The Final Question

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was as though someone had nudged me and spoken those words.’ She was quiet for a moment, then went on: ‘Suddenly I remembered that I had these things in my box. You were washing after your meal. Knowing that you’d soon be back, I opened the box and hurriedly laid them out. Only then did I realize that you were the person I had in mind when I embroidered these flowers, leaves and creepers, sitting up through the night.’

  Ajit was silent. A sudden blush appeared on his face, to vanish in the wink of an eye.

  Kamal herself remained quiet for some time and then asked, ‘Tell me, what are you thinking of so silently?’

  Ajit said, ‘I’m silent because I’m unable to think.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Your words have set a storm raging in my heart. Only turmoil—neither joy nor hope.’

  Kamal looked at him silently. Ajit slowly went on: ‘Kamal, let me tell you a story. Our household God Radhaballavji once appeared before my mother in visible form in the puja room in our house. He took food from her hand and ate it sitting before her—she saw it with her own eyes. None of us believed her; everyone took it to be a dream. But till her dying day she could not overcome her sorrow at our disbelief. Today your words remind me of that incident. I know you’re not joking, but I think that, like my mother, you too are under some immense misconception. There are many phases in a man’s life when he remains in the dark about himself. Then, suddenly perhaps, his eyes open. It’s like that with me. I’ve travelled so long to so many places around the world; yet it’s only after coming to Agra that I’ve been able to see myself. All I have is money, and that was left me by my father. I have nothing of my own that can make you love me without my knowing it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the money,’ said Kamal. ‘Now that the ashramites have come to know of it, they’ll take care of it for you.’ She laughed and resumed: ‘But if only I’d known earlier that you were so destitute in every way, would I ever have fallen in love with you? Moreover, when did I have the time to judge your goodness or badness? I only had a kind of inkling in my mind: I didn’t know how to track it down. It was only ten minutes ago, as I stood in front of the bed, that someone suddenly whispered the message in my ears.’

  Ajit asked, in utter amazement, ‘Only ten minutes ago! Do you really mean it? If that’s so, this is madness.’

  ‘Of course it’s madness,’ answered Kamal. ‘That’s why I asked you to take me somewhere else. I didn’t beg you to marry me and settle down to family life.’

  Ajit was deeply abashed. He said, ‘Why do you call it begging? It isn’t begging, it’s the rightful claim born of your love. But you didn’t claim your right: what you asked for is as short-lived as a bubble, and just as unreal.’

  Kamal said, ‘Its lifespan may be short, but why should it be unreal? I’m not one of those who want to cling to a long life as the only reality.’

  ‘But this joy has no permanence, Kamal.’

  ‘It may not. But I don’t agree with those who, because real flowers wither, adorn their vases with everlasting flowers made of pith. I told you once before that no joy is lasting: it has its allotted span of transient days. That’s the highest treasure of human life. If you tie it down, you kill it. That’s why marriage has permanence but no joy. It hangs itself with the thick rope of unbearable permanence.’

  Ajit remembered that he had heard exactly the same sentiments from her earlier. It was not just something she said; it was her innermost conviction. Shibnath had not married her; he had deceived her, but she never complained about it. Why hadn’t she? Today, for the first time, Ajit understood clearly that she had consented to this deception. His mind was filled with revulsion at such monstrous contempt for this ancient and holy ceremony of the human race.

  After a moment’s silence, he said, ‘It would be improper of me to boast to you, but I don’t want to hide anything from you any more. People say the highest expression of manliness is to sacrifice women and wealth. I accept this as a concept, and I don’t doubt that there’s nothing nobler than fulfilling oneself through such sacrifice. I have wealth enough, and no great fascination for it; but my heart dries up when I think that nowhere in my life has there been someone to love, and never will be. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to conquer this weakness till I die. If that’s my fate, I’ll leave the ashram and go away. But your summons is a still greater sham. I can’t respond to it.’

  ‘Why do you call it a sham?’

