The Final Question

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  Just then a large car pulled up at the front door. The next moment, everybody rose to welcome Ashu Babu and his daughter. The righteous indignation melted away, the game too was temporarily suspended, and Abinash said with deference, ‘It’s my good fortune that you have stepped into my house. But I shan’t be able to receive you properly at this unexpected hour.’ He offered Manorama a chair.

  Ashu Babu, meanwhile, lowered his huge body into the nearest armchair and, filling the room with sudden uproarious laughter, said: ‘Do you think Ashu Gupta cares about proper times? Even my youngest uncle can’t malign me so, Abinash Babu.’

  Manorama said with a gentle smile, ‘What are you saying, Father?’

  ‘All right, let’s not talk about my uncle,’ Ashu Babu replied. ‘My daughter objects. But even my daughter’s father couldn’t have chosen a better example.’ With this he almost brought the roof down by laughing loudly at his own joke. He then went on: ‘But what can I do, gentlemen? I’m crippled with gout, otherwise you’d have had to hire a servant to clean the dust I’d bring into the house with constant visits. But today I can’t stay long. I have to leave immediately.’

  Everybody stared at him, puzzled by his haste. ‘I have an appeal to make,’ said Ashu Babu. ‘I have even dragged my daughter along to extract your consent. Tomorrow is another holiday. We’re having a musical evening. You must all come with your families. There’ll be a bit of food after the soirée.’

  ‘Mani,’ he asked his daughter, ‘go into the house4 and get the necessary permission. Don’t take too long. And there’s something more, my young friends. For us men, if not for the ladies, there will be two different bills of fare5—that is, if you have no prejudice. I hope you get my meaning.’

  Everybody understood and declared in unison that they had no prejudice about food.

  ‘I expected nothing else,’ said Ashu Babu happily. Then he said to his daughter, ‘Mani, don’t forget to ask the ladies how they feel about the food. It’ll be late evening by the time we’ve called at every house and found out what they want. So get your errand over quickly, my dear.’

  Manorama was on her way in when Abinash said, ‘My house has been empty for a long time. There’s my sister-in-law, but she’s a widow. She loves music greatly. So you can take it that she’s coming; but as to eating …’

  Ashu Babu said, ‘Don’t worry, Abinash Babu. There’ll be suitable arrangements for her. My Mani will be there, you see. She touches neither fish nor meat, garlic nor onion.’6

  Abinash was surprised. ‘She doesn’t eat fish or meat?’ he asked.

  ‘She used to eat everything,’ Ashu Babu replied, ‘but Babaji7 doesn’t like it. He’s something of an ascetic.’

  A flush rose to Manorama’s face immediately. Interrupting her father, she said, ‘What nonsense, Father!’

  The father was nonplussed. The natural softness of his daughter’s voice could not hide the bitterness within.

  The conversation languished after this. Though Ashu Babu kept up the flow for the few more minutes that they tarried, Manorama seemed somewhat abstracted. When they left, an unwelcome gloom settled on the company.

  Nobody said anything explicitly, but everyone wondered where the ‘Babaji’ had suddenly come from. Everybody knew that Ashu Babu had no son, that Manorama was his only daughter; she was still unmarried—at least she bore no sign of a married woman.8 Of course no one had asked openly about the matter, but no one had had any doubt about it. What then?

  Yet whoever this ascetic Babaji was, or wherever he was, he must be a redoubtable person. Not by injunctions but by simple reluctance, he had made the only educated daughter of a prosperous and luxury-loving man give up fish and meat, onion and garlic!

  And what was there to be ashamed of or to hide in all this? The father had recoiled in hesitation, the daughter had sat blushing and speechless. The whole thing seemed to everybody like an unpleasant mystery. Suddenly, the even, limpid flow of their growing relationship with this family was disturbed.

  2

  IT WAS THOUGHT THAT ASHU BABU WOULD NOT EXCLUDE ANYONE in the town from his soirée. But in fact only distinguished Bengalis were invited. The professors arrived in a group; the women had been brought earlier in the car.

