47
ANNAPURNA RETURNED FROM KASHI, WALKED INTO RAJLAKSHMI’S ROOM slowly and touched her feet with respect. Despite the intervening tiffs and rows, the sight of Annapurna gave Rajlakshmi a new lease of life. Only after Annapurna’s arrival did Rajlakshmi realize that she’d been seeking her all this while, reaching out to her, unknown even to her own self. In an instant she recognized that much of her distress, much of the ennui of the past few weeks were due to Annapurna’s absence. In one single moment she became her old self. Rajlakshmi was flooded with memories of the old camaraderie between the two sisters-in-law, which had been there even before Mahendra’s birth—from the day they had entered this house as new brides and accepted the good and bad in it as their own, in festivals, in death and sorrow—when they had pulled the vehicle of this household together as one, with one destination in mind. The dearest friend of her youth, with whom she had once begun her journey, had come back to her side after many interludes and interruptions. But the one for whom Rajlakshmi had inflicted such wounds on this friend of hers was now nowhere to be found.
Annapurna sat beside the ailing woman, took her hand in her own and said, ‘Didi.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mejo-bou,’ but she could not say anything more. The tears flowed from her eyes. Asha could no longer check herself; she went into the next room, collapsed on the floor and cried her heart out.
Annapurna did not dare to ask Rajlakshmi or Asha any questions about Mahendra. She called Sadhucharan and asked, ‘Uncle, where is Mahin?’
Sadhucharan narrated the entire episode of Mahendra and Binodini. Annapurna asked, ‘Where is Behari?’
Sadhucharan replied, ‘He hasn’t come here for many days now—I don’t know his whereabouts.’
Annapurna said, ‘Please go to Behari’s house and get me news of him.’
Sadhucharan came back to say, ‘He is not at home. He is in a farmhouse by the Ganga in Bally.’
Annapurna sent for Nabin-doctor and asked after the patient’s health. He said, ‘Along with her weak heart, she has now developed dropsy. Death may come suddenly, without warning.’
That evening, when Rajlakshmi’s pain worsened, Annapurna asked her, ‘Didi, may I send for Nabin-doctor?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘No Mejo-bou, Nabin-doctor won’t be able to do anything for me.’
Annapurna said, ‘Then tell me who would you like to see?’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘It’ll be good if you could send word to Behari.’
Annapurna was touched to the quick. One day at dusk, in a far-off land, she had slighted and sent Behari away from her doorstep, and the memory still perturbed her. Behari would never come back to her doorstep again. She had never imagined that in this lifetime she’d get another chance to set right that rebuff.
Annapurna went up to Mahendra’s room on the terrace. Once this room had been the one cheerful spot in the house. Today it looked forlorn—the beds were unmade, the décor dishevelled; no one had watered the plants on the terrace and they looked withered.
Asha realized her aunt had gone up to the terrace and she followed her slowly. Annapurna pulled her into her heart and kissed her forehead. Asha went down on her knees, touched Annapurna’s feet and laying her head on them said, ‘Aunty, bless me, give me strength. I had never imagined that a person could bear such immense heartbreak. Oh Lord, how much longer can I bear this!’
Annapurna sat down on the floor and Asha lay down at her feet. Annapurna picked up her niece’s head onto her lap and without saying a word, folded her own hands and meditated in silence.
This silent, loving benediction from Annapurna was like balm to the depths of Asha’s soul; after an age she felt at peace. She felt her prayers were nearly answered—the gods may well ignore her, a silly and stupid girl, but they’d surely hear the prayers of her aunt.
With this reassurance and strength in her heart, Asha stood up with a sigh after a while. She said, ‘Aunty, please write a letter to Behari-thakurpo.’
Annapurna said, ‘No, a letter won’t do.’
Asha said, ‘But then, how will you send word to him?’
Annapurna said, ‘Tomorrow I shall go and meet him in person.’
48
WHILE BEHARI WAS TRAVELLING IN THE WEST, HE HAD REALIZED THAT IF HE didn’t bind himself to a mission, he would know no peace. He resolved to take up the onus of providing treatment to Kolkata’s indigent clerks. The life of a low-income, needy clerk living in a shack in a narrow lane, burdened with a family, was like that of a fish in a pond in summer, when it thrashed about helplessly in the mud and gasped for breath as the water around it dried up. For many years Behari had nurtured sympathy for this pallid, emaciated, fretful bunch of gentlefolk. So he wanted to confer upon them the shade of the woods and the breeze of the Ganga.
