Chokher Bali

by Rabindranath Tagore

  ‘Let me stay the night here, then.’

  ‘No, I don’t trust myself thus far,’ said Bihari.

  Hearing this, Binodini instantly rose from the chowki and flung herself to the ground. With all her might, she clutched Bihari’s feet to her bosom and pleaded: ‘Please retain that little weakness, Thakurpo. Don’t be rigid and pure like a stone god. Loving an evil one, allow yourself to become a little evil.’

  With these words, Binodini kissed Bihari’s feet again and again. For a moment, her sudden, unexpected behaviour seemed to shake Bihari’s self-control. Like knots being loosened, all the joints in his body and mind seemed to grow slack. Sensing Bihari’s overwhelmed silence, Binodini released his feet. Raising herself to a kneeling position, she wrapped her arms around Bihari’s neck as he sat on the chowki. She begged, ‘My life, I know you are not mine forever, but today, love me for just one moment. After that, I shall go away to the wilderness where I belong; I shall never again ask anything of anybody. Give me something that I can remember to my dying day.’ Binodini closed her eyes and raised her lips to Bihari’s.

  For an instant, the two of them remained motionless and the entire room was silent. Then, sighing, Bihari slowly disengaged himself from Binodini’s arms and went to sit on another chowki. Clearing his choked voice, he said, ‘There is a passenger train at one o’clock tonight.’

  After a short silence, Binodini said in an indistinct voice, ‘I’ll take that train.’

  At this moment, barefoot and bare chested, Basanta came and stood beside Bihari’s chowki, his body well-built, fair and handsome. Solemnly, he studied Binodini. ‘Why haven’t you gone to bed?’ asked Bihari. Without replying, Basanta stood in grave silence.

  Binodini stretched out her arms towards him. Hesitating at first, Basanta slowly went up to her. Clasping him to her bosom, Binodini broke down in a flood of tears.

  36

  Even the impossible becomes possible, the intolerable comes to be tolerated, or else Mahendra’s household could not have lived through that night. Having asked Binodini to be ready, Mahendra wrote a letter that very night. In the morning, the letter arrived at Mahendra’s house by post.

  Asha was then in bed. Carrying the letter in, the bearer said in Hindi, ‘Ma-ji, chitthi. Here’s a letter, Madam.’

  The blood pounded in Asha’s heart. In an instant, a thousand hopes and fears resounded together in her bosom. Quickly raising her head, she took the letter. Binodini’s name was inscribed on it in Mahendra’s hand. Immediately, her head fell back on the pillow. Without a word, Asha returned the letter to the bearer. The bearer asked, ‘To whom should I deliver this letter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Asha.

  It was about eight in the evening when Mahendra rushed up to Binodini’s room to find it in complete darkness. Taking a matchbox out of his pocket, he lit a match; the room was empty. Binodini was gone, and so were all her belongings. He went to the southern veranda and saw that it was vacant. ‘Binod!’ he called, but there was no reply.

  ‘A fool! I am a fool. I should have taken her with me then and there. Ma must have upbraided Binodini, making it impossible for her to remain in the house.’

  As soon as this possibility occurred to him, he believed it to be true. In restless impatience, Mahendra immediately went to his mother’s room. This room was also in darkness, but even in the dark, he saw that Rajalakshmi was lying on the bed.

  ‘Ma, what have all of you been saying to Binodini?’ demanded Mahendra, in a tone of outrage.

  ‘We have said nothing.’

  ‘Then where has she gone?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Mahendra asked in disbelief. ‘Very well, I am going in search of her. Wherever she may be, I shall surely find her.’

  With these words, he walked away. Swiftly rising from her bed, Rajalakshmi followed him, saying, ‘Mahin, please don’t go Mahin, come back, listen to me.’

  Without pausing for breath, Mahendra ran out of the house. A moment later, he came back to ask the doorman, ‘Where has Bouthakurani gone?’

  ‘She did not tell us where she was going; we don’t know anything.’

  ‘You don’t know!’ roared Mahendra.

  ‘No, sir, I don’t know,’ replied the doorman, his hands folded in supplication.

