Asha was terribly ashamed. ‘He has gone away,’ she whispered, in a low voice.
‘When did he go away? I didn’t even get to know!’
‘He left last night,’ replied Asha, her head bent low.
As soon as she heard this, Rajalakshmi’s tenderness seemed to evaporate. When she caressed her daughter-in-law, there remained no trace of affection in her touch. Sensing a silent rebuke, Asha hung her head and slowly left the room.
41
The first night, when Mahendra went home for his clothes and books, leaving Binodini in the Potoldanga flat, she sat alone amidst the ceaseless hubbub of the Kolkata crowds, thinking about herself. The world had always afforded her very limited refuge, but at least if things grew uncomfortable in one place, there had been space enough for her to turn elsewhere; today, her shelter had become extremely constricted. If the boat on which she rode the current were to tip ever so slightly to the right or left, she would be thrown into the water. Hence, it was important to hold the punting rod steady; there was no room for the smallest mistake or the slightest restless movement. No woman’s heart could fail to be shaken, in such a situation. In these narrow confines, where was the space required for that little bit of playfulness, that little bit of seclusion so essential to hold another’s heart captive? She had to prepare herself to spend the rest of her life constantly face-to-face with Mahendra. The only difference was that Mahendra had the means to clamber ashore, and Binodini did not.
The more clearly Binodini understood her own helpless condition, the harder she tried to summon up courage in her heart. She must find a way out: she could not continue like this.
From the day Binodini had offered her love to Bihari, the dam of her patience had been breached. Day and night, like a prayer offering, she carried about with her the proffered kiss which, once withdrawn from Bihari’s face, could not be planted anywhere else in the world. Binodini’s heart did not know how to completely give up hope under any circumstances; she did not acknowledge the possibility of despair. Day and night, her heart declared, with fierce insistence, ‘Bihari must accept my offering of devotion.’
Added to this tremendous love was Binodini’s acute need for self-protection. She had no recourse but Bihari. Binodini had come to understand Mahendra very well: if one tried to depend on him, he could not bear the burden. He could be captured only when set free, but if one clung to him, he longed to run away. Only Bihari could provide the calm, reliable, stable support so essential for a woman. Binodini could not afford to relinquish Bihari.
The day she left the village, Binodini had sent a special message through Mahendra, requesting the post office adjoining the station to forward all her mail to the new address. Binodini refused to accept that Bihari would ignore her letters altogether. She told herself, ‘I shall await a reply patiently for seven days, and then we shall see.’
With these words, Binodini opened the window of her dark chamber, and gazed abstractedly at the gas-lit city of Kolkata. That evening, Bihari was somewhere in that same city—crossing a few streets and lanes, one could reach his door right away—and afterwards, that small courtyard with the water tap, those stairs, that well decorated, neat, brightly lit, secluded room—Bihari sitting there in peaceful silence—with him, perhaps, that Brahmin boy, with his fair, beautiful, cherubic, simple, wide-eyed look, absorbed in turning the pages of a picture book. Imagining the entire scene down to the last detail, Binodini’s whole body was filled with rapture. She could go there at once if she wished; Binodini began to play with the desire in her heart. In earlier days, she might have acted to fulfil her wish, but now, many things had to be considered. Now, she must not only satisfy her desire, but also accomplish her purpose. ‘Let me first see what sort of reply I receive from Bihari, then I shall decide upon my course of action,’ Binodini told herself. She did not dare disturb Bihari without understanding the situation.
She remained absorbed in these thoughts until it was almost nine or ten o’clock at night, when Mahendra arrived, moving with a slow gait. He had spent the past few days in a sleepless, irregular, highly excited state; having attained his goal of bringing Binodini back, he was now overwhelmed with fatigue. Tonight, he seemed to have no strength left to fight the world or his own situation. It was as if all the tiredness of his burdensome future existence had prematurely overpowered him.
Standing in front of the closed door, Mahendra felt too embarrassed to knock. Where was it, the wild exuberance with which he had defied the whole world? Why did he cringe before the gaze of total strangers in the street?
