Chokher Bali

by Rabindranath Tagore

  Once Rajalakshmi had left the room, Mahendra could contain himself no longer. He exclaimed, ‘Why do you deliberately torment me like this?’

  As if extremely surprised, Binodini asked, ‘What do you mean, my friend! When have I tormented you? Have I done wrong, then, in visiting your room? Better not, let me go.’ She made as if to rise, her face dejected.

  Mahendra grasped her hand. ‘This is how you torture me with hell fire.’

  ‘Oh, I had no idea I had such fire in me; your heart is tough, too, to withstand so much. It is impossible to tell from your appearance that you have been scorched and roasted to such an extent.’

  ‘What could you tell from appearances?’ With these words, Mahendra caught Binodini’s hand and pressed it to his heart.

  Binodini cried out in pain. Mahendra quickly released her hand. ‘Did I hurt you?’ he asked.

  He found that the wound on Binodini’s arm, where she had hurt herself the previous day, was bleeding again. Full of remorse, Mahendra said, ‘I had forgotten—it was very wrong of me. I shall apply some medicine right away, and bandage the area; I shan’t let you escape on any account, today.’

  ‘No, it is nothing. I shall not apply any medicine.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not, indeed! There is no need for you to play the doctor; let the wound remain as it is.’

  Instantly, Mahendra became grave. ‘It is impossible to understand a woman’s mind!’ he said to himself.

  Binodini arose. Without stopping her, Mahendra asked petulantly, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have work to do.’ She walked away, slowly.

  After a minute, Mahendra quickly got to his feet and ran after Binodini to bring her back, but at the top of the stairs, he turned back, and began to pace the terrace alone.

  Binodini drew him to her every hour of the day, yet would not let him near her for a single moment. Mahendra had recently relinquished his proud claim that he was invincible, but must he also relinquish his claim that he could conquer others at the slightest effort? Today, he had conceded defeat, but was unable to inflict defeat in return. In matters of the heart, Mahendra rated himself very highly; he did not recognize anyone as his equal, but today, in that very arena, his head rolled in the dust. In return for the loss of his supremacy, he had not gained anything, either. He felt like a beggar who must stand empty-handed before a closed door in the darkness of the evening.

  In the spring, during the months of Phalgun and Chaitra, Bihari received mustard-honey from his estates. As always, he sent some to Rajalakshmi this year as well.

  Binodini carried the jar of honey to Rajalakshmi. ‘Pishima, Bihari Thakurpo has sent some honey.’

  Rajalakshmi instructed her to put it away in the store. Having stored away the honey, Binodini came to sit beside Rajalakshmi. ‘Bihari Thakurpo never fails to enquire after you,’ she observed. ‘Poor man, has he no mother of his own, that he should regard you as his own mother?’

  Accustomed to regarding Bihari as Mahendra’s shadow, Rajalakshmi had never given much thought to his situation; he was beholden to them, a person of no worth, requiring no special care. When Binodini described Rajalakshmi as a mother-substitute for the motherless Bihari, Rajalakshmi’s maternal heart was unexpectedly touched. All of a sudden, she thought, ‘True indeed, Bihari has no mother of his own; it is me he regards as his own mother.’ She remembered how, in times of sickness, difficulty and danger, Bihari had always served her with silent devotion, unasked, and without any outward display of ceremony. Rajalakshmi had accepted this as naturally as breathing; it had never occurred to her to feel grateful to anybody for this. But who had ever cared to ask news of Bihari’s well-being? When Annapurna was there, she had asked after him. ‘To keep Bihari under her thumb, Annapurna makes a great show of her affection for him,’ Rajalakshmi had believed then.

  Today, she sighed, ‘Indeed, Bihari is like a son to me.’

  Immediately, it occurred to her that Bihari did a great deal more for her than her own son; and without ever receiving much in return he remained steady in his devotion to them. The thought caused her to heave a heartfelt sigh.

  ‘Bihari Thakurpo loves to eat food prepared by you,’ Binodini reminded her.

  With indulgent pride, Rajalakshmi acknowledged, ‘He does not relish fish curry made by anyone else?’ Even as she spoke, she remembered that it had been a long time since Bihari had visited them. ‘Tell me, Bahu, why don’t we get to see Bihari these days?’ she said.

