Mahendra said, ‘Looks cannot tell you the whole story.’ He grabbed her hand forcefully and pressed it to his heart.
Binodini screeched in pain and immediately he let go, saving, ‘Did I hurt you?’
He saw that Binodini’s wound from the previous day was bleeding once again. In abject apology he said, ‘I was careless—how remiss of me. But now you must let me tie it and apply some ointment—please don’t stop me today.’
Binodini said, ‘No, it s nothing. I shall not put medication on it.’
Mahendra said, ‘Why not?’
Binodini said, ‘What do you mean “why not”! Don’ t put on your medical airs with me; let it be.’
Mahendra grew solemn and throught, ‘Beyond me entirely—a woman’s mind!’
Binodini rose to leave. Piqued, Mahendra didn’t stop her this time. He merely asked, ‘Where are you going?’
Binodini said, ‘I have work to do.’ She walked out slowly.
A few seconds later Mahendra got up, meaning to go and call her back. But he turned back from the stairway and began to walk about on the terrace instead.
Binodini drew him to her continuously, and yet she never let him get really close to her. Mahendra had recently surrendered the conceit that no one could have complete power over him. But would he also have to give up the conceit that he could have complete power over anyone if he so desired? Today he had to concede defeat as he failed to overpower Binodini. In matters of the heart Mahendra held his head very high indeed. He didn’t consider anyone his equal. But today he had to lose that pride as well. And he didn’t gain anything in return. Like a beggar he stood empty-handed at dusk, in front of a closed door.
In the months of March and April, Behari’s farmlands yielded honey from the mustard flowers. Every year he sent some to Rajlakshmi and this year was no different.
Binodini took the pot of honey to Rajlakshmi and said, ‘Aunty, Behari-thakurpo has sent honey.’
Rajlakshmi asked her to put it away in the store room. Binodini did as she was told and then came and sat beside Rajlakshmi. She said, ‘Behari-thakurpo never fails to do his bit for you. I suppose because he doesn’t have, a mother, he sees her in you, doesn’t he?’
Rajlakshmi was so used to seeing Behari as Mahendra’s shadow that she never gave him much thought. He was an unpaid, uncared for, unthought of, loyal friend to the family. When Binodini mentioned Behari as a motherless boy and sited Rajlakshmi as his guardian, a tender, maternal spot was touched in the latter’s heart. Suddenly Rajlakshmi thought, ‘That’s true. Behari is motherless and he sees me as his mother.’ She recalled how Behari had always looked after her in sickness and in health, without being sent for and without any pretentiousness; Rajlakshmi had taken it all for granted, just like the air she breathed. She had never considered being grateful for it. But did anyone ever reciprocate any concern for Behari? When Annapurna was around, she had looked after him. Rajlakshmi had thought that she put on a great show of affection to keep Behari tied to her apron-strings.
Today Rajlakshmi heaved a great sigh and said, ‘True, Behari is just like a son to me.’
As she said it, she realized that Behari did more for her than her own son; he was devoted to her even without the promise of any returns. This thought provoked another sigh from the depths of her heart.
Binodini said, ‘Behari-thakurpo really loves to eat food cooked by you!’
Rajlakshmi was full of maternal pride as she said, ‘He doesn’t like fish curry made by anyone else.’ As she said it, she realized that Behari hadn’t come around for many days. She asked, ‘Why doesn’t Behari come around these days?’
Binodini said, ‘I was wondering about that myself. But then your son has been so busy with his wife ever since he got married—why would friends come round any more?’
Rajlakshmi felt the criticism was justified. For the sake of his wife, Mahendra had distanced all his near and dear ones. Behari was right in feeling hurt—why should he visit them? Rajlakshmi felt sympathy welling up for Behari once she saw him as neglected by Mahendra as she was. She began to narrate to Binodini, in great detail, how much Behari had done for Mahendra since their childhood days, how much he had sacrificed. Through this narration she rationalized all her own grievances against her son. Mahendra had done a grave injustice by alienating his childhood friend for the sake of a new wife!
Binodini said, ‘Tomorrow, Sunday, why don’t you send for Behari-thakurpo and cook for him? He’d be delighted.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘You are right. Let me send for Mahin and he can go and invite Behari.’
