Good looks? How much? A little. One should not throw up at the sight of my face. So far no one has. My looks are good enough for me.
Health? As of now it is abundant.
Strength? What shall I do with it? It is necessary to beat up people. I do not wish to beat up anyone.
Intelligence? On this earth, no one has ever acknowledged a lack in that area, and neither do I. Everyone thinks he is extremely bright and so do I.
Erudition? I do accept I do not have enough. But no one has ever been unhappy for the lack of it and neither am I.
Spirituality? They say a lack of it affects one’s afterlife, not the present one. In the nature of man I perceive the greater grief coming from a lack of irreligion than from the reverse. I know it’s an illusion. Yet, I do not crave spirituality. That is not the reason for my melancholia.
Romance? Love? Adulation? I happen to know that its absence brings joy—to love is to suffer. Witness Labangalata.
So then, what was I sad about? What did I lack? What did I covet, that I could attain and thus lessen my misery? What was the object of my desire?
I know—it is the lack of an object of desire that is causing me such pain. I have realized that everything is futile and hence my grief is all that is genuine.
4
COULD I FIND NOTHING TO DESIRE? IN THIS ETERNAL WORLD, FULL OF abundant wealth, could I find nothing to covet? Who did I think I was? Tindle, Huxley, Durbin and Lyall sat on the same seat all their lives and analysed a tiny droplet of moisture, a minute speck of dust or the nameless wildflower and failed to describe them accurately—and here I was, with nothing to covet! What sort of a man was I?
Look here, nobody has been able to count to a man just how many people there are on this earth. Millions and millions, I am sure. Each of these millions is the holder of numerous virtues. Everyone is a holder of devotion, love, kindness, spirituality, etc.; everyone is admirable and worthy of emulation. Did I not aspire to or crave for any one? Who on earth was I?
I did have an object of desire—I still have it. But it is impossible to achieve. And for that reason alone I had cast it from my heart long, long ago. I do not wish to rekindle it. Wasn’t there anything else I craved?
For a few years now I had been asking myself this question repeatedly, without receiving any answer. When I asked the few friends that I have, they said, ‘If you have nothing to do for yourself, do something for others; try to help others as much as possible.’
That is an old adage. What would actually help others? Ram’s mother’s son has fever, check his pulse and give him some quinine. Ragho, the halfwit, has nothing to wear—buy him a blanket. Sasta’s mother is a widow—give her a pension. Sunder the barber’s son could not study further—arrange for his school fees to be paid. Was this called helping others?
I accept, this is helping others. But how much time does this take? How much time can be spent doing this? How much effort does it take and how much does this effort excite the brain? This is not to say that I do these things to the extent to which it is possible for me to do. But the little I do, leaves me feeling that this wouldn’t fulfil my emptiness. I look for a chore worthy of me, something that’ll hold my interest.
There is another kind of social service that is in fashion these days. In a nutshell it can be summed up as ‘yabbering and dabbling’. Societies, clubs, associations, meetings, speeches, resolutions, pleas, petitions, empathy—these are not for me. Once I had seen a friend reading one such petition for a big meeting and asked him what he was reading. He had replied, ‘Nothing much, just the blind beggar going a-begging.’ That’s all it is to my limited knowledge and perception.
This disease has one other aberration. Get the widow remarried, stop the high-caste Brahmin from being polygamous, prevent child marriages, do away with the caste system, the women who at present are tied to a pole like cows should all be let loose and left to graze on their own. I do not own any cattle and I have no interest in other people’s cowsheds. I am not for abolishing the caste system, I am not yet that well educated. I am still unwilling to eat from the same plate as my sweeper, or to marry his daughter and the curses that I can willingly tolerate from the learned pandit, I am unwilling to take from my sweeper. Hence, my caste should stay untouched. Let the widows remarry, let children stay unmarried, let the high-caste Brahmin suffer the agonies of monogamy—I have no objection to that; but I fail to understand what would be gained from espousing these causes.
Consequently, in contemporary Bengali society I have no work to do. Here, I am nobody, I am nowhere. I am me, and that is all. That is the cause of my pain. I have no other grief—I am not counting Labangalata’s handwriting.
