‘Won’t you eat anything?’
‘No,’ said Ajit, and moved away from the window.
‘Fine! Not a very nice thing to say!’ She could utter nothing more than this. But there was no answer from Ajit. Manorama stood still, alone, outside. Though she had no equal in coaxing, storming or obdurately pressing her point, a strange reticence now sealed her lips. Ajit had returned home when the night was almost over; everyone in the house had been in endless suspense. And after such a grave offence, this man had humiliated her utterly; yet not a word of protest passed her lips. Not only did her tongue remain silent, her whole body was numb for a while. No one returned to the window, no one cared to see whether she was there or not. In that dead of night, Manorama stood there silently; then, after a long while, she slowly went away.
In the morning Ashu Babu learnt from the servant that neither Ajit nor Manorama had eaten the previous night. Over morning tea he asked Ajit with deep concern, ‘You must have had a bad accident yesterday, wasn’t it so?’
‘No,’ said Ajit.
‘Then you must have run out of fuel.’
‘No, there was enough fuel.’
‘Then why were you so late?’
Ajit only replied, ‘For no particular reason.’
Manorama did not drink tea herself. She made tea for her father and offered Ajit a cup along with his breakfast. She neither asked anything, nor did she raise her face to look at him. The father marked this change of mood in both of them. As Ajit finished his breakfast and went for his bath, he found his daughter alone and said to her with concern, ‘No, my dear, this is wrong of you. However close Ajit may be to us, he is after all a guest in this house. He must be treated properly.’
‘I never said he shouldn’t, Father.’
‘No, no, you didn’t, but even a slight show of annoyance in our behaviour would be offensive.’
‘I agree,’ said Manorama. ‘But who told you that I behaved badly?’
Ashu Babu could not answer this. He had heard nothing, he had seen nothing, the whole thing rested on speculation. Yet he wasn’t pleased, because one could argue in this way without freeing a father’s mind of misgivings. After some time he slowly said, ‘Ajit didn’t want to eat anything so late at night. I too went to bed; you were already in bed. Who knows, we might have appeared to neglect him. He’s not in good spirits today.’
Manorama said, ‘If someone wishes to spend the whole night away from the house, should we too spend a sleepless night for him? Is that the host’s duty towards his guest, Father?’
Ashu Babu smiled. Pointing at himself, he said, ‘If by “host” is meant this poor crippled patient, then, my dear, his duty is to go to bed by eight, or else it’s disrespect to a much more estimable guest—the gout. But if someone else is meant by “host” then I’m nobody to lay down that person’s duty. Today I remembered an incident long past. Your mother was alive then. I had gone to Guptipara to fish, but couldn’t return that day. A matter of only one night—yet somebody sat up not only one night, but three whole nights beside the window. It didn’t occur to me then to ask who had taught her such dutiful ways, but when I meet her next time I won’t forget to ask.’ He turned his face away for a while to hide his eyes from his daughter.
This was not a new story. He had recounted the incident to his daughter many times, yet it never grew stale. Whenever he recalled it, it was in a new garb.
The maid came and stood at the door. Manorama got up and said, ‘Father, I’ll soon be back after settling today’s meals.’ She hurried out, relieved that the discussion had not proceeded any further.
Ashu Babu enquired about Ajit several times during the day. Once he gathered that he was reading; another time, that he was in his room writing letters. At lunch he virtually did not speak, and went away as soon as he had finished. Compared to his behaviour on other days, this was as rude as it was surprising.
Ashu Babu was immensely agitated. ‘What’s the matter, Mani?’ he asked.
All day Manorama had been avoiding her father. Now, too, without looking anywhere in particular, she said, ‘I don’t know, Father.’
For a while Ashu Babu was absorbed in his own thoughts.
Then, as if talking to himself, he said, ‘I sat up till he returned. I told him to eat something, but as it was so late he decided not to. Perhaps it wasn’t right of you to have gone to bed, but what’s so terribly wrong about it either? What can be more surprising than his taking such a trifle so seriously?’
