I did not throw away the piece of wood; I went ahead, leaning against it. After walking a long way, I met an old woman. She was driving a cow along.
I asked her, where was Maheshpur? Or, where was Manoharpur? The old woman said, ‘Mother, who are you? Is such a beautiful girl wandering alone on path and landing? Oh, my life, what a beautiful body! Come to my house.’4 I went to her house. Seeing that I was suffering from hunger, she milked the cow and gave me some milk to drink. She knew Maheshpur. I told her, ‘I will see that you get some money if you take me there.’ To that she said, ‘How can I go and leave my house and family?’ Then I set out on the path she showed me. I walked until evening—I became extremely tired. I asked someone on the road, ‘How far is Maheshpur from here?’ He looked at me stupefied. After much thought he said, ‘Where have you come from?’ I told him the name of the village where the old woman had shown me the path. At that, the traveller said, ‘You have mistaken the way; you have been going in the wrong direction all the time. Maheshpur is a day’s walk from here.’
My head spun. I asked him, ‘Where are you going?’ He said, ‘I am going to the village of Gouri, which is close by.’ Having no choice, I followed him.
When we came into the village, he asked me, ‘Whose house are you going to?’
I said, ‘I do not know anyone here. I will lie down under a tree.’
The traveller said, ‘What is your caste?’
I said, ‘I am a Kayastha.’
He said, ‘I am a Brahmin. Come with me. Your garment is dirty and worn out indeed, but you are the daughter of an important house. Such beauty is not found in low-class houses.’
Ashy beauty! Hearing this ‘beauty, beauty’, I became vexed, but this Brahmin was old; I went with him.
For the next two days, I rested in the Brahmin’s house. This kindly old Brahmin was a priest. Seeing the condition of my clothes, he was astonished and asked, ‘Mother, why are your clothes in such a state? Did someone take away your clothes?’ I said, ‘Yes, sir.’ He obtained many clothes from the people whose priest he was—he gave me two saris with narrow red borders. There were conch shell bracelets in his house, too; I took these, also, and wore them.5
I did all this with great difficulty. My body was exhausted. The Brahmin’s wife gave me some rice—I ate. She gave me a mat; I spread it out and lay down. But even with so much trouble taken, I did not sleep. I could only think of how I was ruined for life—that it would be better if I was dead. I could not sleep.
At dawn I slept a little. Again, I dreamed. I saw in front of me the dark-filled form of Death, smiling and showing his great rows of teeth. I slept no more. When I got up the next morning, I found that my body hurt. My feet were swollen, and I did not have the strength to sit up.
For as long as I needed to recover physically, I stayed perforce in the Brahmin’s house. The Brahmin and his wife took great care of me. But I saw no way of returning to Maheshpur. Some of the women did not know the way; or would not agree to go. Many of the men offered—but I was afraid to go with them alone. The Brahmin too, forbade it. He said, ‘They are not of good character: do not go with them. It is not clear what their intentions are. I cannot let a child of gentlefolk, as beautiful as you, go with them anywhere.’ So I desisted.
One day, I heard that a gentleman by the name of Krishnadas Basu was going with his family to Calcutta. When I heard this, I thought that here was a good opportunity. It was true that both my father’s house and my father-in-law’s house were a long way from Calcutta, but my father’s brother lived there, for his business. I thought that if I went to Calcutta I could certainly find my uncle. He could certainly arrange for me to go back to my father’s place. Or if not, he could send word to my father.
I told this to the Brahmin. The Brahmin said, ‘You have judged well. Krishnadas Babu is one of my people. I will tell him to take you with him. He is old, and he is a very good man.’
The Brahmin took me to Krishnadas Babu. The Brahmin said, ‘This is a daughter of gentlefolk, who has fallen into danger, lost her way, and come to these parts. If you take her with you to Calcutta, this helpless one will be able to return to her father’s house.’ Krishnadas Babu agreed. I went into his inner chambers. On the following day, with the women of his family—even though I was not well received by his family—I set out for Calcutta. On the first day, after walking for nine or ten miles, we reached the bank of the Ganga. The next day we boarded a boat.
