‘Ten rupees.’
‘Then give us eight rupees plus eight rupees, that is, sixteen rupees before you go.’
‘Not a bad profit!’
Kamini said, ‘Why should you worry about profit and loss when you are begging at an important man’s house? In season and out of season something has to be given out from the house.’
Brajasundari was the wife of an important man. She quickly brought out sixteen rupees and gave them to us. We gave these sixteen rupees to Yamuna saying, ‘Get some sandesh to eat, with this money.’
My husband said, ‘What is going on?’
Meanwhile, Brajasundari sent away the child and came back wearing a Benarasi sari. Another amusing thing happened.
Upendra Babu said, ‘Is this a play?’
Yamuna said, ‘What else is it? Don’t you see that some are acting the story of Krishna’s subduing of Kaliya, some the story of the restoration of Radha’s good name, some the story of Brindavan’s sorrow at Krishna’s departure for Mathura—and some have only the play of escaping from the plays.’
Upendra Babu said, ‘Whose is the play of escaping from the plays?’
Yamuna said, ‘Why, Kamini’s! Hers is only the play of escaping from the plays.’
Kamini ignited everyone with words; she pleased everyone by distributing paan, flowers, and perfume. Then everyone joined together, seized her and said, ‘Are you wandering around escaping, then?’
Kamini said, ‘If I don’t flee, won’t I have you to be afraid of?’
Master Mitra said, ‘Kamini! Sister, isn’t there an agreement between us?’
‘What agreement, Master Mitra?’
‘That you would dance.’
‘Well, I have danced.’
‘When did you dance?’
‘At noon.’
‘Where did you dance, then?’
‘In my room, with the doors closed.’
‘Who saw you?’
‘Nobody.’
‘That was not the agreement.’
Kamini said, ‘Nothing was said about my dancing in front of you, wearing dancing-girls’ trousers. I agreed to dance, and I have danced. I have kept my word. If you did not get to see me, that is just your destiny. Now what will become of the chains I have bought and kept by me?’
Kamini might have evaded the danger of dancing, but my husband was caught in the matter of singing. The order came from the gathering that he should sing. He had learned the style of singing of the west. He sang a song in the Sanadi raga. That assemblage of heavenly nymphs smiled to hear it. They put in the order, ‘Badan Adhikari or Dashu Ray.’34 Upendra Babu was unskilled in these. So the heavenly nymphs were unsatisfied.
In this way, two prahars of the night passed. I could have omitted this chapter. Yet I believe that this part of life of the women of this country has now disappeared. It is good that it should be so: for with it, indecency, shamelessness and sometimes corruption had intertwined. But I wrote this chapter in the wish to present a picture of something that has gone. Yet I do not know: these bad customs may still exist in some places. If that is so, then it is necessary to open the eyes and ears of those who do not forbid their urban womenfolk to go to see their sons-in-law So I have shown them how to catch fish without touching the water.
22
Conclusion
THE FOLLOWING DAY, I WENT WITH MY HUSBAND, RIDING IN A PALANQUIN, to my father-in-law’s house. That I was going with my husband was a joy, it is true; but when I was going there earlier, that was yet another kind of happiness. I went then in the hope of what I had never had; now I was going with what I had received tied up in the end of my sari. One is the poetry of the poet; the other is the riches of the rich. Are the riches of the rich equal to the poetry of the poet? Those who have become important by earning riches, and have lost poetry, even they do not say this. They say that it is while the flower is on the tree that it is beautiful; if it is plucked it is no longer so beautiful. Is there as much happiness in the fulfilment of a dream as in the dream itself? As the sky is not really blue, but only looks blue, so it is with riches. There is no happiness in riches; we only think that there is. It is poetry which is happiness. For poetry is hope; riches are only possessions. And even that is not in everyone’s fate. Many rich people are nothing but watchmen of a treasure-store. One of my kinsmen calls them ‘treasury guards’.
Yet I went with happiness to my father-in-law’s house. This time, we arrived without hindrance. My husband gave his parents a detailed account of everything. Raman Babu’s packet was opened. Everything I had said agreed with it. My father and mother-in-law were satisfied. Everything was made known to the people of the community, also; nothing was omitted.