The newly appointed servant had gone to sleep inside; it took a lot of trouble getting him to open the door. Entering the darkness of the unfamiliar apartment, Mahendra’s heart grew dispirited. Pampered by his mother, he had always been accustomed to items of luxury—punkahs and expensive chowkis and sofas; in the new household, the absence of these things became sharply apparent in the darkness of evening. It was up to Mahendra to provide all these necessities, for he was solely responsible for all such arrangements in the flat. Mahendra had never concerned himself with his own comfort or anyone else’s, but from today, he had to attend to all the small details of a new, partially set up household. On the stairs, a kerosene lamp glimmered within a tin, producing an excessive amount of smoke; he must buy a proper lamp to replace it. The route through the veranda to the stairs was damp with the overflow of tap water; it was necessary to send for masons to repair the area with imported clay. He must quarrel with the landlord about the two street-facing rooms that had not yet been vacated by the tenants, owners of a shoe shop. As it dawned on him in a flash that he alone must perform all these tasks, an added burden weighed him down, aggravating his sense of exhaustion.
Standing near the stairs for a while, Mahendra pulled himself together, trying to arouse his love for Binodini. He persuaded himself that tonight was a night of joy, for the object of his desire, for whom he had defied the whole world, was now his; tonight, there was no obstacle between them. But the absence of obstacles was the greatest obstacle of all: tonight, Mahendra was a hindrance to himself.
Seeing Mahendra approach from the street, Binodini roused herself from her posture of meditation and turned on the lamp. Picking up a piece of embroidery, she bent her head over it in complete absorption. This item of embroidery was like a screen behind which Binodini could take refuge.
Entering the room, Mahendra remarked, ‘Binod, you must find it very inconvenient here.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Binodini, busy with her sewing.
‘I shall organize all the furniture and household items in two or three days; you’ll have to bear with the inconvenience for a few days.’
‘No, I won’t allow it. Don’t bring any more furniture; what we have here is more than sufficient for my needs.’
‘Is an unfortunate fellow like me to be counted among the more-than-sufficient?’
‘One should not place too high a value upon oneself; a little modesty is a good thing.’
The sight of Binodini’s busy, self-absorbed image in the lonely lamplight instantly kindled something of the old magic in Mahendra’s heart.
If they had been in his own home, he would have flung himself at Binodini’s feet, but this was not home, hence Mahendra could not behave in such a manner. Tonight, Binodini was helpless, entirely at Mahendra’s mercy; it would be extremely cowardly of him to act without restraint.
‘Why did you bring your books and clothes here?’ Binodini asked him.
‘I count them among my necessities. They don’t belong to the “more-than-sufficient” category.’
‘I know, but why bring all those things here?’
‘True, mundane necessities are out of place here. Binodini, fling all my books and other things out into the street, I shall not object at all; just don’t throw me out as well.’
As he spoke, Mahendra moved a little closer and tossed the cloth-bound bundle at Binodini’s feet.
Gravely, Binodini c
ontinued sewing. Without raising her head, she declared, ‘Thakurpo, it would not do for you to remain here.’
Driven to desperation by this rebuttal of his newly aroused desire, Mahendra asked, in a choking voice, ‘Why, Binod, why do you want to keep me at arm’s length? Is this what I receive, after sacrificing everything for your sake?’
‘I shall not let you sacrifice everything for my sake.’
‘That is no longer in your hands,’ cried Mahendra. ‘The world has fallen away from all around me; for me, you alone remain, Binod. Binod … Binod …’
As he spoke, Mahendra flung himself to the ground, utterly overwhelmed, and clasped Binodini’s feet in a strong grip, kissing her delicate feet, soft as leaves, again and again.
Extricating her feet from his grasp, Binodini drew herself up. ‘Mahendra, don’t you remember your vow?’ she reminded him.
‘I remember,’ answered Mahendra, controlling himself with a supreme effort. ‘I had promised to act exactly as you wished; I would never do otherwise. I shall keep my vow. Tell me what I must do.’