Manorama kept quiet. So did Ashu Babu for a while; then, conquering his diffidence, he said, ‘You could have asked him the reason, couldn’t you?’
‘What’s there to ask, Father?’
There were many things to ask, but it was difficult to ask them—particularly for Mani. He knew this, yet he said, ‘But he’s obviously angry. Perhaps he thinks you’re neglecting him. We can’t let him have such a wrong notion.’
Manorama said, ‘If he’s developed unjust notions about me, that’s his fault. How can one person make up for another’s faults?’
The father could not reply to this. He had brought up his daughter in such a way that he could not tell her to do anything that would hurt her self-respect. After she went away, his mind was in turmoil over this point and he felt depressed. He told himself over and over that such wrangles were common, that this misunderstanding was only momentary. He repeated this conclusion repeatedly to himself, but that did not give him any peace. He knew Ajit well. Not only was he well trained in all respects; he had evinced such a frank and sincere personality that today’s wilful apathy did not fit in with that image at all. In spite of being the cause of everyone’s boundless anxiety, he had shown anger instead of being ashamed. This appeared so improbable that it was hard to explain.
In the afternoon a tonga entered the gate. Ashu Babu saw it and learnt on enquiry that it had come for Ajit. He sent for Ajit, and when he turned up, forced a smile and asked, ‘Why this tonga, Ajit?’
‘I’m going out.’
‘But why not in the car? What’s happened to it—a breakdown again?’
‘No, but you might need it.’
‘Even if I need to go out, there’s the horse carriage.’ He remained silent for a moment and said, ‘Ajit, my son, tell me the truth. Has there been any unpleasantness about your using the car?’
‘Not that I know of, said Ajit.’ ‘But there’s going to be a soirée at your house again today, and you’ll surely need the car to bring your guests and take them home. The carriage won’t be enough.’
Being worried about so many things since the morning, Ashu Babu had forgotten all about this. Now he remembered that after last evening’s soirée, he had invited his friends today as well: they would arrive soon after dark. It also occurred to him that Manorama had planned to offer them dinner. But he smiled to himself: the unease caused by this apparent strife had driven the matter out of his own mind, and now that he remembered it, he did not like the idea. He could therefore guess how vexing it must be for his daughter. So he said, ‘No, Ajit. We’ll have to cancel the programme.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? You may ask Mani.’ He shouted for the servant and asked him to call Mani. Then, with a brief smile, he said, ‘Now that you’re so angry, who’ll want to listen to music? Mani? Let’s leave all that for another day. Take the car and go out for a while. But you mustn’t be late in returning. And remember, you mustn’t go alone. That wretched chauffeur is getting lazy.’
Thus, having solved a grave problem to his satisfaction so unexpectedly, he stretched out luxuriously in his armchair and heaved a deep sigh of pleasure, saying: ‘You going out in a hired tonga! What an idea!’
Manorama stepped into the room and bridled on seeing Ajit. Ashu Babu felt her presence and sat up straight. Then brightening his face with a tender, amused smile, he said, ‘Well, I hope you remember about today’s programme, my dear. Or have you forgotten it completely?’
‘What is it, Father?’
Manorama nodded and said, ‘Of course I remember. I’ve sent the car to fetch them.’
‘Sent the car to fetch them! But what about the dinner?’
Mani said, ‘It’s all arranged, Father. There won’t be any lapse anywhere.’
‘Good,’ he said, and leaned back again. Someone seemed to have dyed his face over with ink.
Manorama went away. Ajit too was about to leave, but Ashu Babu signalled him to wait and sat quietly for a long time. Then, sitting up, he said, ‘Ajit, I’m embarrassed at having to apologize on my daughter’s behalf. But her mother’s dead. If she were here, I wouldn’t have to say this.’
Ajit remained silent. Ashu Babu said, ‘Her mother would have found out why you are angry with her, but she isn’t here any more. Can’t you tell me the reason?’
His tone was so defenceless that anyone would have been distressed. But Ajit kept silent.
‘Haven’t you had a word with her?’ Ashu Babu said.
‘I did,’ said Ajit.
