Mahendra asked, ‘For which place should I buy the tickets?’
Binodini said, ‘Anywhere in the west—we can get down wherever the trains halts tomorrow morning.’
This kind of journey didn’t appeal to Mahendra. He hated the disruption of his comfortable life. It would be difficult for Mahendra to survive without a proper dwelling in a big city. He wasn’t the sort who could fend for himself and go where his fortunes took him. He boarded the train in a very irritable frame of mind. The fear that they were in separate compartments and that Binodini could get off the train without his knowledge made things worse.
In this manner, Binodini spun around on her orbit like a malevolent planet in the skies and she made Mahendra spin likewise—never letting him rest. Binodini had the capacity to make friends easily. Very soon she made friends with the women travelling with her. She gathered information about their desired destinations, put up in the dormitories and went about touring the sights worth seeing with her new friends. Every time Mahendra felt he was superfluous to Binodini, it was like a fresh blow to him. His only task was to buy the tickets from here to there. The rest of the time it was a ceaseless scuffle between him and his desires. At first, he accompanied Binodini on her forays in sightseeing—but gradually he grew tired of it. So he had his meal and tried to sleep while Binodini roamed about all day. No one could have dreamt that Mahendra, the apple of his mother’s eye, would one day come out into the streets thus.
One day, the two were waiting for the train at Allahabad station. For some reason the train was late. Meanwhile, Binodini was scanning the faces of the passengers alighting from and boarding other trains. Perhaps she nurtured the hope that since they were in the west, if she looked hard enough, she’d be able to find one particular person. For her, there was a kind of tranquillity in this daily search amidst the chaotic throngs of people; at least it was better than her lonely life, captive in a solitary home, dying each day under the weight of stillness.
At Allahabad station her glance fell upon a glass box on the platform and she got a shock. The postal-department box displayed the letters addressed to all those who could not be located. On one letter carefully arranged inside the box, Binodini spotted Behari’s name. The name ‘Beharilal’ wasn’t uncommon and there was no reason to imagine that the Behari whose name was on that letter was the same one that Binodini longed for; yet, his full name spelt out on the letter left her in no doubt that it must indeed be Behari. She memorized the address on the envelope. Mahendra was seated on a bench, wearing a dour expression. Binodini went up to him and said, ‘Let us stay here in Allahabad for a few days.’
Mahendra’s male ego had felt increasingly slighted and rebellious at the thought that Binodini drove him as per her wishes and never bothered to provide fodder for his hungry, craving heart. At this point he would have been happy to stay longer in Allahabad and get some rest—but he felt like cutting off his nose to spite his face, not wanting to fall in with Binodini’s wishes. He spoke irritably, ‘Since we have set off we shall continue. I can’t go back.’
Binodini said, ‘I shall not go.’
Mahendra said, ‘You stay alone then, I am off.’
Binodini said, ‘That’s fine.’ She gestured to a porter, picked up her luggage and headed out of the station.
Mahendra with his male ego remained seated on the bench with dark thunderclouds hovering on his face. He could hold still only as long as Binodini was still visible to the eye. When she left the station without once looking back, he quickly summoned a porter, asked him to pick up his luggage and followed her. When he came out of the station he found that Binodini had already hired a carriage. In silence, Mahendra loaded the baggage atop the carriage and jumped into the coachbox. He had no inclination of sitting inside, facing Binodini and his defeated ego.
The carriage went on and on. Nearly an hour later they’d left the city behind and the carriage now rolled over fields and farmlands. Mahendra was embarrassed to ask questions of the coachman lest he thought that the woman inside was the mistress and she hadn’t even bothered to consult this man about their destination. He silently chewed on his wounded ego and sat in the coachbox wordlessly.
The carriage came to a halt in front of a solitary, well-kept farmhouse on the banks of the Yamuna. Mahendra was dumbfounded. Whose farm was this? How had Binodini come upon this address?
The house was shuttered. After much hollering an aged caretaker came out. He said that the owner was a rich man who lived nearby and if his permission was obtained they could stay in the farmhouse. Binodini glanced at Mahendra just once. He was tempted at the sight of this beautiful mansion—the prospect of a few days’ relaxation thrilled him no end. He said to Binodini, ‘Let us go to this rich man’s house.You can stay in the carriage while I go inside and fix the rates.’
Binodini said, ‘I am too tired. You go ahead. I’ll stay here awhile. I think it’s quite safe.’
Mahendra got into the carriage and left. Binodini called the old man to her side and asked after his children—how many there were, where they worked and where his daughters were married and so on. When she heard of his wife s demise she spoke compassionately, ‘Oh, it must be hard on you. At this age you are all alone in this world. There’s no one to look after you.’
In the course of conversation Binodini asked him, ‘Did Beharibabu stay here once?’
He said, ‘Well yes, he did for some time. Does madam know him?’
Binodini said, ‘He is related to us.
The description that the old man gave of Behari removed the last traces of doubt from Binodini’s mind. She made the old man open up the house, and went into the rooms where Behari had stayed. Since they were locked up after his departure, it felt as if his spirit still lingered in the rooms, the wind had failed to sweep it away. Binodini drew in a deep breath and sucked it into her soul, let the still, silent air touch her all over; but she could not get any information about where Behari had gone. He could come back—nothing was certain. The old man assured Binodini that he’d check with his master and return with the news.