  The soirée was to take place in a fairly spacious room in the house, laid out with a large, expensive carpet. Squatting on the carpet, two local musicians were tuning their instruments. A number of children stood in a circle around them. The master of the house was busy somewhere inside. On hearing that the guests had arrived, he came running out breathlessly. Raising his arms theatrically, he exclaimed, ‘Welcome, gentlemen! Most welcome!’

  Pointing to the musicians and winking at his guests, he said in a low voice, ‘Don’t be apprehensive! I haven’t invited you to listen to their caterwauling! You’ll bless me before you leave for the songs you’ll hear today.’

  Everybody was pleased to hear this. The ever-cheerful Abinash Babu said, beaming, ‘How can that be, Ashu Babu? I know everybody in this wretched place. Where did you find such a jewel?’

  ‘I’ve discovered him, gentlemen, I’ve discovered him. It’s not that you people don’t know him at all—it’s only that you’ve forgotten about him. Come, let me show you.’ With this, he practically pushed the guests forward and, drawing aside the curtains of the sitting room, entered it.

  A man of somewhat dark complexion, but otherwise exceedingly handsome, sat there. He was tall and straight, and faultlessly built. His nose, eyes, eyebrows, forehead, even the curve of his lips, seemed more perfect than imagination could conceive. His good looks were actually quite startling. He must have been close on thirty-two but appeared younger at first sight. Settled on a sofa, he was conversing with Manorama. He straightened himself, smiled a little, and said, ‘Do come in.’

  Manorama stood up and greeted the guests, but they were too startled to return her greeting. Abinash Babu was the oldest member of the gathering, and also the most exalted by virtue of academic rank. He spoke first. ‘When did you come back to Agra, Shibnath Babu? You’re a fine one: none of us knew of your return.’

  Shibnath said, ‘Didn’t you? Strange!’ Then he smilingly added: ‘I didn’t think you would wait so anxiously for my return.’

  At this Abinash Babu attempted to smile, but the faces of his companions grew stern with anger. Whatever the reason, it was obvious that these people were not happy with this handsome, talented man. The hostility behind the sarcastic words of the one and the stern faces of the others was so bitter, harsh and obvious that not only Manorama and her father but even the ever-cheerful Abinash were embarrassed.

  But the matter did not proceed further, and ended there for the time being.

  The ustads could be heard warming up in the adjacent room. The next moment the steward came and announced deferentially that everything was ready: they could start as soon as the guests had settled themselves.

  The music was of the usual classical variety offered by professionals: humdrum, devoid of any speciality. But soon Shibnath began to sing to the small audience, and his songs were truly remarkable. His voice was incomparable, and, moreover, exceptionally well trained. His unostentatious, disciplined style, the limpid flow of the melody, the singular nuances of feeling upon his face, the involved, abstracted look—all these were concentrated in an instant to a focal point. At the end of this exercise in pure melody and rhythm, it seemed to everyone that Saraswati had poured all her blessings upon this devotee of hers.

  Everybody remained speechless for some time. Only old Amir Khan remarked slowly in Hindustani: ‘Never heard anything like it!’

  Manorama had been trained in music since her childhood. She was a tolerably good singer, and had listened to much music in her brief life. She never knew, however, that there was such music as Shibnath’s in the world. She did not know that the rhythmical play of music could produce such an aching sensation in the heart. Her eyes filled with tears and, in order to hide them, she turned her face and le
ft the room silently.

  Abinash said, ‘It’s not easy to persuade Shibnath to sing, but we have heard him earlier. That didn’t compare with his performance today. He seems to have improved infinitely within a year.’

  Akshay taught history. He was known among his friends as a severely plain-spoken and upright man. Though he had a weakness for music, he was otherwise thoroughly puritanical. Precisely because of this, he was not only concerned about his own character but also extremely alert about the purity of others. He was assailed by fears that the unexpected return of Shibnath might again vitiate the atmosphere of the town. He was particularly anxious because women were present. The possibility that they too might be attracted by Shibnath’s singing and appearance greatly worried him. He said, ‘I remember hearing Madhu Babu sing. You might find this music sweet, but it has no life.’

  Everybody kept silent because, first, none of them had heard the unknown Madhu Babu sing, and secondly, no one except Akshay knew precisely how music might or might not have life. The ecstatic Ashu Babu was ready to defend Shibnath’s performance, but Abinash stopped him with a look.