Ashu Babu grew eager. ‘You had? When? Has Mani told you that it was only an accident that she fell asleep last night?’
Ajit remained still for some time. Perhaps he was thinking out his reply. Then slowly he said, ‘To stay awake till so late to no purpose is neither easy nor reasonable. If she had fallen asleep, there would have been nothing wrong. But she hadn’t fallen asleep. I met her some time after you had gone to bed.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I shan’t tell you anything more,’ said Ajit, and left. From outside the door he announced: ‘I may go away from here tomorrow or the day after.’
Ashu Babu did not understand what was happening. He only realized that some terrible mishap had taken place.
He heard the tonga leave with Ajit. After a few minutes the car returned with the guests in great clamour. He heard that too, but he did not move: he went on sitting motionlessly like a statue. When everything was ready, the servant came and announced that his master was not feeling well; he had gone to bed.
The music that evening was spiritless. The dinner lacked excitement. It struck everyone repeatedly that one member of the house had gone out on the pretext of getting some fresh air; and another, who with his huge bulk and pleasant smile used to shine so brightly in the assembly, had left his special place empty that evening.
10
IN THE MEANTIME AJIT’S TONGA STOPPED BEFORE KAMAL’S house. Kamal was waiting on the narrow roadside balcony. As soon as her eyes met Ajit’s, she did a namaskar. Pointing to the tonga she said, ‘Send him away, or he’ll keep pressing you to return.’
They met at the foot of the staircase. ‘You sent it away, but can I get another to return in?’ said Ajit.
‘No, but it’s only a short walk. You can go on foot.’
‘On foot!’
‘Why? Are you scared? Then I myself will escort you back. Come.’ She took him to the kitchen and spread out the same mat he had sat on the previous day. Then she said, ‘Just take a look at all these dishes I’ve cooked through the day. If you hadn’t come, I would have given them all away to the leather workers in a huff.’
Ajit said, ‘You seem to have a very bad temper. But if you had given away the food to the cobblers you would have put it to better use.’
‘What do you mean?’ Kamal looked at Ajit for a while and then said, ‘You mean that you lack nothing and will waste much of this food—but that they’re very poor and would have had a square meal. So the proper use of the food would have been to feed such people. Isn’t that so?’
‘Quite so,’ said Ajit with a nod.
‘That is the virtuous man’s way of judging good and bad, the godly logic of holy men. They want to record this as the most worthwhile sort of expenditure in the account book of the next world. But they don’t understand that this is false. How should they know that only wrongful extravagance can give the utmost joy?’
‘Do you then think there’s no joy in one’s sense of duty?’ said Ajit in astonishment.
‘No, not a bit,’ said Kamal. ‘The joy in doing one’s duty is deceptive and is simply another name for sorrow. One is forced to accept it by the rule of reason. That’s a kind of bondage. Otherwise how could I draw joy from wasted love when I invited you to sit on a mat I had meant for Shibnath? Then again, you see that I have gone without food the whole day, yet cooked plenty of things only because you would come and dine. Don’t you see where the joy lies in this dereliction of duty? You won’t understand my point now, Ajit Babu; it’s no use my trying to explain. But if the time comes when you grasp such perverse ideas independently, please remember me. Let’s stop for now; come and have your dinner.’ She put before him plates piled with a variety of food.
Ajit was silent for a long time, then said: ‘It’s true that I haven’t followed your last remarks, but I feel it’s possible to understand them. I might do so if you explained them.’
‘Who’ll explain them, Ajit Babu? I? Why need I?’ She smiled and pushed the rest of the dishes towards him.
Ajit began to concentrate on the food. ‘Perhaps you don’t know that I didn’t eat last night,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know, but I was afraid you might not have, after returning so late. And so it proved. You suffered because of me.’
‘But today I’m making up with interest,’ he said, and at once remembered that Kamal had gone without food all day. He felt ashamed. ‘But I’m being as selfish as a brute. You haven’t eaten all day, but I simply didn’t remember that and have started eating.’