He bought some land in Bally and with the help of some Chinese artisans started building tiny cottages there. But his heart knew no peace. As the day grew closer for him to inaugurate his mission, his soul rebelled against his chosen vocation. His heart echoed with one thought, ‘There is no joy, no pleasure, no beauty in this work—it is nothing but a dreary burden.’ Never before had Behari felt so oppressed by the prospect of work.
In the past, Behari had never needed anything. He had always been able to apply himself with ease to the task at hand. But now he felt a strange kind of hunger without appeasing which he couldn’t bring himself to feel an interest in anything. In keeping with his old habits he tried his hand at this and that; but in the very next moment he wanted to give it all up and be free of everything.
The yearning of youth which had lain dormant within him and whose existence he had been unaware of had suddenly come alive at Binodini’s magic touch. It now began to prowl through the landscape, looking for objects to satisfy its hunger. Behari was unsettled by this hungry animal within himself; what would he do now with the sickly, withered community of clerks from Kolkata!
The Ganga, overflowing in the monsoon, streamed ahead. Every now and then indigo clouds inclined towards each other in intimate embrace over the thick foliage on the other bank. The river sometimes glinted like a steel sword and sometimes it glittered like a flashfire. Every time Behari’s glance fell on this festive monsoon scenery, someone emerged from his heart and stood all alone beneath the serene blue glow of the sky; someone with her moist, jet-black tresses cascading in waves over her back—she collected all the scattered rays of the monsoon-laden clouds and directed upon him the unblinking, burning fire of her gaze.
Today, Behari felt that his past, which he had spent in peace and quiet, had actually been a grave loss. Many such overcast evenings and moonlit nights must have come with their untold boon of joys to Behari’s empty heart, and gone back unfulfilled—so many melodies had remained unsung, and so many joyous occasions incomplete. Today, Binodini’s uplifted face, with the proferred kiss hanging in the air, cast its rosy glow upon all his memories of the past and turned them into wan, insignificant shadows. He had wasted the larger part of his life as Mahendra’s bosom friend! What had he gained from it? Behari had been unaware that the pathos of romance could exhume from the very heart of creation such a melodic tune on the flute. How could he now remove from his mind the memories of that woman, who had held him in her arms and elevated him all at once to this unimaginable place of beauty? Her gaze, her desires were everywhere now; her fervent, deep sighs raised waves in Behari’s blood and the gentle warmth of her touch embraced Behari again and again and enlivened his heart like a blossoming flower.
And yet, why was Behari so far away from Binodini today? The reason was that he couldn’t imagine a relationship that would be as beautiful as the beauty of the emotions with which she had drenched his soul. If you tried to pluck the lotus, the sludge came with it. Where could he place her in the web of relationships so that the exquisite would not be turned into the hideous? Besides, if a tug-of-war ensued with Mahendra, the whole thing would take such an ugly turn that Behari couldn’t even bear to think about it. Hence, Behari had c
ome away to this solitary bank of the Ganga, placed his idol on a pedestal and burned his heart like incense at her altar. He did not even write to Binodini or ask after her for fear that he would hear something that would destroy his house of cards.
On this cloudy morning Behari sat pensively in the southern corner of his garden beneath the berry tree. Tiny boats ferried to and fro on the river and he watched them idly. The sun rose higher in the sky. The servant came to ask him if he should get started on lunch. Behari said, ‘Not now.’ The chief artisan came to him for some urgent consultation and Behari said, ‘Later, please.’
Suddenly, Behari was startled to find Annapurna standing before him. He sat up in a rush, held her feet in his firm grasp and bent to the ground, seeking her blessings. Annapurna stroked his head affectionately with her right hand and spoke in a voice laced with tears, ‘Behari, why have you grown so thin?’
Behari said, ‘So that I could get back your love, Aunty.’
Tears streamed down Annapurna’s cheeks. Behari stood up attentively, ‘Aunty, have you eaten yet?’
Annapurna said, ‘No, it’s not time yet.’
Behari said, ‘Come then, let me lend you a hand. Today, after all these months I am dying to eat food cooked by you, off your plate after you are finished.’
Behari did not ask a word about Mahendra or Asha. One day, Annapurna had closed her door on Behari’s face ruthlessly. With hurt pride, he obeyed her indictment to this day.
After lunch Annapurna said, ‘Behari, the boat is ready at the quay—come to Kolkata right away.’
Behari said, ‘But I have no work in Kolkata.’