  ‘Of course it’s a sham. Manorama never really loved me. I can understand her conduct, but I’ve seen Shibani’s love for Shibnath with my own eyes. At that time it appeared limitless; but now every trace of it has vanished.’

  Kamal said, ‘It may have vanished today, but was it only a dissimulation on my part that struck you then?’

  ‘Only you can answer that,’ said Ajit. ‘But it now seems to me there can be no greater hypocrisy in a woman’s life.’

  Kamal’s eyes grew stern. She said, ‘Let women judge what is true or false in a woman’s life. Men needn’t assume that task—neither towards Manorama nor towards Kamal. This is how justice has been violated, women dishonoured and men’s hearts defiled and constricted down the ages. And that’s why this mock trial has never been resolved. Injustice doesn’t only harm one party, Ajit Babu; it devastates both. Few men are so fortunate as to receive what Shibnath then enjoyed; but it’s no longer so. One can demand to know why it isn’t, asserting one’s authority with a thick stick held in a thick male fist; but one can’t win it back that way. It’s true that things were then such, and just as true that they no longer are. If I don’t want to cover it over with the rags of subterfuge, will your male judgement declare it the greatest falsehood of my woman’s life? Is this the wise verdict that we look for from you?’

  ‘But how else can we judge it?’ asked Ajit. ‘Why should people honour something that is so ephemeral, so brittle?’

  Kamal said, ‘I know they won’t. The life of a flower that blooms in a corner of my courtyard is only half a day. That stone with which I grind my spices is much more durable. Where will you find a better yardstick to measure truth?’

  ‘Kamal, this is no argument. These are only angry words.’

  ‘Why should I be angry, Ajit Babu? Those who deal only in permanence set a price on things in this way. It’s the same doubt that kept you from responding to my call: how could you trust someone who wouldn’t sign herself into lifelong bondage? To someone who doesn’t appreciate flowers that stone is the greater reality by far. There’s no risk of it withering away: it’ll last forever, not for half a day. It will always crush and grind as needed for the kitchen, it’ll prepare the ingredients you need to swallow your rice with: you can depend on it. Life becomes tasteless if it isn’t there.’

  Ajit looked at her and said, ‘Why such sarcasm, Kamal?’

  Perhaps the question did not reach Kamal’s ears. She went on talking as if to herself: ‘People don’t understand that the object called the heart isn’t made of iron; one can’t rely on it. It’s not that the heart doesn’t feel sad about all this; but that is its nature, its reality. Yet this is neither stated nor admitted. What greater debasement can there be in life? That’s why no one understood how I could forgive Shibnath so totally. They would have understood if I’d cried my heart out and then turned she-hermit in my youth, but this they could not accept: they grew embittered with distaste and indifference. Leaves wither and fall off the tree; new leaves heal the wound. That’s considered false, but if a dry tendril clings fast to the tree in spite of being dead, that constitutes a truth.’

  Ajit was listening intently. As soon as she ended, he said, ‘We often forget one thing, that you don’t actually belong to our kind. Your blood, your beliefs, all your education are foreign. You can never overcome their violent impact on you. It’s on this point that you constantly clash with us. It’s getting late, Kamal. Let’s stop this useless wrangling—our ideal is not for you.’<
br />
  ‘Which ideal? The ideal of your brahmacharya ashram?’

  Ajit was vexed by this provocation. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘That, if you like. These abstruse matters are not meant for foreigners. You won’t understand them.’

  ‘Not even if I become your disciple?’

  ‘No.’

  Now Kamal laughed as though she were a different person. ‘Well, tell me,’ she said, ‘what should I do to get your name struck off the rolls in that den of sadhus? That ashram has really become an eyesore to me.’

  Ajit said as he lay down, ‘You readily called Rajen in and gave him shelter. I suppose you didn’t feel any awkwardness in doing so?’

  ‘What was there to feel?’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t think about such things.’

  ‘What don’t I think about? The opinions you people hold?’

  ‘I suppose you’ve never been afraid for yourself either?’