Kamal smilingly replied, ‘But this is more important than my food. That’s why I made you sit down quickly to your dinner.’ After a pause she said again, ‘Besides, I don’t eat all this meat and fish.’
‘But what will you have then?’
‘See there.’ She pointed to something covered with an enamelled bowl. ‘That’s my dinner—rice, dal and boiled potatoes. That’s my royal dish.’
Ajit’s curiosity was not dispelled, but he hesitated to ask anything more in case she alluded to her poverty. He changed the subject and said, ‘The first time I saw you, you aroused an inexpressible wonder in me.’
Kamal laughed at this. She said, ‘That’s because of my looks. And even there I lost to Akshay Babu. I couldn’t overwhelm him.’
Ajit was abashed, yet he smiled and said, ‘Perhaps not. He is a diamond from the Golconda mines. You can’t even make a scratch on him. But I was very surprised when I heard you. Sometimes you suddenly lose your patience and grow angry. It seems you don’t want to admit the truth; that it’s your nature to block its path.’
Perhaps Kamal was offended. ‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘but there was something there of greater wonder than myself—of a different kind. Huge bulk matched with great tranquillity—the Himalaya of patience. No vapour from any steam reaches there. I wish I was his daughter.’
These words touched Ajit deeply. He revered Ashu Babu like a God. But he said, ‘How would two such opposite natures meet at a point?’
Kamal said, ‘I don’t know. I’m just saying what I would have liked. I wish I too were his daughter like Mani.’ She paused for a while and added, ‘My own father was no less a person. He too was so gentle, so serene.’
Ajit had heard from everyone that Kamal was the daughter of a low-caste maidservant. Now hearing her own account of her father’s qualities, he became curious about the mystery of her birth. He could not ask any questions, lest his enquiries hurt her. But his heart filled with compassion and charity.
Dinner was over. Kamal asked Ajit to get up, but he refused and said, ‘I’ll get up only after you’ve finished.’
‘Why should you put yourself out, Ajit Babu? Please get up. Why don’t you go and wash your hands, and then come and sit here while I eat.’
‘No, that’s impossible. I’m not going to budge an inch from this place till you’ve fini
shed.’
‘What an odd man you are!’ With a smile, Kamal uncovered her plate and started eating. She had not exaggerated at all. It was nothing but a plate of rice, dal and boiled potatoes, dry and almost colourless. He did not know what she normally ate on other days. But today, set against such sumptuous fare, her deliberate self-denial almost brought tears to his eyes. The previous day he had heard that she ate only once a day; today he saw what her meal was really like. So whatever she might say by way of logic and debate, when it actually came to the pleasures of life, her rigorous self-restraint overwhelmed Ajit and transformed her in his enraptured eyes into an image of grace and reverence. He felt endless scorn for those who had humiliated her through deprivation, disrespect and neglect. As he watched Kamal eat, he could no more hold back his feelings. He said with great ardour, ‘Those who think themselves superior to you and turn you away with insults, those who backbite you for nothing, are not worthy to touch your feet. If anyone deserves the place of a Goddess in this world of ours, it is you.’
Kamal raised her face in genuine amazement and asked, ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know why, but I can take my oath on it.’
Kamal’s wonder was not dispelled, but she kept quiet.
Ajit said, ‘Will you forgive me if I ask you a question?’
‘What is it?’
‘Have you taken to such self-denial only after that wicked Shibnath insulted and robbed you?’
Kamal said, ‘No. I took to this after my first husband died. So I don’t find it difficult.’
It was as if someone had poured ink over Ajit’s face. He was dumbfounded for a few moments, then composed himself and asked slowly, ‘Have you been married before?’
‘Yes,’ replied Kamal. ‘My husband was a Christian from Assam. After his death my father also died suddenly, falling off a horse. An uncle of Shibnath’s was then the head clerk of the tea garden. He didn’t have a wife, and he gave shelter to my mother. I too was taken into his household. Having gone through so much distress, I’ve got used to having one meal a day. You may call it self-denial, but it keeps me fit in both mind and body.’
The Final Question Page 11