  They went on discussing the music, each one expatiating on the sort of music he had heard earlier. As they talked, evening began turning to night. It was conveyed from within the house that the women had finished their dinner and were being taken home. An old sub-judge left on the pretext of the advancing night; a dyspeptic magistrate joined him after having a glass of water and a paan. Only the professors stayed back. Soon they too were called to dinner. Places had been set on the open veranda upstairs, with cushions on the floor. Ashu Babu joined them. Manorama’s duties towards the women guests being over, she too came to look after things.

  However hungry Shibnath might have been, he did not wish to eat; he wanted to return home immediately. But Manorama would not let him go. She persuaded him to sit with the rest. The arrangements befitted a rich man’s house.

  Ashu Babu described in detail how he had met Shibnath on the train from Tundla and how a few days’ acquaintance had deepened into intimate friendship. He described this in great detail and, bubbling with self-congratulation, exclaimed: ‘But the greatest credit should go to my ear. From a little faint humming I knew for certain that he was a worthy man, a rare talent.’ Calling his daughter as witness, he added: ‘Well, Mani, didn’t I tell you that Shibnath Babu was a great man? My dear, didn’t I say that it’s a matter of good fortune to know people like him?’

  Yes Father, you said so,’ replied the daughter, her face beaming with joy. ‘You said it as soon as we got off the train.’

  ‘But look here, Ashu Babu …’

  The speaker was Akshay. Everybody grew wary. Abinash anxiously tried to stop him. ‘Let it go. Let’s not discuss such things today.’

  Shutting his eyes to avoid embarrassment, Akshay shook his head a number of times and said, ‘No, Abinash Babu, we mustn’t hush things up. I feel it my duty to expose everything about Shibnath Babu. That man …’

  ‘What are you doing, Akshay? Don’t we have a sense of duty too? We’ll take it up some other day.’ Abinash nudged him to stop but did not succeed. The nudge moved Akshay’s body but not his strength of purpose. He said, ‘I don’t suffer from misguided diffidence. I can’t allow any indulgence towards corruption.’

  The impatient Harendra broke in: ‘Do you think we want to indulge corruption? But everything has its place and time.’

  Akshay said, ‘If he hadn’t chosen to return to this town, if he hadn’t sought intimacy with a respectable family, and especially if an unmarried lady like Manorama had not been involved, then …’

  Ashu Babu became restive with anxiety. Manorama paled with an unknown apprehension.

  ‘It is too much,’ said Harendra.

  Akshay protested loudly: ‘No, it is not.’

  Abinash exclaimed, ‘Now, now, what are you doing?’

  Akshay paid no heed. He said, ‘He too was once a professor in Agra. He should have told Ashu Babu how he lost his job.’

  Harendra said, ‘Why, he gave it up himself, to start trading in stone.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ retorted Akshay.

  Shibnath was eating silently, as if he had nothing to do with this heated argument. He now looked up and said very casually, ‘It certainly is a lie because had I not resigned my job on my own, I would have had to do it at others’ behest—that is to say, at yours. And that’s exactly what happened.’

  Ashu Babu was very surprised and asked, ‘Why?’

  Shibnath said, ‘Because I drink.’

  Akshay protested, ‘No, not on charges of drinking but on charges of being drunk.’

  Shibnath said, ‘Whoever drinks gets drunk sometime or other. Anyone who doesn’t, either lies or drinks water.’ He laughed.

  An enraged Akshay sternly said, ‘You may laugh shamelessly, but we can’t forgive such an offence.’

  ‘I never slandered you by saying you could,’ Shibnath replied. ‘I quite agree that all of you laboriously exercised your free will to make me resign my job of my free will.’

  Akshay said, ‘Then we expect that you will readily confess another truth. You may not be aware that I know a good deal about you.’

  Shibnath shook his head and said, ‘No, I’m not. But one thing I do know, that your curiosity about others is boundless. So too is your perseverance in gathering information. Please tell me, what should I confess?’

  Akshay said, ‘Your wife is still alive, but you’ve deserted her and married again. Isn’t this true?’