  ‘Ma has instructed them to say this,’ Mahendra thought to himself. ‘Very well, so be it,’ he said aloud.

  On the main street of the great city, in the dimness of evening illuminated by gas lamps, the ice seller was hawking ice and the fishmonger was calling out to advertise his topshi fish. Entering the noise and bustle of the crowd, Mahendra vanished from sight.

  37

  Bihari never sat down to meditate upon himself in the darkness of the night. He had never considered himself a subject for self-analysis. He would remain busy with his studies, work, friends and other people. He lived happily, giving more importance to the world around him than to himself. But one day, a sudden shock shattered his world—in the darkness of the apocalypse, he was forced to stand alone with himself, on the mountain peak of an agony that rent the sky. Ever since then, he had begun to fear being alone with himself; taking on an enormous burden of work, he avoided all chances of being alone in his own company.

  But tonight, Bihari could not fend off this other self that lived inside him. Ever since he had escorted Binodini to her native place the previous day, engaged though he might be at work or in company, his reclusive, agonized heart kept drawing him ceaselessly in the direction of his own deep solitariness.

  Tonight, fatigue and dejection got the better of him. It was about nine o’clock; on the south-facing terrace before Bihari’s house, the romantic evening summer breeze stirred restlessly. In the moonless dark, Bihari sat in an armchair placed on the terrace.

  This evening, he had not tutored the child Basanta—he had let the boy off early. Tonight, yearning for consolation, for companionship, for the life full of affection and sweetness to which he had been accustomed, his heart, like an infant abandoned by its mother, seemed to stretch out its arms, searching for someone in the darkness. Tonight, the dam of his harsh, rigid self-control had broken. His whole heart strained towards those he had resolved not to think of, and he had not the slightest power to stop it.

  In his mind, Bihari spread out the map that charted the entire narrative of his love for Mahendra, from its beginnings in childhood, to the time when it had ended—a long story, illuminated in many colours, a rolled-up mental map that featured land, water, mountains and rivers. He tried to determine the point where the tiny world in which his life was rooted had collided with some evil planet. At first, someone had entered from outside. Glowing in the rosy radiance of sunset, Asha’s shy young countentance took shape in the darkness, to the accompaniment of the sound of conch shells announcing a sacred festival. This auspicious planet, approaching from some unknown corner of the sky of destiny, came to a halt between the two friends. It seemed to cause a degree of separation, bringing with it a deep pain that could neither be expressed in words, nor cherished in the mind. But still, this separation—this pain—remained suffused with affection, filled with the glow of sweetness.

  After this, the malignant planet had appeared on the horizon, shattering all bonds of friendship, conjugal love, domestic peace and purity—Binodini, whom Bihari, in extreme contempt, tried with all his might to spurn. But how extraordinary! The blows he struck looked very feeble, seeming not to touch her at all. The exquisitely beautiful, enigmatic figure, with her deep, dark, mysterious, steady gaze, came and stood motionless before Bihari. The gusty summer breeze touched Bihari’s body like her own heavy breath. Gradually, the burning radiance of those unwavering eyes began to fade; the dry, thirsting, piercing gaze, moistened and softened by tears, was rapidly flooded with deep emotion. In an instant, the figure fell at Bihari’s feet and clasped his thighs to her breast with all her might. After that, like an exquisite magic vine, she twined herself arou
nd Bihari, reaching upwards to present a kissable countenance like a freshly blooming, fragrant cluster of flowers close to Bihari’s lips. Bihari shut his eyes, trying to banish this imagined shape from his memory, but his hands seemed incapable of striking her a blow; an unfinished kiss remained suspended agonizingly close to his face, filling him with rapture.

  Bihari could no longer remain in the darkness of the lonely terrace. To divert his mind, he quickly entered the lamp-lit room.

  In the corner, on the teapoy, was a framed photograph covered in silk. Removing the cover, Bihari carried the picture to the centre of the room, where he could study it in the lamplight. Placing it on his lap, he began to examine the photograph.