Annapurna said, ‘Didi is very ill, she has asked to see you.’
Behari looked up in startled disbelief. He asked, ‘Where is Mahin da?’
Annapurna said, ‘He is not in Kolkata. He is travelling in the west.’
Behari turned ashen as he heard this. He sat for a while in wordless silence.
Annapurna asked, ‘Don t you know everything, Behari?’
Behari said, ‘I know some of it, but not what has happened recently.’
So Annapurna narrated to him the events leading up to Mahendra’s escape to the west with Binodini in tow. In a flash of a second the colour of the earth-sky and water changed before Behari’s very eyes; the nectar of his imagination turned bitter all at once: ‘So Binodini, the temptress, played with my emotions on that night! The surrender of her heart was a mere illusion! She left her village brazenly with Mahendra and headed westwards! Shame on her, and shame on me—I was a fool to have trusted her even for a moment.’
Alas for the overcast monsoon evening, alas for the rain-soaked full-moon night—where was their magical charm now?
49
BEHARI WONDERED HOW HE WOULD BE ABLE TO BRING HIMSELF TO LOOK at the heartbroken Asha. When he stepped into the courtyard, the palpable pathos of the desolate house overwhelmed him. He looked at the servants and on behalf of Mahendra, culpable and absent, he hung his head in shame. He could not bring himself to ask of the familiar old retainers how they were, as he’d always done in the past. On the threshold of the inner chambers, his feet fairly dragged. Mahendra had hurled a vulnerable Asha into a naked humiliation that robbed a woman of all protective mantles and exposed her to the pitying, curious glances of the whole world. How could he bear to gaze upon Asha who would be injured and cringing?
But there was no time for these ruminations and quandaries. The moment he stepped inside, Asha walked up to him quickly and said, ‘Thakurpo, please come quickly and take a look at Mother—she is really suffering.’
This was the first time Asha had addressed Behari directly. In times of trouble, masks are ripped away suddenly; people from far and wide are brought together in one lightning stroke and held close.
Asha’s forthright fervour struck a chord in Behari. This tiny event told him much about the state in which Mahendra had left his family. The trauma of harsh times robs the household of charm and grace and the woman of the house has no opportunity to shield herself. Trivial shields and barriers come crashing down—no one has time for them.
Behari stepped into Rajlakshmi’s room. Rajlakshmi had lost all colour due to a sudden attack of breathlessness—but that passed and she soon composed herself.
Behari touched her feet and sought her blessings. Rajlakshmi indicated for him a seat beside her bed. She spoke slowly, ‘How are you, Behari? It’s been so long.’
Behari said, ‘Mother, why didn’t you let me know that you are unwell? I would have rushed to your side immediately.’
Rajlakshmi spoke softly, ‘I know that, my child. I may not have given birth to you, but you are all I have left in this world.’ Tears coursed down her cheeks as she spoke.
Behari got up hastily and pretended to examine the bottles and jars of medication on the shelf as he controlled his emotions. When he returned to check Rajlakshmi’s pulse, she said, ‘Leave my pulse alone—let me ask you, why have you grown so thin, Behari?’ She reached out her bony fingers and stroked Behari’s collarbone.
Behari replied, ‘If I don’t have fish curry cooked by you, my bones will wither away thus. Get well soon, Mother, and I’ll keep everything ready in the kitchen.’
Rajlakshmi smiled wanly and said, ‘Behari, you must bring home a bride; there’s no one to look after you. O Mejo-bou, all of you must find him a bride now—just look at what he has done to himself.’
Annapurna said, ‘Didi, you get well first. This is your duty and you will fulfil it. We shall all join in the fun and enjoy ourselves.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘There’s no time left for me to do it, Mejo-bou; I leave Behari in your care—you must make him happy. I could not repay his debts. But God will be merciful to him.’ She stroked Behari’s head affectionately.
Asha couldn’t stay in the room any longer—she went out to cry her heart out. Annapurna gazed lovingly at Behari through her tears.
Suddenly, Rajlakshmi seemed to remember something and she called out, ‘Bou-ma, O Bou-ma!’
When Asha re-entered the room she said, ‘Have you arranged for Behari’s meal?’
Behari said, ‘Mother, everyone knows this glutton of a son of yours. The minute I stepped into the courtyard I noticed Bami, the maid, rushing into the kitchen with a large, fresh fish. I knew then that this household still remembers my tastes.’ Behari laughed and looked at Asha.