‘You must go and live in your own home.’
‘Am I your only unwanted possession, Binod? If that is so, why did you drag me here? Why hunt down someone who is of no use to you? Tell me truly, was it I who deliberately surrendered myself to you, or you who deliberately took me captive? Must I also tolerate being treated as a plaything? All the same, I shall keep my vow. I shall go and live in the same house where I have trampled my own position to dust.’
Binodini resumed her position on the floor and started sewing again, without offering any reply.
After gazing fixedly at her face for a while, Mahendra exclaimed, ‘Cruel, Binod, you are very cruel! It is my utter misfortune that I have loved you.’
Having made an error in her sewing, Binodini held it up to the light and began to carefully unpick the stitches. Mahendra wished he could crush her stony heart in his fist, breaking it to pieces. He felt like using physical force to brutally attack and demolish this silent cruelty and callous indifference.
Mahendra left the room and came back again. ‘If I don’t stay here, who will protect you when you are alone?’ he wanted to know.
‘Have no fears on that account. Pishima has dismissed Khemi, and today, she has taken up service here. We women will lock the door and be quite comfortable, the two of us together.’
The angrier he became, the more strongly Mahendra was attracted to Binodini. He wanted to clasp that unrelenting figure to his breast with all his might, to hurt and crush her. To escape the violence of that terrible desire, Mahendra rushed out of the house.
Wandering the streets, Mahendra swore to himself that he would answer Binodini’s indifference with indifference. For her to spurn him with such silent contempt, so fearlessly and with such directness, even though he was her only support in the whole world—what greater humiliation could any man suffer? Though shattered, Mahendra’s pride refused to die; it only felt tormented and trampled upon. ‘Am I indeed so worthless?’ he asked himself. ‘How dare she behave so arrogantly with me! Apart from me, is there anyone else she can turn to?’
As he pondered upon these things, he suddenly thought of Bihari. For one instant, the blood seemed to freeze in his heart. ‘It is Bihari upon whom Binodini has placed all her faith; for her, I am merely an instrument, a stepping stone or footrest, to be kicked around at every step. That is why she dares to show such indifference towards me.’ He suspected that Binodini had been corresponding with Bihari, and had received some assurance from him.
Mahendra headed for Bihari’s house. When he knocked on Bihari’s door, the night was almost over. After a lot of knocking, the attendant opened the door. ‘Babuji is not at home,’ he said.
Mahendra was startled. He thought, ‘While I have been running about the streets like a fool, Bihari has gone to Binodini. That is why Binodini insulted me so cruelly tonight, and I, too, ran away like a driven ass.’
‘Bhoju, when did Babu go out?’ Mahendra asked the old, familiar attendant.
‘That would be about four or five days ago. He has gone west, on vacation.’
Mahendra was relieved to hear that. He thought, ‘Now I may as well lie down and sleep in comfort for a while; I can’t wander about all night, anymore.’ He went upstairs, stretched out on the couch in Bihari’s room and instantly fell asleep.
The very morning after Mahendra had entered his room at night and created a scene, Bihari had travelled west, unsure where to go. He felt that if he remained in Kolkata, this conflict with his former friend would someday assume hideous proportions, becoming a lifelong cause for regret.
The next morning, it was eleven o’clock when Mahendra awoke. Immediately, his eye fell on the teapoy before him. He saw a letter, addressed to Bihari in Binodini’s hand, lying under a stone paperweight. Snatching it up, he saw that it was unopened. It awaited Bihari’s return from distant parts. With shaking hands, Mahendra quickly opened the missive and began to read it. This was the unanswered letter that Binodini had written to Bihari from her own village.
Every character inscribed in the note began to eat into Mahendra’s mind. Since their childhood, Bihari had always remained in Mahendra’s shadow. When it came to matters of the heart, only Mahendra’s stale, cast-off garlands came his way. But today, Binodini had spurned Mahendra’s advances to welcome the dry, colourless Bihari, even though he was unwilling. Mahendra, too, had received a few letters from Binodini, but in comparison with her letter to Bihari, they seemed utterly fake, mere tricks to deceive a fool.