I wrote a letter to Subhashini, telling her about everything that had happened. My heart constantly wept for Subhashini. At my request, my husband sent five hundred rupees to Raman Babu for Haramani. I very quickly received an answer from Subhashini. Her letter was full of joy. R. Babu had written the letter for Subhashini. But it was clear from the expression that the words were Subhashini’s own. She sent news of everyone. I will quote an excerpt or two from her letter. She wrote:
‘At first, Haramani wouldn’t take any money at all. She said, “I would become greedy. It seems that this was a good deed to do, but this kind of deed is wrong. What if, through greed, I consented to wrongdoing?” I explained to the poor woman: “Would you have done this without the taste of my broom? Would you have a taste of my broom on every occasion? Would I give you only a taste of the broom on the occasion of a bad deed? Would you not also get a couple of rebukes? You did a good thing, so take the reward.” After a lot of such instructions and explanations, she took the money. Now she is making a list of various kinds of penances to do. For as long as there was no news of you, she laughed no more; but now everyone in the house is afflicted by the blaze of her laughter.’
Subhashini wrote the news of the Brahmin cook thus: ‘After you and your husband went away secretly, the old woman bragged a lot, saying, “I always knew that she was not a good person. Her ways and manners were not good. How many times did I tell you not to keep such a bad person. But who listens to the words of the poor? Everyone just talked of Kumudini, Kumudini in an infatuated way.” And so on and so on. Then, when she heard that you had not gone off with just anyone, but had gone with your own husband, that you were the daughter of an important man, and the bride of another—then she said, “I have said again and again that she was the daughter of a good house; are such a nature and character found in common houses? She was as virtuous as she was beautiful—like Lakshmi! May she be well, mistress! May she be well! And see here, mistress! Tell her to send me something.”’
Concerning the mistress of the house, Subhashini wrote, ‘When she heard all this news of you, she expressed joy, but she rebuked me and R. Babu a little. She said, “Why did you not tell me in the beginning that she was the daughter of such a great house? I would have taken great care of her.” And she reviled your husband a little, saying, “She may have been his family, but it was not well done of him to take such a good cook away from me.”’
The news of the master, Ramram Datta, was in Subhashini’s own scrawling handwriting. With difficulty, I read that the master had rebuked the mistress with simulated anger, saying, ‘You have sent away the beautiful cook on a deceitful pretext.’ The mistress said, ‘I have done well; what would you do with a beautiful woman?’ The master said, ‘How can I say that? I can no longer meditate on your dark form night and day.’ At that, the mistress went to lie down, and did not get up again that day. She did not understand at all that the master was only teasing her.
Needless to say, I sent something for the Brahmin cook, and for the other servants.
After that I saw Subhashini only once more. At her particular request, my husband took me to her at the time of her daughter’s wedding. I gave Subhashini’s daughter ornaments and put them on her; I gave suitable gifts to the mistress; I gave appropriate gifts and
greetings to others. But I saw that the mistress was displeased with me and my husband. She told me many times that her son was not eating well. I did cook something for Raman Babu. But I did not go again. Not for fear of having to cook; for fear of upsetting the mistress.
The mistress and Ramram Datta long ago ascended to heaven. But I have not gone again. I have not forgotten Subhashini. I shall not forget her in this life. I have not met anyone else like Subhashini in this world.
Endnotes
1. In the nineteenth century, many Indian contractors amassed fortunes as suppliers of food to the army. Indira is shown here as a traditional woman who is not sure of her grasp of the English word ‘commissariat’.
2. In traditional Bengal, daughters were married off young and custom demanded that they spend some time in their parental homes, away from the husband’s family, during the first years of marriage. It was a parental duty to visit the ‘in-laws’ regularly to bring back the daughter. Here Indira’s father promises to do this.
3. A married woman should never go out with bare arms, as it is a sign of widowhood, hence Indira makes a bracelet with creepers from the jungle.