  ‘That’s just what I was wondering myself, Pishima. Well, ever since your son got married, he has been so preoccupied with his wife; why would his friends visit, after all?’

  Rajalakshmi found this statement extremely apt. Taken up with his wife, Mahendra had kept all their well-wishers at a distance. Bihari had every right to be offended; why should he visit them? Discovering that Bihari was on her side, Rajalakshmi’s sympathy for him increased greatly. She began to describe to Binodini how, from his very childhood, Bihari had unselfishly helped Mahendra, how much he had suffered on his friend’s account on so many occasions. Through her description of Bihari, she began to substantiate her own complaints against her son. If the brief spell of joy with his newly wedded wife had caused Mahendra to neglect his lifelong friend, what was the future of justice or duty in this world?

  ‘Tomorrow is Sunday; it will make Bihari Thakurpo happy if you invite him to a meal.’

  ‘You are quite right, Bahu. Let me send for Mahendra; he can send an invitation to Bihari.’

  ‘No, Pishima, please invite him yourself.’

  ‘I can’t read and write like all of you.’

  ‘So what, let me write on your behalf.’

  Binodini wrote and dispatched a letter of invitation in Rajalakshmi’s name.

  That Sunday was a day Mahendra awaited very eagerly. From the previous night itself, his imagination ran wild, although, until now, nothing had happened as he had imagined. All the same, the light of dawn on Sunday rained nectar on his eyes. The babble of the awakening city was exquisite music to his ears.

  But what was the matter? Did his mother have a special fasting ritual to observe? She was not resting as on other days, leaving Binodini in charge of all the housework. Today, she was bustling about.

  In this state of confusion, it turned ten o’clock, but Mahendra had not found a moment alone with Binodini on any pretext. He tried to read a book, but his mind refused to concentrate; for fifteen minutes, his gaze remained fixed on a useless advertisement in the newspaper. Then he could contain himself no longer. Going downstairs, he found his mother cooking at a portable stove placed in the veranda outside her room, and Binodini busy attending to her needs, her aanchal tucked firmly into her waist.

  ‘What’s the matter with both of you today?’ Mahendra wanted to know. ‘Why such hustle and bustle?’

  ‘Did Bahu not tell you? We have asked Bihari over today.’

  Asked Bihari over! Mahendra’s entire body seemed instantly aflame. ‘But Ma, I’m afraid I can’t stay,’ he said at once.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to go out, that’s why.’

  ‘Go after your meal, it won’t take long.’

  ‘But I have been invited out to a meal.’

  Casting a swift sidelong glance at Mahendra, Binodini observed, ‘If he has been invited, then why not let him go, Pishima? Bihari Thakurpo may as well eat by himself today.’

  But how could Rajalakshmi bear to forgo the pleasure of feeding Mahendra the dishes she had lovingly cooked? The more she pestered him, the more obstinate Mahendra became. ‘It’s a very urgent invitation. I can’t turn it down on any account. You should have consulted me before inviting Bihari.’

  Through his anger, Mahendra saw to it that his mother was punished in this way. Rajalakshmi lost all her enthusiasm. She felt like throwing away all the food and leaving the place.

  ‘Pishima, don’t worry. Thakurpo is speaking brashly, but he won’t be eating out today,’ Binodi
ni assured her.

  Rajalakshmi shook her head. ‘No, my child, you don’t know Mahin. Once he decides on something, it’s impossible to change his mind.’

  But Binodini understood Mahendra’s nature better than Rajalakshmi, as events were to prove. Mahendra had surmised that it was Binodini who had invited Bihari. The more this assumption tormented him, the harder he found it to leave the scene. He had to observe Bihari’s behaviour and Binodini’s. The sight would scorch his heart, but it was necessary to watch them, all the same.

  Today, after many days, Bihari entered the private quarters of Mahendra’s house as an invited member of the family. Approaching the door of the room so familiar to him since childhood—the room he used to enter freely to play in mischievously like a son of the house—he stopped short for a moment. At once, a wave of tears welled up in his heart, struggling to break forth. Controlling himself, he entered the room with a smiling countenance and touched the feet of the freshly bathed Rajalakshmi. Earlier, when Bihari had been a regular visitor to the house, this was not their customary form of greeting. Today, it was as if he had returned home after a long exile. When he arose from his obeisance, Rajalakshmi affectionately touched his head.