5
‘We Will Make Our Anklets Sound as We Go’
I HAD NEVER SEEN THE GANGA. NOW, SEEING THE GANGA, MY SPIRIT WAS filled with joy. For the moment, all my sorrows were forgotten. The peaceful heart of the Ganga! On it were small waves: the sunlight sparkled on them. As far as the eye could see, the water ran, gleaming; on the banks, like arbours, were endless lines of well laid out trees; on the water were so many boats of so many kinds; there were the sounds of oars on the water, the sounds of the oarsmen and the boatmen, noise and bustle on the water, noise and bustle on the landings on the banks; so many kinds of people were bathing in so many ways. Again, in places there were endless stretches of sandy beach, like white clouds: on these, so many kinds of birds were making so much noise. The Ganga was truly full of virtue. For some days I watched her with insatiate eyes.
The day before we reached Calcutta, there was high tide a little before evening. The boat had stopped. It had been moored near the stone-built landing of an upper-class village. I saw so many beautiful things; I saw the fishermen with nets, like spiders, in dinghies, catching fish. I saw pandits, sitting on the terraces beside the landing’s steps, discussing the shastras. So many beautiful women, with ornaments in their hair, came to fetch water. Some threw water, some filled pitchers, some emptied them out again, filled them again, laughed and told stories, again threw out the water, again filled their pitchers. As I watched, an old song of mine came to mind,
I take the pitcher on one hip. I fill it with water,
Within the water is the dark prince!
Making waves with the pitcher, I no longer see anyone,
Krishna is hidden again in the water.6
That day I saw two little girls there whom I will never forget. They were seven and eight years old. They were pleasant to look at, though not really beautiful. But they were well-dressed. There were earrings in their ears, and an ornament each on their arms and neck. Their hair was adorned with flowrs. Each wore a shiuli-flower-dyed orange sari with a black border. There were sets of four anklets on their legs. Each had a little pitcher on her hip. When it was time to come down to the landing’s terrace, they came down singing a song of the high-tide’s water. I remember the song: I thought it was very sweet, so I have written it here. One of them sang one verse, the other sang the next. I learned that their names were Amala and Nirmala. They sang:
Amala:
In the fields of rice waves have risen
the water has reached the bamboo grove
Come, my friend, let us fetch water,
let us go and fetch water.
Nirmala:
Spreading over the landing, surrounding the trees
masses of flowers have opened.
Come, my friend, let us fetch water,
let us go and fetch water.
Amala:
In pleasant clothes smiling sidelong,
we will laugh gently.
Carrying our pitchers, we will with pride
make our anklets sound as we go.
Come, my friend, let us fetch water,
let us go and fetch water.
Nirmala:
With ornaments on our bodies, lac-dye on our feet
and saris with embroidered borders,
With gentle movement we will in rhythm
make our anklets sound as we go.
Come, my friend, let us fetch water,
Let us go and fetch water.
Amala:
All the boys leave their games
and come back in groups.
>
The old women, the grim old women,
will carry so much water,
We will smile sidelong, in our pleasant clothes
and make our anklets sound as we go,
We will make our anklets sound as we go,
Friend, make our anklets sound as we go.
Both:
Come my friend, let us fetch water,
let us go and fetch water.
This life is somewhat soothed when it is steeped in the essence of girlhood. I was listening intently to this song when I saw that Basu Babu’s wife was asking me, ‘Why are you listening again with gaping mouth to that trashy song?’ I said, ‘What is the harm in it?’
Basu Babu’s wife said, ‘These girls are shameless, aren’t they? A song about making anklets sound!’
I said, ‘It is true that these words would not sound well in the mouths of sixteen-year-old girls, but they sound well in the mouths of seven-year-olds. Cuffs and slaps from the hands of stout young men are not good, it is true, but cuffs and slaps from the hands of a three-year-old boy are very sweet.’