5
WHEN MY STATE OF MIND WAS THUS, I HEARD RAJANI’S NAME ON THE LIPS OF Govindakanta Dutta in Kashi. I felt the Lord had at last assigned me a vital task. In this world I seemed to find a responsibility. It was possible to try and be of use to Rajani to the best of my ability. I have no other work—why didn’t I take this up? Wasn’t this a task worthy of me?
At this point, it is important to detail some part of Sachindra’s lineage. Sachindranath’s father’s name is Ramsaday Mitra, his grandfather was Banchharam Mitra and his great-grandfather was Kevalram Mitra. Their ancestral home was not in Calcutta; his father was, in fact, the first to live in Calcutta. Their ancestral home was in the village of Bhawaninagar. Sachindra’s great-grandfather was a deprived and destitute man. But his grandfather Banchharam Mitra used his wit and amassed the fortune which was passed down to them for their enjoyment.
Banchharam had a dear friend called Manohar Das. It was with the latter’s assistance that Banchharam had amassed his fortune. Though Manohar had devoted his life to acquiring wealth for Banchharam, he himself never aspired to any of it. Banchharam was eternally grateful to him for these virtues. He loved Manohar like his own sibling. And Manohar too accorded him the respect due to an elder brother. Sachindra’s father Ramsaday Mitra and grandfather did not get along very well—perhaps the fault lay with both men.
Once it thus happened that Ramsaday came to loggerheads with Manohar. The latter complained to Banchharam that Ramsaday had insulted him beyond belief for some reason. After this declaration, Manohar resigned from his duties and moved away from Bhawaninagar with his family forever. Banchharam pleaded with Manohar, but the latter remained unmoved. He did not even tell anyone where he went off to.
Banchharam loved Manohar as much if not more than Ramsaday. Hence, he was extremely annoyed with Ramsaday. Banchharam cursed him no end and Ramsaday responded in kind.
The upshot of this squabble between father and son was that Banchharam disinherited Ramsaday. The son too left his father’s home and vowed never to show his face there again. In anger, Banchharam made a will stating that his son, Ramsaday, would inherit nothing whatsoever from him. After the demise of Banchharam Mitra, Manohar Das and, in his absence, his successors would inherit all; thereafter Ramsaday’s children and successors too would come in line, but not Ramsaday himself.
Ramsaday left his father’s home and came to Calcutta with his first wife. She had some inheritance of her own. Supported by this and with the aid of a foreigner who was a businessman, he set himself up in business. The goddess of wealth smiled on him and he didn’t have a day’s worry over the running of his home.
If he did have to suffer, perhaps Banchharam would have been appeased. But when he heard of his son’s good fortune, the little bit of love left in the old man deserted him at once. The son was also a proud man and he had decided not to go back until his father called him—so he never asked after his father’s health. Banchharam felt that his son was doing this out of disrespect and indifference and so he didn’t send for him either.
Hence, none of the parties abandoned their stance and the will remained unchanged. At such a point in time, Banchharam passed away.
Ramsaday was devastated. He wept for days together, regretting the fact that he hadn’t made up with his father and co
me to see him sooner. He did not go back to Bhawaninagar. Instead, he performed his father’s last rites in Calcutta, because by that time the house in Bhawaninagar, legally, belonged to Manohar Das.
Meanwhile, no one knew the whereabouts of Manohar Das. Later it came to light that even while Banchharam had been alive, no one had found out where Manohar Das was. The day he had left Bhawaninagar had been the last anyone had seen of him. Banchharam had hunted high and low for him. Finally, he added an addendum to the will by which he appointed a relative called Bishnuram Sirkar, who lived in Calcutta, as the executor of the will. It stated that Bishnuram would try his best to locate Manohar Das and thereafter hand over the property to its rightful owner.
Bishnuram Babu was a wise, unbiased and capable man. He began to search for Manohar Das as soon as Banchharam passed away. After spending much money and effort he discovered what Banchharam had not been able to find out. The fact of the matter was thus: after leaving Bhawaninagar, Manohar had lived in Dacca for some time. But he had some trouble earning a living there and so he set off for Calcutta with his entire family by boat. On the way the boat capsized and all of them met their end. There were no other living successors as far as one could tell.