  The picture was of Mahendra and Asha, taken shortly after their marriage. Behind the picture, Mahendra had inscribed ‘Mahinda’ in his own handwriting, and Asha had written just her name—‘Asha’—in her own hand. In the picture, the sweetness of new love had not faded. Mahendra sat on the chowki, his face bearing the youthful, fresh emotion of a newly married man. Beside him stood Asha; the photographer had not allowed her to cover her head, but he had not been able to remove the bashfulness from her face. Today, Mahendra was ready to move far away, abandoning his companion Asha to tears of lamentation. Yet the inanimate picture had preserved every line of fresh love on Mahendra’s countenance; permitting no change, it blindly, foolishly, perpetuated the irony of fate.

  Holding this picture on his lap, Bihari tried to summon up a feeling of contempt, to banish Binodini to some far-off place. But her lovelorn, youthful, tender arms continued to clasp Bihari’s thighs. In his mind, Bihari accused her: ‘You broke up such a beautiful, loving home!’ But Binodini’s countenance, tilted upwards with its offer of a kiss, answered him wordlessly, ‘I love you. In the whole world, you are the one I have chosen.’

  What sort of reply was this? Could this declaration alone override the terrible anguished cries of a broken home? The she-devil!

  She-devil! Did Bihari use the term in utter condemnation, or was there also an overtone of fondness in it? At a moment when Bihari, having been denied all claims to love and friendship, had taken to the streets like a beggar, was it possible for him to wholeheartedly reject the gift of such unsolicited, unlimited love? What had Bihari ever received that could bear comparison with this? Until now, in return for dedicating his whole life, he had only begged for leftover crumbs of affection from the storehouse of love. But now that the beneficent goddess of plenty had sent him a feast on a golden platter meant exclusively for him, why should the wretched man be hesitant enough to deny himself such a feast?

  Having fallen into a reverie with the picture on his lap, he started at a sound near him, and saw that it was Mahendra. As soon as he started to his feet, the picture slipped onto the floor, but Bihari did not notice it.

  ‘Where is Binodini?’ demanded Mahendra, without any preamble.

  Advancing towards Mahendra, Bihari grasped his hand. ‘Mahinda, please wait, we can discuss everything.’

  ‘I don’t have the time to wait or to discuss anything. Tell me, where is Binodini?’

  ‘Your question cannot be answered in a single word. You must be patient and wait awhile.’

  ‘Would you offer me advice? I have read those words of advice since I was a child.’

  ‘No, I have neither the right nor the ability to offer advice.’

  ‘Would you rebuke me? I know I am a villain, the meanest of beings, and whatever you wish to call me. But the fact of the matter is that you don’t know where Binodini is.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Will you tell me or not?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have to tell me. You have abducted her and hidden her away. She is mine, return her to me.’

  ‘She is not yours,’ said Bihari firmly, after a short silence. ‘I have not abducted her; she surrendered herself to me of her own accord.’

  ‘That is false!’ roared Mahendra. He started banging on the closed door of the adjoining room, calling out loudly, ‘Binod, Binod!’

  Hearing the sound of weeping inside the room, he cried out, ‘Have no fear, Binod. This is Mahendra, come to rescue you. Nobody can keep you locked up.’

  With these words, Mahendra gave a powerful shove, and the door opened instantly. Rushing inside, he found the room in darkness. He saw a shadowy figure crouching on the bed, stiff with fear, clutching at the pillow with an inarticulate sound. Quickly entering the room, Bihari lifted Basanta off the bed and into his arms, consoling him: ‘Don’t be afraid, Basanta, there is nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.’

  Rushing out of the room, Mahendra checked all the other rooms in the house. When he came back, Basanta was still sobbing in bouts of fear. Having turned on the lamp, Bihari had placed him on the bed and was stroking him gently, trying to put him to sleep.

  Mahendra came to him and demanded: ‘Where have you put Binodini?’

  ‘Mahinda, don’t create a commotion. You have needlessly frightened this boy so much that he might fall sick. I tell you, there is no need for you to enquire after Binodini.’

  ‘O saint! O great-hearted one! Don’t speak of any religious ideals. Holding my wife’s picture in your lap at night, what deity were you meditating upon, and with what words of prayer? You hypocrite!’

  With these words, Mahendra flung the picture to the ground, and trampled the glass to smithereens. Tearing the photograph to shreds, he flung the pieces at Bihari.