  Ashu Babu suddenly became angry. ‘What’s all this nonsense, Akshay Babu? Can such a thing ever be?’

  Shibnath interrupted. ‘But that’s exactly what has happened, Ashu Babu. I have deserted her and married again.’

  ‘What are you saying? What really happened?’

  Shibnath said, ‘Nothing much. My wife is a chronic invalid. She’s nearing thirty—that’s quite old enough for a woman. Moreover, she seems to have grown really old, with her teeth falling out and her hair turning grey from a long illness. That’s why I had to leave her and marry again.’

  Ashu Babu looked at him, dazed. ‘What! Just for this? She hasn’t offended in any other way?’

  Shibnath said, ‘No. What’s gained by making false accusations, Ashu Babu?’

  Enraged by this unsullied truthfulness, Abinash said, ‘What gain indeed, Ashu Babu! You scoundrel, let your gain and loss go to hell. Why don’t you lie for once and say that you deserted her because she committed some grave offence? One more lie won’t add to your sins.’

  Shibnath remained unruffled. He only said, ‘But I can’t tell such a lie.’

  Harendra instantly flared up. ‘Don’t you have something called a conscience, Shibnath Babu?’

  Shibnath was not annoyed even by this. He calmly said, ‘That sort of conscience means nothing. I don’t support being chained by a false conscience and crippling oneself. The aim of life is not continual suffering.’

  Intensely hurt, Ashu Babu said, ‘But think of your wife’s misery. Her illness is a matter of grief, and to fall sick is not an offence, Shibnath Babu. Without any fault on her part …’

  ‘Why should I suffer all my life for no fault of mine? I don’t believe in passing one’s misery on to another.’

  Ashu Babu did not argue further. He sighed deeply and kept silent.

  Harendra asked, ‘Where did this second marriage take place?’

  ‘In our village.’

  ‘Her people gave away their daughter in marriage, knowing that you had a wife? Perhaps she’d lost her parents.’

  Shibnath said, ‘No. She’s the widowed daughter of our maidservant.’

  ‘The daughter of your maidservant? Excellent! What’s her caste?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. They may be weavers.’1

  Akshay hadn’t spoken for a long time. Now he asked, ‘I suppose this person is totally illiterate?’

  Shibnath said, ‘I wasn’t tempted to marry her for her educati
on. I married her for her looks. She has no dearth of that.’

  At this remark Manorama tried to get up and leave, but her feet seemed as heavy as stone. Everyone was curious and tense, and no one noticed her. Had they done so, they would have been alarmed.

  Harendra said, ‘Then this was a civil marriage?’

  Shibnath shook his head and said, ‘No, it was a Shaivite marriage.’2

  ‘Thereby leaving the doors of deception open on all sides,’ said Abinash. ‘Isn’t that so, Shibnath?’

  Shibnath said with a smile, ‘You say this out of anger, Abinash Babu. The previous marriage, which was solemnized in the presence of my father, was perfectly valid but full of loopholes. One must have the ability to spot the loopholes.’

  Abinash couldn’t reply. His face turned red with anger.

  Ashu Babu sat silently with downcast eyes, thinking: ‘What a disaster! What a disaster!’ Nobody spoke for two or three minutes. An air of stifling gloom and bickering had filled the room: a gust of wind from outside was absolutely necessary. Abinash suddenly said from some such feeling, ‘Let’s drop this. Shibnath, are you still in the stone business?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t you have to look after the minor children of your dead friend? Is their mother alive? How are they doing for money? Not too well, I suppose?’

  ‘No, they’re very poor.’

  Abinash said, ‘What a pity he died so suddenly. We thought he’d left some money. He was a true friend to you.’

  Shibnath nodded and replied, ‘Yes, since our earliest schooldays.’

  Abinash said, ‘That’s why he did so much to help you once.’ Then, pausing a while, he went on: ‘Whatever it be, Shibnath, since you yourself must now look after the whole business, why didn’t you demand a share? By way of salary, as it were …’

  Shibnath interrupted him to say, ‘What share?The business is entirely mine.’

  The professors were amazed. ‘How did the stone business suddenly become yours, Shibnath Babu?’ asked Akshay.