  Today, out of a deep sympathy, Rajalakshmi expressed far greater love and affection towards Bihari than before. ‘Oh Bihari, why didn’t you visit us all these days? Every day, I would think: today, surely, Bihari will come. But there was no sign of you.’

  ‘If I came every day you would not spare a thought for your own Bihari, Ma,’ smiled Bihari. ‘Where is Mahinda?’

  ‘Mahin was invited out somewhere today,’ Rajalakshmi informed him sadly. ‘It was not possible for him to stay home.’

  Hearing this, Bihari lost heart. For an old childhood friendship to end in this way? Sighing deeply to blow away the vapours of dejection from his mind, Bihari asked, ‘So, what have you cooked today?’ He began to ask about his favourite dishes. Earlier, on days when Rajalakshmi cooked the food, Bihari would make a great show of being tempted; by displaying his love of food, Bihari would steal the heart of the motherly Rajalakshmi. Today, too, seeing Bihari’s excessive curiosity about her own cooking, Rajalakshmi smilingly reassured her greedy guest.

  At this moment, Mahendra arrived on the scene. In a dry, formal tone, he inquired, ‘So, Bihari, how are you?’

  ‘Why, Mahin, did you not attend your lunch engagement?’ asked Rajalakshmi.

  ‘No, I have managed to wriggle out of it,’ replied Mahendra, trying to cover his embarrassment.

  When Binodini appeared after her bath, Bihari was at first rendered speechless. Etched on his mind was the scene he had witnessed between Binodini and Mahendra.

  Coming close to Bihari, Binodini asked in a low voice, ‘Why, Thakurpo, don’t you recognize me?’

  ‘Is it possible to recognize everybody?’

  ‘It is indeed possible, if one is a person of judgment,’ asserted Binodini. ‘Pishima, the food is ready.’

  Mahendra and Bihari sat down to eat; Rajalakshmi watched over them from her place near at hand, and Binodini began to serve. Mahendra paid no attention to the food, watching only for signs of partiality in the way their meal was being served. It seemed to Mahendra that Binodini was getting special pleasure out of serving Bihari. There was an excellent reason why special helpings of fish head and cream of curd were offered to Bihari: Mahendra was of the host family, Bihari an invited guest. But because there was no good reason to expressly complain, Mahendra’s heartburn grew more acute. For the occasion, after much searching, out-ofseason tapshi fish had been obtained of which one was with roe; when Binodini tried to offer it to Bihari, he exclaimed, ‘No, no, give it to Mahinda, he is very fond of it.’ His pride bitterly wounded, Mahendra protested, ‘No, no, I don’t want it.’ Without even offering it to him a second time, Binodini tossed the fish onto Bihari’s plate.

  After the meal, when the two friends arose and came out of the room, Binodini quickly came up to them and said, ‘Bihari Thakurpo, don’t leave immediately, come and sit upstairs for a little while.’

  ‘Won’t you eat?’ asked Bihari.

  ‘No, today is Ekadashi, the eleventh lunar day, a day for fasting.’

  The subtle hint of a cruel, mocking smile appeared at the corner of Bihari’s lips, implying his sarcasm at Binodini’s observance of a ritual such as Ekadashi. There were no lapses where rituals were concerned.

  That hint of a smile did not elude Binodini’s gaze, but she bore it as she had borne the wound on her arm. In a tone of abject supplication, she pleaded, ‘I insist, you must come upstairs and sit for a while.’

  In a sudden outburst of agitation, Mahendra exclaimed, ‘You people have no sense! So what if there’s work to be done, duties to be performed? Whether he wants to or not, he must be importuned to stay. I don’t understand the meaning of such excessive pampering.’

  Binodini laughed out loud. ‘Bihari Thakurpo, just listen to this! Listen to what your Mahinda is saying. Pampering means pampering, the dictionary offers no other word for it.’

  ‘Whatever you may say, Thakurpo, nobody can match your experience of excessive pampering, ever since you were a child.’