Binodini said, ‘Oh no, Aunty, you invite him personally.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I don’t know to read and write, like all you youngsters.’
Binodini said, ‘That’s nothing—I can write the letter on your behalf.’
Binodini wrote out an invitation on behalf of Rajlakshmi and sent it off.
Sunday was eagerly anticipated by Mahendra. His fantasies went wild from the night before, although till that point nothing had really gone according to his fantasies.Yet, the morning sun seemed to pour honey on his eyes as Sunday dawned. The sounds of the city awakening were like a melodious tune to his ears.
But what was this—did his mother have a religious vow today or something? She wasn’t resting like other days, leaving the household chores to Binodini. Today she was busy cooking in the kitchen.
Amidst all the hustle and bustle it was ten o’clock soon. In all that time Mahendra couldn’t snatch a moment alone with Binodini. He tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. His eyes were glued to an inconsequential advertisement in the newspaper for fifteen whole minutes. Finally he could take it no longer. He went downstairs and found his mother busy cooking in a corner of the veranda near her room. Binodini had her sari tucked firmly into her waist as she went about assisting Rajlakshmi.
Mahendra asked, ‘So what are you two doing today? Why all these elaborate arrangements?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Hasn’t Binodini told you? I have invited Behari to lunch today.’
Behari invited to lunch! Mahendra felt vicious anger rise up to his throat. Immediately he said, ‘But Mother, I shall not be here.’
Rajlakshmi asked, ‘Why?’
Mahendra said briefly, ‘I must go out.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Go out after lunch—it won’t take long.’
Mahendra said, ‘But I have an invitation for lunch.’
Binodini threw a quick, veiled look at Mahendra’s face and said, ‘Aunty, if he does have an invitation, let him go. Let Behari-thakurpo have lunch alone today.’
But how could Rajlakshmi bear it if Mahin did not eat all that she was cooking with such great care? But the more she pleaded, the harsher was Mahendra’s refusal: ‘Very important lunch invitation, simply cannot refuse, you should have asked me before inviting Behari,’ etc. etc.
This was Mahendra’s way of punishing his mother. It had its effect. Rajlakshmi lost all interest in cooking. She felt like dropping everything and walking away. Binodini said, ‘Aunty, don’t you worry—Thakurpo may say all this; but he is going nowhere today.’
Rajlakshmi shook her head. ‘No my child, you don’t know my Mahin. Once his mind is made up, nothing can stop him.’
But apparently Binodini knew Mahendra no less than Rajlakshmi. Mahendra realized that Binodini was instrumental in this invitation to Behari. The more he burnt in envy at this revelation, the harder it grew for him to walk away. How could he go without seeing what Behari and Binodini were up to? It would be torture, but he had to see it.
After many days, Behari came into the inner chambers today as an invited guest. For an instant he stopped short at the doorway of the room where he had been a regular since his youth, where he had got up to all kinds of mischief as a child. A wave of emotion swelled in his heart, threatening to rise and crash with all its might. He suppressed it and walked in with a smile. Rajlakshmi had just finished her bath when Behari came in and touched her
feet. When Behari used to come in almost daily, such a manner of greeting wasn’t customary between them.Today it felt as though he was home after a long trip abroad. Rajlakshmi blessed him lovingly.
Rajlakshmi was full of affection and concern for Behari, out of a sense of heartfelt empathy. She said, ‘O Behari, where were you all these days? Every day I felt sure you would come, but there was no sign of you.’
Behari laughed. ‘If I came here every day, would you have spared me another thought, Mother? Where is Mahin da?’
Rajlakshmi replied glumly, ‘Mahin had a lunch invitation; he couldn’t stay here today.’
Behari’s face fell. So this was the consequence of a lifelong friendship? Behari heaved a sigh, strove to drive away the dejection for the moment and asked, ‘What’s for lunch today?’ He asked after his favourite dishes. Whenever Rajlakshmi cooked, Behari showed himself to be a little more eager and hungry. That was his way of stealing the love from the maternal Rajlakshmi’s heart. On this day too, Rajlakshmi enjoyed Behari’s eager craving for her food and reassured him with a laugh.