Basu Babu’s wife said nothing more, but sat there morosely. I started to think. I thought, ‘Why is there this difference? Why does the same thing appear in two different lights? Why is the gift to the poor which is accounted as virtue, considered to be flattery if it is given to the great man? Why does truth, the primary virtue, become according to circumstances the sin of self-praise or of slander of others? Why is forgiveness, which is a prime virtue, a great sin if it is directed towards a criminal? People do indeed call someone who leaves a woman in the forest a great sinner, but Ramachandra left Sita in the forest. Why does no one call him a great sinner?’
I decided that all this happens because of differences in circumstances. This idea stayed in my mind. After this, I would remember it before I spoke, ever, of shameless deeds. So I have written down this song here.
When I saw Calcutta from a distance as the boat approached it, I was amazed and frightened. Building after building, mansion on top of mansion, mansion behind mansion, and behind them, mansions, a sea of buildings—endless, countless, limitless. At the sight of the forest of ships’ masts, my faculties were thrown into confusion. Seeing the countless, endless lines of boats, I thought, ‘How can men have built so many boats?’7 As we came closer, I saw that carriages and palanquins were moving like lines of ants along the main roads on the banks—there are no words for the number of people who were on foot. Then I thought, ‘How can I search out my uncle from within this? How can I search out one particular grain of sand from among the piles of sand on the river’s beaches?’
6
Subo
KRISHNADAS BABU HAD COME TO CALCUTTA TO WORSHIP AT KALIGHAT. HE lived in Bhowanipore. He asked me, ‘Where is your uncle’s house? In Calcutta or in Bhowanipore?’
I did not know.
He asked me, ‘In what part of Calcutta does he live?’
I knew nothing of this—I had thought that Calcutta was simply a small village, as Maheshpur was. People would direct you if you merely asked for a gentleman by name. Now I saw that Calcutta was like a sea of endless buildings. I saw no way of searching for my uncle. Krishnadas Babu searched extensively on my behalf but what could a search for a man from an ordinary village achieve?
Krishnadas Babu planned to go to Kashi after Kali Puja. He offered his worship, and was preparing to go to Kashi with his family. I wept. His wife said, ‘Listen to me. Take up service now in someone’s house. It is said that Subo is coming today; I will tell her to employ you as a servant.’
Hearing this, I threw myself to the ground and wept aloud—‘Am I finally fated to become a servant!’ I bit my lips till they bled. Krishnadas Babu was, no doubt, compassionate, but he said, ‘What can I do?’ This was true: what could he do? It was my fate!
I went away to a room and fell in a corner and wept. A little before evening, Krishnadas Babu’s wife called me. I came out and went to her. She said, ‘This is Subo. If you are willing, tell her that you will work as a maid in her house.’
If I did not become a maid I would starve to death. I had realized that; but now I did not think of it—now I took one look at Subo. When I had heard the name ‘Subo’ I had thought it was a question of some ‘Sahib Subo’8—I was a country girl then. I saw that this was not so: it was a woman—and a sight to see. I had not seen such a good thing for a long time. She would have been of my own age. Nor was she any fairer in complexion than I. Her dress and ornaments were not so much, she wore some earrings, bangles, a necklace, and a black-bordered sari. That in itself was a sight to see. And I had never seen such a face. It was as if a lotus had blossomed—and all around it, curling hair like the raised heads of snakes surrounded the lotus. Huge great eyes—sometimes steady, sometimes laughing. Her two lips were turned up like the petals of a delicately coloured reddish flower, her face was small, just like an opened flower. What her general form was like I could not grasp. As the slender branches of a mango tree play in the wind, so all her limbs played—as waves play in the river, so was there play in her body—I could not perceive anything, it was as if something spread over her face bewitched me. The reader will not need to be reminded that I was not a man, but a woman—I myself had some pride of beauty. Subo had a three-year-old boy: he too was just such a half-opened flower. Getting up, falling, sitting, playing, swinging, dancing, laughing, prattling, hitting, he was cajoling everyone.
I had been looking at Subo and her son unthinkingly; and Krishnadas Babu’s wife became irritated and said, ‘Answer the question, then—what do you think?’