  ‘I can’t say never; but why should I be afraid of a brahmachari?’

  ‘I see,’ said Ajit, and fell silent. Then suddenly he burst out: ‘A worm lives in the darkness underground. It knows it’ll die if it comes out into the light—there are many creatures ready with open mouths to devour it. Its only means of self-defence is to hide. But you know that humans are not worms, not even if they’re women. It’s laid down in the Shastras that one’s ultimate strength lies in realizing one’s own self. This knowledge is your real strength: isn’t it, Kamal?’

  Kamal did not say anything; she only kept looking at him.

  Ajit said, ‘You have such a natural indifference to what women hold as their sole possession in life that, however we may carp, it seems to protect you every moment of your life like a ring of fire. Our attacks turn to ashes before they can touch you. You were just telling me that you don’t belong to the class of women who are objects of men’s lust. This is becoming clear to me tonight as I sit face to face with you. I also understand where you find the courage to ignore both our criticism and our praise.’

  Raising her face in feigned surprise, Kamal said, ‘What’s the matter, Ajit Babu? Your words seem enlightened.’

  ‘Tell me frankly, Kamal,’ said Ajit, ‘are my opinions as worthless to you as others’ are?’

  ‘What good would it do to you to know the answer?’

  ‘Kamal, I’ve never boasted to you of my strength. In fact I am inwardly as weak as I am lonely. I can’t do anything by force.’

  ‘I know that far better than you,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Do you know what I feel?’ said Ajit. ‘I feel it would be as easy for me to win you as to lose you.’

  ‘I know that too,’ said Kamal.

  Ajit nodded to himself and said, ‘That’s it. It’s not only a question of winning you today; what would happen if I were to lose you one day in the same way?’

  ‘Nothing would happen,’ Kamal said quietly. ‘Losing me would seem equally easy then. As long as I were with you, I’d teach you that wisdom.’

  Ajit was profoundly shocked. He said, ‘When I was in England, I saw how easily they separated forever, and on what trivial grounds. I would wonder if anything left an impact on them. And if this is the nature of their love, how can they pride themselves on being civilized?’

  Kamal said, ‘Ajit Babu, it may not be as easy as it seems from outside by reading the newspapers. But how I wish that one day this propensity of men and women becomes as free and natural as light and air.’

  Ajit stared at her silently. He said nothing; but as he turned over to sleep, tears came to his eyes, somehow from somewhere.

  Perhaps Kamal saw this. She came up to the corner of the bed and began stroking his hair. But she did not utter a single word of consolation.

  Through an open window, the eastern sky could be seen growing lighter.

  ‘Ajit Babu, I think there’s no time left for sleep.’

  ‘Yes, I must get up now.’ And he wiped his tears and sat up.

  22

  ASHU BABU HAD PERHAPS NEVER CLAIMED BEFORE HIS CREATOR to be anything more than an ordinary man among ordinary men. Just as he had accepted his vast ancestral property with unruffled pleasure, he had accepted his vast bulk and its accompanying ailments as a natural affliction. He did not have to meditate to realize, with his heart no less than his head, that God did not create the world’s joys and sorrows with him in view, that they operated by their own laws: he had grasped this by natural instinct. Just as he did not heap curses on providence after the calamity of his wife’s death, he did not cry and beat his head when Manorama, the utmost treasure of his love, left him, turning his hopes to ashes. Through his resentment and despair, a familiar voice in his heart would repeatedly tell him that that is how things are. Such sorrows have befallen many people many times; that was how the world went. There was nothing novel about it, it was as ancient as existence itself. It was neither manly nor useful to keep this grief alive and send its waves surging through the world. Hence all sorrows quietened within him of their own accord, and set up such a ring of serenity that everyone entering it felt his burden made light.