  Seeing his mad behaviour, Basanta again cried out in fear. Bihari’s voice was close to choking. ‘Get out!’ he cried, pointing at the door.

  Mahendra stormed out of the room.

  38

  As she gazed out of the window of the vacant ladies’ compartment of the train, and saw ploughed fields and tree-shaded villages, Binodini felt drawn to the prospect of a gentle, secluded life in a rural setting. She began to feel that, within the enclosing shade of trees, in the nest of her imagination, with her favourite books, she might find a temporary respite from all the anger, bitterness and pain of urban life. Watching the sun set in the dusty, uncultivated summer fields that extended up to the horizon, Binodini began to believe that she wanted nothing more. As if her mind had no other need except to close its eyes and lose itself in this golden, silent expanse of peace; to steer the boat of her life away from the turbulent sea of joy and sorrow, to touch the shore and tie the boat to an immobile banyan tree in the silence of the evening. As the train journeyed on, the fragrance of mango blossom wafted occasionally into the compartment; she was deeply enchanted by the gentle peace of the countryside. She told herself, ‘It’s just as well. I can’t drag myself about anymore. Now, I shall forget everything, and go to sleep. I’ll become a country girl once more, living in peace and comfort, performing my duties at home and in the village.’

  Cherishing such hopes in her thirsting heart, Binodini entered her hut. But alas, where was peace to be found? There was only emptiness and poverty. All around her, everything was worn out, unclean, unkempt and faded. The steamy odour of the damp, closed room seemed to stifle her. The few items of furniture in the room had been almost destroyed; they were moth-eaten, chewed by rats and full of dust. Binodini had arrived there in the evening; the hut was joyless and dark. When she managed to light the lamp with mustard oil, the meagreness of the room became even more apparent in the dim, smoky light. What had never bothered her before, now seemed intolerable. ‘I can’t stay here a single moment,’ her rebellious heart protested. A few books and magazines lay, covered in dust, in a recess in the wall, but she did not want to touch them. Outside, in the airless mango grove, the buzzing of mosquitoes and crickets began to resound in the darkness.

  Binodini’s elderly guardian had locked up the hut and gone to visit her daughter at her son-in-law’s house far away. Binodini went across to her neighbours. They seemed startled to see her. Look at this! Binodini’s complexion has grown fairer, and she’s smartly turned out, like a memsahib! They exchanged meaningful
glances as they observed Binodini. As if the signs they detected confirmed what hearsay had suggested.

  At every step, Binodini began to feel that she had alienated herself from her own village in every possible way. She was an exile in her own home. Nowhere could she feel relaxed for a single moment.

  The old postman had known Binodini since she was a child. The next day, while preparing to bathe at the ghat, the paved area at the edge of the pond, she saw the postman walking along the road, carrying his postbag. Unable to control herself any longer, she dropped her gamchha, quickly ascended to the path, and called out to him: ‘Panchudada, is there any mail for me?’

  ‘No,’ replied the old man.

  ‘There might be,’ insisted Binodini anxiously. ‘Let me see.’

  She picked up a few letters, turned them over and saw that none were addressed to her. When she returned to the waterside with a dejected countenance, one of her female companions cast a mocking sidelong glance at her and asked, ‘What’s the matter, Bindi, why such desperation for a letter?’

  ‘Well, well!’ remarked another saucy woman. ‘After all, how many people are fortunate enough to receive letters in the mail? My husband, brother-in-law and brother work abroad, but the postman never takes pity on me.’

  Their taunts grew more explicit and their sidelong glances sharper. Before her departure, Binodini had requested Bihari to write a few lines to her at least twice a week, if not every day. It was highly unlikely that she would hear from Bihari so soon, but so keen was her desire, that Binodini could not relinquish even such a remote possibility. It seemed a long time since she had left Kolkata.

  Thanks to her enemies and friends, the fact that shameful rumours linking Mahendra’s name with Binodini’s had spread all over the village was something she could not ignore. Where was peace to be found? She tried to remain aloof from all the people of the village. That incensed her neighbours all the more. They did not want to be denied the pleasure of condemning and tormenting a fallen woman in their midst.