Bishnuram Babu gathered hard evidence of all these facts and presented them to Ramsaday Mitra. Thereafter, Banchharam’s immovable property was divided equally between Sachindra and his elder brother. Bishnuram Babu duly handed over the rights to them.
But at present, if this Rajani was alive, then the wealth that Ramsaday Mitra’s sons were currently enjoying actually belonged to her. Perhaps she was destitute and needy. Let me try and find out. I have nothing else on my hands right now.
6
AFTER LEAVING KASHI AND ON REACHING BENGAL, I WENT TO VISIT A RELATIVE in a village. At dawn I went for a stroll. I came upon a very appealing, cloistered forest. The birds were chirping in harmony, there were tall trees all around, thick foliage, green and gentle; the leaves on the trees were thickly packed together, greenery was abundant everywhere—a bud here, a bloom there, a raw fruit here and a ripe one there. Suddenly, I heard a scream in the woods. I rushed towards the direction of the cry and found a grotesque looking man trying to attack a young girl.
One look and I could tell that the man was from a low caste, perhaps an untouchable; but he was built like a rock.
Slowly I crept up behind him. I snatched away the hatchet that was tied to his waist and hurled it into the distance. The rascal let the girl go and turned to face me, cursing volubly. His eyes gave me a fright. I realized that any delay could cost me a lot. I went for his throat. He unfettered himself and grabbed me. I tried to return the favour, but he was stronger. I wasn’t afraid or agitated. As soon as I could, I said to the young girl, ‘Run away while I see to this scoundrel.’
She said, ‘Where will I run—I am blind and I do not know the way here.’
Blind! My strength doubled—I was looking for a blind girl called Rajani.
I realized that although he couldn’t beat me up, my opponent was dragging me away. I understood his game, he was trying to pull me towards the area where I had thrown his hatchet. I tore myself from his clutches, ran and grabbed the hatchet first. He broke a branch of a tree, spun it around and hit me on the arm. The hatchet dropped from my hands. He picked it up and hit me in a couple of places with it and then made his escape.
I was badly injured. In great pain, I walked back towards my relative’s home. The blind girl began to follow the sound of my footsteps and came with me. After some distance I could walk no further. People on the streets saw my condition and helped me back home.
I stayed there for some time. The blind girl too stayed put, because she had nowhere else to go and because she couldn’t leave me in the state that I was in. After many days and much nursing, I finally recuperated. I had my suspicions ever since the girl had told me that she was blind. At the earliest moment that I could open my mouth, she came and sat by my bed. I asked her, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Rajani.’
I asked, ‘Are you the daughter of Rajchandra Das?’
Rajani was startled, ‘Do you know my father?’
I did not give her a clear answer.
After I had made a complete recovery, I took Rajani to Calcutta.
7
WHILE I WAS TAKING RAJANI BACK TO CALCUTTA, I ALSO TOOK WITH ME AN old domestic called Tinkari from my relative’s house as a chaperone. This step was more for Rajani’s benefit. At the time of our departure, I asked her, ‘Rajani, your home is in Calcutta; so how did you come here?’
Rajani said, ‘Do I have to answer all the questions?’
I said, ‘If you do not wish to, you needn’t answer.’
In reality, the intelligence, wisdom and innocence of this blind girl really appealed to me. I did not wish to cause her any discomfort. Rajani said, ‘Since you give your permission, I’d like to keep a few things in the dark. We have a neighbour called Gopal Babu. His wife is Champa. I am acquainted with her. Her father’s home is in Hooghly. She asked me if I’d go to her father’s house. I agreed. One day, she brought me to Gopal Babu’s house, but while sending me to her father’s home, she didn’t come along with me. She sent her brother Hiralal with me. Hiralal set off for Hooghly with me on a boat.’
At this point, I realized Rajani was hiding facts about Hiralal. I asked her, ‘And did you go with Hiralal?’