Today, Asha wasn’t embarrassed. She smiled sweetly and accepted Behari’s banter indulgently. In the past she hadn’t known the full weight of Behari’s place in this family. Often, she had taken him for an intruder and disregarded him; many a times her exasperation had shown through in her gestures. Today, she regretted it all and it lent a new edge to her respect and sympathy towards Behari.
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mejo-bou, the cook won’t be any good—you’ll have to take charge of the cooking today. This country lad of ours from the other side of the river needs his food very spicy or he doesn’t take to it.’
Behari protested, ‘Your mother came from Bikrampur, in East Bengal; and you call a gentleman from West Bengal’s Nadia district a country lad from the other side of the river! This I cannot stand for.’
There was a spate of good-humoured exchanges and after many days, the pall of sorrow lifted a little from the house.
But amidst all this conversation, not one person mentioned Mahendra’s name. In the past Rajlakshmi only talked of Mahendra to Behari. Mahendra had often teased his mother for this. And today, when the same Rajlakshmi never once mentioned Mahendra, Behari was silently shocked.
When Rajlakshmi seemed to drift into sleep, Behari came out of the room and said to Annapurna, ‘Mother’s ailment is quite grave.’
Annapurna said, ‘That is very obvious.’ She sat down by the window in her own room. After many minutes of silence she said, ‘Don’t you think you should go and fetch Mahin, Behari? We shouldn’t wait any longer.’
After a long pause Behari said, ‘I shall do as you say. Does anyone ha
ve his address?’
Annapurna said, ‘Not exactly, you’ll have to hunt for it. Behari, let me tell you one more thing. Take a look at Asha. If you cannot salvage Mahendra from Binodini’s clutches, she will surely die. If you look at her face you can tell that she has no will left to live.’
Behari laughed at this irony deep in his heart and thought, ‘I’m the right choice to go and salvage another—and who, pray, will be my salvation?’
Aloud he said, ‘Aunty, do I possess the secret of keeping Mahin da away from Binodini forever? He may come now due to his mother’s illness. But how can I promise that he won’t go back later?’
At this point Asha walked in slowly with her anchal pulled slightly over her head and sat down at her aunt’s feet. She knew that Annapurna was discussing Rajlakshmi’s illness with Behari and she was eager to hear about it. When he saw the glow of mute anguish on the chaste Asha’s face, Behari was filled with a sense of reverent admiration. This young woman had bathed in the holy waters of sorrow and acquired a divine status like the goddesses of ancient times—she was no longer an ordinary mortal; terrible grief seemed to have made her as old as the acsetic women that the Puranas described.
After Behari discussed Rajlakshmi’s diet and medication with Asha and sent her on her way, he heaved a sigh and said to Annapurna, ‘I must salvage Mahin da.’
Behari went to Mahendra’s bank and found out that the latter had recently begun transactions with their branch in Allahabad.
50
AT THE STATION BINODINI CLAMBERED STRAIGHT INTO THE LADIES’ COUPE in the intermediate class. Mahendra said, ‘What are you doing—I’ll buy a second-class ticket for you.’
Binodini said, ‘But why? I’ll be fine here.’
Mahendra was a little surprised. Binodini enjoyed her luxuries. In the past all hint of paucity had been anathema to her. The inherent poverty of her own home had always mortified her. If there was one thing that Mahendra had realized, it was that once Binodini had felt drawn to the comforts of his home, and to its reputation of being richer than average. She had felt restless at the thought that she could very easily have been the mistress of these comforts and the rightful claimant to the household’s dignity. But today, when she had a complete hold over Mahendra, when she could easily bring all his wealth to her service, why was she displaying such careless obstinacy and rebelliously welcoming the path of arduous, degrading hardships? The fact was that she wanted to curtail her dependence on Mahendra as far as possible. She didn’t want to accept from Mahendra, the man who had dislodged her from her rightful sanctuary forever, anything that could be counted as recompense for her disgrace. When Binodini lived in Mahendra’s home, she had never followed the rigid rules of widowhood. But now she had begun to deprive herself of all pleasures. Now she had only one meal a day, wore a coarse sari and her perpetual laughter and banter were things of the past. Now she was so taciturn, masked, so distant and so forbidding that Mahendra didn’t dare speak a harsh word to her. In amazement, impatience and fury, Mahendra said to himself, ‘Binodini tried so hard to attain me—like the effort one makes to pluck a fruit from a lofty bough; why then did she cast the fruit away without even smelling it?’
Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1 Page 21