Suddenly, Mahendra arrived and greeted Behari in the most polite tones, ‘Hello there, how are you, Behari?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mahin, didn’t you go to your lunch invitation?’
Mahendra tried to mask his embarrassment as he said, ‘Oh no, I was able to cancel it.’
When Binodini walked in, bathed and changed, Behari was lost for words at first. The scene he had witnessed between Mahendra and Binodini was still engraved on his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to greet her.
Binodini stood quite close to Behari and spoke in low tones, ‘Thakurpo, don’t you know me at all?’
Behari replied, ‘It’s hard to really know someone.’
Binodini said, ‘Not if you have good judgement.’ She turned to Rajlakshmi, ‘Aunty, lunch is ready.’
Behari and Mahendra sat down to eat; Rajlakshmi sat close by and tended to them while Binodini served the food.
Mahendra wasn’t interested in the food. He noticed the special favours in the serving more keenly. He began to feel that Binodini was deriving a special kind of satisfaction while serving food to Behari. The fact that Behari got the largest piece of fish and the bigger portion of curds could easily be rationalized mus—Mahendra was family and Behari was the guest. But Mahendra burned with agonized spite simply because there was no cause to vocalize his complaint. A certain variety of delicious fish had been fetched specially from the market—it was unusual for this time of the year. One was stuffed full of roe and Binodini tried to serve it to Behari. He protested, ‘No, no, give that to Mahin da; he loves it.’
Full of righteous indignation, Mahendra said, ‘Oh no, I don’t want it.’
Binodini didn’t ask him a second time; she merely dropped it onto Behari’s plate.
At the end of the meal the two friends came outside; Binodini came up to them and said, ‘Behari-thakurpo, don’t go home just yet. Let’s go upstairs and sit and talk.’
Behari asked, ‘Won’ t you have lunch?’
Binodini said, ‘No, it s ekadasi, the three-quarter moon—the day we widows fast.’
A smile of cruel mockery touched Behari’s lips; so even the fast must be kept! All rituals were adhered to!
That faint smile did not escape Binodini’s notice. But she bore it the same way she had borne the gash on her arm. She pleaded, ‘Please come and sit down for a while.’
Suddenly, Mahendra lost his temper and spoke out of turn, ‘What’s wrong with you all—drop everything you were doing, whether you like it or not, please come and sit for a while! I don’t get the meaning of such excessive fondness.’
Binodini laughed out loud, ‘Behari-thakurpo, just listen to your Mahin da talk. Fondness means just that, affection. The dictionary doesn’t give another meaning.’ She turned to Mahendra, ‘I must say, Thakurpo, going by your childhood days there is no one who understands the meaning of excessive fondness better than you.’
Behari said, ‘Mahin da, I have something to say. Could I talk to you alone for a moment?’ Behari walked out with Mahendra without a backward glance at Binodini. She stood on the veranda, clinging to the railings, and stared into the void of the empty courtyard.
Behari came outside and said, ‘Mahin da, I want to know—is this where our friendship ends?’
Mahendra was burning up with envy; Binodini’s mocking repartee was splitting his head from end to end, like a searing bolt of lightning. He said, ‘I suppose if we patch up, it will be to your benefit. But I do not see anything in it for me. I do not wish to admit strangers into my life, and I’d like to keep the inner chambers secluded from the world at large.’
Behari walked away without another word.
Green with envy, Mahendra vowed never to see Binodini again. Soon afterwards he restlessly paced the stairway and every room of the house in the hope of meeting her by chance.
30
ONE DAY ASHA ASKED ANNAPURNA, ‘AUNTY, DO YOU EVER THINK OF UNCLE?’
Annapurna said, ‘I was widowed at the age of eleven. My husband is like a shadowy memory to me.’
Asha asked, ‘Aunty, who do you think of then?’
Annapurna smiled. ‘I think of Him who is now the keeper of my husband—of God.’
Asha asked, ‘Does that bring you joy?’
Annapurna stroked her head lovingly and said, ‘Child, what would you know of the matters of my mind? It is known only to me and to Him on whom my heart is fixed.’