4. It is customary to address a strange lady as ‘mother’.
5. The Brahmin arranged for clothes and bracelets suitable for a married woman. Red is the colour of weddings, and conch shell bracelets are worn by the poor in place of gold bracelets which are symbols of the married status.
6. This is an allusion to the Puranas and the mythology of Krishna who used to play erotic games with milkmaids on the banks of the Yamuna. The ‘dark prince’ is Krishna.
7. The number of boats in Calcutta now is not one-hundredth of that of previous times (Bankimchandra’s own footnote).
8. ‘Sahib Subo’ in Bengali refers to Europeans or high caste anglicized Indians.
9. Capsule (Bankimchandra’s own footnote, in English).
10. No householder should let a guest or visitor leave the house without partaking of some food, or else, it is believed, it will bring misfortune to the household.
11. Going ‘to the Ganga’ implied jumping into the famous holy river to commit suicide.
12. ‘The Pandavas’ queen’ refers to Draupadi, the heroine of the epic, the Mahabharata, who according to Indian tradition was an excellent cook.
13. The allusion is to the mythology of Krishna and his cowherd girls. Sometimes he would play the flute under a kadamba tree near the river Yamuna.
14. It is considered a bad omen to break a pot in the kitchen.
15. Goddess Shashti is the goddess of children. Childless women have no status in society and are considered to have earned Shashti’s displeasure.
16. It is usual to refer to an elderly domestic female servant as her son’s or daughter’s mother. Sona is the child of the old Brahmin cook, hence the cook is called ‘Sona’s mother’.
17. This is how a witch is described in Bengali folklore.
18. Abducted women would lose their caste status and not be accepted back into society because they are suspected of having been violated or at least forced to share food with the wrong caste.
19. This refers to the Bengal dramatist Dinabandhu Mitra’s (1830–73) satire ‘Jamai Barik’ (1872). In this play , roles are reversed for humour, and the wife calls her husband by his first name.
20. Self-created (Bankimchandra’s own footnote).
21. From a medieval Bengali poem.
22. This refers to Kamadeva, the god of Love (the Hindu Eros). According to Hindu tradition, he lost his body but could still carry his bow and arrow of flowers.
23. The flower-bed ceremony takes place on the nuptial night when the marital bed is decorated with flowers.
24. In Kamrup, Assam, there is an old temple of the goddess Kamaksha or Mahamaya. According to Bengali folklore, the goddess has many demi-goddesses in the temple who live there as her companions. They often use their supernatural powers to turn men pilgrims into sheep and keep them for fun.
25. Here Kamini is calling her brother-in-law a ‘white cow’ who failed to recognize the god Krishna, since he failed to recognize his wife.
26. This chapter is difficult to translate and this paragraph is particularly difficult. Here Bankimchandra is using Bengali puns. Vidhyadhari, the word for ‘demi-goddess’, literally means ‘knowledge-holder’, a combination of vidya, ‘knowledge’ and dhari, ‘holder’, from a verb meaning to catch or hold. Bankimchandra is alluding to a Bengali proverb, Churi vidya bara vidya, yadi na parey dhara (knowledge of thieving is great knowledge as long as one is not caught). Kamini is teasing Upendra who could not keep hold of his demi-goddess, or ‘knowledge-holder’ (vidyadhari), but is lucky he did not get caught (dhara) for his knowledge of thieving (churi vidya).
27. It was generally believed in India that army contractors amassed fortunes by dishonest means and that all kinds of provisions were supplied which customary law did not allow high-caste Hindus to handle.
28. This conversation uses ‘dog-Sanskrit’ for humour.
29. These are names of various regions famous for designs of expensive saris.
30. This refers to the Second Sikh War; in the battle of Chilianwala, the British army suffered a terrible loss in December 1848. In January 1849, the British conquered the Sikh kingdom of the Punjab when a Sikh general helped the British.
31. Mahishi is a word for ‘queen’ as well as for ‘female buffalo’. TheYamuna is referred to as ‘queen in the form of a river’ (nadirupa mahishi).
32. This is a pun. Gai means ‘cow’ and also ‘sing’.
33. The pun here is with the word pulin (‘verge’) which is often used as a proper name.
34. Badan Adhikari and Dashu Roy were two well-known Bengali singers of popular and ‘naughty’ Bengali songs in the nineteenth century.