‘I didn’t want to, but I had no choice,’ replied Rajani. ‘I cannot tell you why that was so. On the way, Hiralal began to torment me. When he realized he couldn’t overpower me, he dropped me off on the banks of the river and left with the boat.’
Rajani fell silent. I took Hiralal to be the heartless monster that he was and began to wonder what he looked like. Then Rajani continued, ‘After he left, I wanted to drown in the Ganga and stepped into the water.’
I said, ‘Why? Did you love Hiralal so much?’
She frowned darkly and said, ‘Not one bit. There’s no one in the world that I hate more.’
‘Then why did you wish to drown?’
‘I cannot tell you what ails me.’
‘All right, carry on.’
‘I tried to drown, but I floated. A stage-boat was passing by; the passengers in the boat saw me floating and hauled me up on the boat. The village where I met you was where one passenger got off. Before getting off he asked me, “Where are you going?” I said I’d go wherever I was taken. He asked me again, “Where is your home?” I said, “Calcutta.” He said, “I will go to Calcutta tomorrow. You come with me today; you may stay in my house today and tomorrow I’ll take you with me.” I got up to go with him, feeling very relieved. The rest you know.’
I said, ‘The man I rescued you from—was that him?’
‘The same.’
I brought Rajani to Calcutta and found the address given by her and met Rajchandra Das. I took Rajani there.
Rajchandra was very happy to get his daughter back. His wife wept copiously in joy. They heard Rajani’s story from me in detail and expressed their gratitude to me.
Later, I took Rajchandra aside and asked him, ‘Do you know why your daughter left her home?’
Rajchandra said, ‘No. I ponder over it at all times, but I can never really decide why.’
I said, ‘Do you know what caused Rajani to want to drown herself?’
Rajchandra was surprised, ‘I do not know what great anguish she could have. It is true that she is blind and that pains her, but why would she wish to drown herself after so many years? But then, she is a grown girl and still unmarried. But that can’t be the reason. I was trying to get her married to a good match. She ran away the night before her wedding.’
I found a new link and asked, ‘She ran away from home?’
‘Yes.’
‘Without telling you?’
‘Not a soul knew,’ said Rajchandra.
‘Who were you marrying her to?’
Rajchandra said, ‘Gopal Babu.’
‘Which Gopal Babu?’ I asked. ‘Champa’s husband?’
‘You seem to know everything—yes, the same.’
I glimpsed a ray of light. So then Champa, for fear of competition, had betrayed Rajani and sent her off to Hooghly with her brother. Perhaps she had even inspired Hiralal to attempt to destroy Rajani.
I concealed my thoughts from Rajchandra and said, ‘I do know everything. I shall also tell you much more that I know. Don’t hide anything from me.’
‘What would you like to know?’ asked Rajchandra.
‘Rajani is not your daughter,’ I said quietly.
Rajchandra was surprised. He said, ‘What? Whose daughter is she, then?’
‘Harekrishna Das’s.’
Rajchandra was silent for some time. Finally he said, ‘I do not know who you are. But I beg of you, please don’t let Rajani come to know this.’
I said, ‘Perhaps not now, but I will have to tell her later. First, answer me honestly—when Harekrishna died, did Rajani have any ornaments that belonged to her?’
Rajchandra was now a little fearful. He said, ‘I know nothing of her ornaments—no, there weren’t any.’
But I persisted in my quest. ‘After Harekrishna died, did you ever go to his home in search of his inheritance?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Rajchandra. ‘But I was told that the police had confiscated all his belongings.’
‘What did you do, then?’
‘What could I do? I am very scared of the police. At the time of Rajani’s stolen-bangles case itself I had suffered a lot. When I heard about the police confiscating the remaining gold after Harekrishna’s death, I held my peace.’
‘Rajani’s stolen-bangle case—what’s that?’ I asked, startled at the new revelation.
Rajchandra elaborated, ‘At the time of Rajani’s annaprasan, her bangles were stolen. The thief was caught. The case came up in Bardhaman. I had to go from Calcutta to Bardhaman as a witness. It was a terrible time.’
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 50
