwoman got up, laughing loudly. Devendra, afraid, moved to the other side of the bed. Then Hira danced out of the room, singing:
Allayer of love’s poison, place on my head
your beautiful, lotus-like feet.
From then on, Devendra’s deathbed was full of thorns. A little before his death, in the delirium of fever, Devendra said only, ‘Beautiful, lotus-like feet’, ‘Beautiful, lotus-like feet’.
After Devendra’s death, for many days the guards heard in the garden at night a woman singing—
Allayer of love’s poison, place on my head
your beautiful, lotus-like feet.
I have concluded The Poison Tree. I hope that from it, in many households, there will come nectar.
Endnotes
1. A Babu is a respectable person. The term is usually applied to an upper-class bhadralok. It is also used for the higher classes generally—zamindars, lawyers and rich, professional people. A Babu in a village was the zamindar of the village. But the word Babu is also used for English-educated Bengalis, and in this context it can have negative connotations, referring to anglicized Bengalis who had adopted such practices as drinking alcohol. (See Chapter 10.)
2. ‘Grants-in-aid’ refers to the British education policy in India as enunciated by Sir Charles Wood’s Education Despatch of 1854. Under this system, the British government in India encouraged private schools and colleges for English education with substantial grants. Many schools and colleges were established in the seventies of the nineteenth century under this scheme.
3. The Brahmo Samaj was a reformist Hindu sect established by Raja Rammohun Roy (c. 1772–1831) in 1828. One of their magazines, the Tattvabodhini, established in the forties of the nineteenth century, propagated social and religious reform in Bengal.
4. According to a traditional Bengali proverb, it is in the nature of thieves and stray animals to enter homes without permission.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 26