I asked, ‘Who is she?’
The mistress said, reprovingly, ‘What can be said to that? She is Subo, who else?’
Then Subo laughed a little and said, ‘Oh, Aunt, surely something can be said? She is a stranger; she does not know me.’ Saying this, Subo looked towards my face and said, ‘My name is Subhashini—she is my aunt; they have called me Subo since I was a child.’
After that, the mistress took the thread of the conversation into her own hands. She said, ‘She is married to the son of Ramram Datta of Calcutta. They are important people. She has lived in her father-in-law’s house since she was a child—I never get to see her. Hearing that we had come to Kalighat, she came to let me see her for once. They are important people. Can you work in the house of important people, then?’
I was the daughter of Haramohan Datta, I had wanted to sleep on a pile of money—could I work in the house of important people, then? Tears came to my eyes and a smile to my lips, at the same time.
No one else saw this—but Subhashini did. She said to the mistress, ‘Let me speak with her a little in private. If she agrees, then we will take her with us.’ With these words, Subhashini took my hand and drew me into a room. No one was there. Only the little boy came running after his mother. A plain cot was there. Subhashini sat down on it—drawing me by the hand, she made me sit, too. She said, ‘I have told you my name without being asked. What is your name, sister?’
‘Sister!’ I thought that if I could at all do the work of a maidservant, I could do it for her, and answered, ‘I have two names—one is generally used, one not. I have told them the one not generally used, so I will tell you that one, for now. My name is Kumudini.’
The little boy said, ‘Kunutini.’
Subhashini said, ‘Without hearing your other name now, is your caste really Kayastha?’
I laughed and said, ‘We are Kayasthas.’
Subhashini said, ‘I will not ask you now whose daughter you are, whose wife, or where your home is. Now, listen to what I say. You are the daughter of an important man, I can see that—there are still the marks of ornaments on your arms and neck. I will not tell you to do the work of a maidservant—you know something of cooking, don’t you?’
I smiled. ‘I do. I was particularly renowned for my cooking, in my father’s house.’
Subhashini said, ‘In our house, we are all cooks.’ (The little boy sai
d, innocently, ‘Muvver and I cook.’) ‘But following the custom of Calcutta, we have employed a cook. That woman is about to visit her home.’ (The little boy said, ‘Bisit hobe.’) ‘Now I will tell Mother that I will keep you in her place. You do not have to cook like a cook. We will all cook, and you will cook for one or two days a week. Don’t you think that’s best?’
The little boy said, ‘Guest! She guest?’
His mother said, ‘You are a pest!’
The little boy said, ‘I Babu. Favver is pest.’
‘Don’t talk like that, child!’ Having said this to the child, Subhashini looked towards me, laughing, and said, ‘He talks all the time.’ I said, ‘I agree to work even as a maidservant for you.’
‘Why do you speak so formally to me, sister? If you must speak like that, speak like that to Mother. There is a little difficulty with Mother. She is a bit peevish—she will have to be managed. You will be able to do that—I know people. Do you agree?’
I said, ‘If I don’t agree, what will I do? I have no other recourse.’ Tears again came to my eyes.
She said, ‘Why have you no recourse? Wait here, sister, I have forgotten the main thing. I will come back.’
Subhashini darted away to her aunt. She said, ‘Well, now, who is she to you?’
I could hear this much. I could not hear what her aunt said. Probably she told the little she knew. It is unnecessary to say that she knew nothing; only as much as she had heard from the priest. This time the little boy had not gone with his mother—he was playing with my hands. I talked to him. Subhashini returned.
The little boy said, ‘Muvver, see pretty hands.’
Subhashini laughed and said, ‘I have seen them long since!’ To me, she said, ‘Come, the carriage is ready. If you don’t come, I’ll take you! But remember what I said—Mother will have to be managed.’
Subhashini drew me with her into the carriage. I was wearing one of the red-bordered saris the priest had given me—the other was drying on the line—there was no time to take it with me. In its place I took Subhashini’s son on my lap and kissed him as we went along.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 28