  Ashu Babu’s life had always been like this. Even after coming to Agra, there had been no change despite many adversities; but the single exception now began to attract general notice. Suddenly from time to time his impatience could not be concealed; his speech seemed to infringe on gratuitous harshness; the uncalled-for sharpness of his remarks sounded strange even to the servants. Yet it was hard to tell why this should be so. Such aberrations had seemed inconceivable even at the height of his illness; and now he was on the mend. Whatever the reasons, a little observation would show that a fire was burning in the depths of his heart: the sparks would sometimes break out.

  Although he had not yet said anything explicitly, there were hints that his days in Agra were numbered. Perhaps he was waiting to get a little better: then, just as he had arrived without warning, he would depart in the same way.

  Many of the leading Bengalis of the town came these days in the evening to enquire after him. The magistrate and his wife, the district sub-judge (a Rai Bahadur), the college teachers—all those who had not been able to go elsewhere—together with Harendra, Ajit and all the Bengalis who had devoured much mutton and pilau here in happier times. Only Akshay never came, because he was away. When the epidemic broke out, he had left for his village home with his wife. Perhaps he was waiting for things to get a little cooler. Kamal never came either after that one visit.

  Ashu Babu loved gatherings, but now he couldn’t attend them so wholeheartedly. Even when present, he mostly remained silent. People gladly forgave him, as they knew of his failing health. All the duties that Manorama used to perform earlier were now carried out by Bela, she being a relative. There were no lapses of hospitality. Outsiders would savour the entertainment and leave with hearts replete, silently thanking their unassuming host and wondering how this ailing man could regularly arrange such perfect gatherings.

  How it was made possible remained a secret. Nilima did not come out before everybody: she had neither the habit nor the inclination. But her hidden vigilance reached every corner of the house. It was as penetrating as it was silent. Perhaps no one except Ashu Babu felt its flow, as quiet as the flow of blood in one’s veins.

  The late autumn was nearly half over; but somehow it had not yet turned very cold. One morning, however, there was a light drizzle which turned into a shower towards the afternoon. There was no prospect of visitors. The windows were shut ahead of time. Ashu Babu sat in his armchair, reading a book with his legs stretched out and his body covered with a shawl, when Bela said with some irritation, ‘Everything in this wretched place is topsy-turvy. I came here sometime ago, in June or July. I’d never imagined there could be such a shortage of water anywhere. I wonder what made anybody build the Taj Mahal in such a barren place.’

  Nilima sat sewing nearby. She said without raising her eyes, ‘Not everybody can understand that.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Bela unsuspectingl
y.

  Nilima replied, ‘How can people sunk in worldly pleasures understand that all great things in this world are born out of human suffering?’ The retort was so inconceivably cruel that not only Bela but Ashu Babu too was startled. Looking up from his book, he saw Nilima carry on with her sewing as if no such words had passed her lips.

  Bela was not a quarrelsome woman; moreover, she was fairly well educated. She must have been over thirty-five, and had seen and experienced much. But through careful grooming, her youthful charm had not waned. At a casual glance, she still seemed to be as in her youth. She was fair, her face had a special grace; but on closer observation it seemed coarse from a certain lack of tenderness. Her eyes sparkled with a lively expression, constantly wandering as though they lacked the stability to rest on anything, as though they had no depth or root. She was fit for delights and pleasures; if suddenly cast amidst sorrow, she would embarrass the master of the house.

  As Bela emerged from her confusion, her face flushed with anger for a moment. But it offended her courtesy and upbringing to quarrel angrily; she controlled herself and said, ‘It’s no use making insinuations against me: not only because it’s a trespass on my privacy, but because, however high-minded it may be to go around grieving and wailing, I can neither do it nor draw any good from it. I only want to retain my self-respect; I have no greater wish.’

  Nilima went on working. She made no reply.

  Ashu Babu was inwardly displeased; but lest the argument grow fiercer, he hastily said, ‘No, no, Bela, surely there was no insinuation against you. She must have meant it in a general way. I know Nilima’s nature. She could never behave in that way—never.’

  Bela curtly said, ‘So much the better. We have been together so long, I wouldn’t have thought it possible.’ Nilima said neither yes nor no; she went on sewing as if there was no one in the room.