Asha mulled over this as she thought, ‘Does he know my heart—the one I think of day and night? Just because I cannot write well, why has he given up writing to me?’
It was a while since Asha had got a letter from Mahendra. She sighed and thought, ‘If only Chokher Bali were with me, she’d have been able to pen down my thoughts faithfully.’
Asha couldn’t ever bring herself to write to her husband for fear that her badly written prose would not be appreciated by him. The harder she tried, the more her scrawls went awry. The more she tried to express herself concisely, the further her thoughts scattered themselves. If only she could write the first ‘Dearest’ and then sign her name, such that an omniscient Mahendra would read between the lines all that she meant to write, Asha would have completed her letters with great success. Fate had gifted her with a great capacity to love, but with little verbal skills.
That evening Asha came back from the temple after the aarti, sat down at Annapurna’s feet and began to stroke them gently. After many minutes of silence she said, ‘Aunty, you always say that a husband should be worshipped and served like a god. But what can a wife do, if she is stupid, slow-witted and doesn’t know how to serve him?’
Annapurna gazed at Asha’s face for a few seconds and a covert sigh excaped her as she said, ‘Child, I too am stupid, and yet I serve my God.’
Asha said, ‘But He knows your heart and so He is pleased. But what if the husband is not satisfied with the dumb woman’s devotion?’
Annapurna said, ‘Not everyone has the capacity to satisfy everyone, my child. If the wife serves her husband and his family with the utmost devotion and genuine dedication, then even if the husband throws her service away as worthless, the Lord of the Universe will pick it up and treasure it.’
Asha sat in wordless silence. She tried very hard to take heart from these words spoken by her aunt. But she simply couldn’t accept that a woman discarded by her husband can derive any solace even from the Lord of the Universe Himself. She sat with her head bent and continued to stroke her aunt’s feet.
Annapurna held her hand and drew her closer. She kissed the top of her head. With great effort she cleared her choked voice and said, ‘Chuni, the trials and tribulations of life are a great teacher—mere advice can’t take their place. At your age, I had struck a give-and-take relationship with life. Just like you, I too thought that I should get recognition from whoever I served. But at every step I found that my expectation wasn’t realistic. Eventually one day, I co
uld take it no longer. I felt all that I had done had been in vain. The same day I left home. But today I find nothing has been in vain. My child, He who is the chief of this business called life, with Whom we have a constant give-and-take relationship, has been taking everything I have ever given. Today He rests in my heart and admits my worth. If only I knew it then! If I worked through life seeing it as work done for Him, if I poured my heart into life as if I was pouring it into Him, who would ever have had the capacity to hurt me?’
Asha lay in bed thinking hard, going back to Annapurna’s words, although she couldn’t make proper sense of them all. But she had immense respect for her pious aunt and in spite of not understanding all that she had said Asha gave credence to most of it. She sat up in bed, folded her hands and sent up a prayer in the direction of that God to whom her aunt had given her heart. She said, ‘I am a child, I do not know You. All I know is my husband; please don’t blame me for that. Dear God, please tell my husband to accept the devotion that I place at his feet. If he chooses to reject it, I shall surely die. I am not as devout as my aunt; shelter at your feet alone cannot be my salvation.’ Asha bowed again and again and prayed fervently before she got into bed.
It was time for Anukulbabu to go back home. The evening before Asha left, Annapurna sat her down by her side and said, ‘Chuni, my child, I do not have the power to protect you from the sorrows, travails and hardships of life at all times. This is my advice to you: however anyone may hurt you, keep your faith, your piety intact; may your integrity always be uncompromised.’
Asha touched her feet and said, ‘Bless me, Aunty, so that I can do that.’
31
ASHA RETURNED HOME. BINODINI REPROACHED HER PETULANTLY, ‘BALI, you didn’t write me a single letter in all these days!’
Asha said, ‘As if you showered me with letters!’
Binodini said, ‘Why should I write? You were supposed to write first.’
Asha hugged her and conceded defeat. She said, ‘You know I cannot express myself too well. Especially writing to a learned person like you really makes me shy.’
Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1 Page 13