Recalling the eagerness with which Binodini had sent him to inform the village post office of her new address, Mahendra now understood the reason for it. With all her heart and soul, Binodini was awaiting Bihari’s reply to her letter.
In his customary manner, Bhoju the attendant served Mahendra tea and snacks from the market, although his master was not at home. Mahendra forgot his bath. Like a traveller running light-footed on hot sand, Mahendra ran his eyes quickly over Binodini’s inflammatory letter, again and again. He swore never to see Binodini again. But, he thought, if she did not receive a reply to her letter in a day or two, Binodini would come to Bihari’s house, and learning all the facts, she would be reassured. The possibility seemed intolerable to him.
Carrying the letter in his pocket, Mahendra arrived at the Potoldanga flat shortly before dusk. Binodini took pity on his woebegone appearance. She realized that Mahendra had probably spent the previous night wandering sleeplessly about the streets.
‘Didn’t you go home last night?’ she asked.
‘No.’
Agitated, Binodini exclaimed, ‘Have you not eaten all day?’ With these words, Binodini, ever devoted to serving others, at once got up to arrange a meal.
‘Let it be, let it be, I have eaten.’
‘Where?’
‘At Bihari’s house.’
For an instant, Binodini’s face grew pale. After a momentary silence, she pulled herself together and asked, ‘Bihari Thakurpo is well, I hope?’
‘He’s quite well. Bihari has gone west.’ Mahendra spoke as if Bihari had set out that very day.
Binodini’s face grew pale once more. Composing herself yet again, she observed, ‘I have never met anyone so restless. Has he heard all about us? Is Thakurpo very angry?’
‘Else, would any man fancy travelling west in this intolerable heat?’
‘Did he say anything about me?’
‘What is there to say? Here is Bihari’s letter.’
Mahendra handed the letter to Binodini and fixed his piercing gaze upon her face.
Eagerly taking the letter, Binodini found that it was open. On the envelope was Bihari’s name, inscribed in her own hand. Extracting the letter from the envelope, she saw that it was the letter she had written to Bihari. Turning it over and over, she could not find Bihari’s reply anywhere.
After a short silence, she asked Mahendra, ‘Have you read the letter?’
Binodini’
s expression frightened Mahendra. ‘No,’ he lied hastily.
Tearing the letter to little pieces, and then shredding it further, Binodini threw the pieces out of the window.
‘I am going home,’ Mahendra announced. Binodini offered no reply.
‘I shall act according to your express wishes,’ Mahendra persisted. ‘I shall stay in my own home for seven days. On my way to college, I shall come by once a day, to make all the arrangements for this place, and leave Khemi in charge of everything. I shall not disturb you.’
It was impossible to tell whether Binodini heard a word of what Mahendra said, but she remained silent, merely gazing at the dark sky outside the open window.
Collecting his belongings, Mahendra went away. For a long time, Binodini sat frozen and motionless inside the empty flat. Finally, as if forcing herself back to consciousness, she tore the clothing off her breast and began raining cruel blows upon herself.
Frightened by the noise, Khemi rushed in. ‘Bou thakrun, what are you doing?’
‘Get out!’ thundered Binodini, pushing Khemi out of the room. Then, slamming the door shut, her fists clenched, she flung herself to the ground and began to cry in pain like an animal mortally wounded by an arrow. Battering herself thus, tiring herself out, Binodini remained lying beneath the open window all night like one who had lost consciousness.
When daylight dawned, she suddenly felt suspicious: what if Bihari had not gone away, what if Mahendra had been lying to mislead her? Immediately sending for Khemi, she ordered, ‘Khemi, go at once to Bihari Thakurpo’s house and find out if all is well.’
Returning after about an hour, Khemi informed her, ‘All the doors and windows of Bihari babu’s house are closed. When I knocked on the door, the attendant said from within, ‘Babu is not at home, he has gone west for a vacation.’
Binodini had no further cause for suspicion.
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Chokher Bali Page 19