  Bihari said, ‘Mahinda, there is something I must discuss with you; please come aside.’ Without bidding Binodini farewell, Bihari led Mahendra outside. Binodini remained standing silently on the veranda, holding the railing and gazing at the emptiness of the vacant courtyard.

  Once outside, Bihari demanded, ‘Mahinda, I want to know, is this the end of our friendship?’

  At this time, Mahendra’s heart was on fire; Binodini’s mocking laughter seared his mind like a flash of lightning. He said, ‘A reconciliation might be especially advantageous to you, but to me, it does not seem desirable. I don’t want to let outsiders into my domestic life; I want my private quarters to remain private.’

  Without a word, Bihari left.

  Pierced with envy, Mahendra vowed he would not meet Binodini. Then, in the hope of meeting Binodini, he wandered restlessly in and out, upstairs and down.

  30

  One day, Asha asked Annapurna, ‘Tell me, Mashima, do you remember Meshomoshai, your husband?’

  ‘I was widowed at eleven; my husband’s image has grown shadowy in my mind.’

  ‘Mashi, who do you think about, then?’

  ‘I think of God, in whom my husband now resides,’ replied Annapurna, with a faint smile.

  ‘Does that bring you happiness?’

  Affectionately stroking Asha’s head, Annapurna said, ‘My child, how would you understand my state of mind? That is something known to my heart, and to Him I meditate upon.’

  Asha thought to herself, ‘The person I meditate upon night and day, does he not know my state of mind? Because I can’t write letters properly, should he stop writing to me?’

  Asha had not heard from Mahendra for several days. ‘If Chokher Bali had been close at hand, she could have inscribed my thoughts accurately in writing,’ she sighed to herself.

  Thinking that a poorly written, paltry letter would not win her husband’s respect, Asha was reluctant to write to him. The harder she tried, the worse her handwriting became. The more she tried to arrange her thoughts, the more impossible it became for her to somehow complete a sentence. If a single term of address, followed by her signature, could have sufficed for Mahendra to have read her thoughts correctly, as if he was an all-knowing deity, then alone would Asha’s letter writing have proved successful. Destiny had endowed her with such capacity for love, but could she not have been granted a little felicity with language?

  Returning home after the evening aarti, the lampritual at the temple, Asha sat at Annapurna’s feet, gently stroking her feet. After a long silence, she ventured, ‘Mashi, you say it is a wife’s sacred duty to serve her husband devotedly as if he were a deity; but a wife who is illiterate, who has no intelligence, who does not know how to serve her husband, what is she to do?’

  Annapurna gazed at Asha’s face for a
while. ‘My child, I am illiterate, too,’ she answered, suppressing a sigh, ‘but I still serve God.’

  ‘But He knows your mind, so He is pleased. But suppose a husband is not pleased at the devotion offered by an illiterate woman?’

  ‘Everyone doesn’t have the power to please everyone, my child. If a wife serves her husband and performs her household duties with heartfelt devotion, care and respect, then, even if the husband spurns her offering, God Himself would stoop to accept it.’

  Asha remained silent. She tried to derive consolation from her aunt’s words, but her mind refused to believe that God could value someone who had been rejected by her own husband as unworthy. Her face bent low, she sat stroking her mashi’s feet.

  Annapurna grasped Asha’s hand and drew her even closer; she kissed her head, and, struggling to free her choking voice, she said, ‘Chuni, just listening to wisdom will not grant you the knowledge that is learnt through the direct experience of pain and hardship. Once upon a time, even this mashi of yours had tried to bargain with the world, just like you. Then, just like you, I used to ask why the person I served should not feel satisfied. If I prayed to a deity, why would I not be entitled to receive his prasad, food consecrated by his blessing? If I strove for someone’s well-being, why would he not appreciate the value of my effort? At every step, I found that this was not to be. Ultimately, unable to tolerate this, I felt one day that all my efforts in this world had been futile. That very day I renounced the world and came here. Today, I realize that none of my efforts were fruitless. O my child, He with whom I have a real bargain to strike, He who is the main source of wealth in this world’s market, had been receiving all I had to offer, and today, having taken his place within my heart, He has acknowledged it. If only I had known this, at the time! If I had performed my worldly duties knowing them to be my duties to Him, if I had surrendered my heart to the world as an offering meant for Him, could anybody have hurt me?’