Mahendra paid the advance, meanwhile, and came back with permission for them to stay there.
51
THE WATERS THAT THE HIMALAYAS GIFTED TO THE YAMUNA FROM ITS SNOWY peaks were eternal, as were the torrents of poetry that generations of poets had presented to her. The rippling stream of this river contained sparkling rhythms in its currents and its waves surged with the exuberant emotions of many centuries.
When Mahendra came and sat on its banks at dusk, the sensation of romance conjured up a trance in his eyes, in his breath, in his veins and in his bones. The rays of the setting sun played a golden sitar of secret melodies and tremulous agony. The day cast speckled colours on the expansive banks, and wore to an end. Mahendra sat with half-closed eyes and heard as if from the elegiac dreamworld of Vrindavan the sounds of calves returning home at dusk.
The skies were overcast with monsoon clouds. The darkness was not a mere sheath of pitch-black but also something that echoed with curious mysteries. The bare shapes that were apparent through it in a strange glow spoke in nameless, unspoken languages. The indistinct pallor of the other bank, the inky blackness of the still waters, the huddled stillness of the massive, leafy lime tree at the riverside, the wan, dusty horizon in the distance, all merged together in the dark in various indefinite, indistinct shapes on this rainy evening and embraced Mahendra from all sides.
The rainy trysts of the Vaishnava padabalis came to his mind. The lady has set off on her tryst. She had come to the banks of the Yamuna all by herself and stood at the water’s edge. How could she cross the river? ‘Please ferry me across,’ the cry rang in Mahendra’s ears, ‘oh please, ferry me to the other side.’
On the opposite bank of the river, in the dark, the lady stood far away—yet Mahendra could see her clearly. She was timeless and ageless, the eternal lover of Krishna and yet, Mahendra recognized her—she was none other than Binodini! She had begun h
er journey from beyond time with all her anguish, the pangs of separation and the full burden of her youth; her tryst had finally brought her to this river bank today through many melodies and many rhythms—today, the skies above the remote river reverberated with her voice, ‘Oh please, ferry me across.’ For how many more ages would she stand there thus, waiting for the boatman to ferry her across?
The clouds in a corner of the sky parted, revealing a sickle moon. The elusive magic of the moonlight took the river and its banks, the sky and its horizon far beyond the limits of reality. They were free of all earthly ties. The reins of time snapped, entire histories of the past disappeared, consequences of the future vanished—just this deluge of silvery water on the Yamuna remained—and this moment held Mahendra and Binodini in it, as time and the world stood still.
Mahendra was inebriated. He felt sure that Binodini wouldn’t reject him today, she wouldn’t refuse to fill this solitary, moonlit paradise with her gracious beauty. He stood up instantly and went towards the house in search of Binodini.
When he reached the bedroom he was overwhelmed by the scent of flowers. Through the open doors and windows the moonlight streamed onto the shimmering bed. Binodini had picked flowers from the garden, threaded them into garlands that she wore in her hair, on her arms and neck—adorned with flowers she lay upon the bed like a creeper in spring, bent under the weight of its blossoms.
Mahendra’s yearning intensified. He spoke in a choked voice, ‘Binod, I waited on the banks of the Yamuna. The moon in the sky brought me news that you are waiting and here I am.’ Mahendra stepped forward and made to sit on the bed.
But Binodini sat up in startled surprise, stretched out her right arm and said, ‘Go, go away—you must not sit on this bed.’
The wind went out of the ship’s sail and it faltered to a halt—Mahendra stood there, dumbfounded. He couldn’t speak for a few minutes. Lest he refused to obey her, Binodini got off the bed and came to stand before him.
Mahendra asked, ‘Then why have you dressed up—who are you waiting for?’
Binodini gripped her heart and said, ‘The one I wait for is right here, in my soul.’
Mahendra said, ‘Who is it? Is it Behari?
Binodini said, ‘Don’t you dare utter his name.’
Mahendra said, revelation striking him, ‘Is he the reason why you are roaming around in the west?’
Binodini replied, ‘Yes , he is.
Mahendra said, ‘And he is the one you are waiting for now?’
Binodini said, ‘Yes, he is.’
Mahendra asked, ‘Have you found his address?’
Binodini said, ‘No, I haven’t—but I’ll get it somehow.’
Mahendra said, ‘I shall not let you find it.’
Binodini said, ‘Even if you do that, you cannot take him out of my heart.’
Binodini closed her eyes and perceived Behari within her heart at once.
Thus intensely attracted to and violently rebuffed by this image of a beflowered yet disdainful Binodini, Mahendra suddenly grew fierce—he clenched his fists in rage and said, ‘I shall take a dagger, rip your heart out and remove him from it.
Binodini spoke with unruffled detachment, ‘Your dagger will enter my heart more easily than your love.’
Mahendra said in baffled wonder, ‘Why are you not afraid of me—who is there to protect you here?’