Krishnakanta’s Will
Part 1
1
THERE WAS A RICH ZAMINDAR FAMILY IN HARIDRAGRAM. THE HEAD OF THE family was Krishnakanta Roy. He was a very rich man; the annual income from his estate was nearly two lakhs of rupees. The estate was acquired jointly by him and his brother Ramkanta. The two brothers earned money together, and were deeply attached to one another; it never occurred to one that the other might deceive him. They lived in a joint family and the estate was bought in the name of the eldest, Krishnakanta.
In due course, a son was born to Ramkanta; he was named Govindalal. After the birth of his son, Ramkanta felt that proper legal documents should be drawn up regarding the estate acquired by him and his brother together. He was sure that Krishnakanta would not deceive Govindalal or do him any harm. He was, however, not so sure about his nephews; they might adopt a different course after their father’s death. But Ramkanta could not broach the subject of legal documents easily and put it off every day. Then, once, while visiting one of their estates on business, he suddenly died.
If Krishnakanta wished, he could have deceived his nephew and appropriated the whole property. There would have been no difficulty in doing so. But he had no such evil intention. He brought up Govindalal as his own son, with his own children and he resolved to leave his nephew, by will, half the share of the property that rightly belonged to Ramkanta Roy.
Krishnakanta Roy had two sons and a daughter. The elder son was called Haralal, the younger son Vinodlal and the daughter Sailavati. According to Krishnakanta’s will, after his death, Govindalal would get eight annas of the property, Haralal and Vinodlal three annas each, and the wife and Sailavati one anna each.
Haralal was a rude, uncontrollable man, disobedient to his father and foul-mouthed. A will in a Bengali community rarely stays secret. So Haralal got to know the contents of the will. His eyes red-rimmed in anger, he abused his father, ‘What is this? Govindalal gets half the property and I only get three annas?’
Krishnakanta said, ‘This is right. I have given Govindalal the half of the property that belonged to his father.’
Haralal said, ‘What is this about his father’s share? Why should he
get a share of our paternal property? And we will look after our mother and sister. Why should they get one share each? You should write down in your will that they are entitled to maintenance only.’
Somewhat angered, Krishnakanta said, ‘Son, the property is mine and I shall dispose of it as I like.’
‘You have lost your senses. I won’t let you dispose of the property as you like.’
Krishnakanta retorted, his eyes also red with anger, ‘Haralal, if you were a boy I’d call for the schoolmaster and have you caned.’
To which Haralal retorted, ‘As a boy I singed my schoolmaster’s moustache, and now I shall burn your will.’
Krishnakanta did not utter another word. But he tore up the will and had another drawn up. According to this new will Govindalal received eight annas, Vinodlal five annas and his wife, Sailavati and Haralal, one anna each.
In anger, Haralal left home and went to Calcutta, whence he wrote a letter to his father, which could be summed up like this: ‘The pandits of Calcutta say that widow remarriage is permitted according to our shastras. I have decided to marry a widow. If, however, you change your will and leave me eight annas and register the will, I shall change my mind. Else I shall marry a widow without delay.’
Haralal hoped that his father would be alarmed and change the will in his favour. But his hopes were soon dashed when a reply came from his father: ‘I have now disowned you as my son—you can marry anyone you like and I shall dispose of my property as I like. If you marry a widow I shall certainly change my will but the change will not be to your advantage.’
Soon after this, Haralal sent word that he had married a widow. Krishnakanta Roy tore up his will again and decided to make a new will.
Brahmananda Ghosh was a meek and good-natured man who lived in the neighbourhood. He used to call Krishnakanta ‘big uncle’ and was favoured and supported by the zamindar.
He had a good hand and all Krishnakanta Roy’s legal documents came from his pen. Krishnakanta sent for him, ‘Come after lunch, you have to write a new will.’ Vinodlal, who was present there at the time, asked, ‘Why do you want to change the will again?’ Krishnakanta said, ‘This time your elder brother will get nothing in his share.’
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 35