Binodini said simply, ‘You are there—you will protect me even from yourself.’
Mahendra said, ‘So there is still this much respect and trust left?’
Binodini said, ‘Otherwise, I’d rather have killed myself than set off with you.’
Mahendra said, ‘You should have. Why have you hung that slender noose of modest faith around my neck and dragged me around the country? Just think how much good will come of your death!’
Binodini said, ‘I know that; but I cannot die as long as my hopes of Behari live.’
Mahendra said, ‘As long as you don’t die, my aspirations won t die either—I shall not be free. From this day on I shall pray to God with all my heart that you should die. Don’ t belong to me; don’t belong to Behari. Just go. Set me free. My mother weeps, my wife weeps—their tears lacerate me from afar. Unless you die and go beyond my aspirations, I shall not get the chance to wipe away their tears.’
Mahendra rushed out of the room. He ripped away the lacy webs of illusion that Binodini had been weaving in solitude. Binodini stood in silence and gazed out of the window—the skyful of moonlight had disappeared, taking with it the magical nectar. The manicured lawn, the river bed beyond, the inky depths of the water and the obscurity of the other bank—all seemed like a pencil sketch on a large white sheet of paper—quite dreary and hollow.
Today, when she realized afresh just how intensely she’d fascinated Mahendra, how she’d uprooted him like a terrible storm and felled him to the ground, Binodini grew more agitated. She had all these powers. Why then did Behari not come and crash at her feet like the swollen waves on a full-moon night? Why did the powerful memory of a redundant love come sobbing into her meditation every day? An unfamiliar lament continually intruded and stopped her own inner dirge from being fulfilled. What would she do for the rest of her life with this massive upheaval that she had caused? How would she calm it and lay it to rest?
As she realized that the flowers decking her had attracted Mahendra’s appreciative gaze, she tore away at them. All her powers, her efforts, her life were in vain—this garden, the moonlight, the river banks, this picturesque world were all in vain.
Such futility—and yet everything stood exactly where it had earlier. Nothing mattered in the least in this world. The sun wouldn’t fail to rise tomorrow and life wouldn’t forget the tiniest of details. And Behari—impassive and detached—would stay distant as before and teach Vasant a new lesson from his textbook.
Tears welled up in Binodini’s eyes. What was this unyielding stone that she was trying to move with all her strength? Her heart knew bloodshed every day, but her fate didn’t move an inch from its place!
52
MAHENDRA DIDN’T SLEEP ALL NIGHT—BUT TOWARDS DAWN SLEEP overcame his tired body. He woke up at around nine and sat up hastily. The anguish from last night had threaded its way into his sleep. The moment he was awake Mahendra felt the pain afresh. Within a few moments the events of the night before came flooding back to him. In the scorching late-morning heat, the fatigue of a fitful night set in and his life appeared quite distasteful to his eyes. Why was he bearing this burden, leaving his family, feeling the guilt of going astray and enduring the discomforts of a nomadic life? In the stark morning light Mahendra suddenly felt he was not in love with Binodini. He glanced at the street and saw the whole world rushing about, people getting on with their work. The stupidity inherent in forfeiting all self-esteem and dedicating his whole, redundant life to the feet of an unwilling woman was suddenly apparent to him. On the heels of a tremendous passion comes terrible fatigue—the weary heart wants to keep away the object of its desire for some time. In these times of waning, when the tide is at an ebb, the sludge and grime of the river bed is clearly visible—the object of desire then provokes revulsion. Today, Mahendra could not understand why he had been dragging himself pointlessly through the mud all these days. He said, ‘I am superior to Binodini in every way and yet I endure all kinds of insults and injury and follow her around like a hideous beggar—what kind of a devil put such strange ideas in my head!’ Today, Binodini seemed like any other woman and nothing more. When the wonderful glow that had emanated from the world around her and from the poetry and tales involving her vanished suddenly like a mirage, all that was left was an ordinary woman, with nothing to set her apart from the rest.
Mahendra grew impatient, wishing to extricate himself from this insufferable web of illusion and head home at once. The peace, love and affection he had once experienced at home, now seemed like the most sought after elixir to him. He realized that Behari’s loyal friendship of many years was t
he most precious thing in the world. Mahendra said to himself, ‘Since it is easy to drown yourself effortlessly into that which is truly profound and eternal, we take it for granted and do not realize its true worth. And since the restless illusion, which brings no pleasure even if you drain it to the dregs, leads us by the nose and makes us dance a merry dance to its tune, we take it to be the most desirable thing.
He decided, ‘I’ll go home today—let Binodini stay wherever she wants to stay. I’ll make the arrangements and then I’ll be free.’ As he uttered the words, ‘I’ll be free’, a tremor of delight shook Mahendra’s being; he felt the burden of incessant quandary that he had carried around all these days suddenly lifting. For so long, he had been forced to do in one instant what had seemed odious to him a moment ago—he didn’t have the power to assert himself; every command that came from his conscience was strangled as he took the other road instead. Today, when he asserted ‘I’ll be free’, his vacillating heart found shelter at least and applauded him.
Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1 Page 22
