Kamal gazed silently at Ashu Babu’s face. He controlled himself with a visible effort and continued, ‘It was only for a few minutes. Before I could compose myself and speak to her, Nilima stood up and rushed out of the room, like an arrow from a bow, without throwing a glance behind her. She didn’t say a word; nor did I. I haven’t seen her since.’
‘Hadn’t you guessed this?’ asked Kamal quietly.
‘No, not in my wildest dreams. If it had been somebody else I might have suspected deceit and selfishness. But to suspect Nilima of being mercenary is itself a sin. What a strange thing is a woman’s mind! Who would have thought that a comely young woman could love this old decrepit body and this weary, impotent heart, so utterly worthless in the dying days of their life? Yet it’s true—there’s nothing false about it.’ An anguished sigh escaped this virtuous, elderly man, full of pain, discomfiture and frank shame. After a few minutes’ silence, he went on: ‘But I know she wants nothing from me. All she asks for is to serve me—to try to lessen the loneliness and insecurity of my old age. It’s sheer kindness and pity on her part.’ As Kamal remained silent, he continued: ‘A few days ago the matter of Bela’s divorce came up in conversation. Nilima was furious when she heard that I’d supported Bela’s demand for divorce. From then on, it seemed she just couldn’t tolerate Bela. The public humiliation which Bela had inflicted on her husband was something Nilima couldn’t accept. She refused to sympathize with Bela’s revengeful attitude. It was her belief that a wife’s achievement lay in her dedication not to abandon her husband but to win him back. She argued that the wife is actually disgraced if she tries to avenge her dishonour: that such dishonour is the touchstone on which her love is tested. And what kind of self-respect is it, she said, that allows Bela to accept money for her needs from the very man she has driven out? It would be far better to hang oneself. I’d often thought that Nilima was overreacting; today I wonder what love might not bring about. Beauty, youth, wealth, honour—all these go for nothing: the real spirit of love lies in forgiveness. The trouble begins when the spirit of forgiveness is missing. It’s then that we wrangle about beauty and youth, that the tug-of-war starts between love and self-esteem.’
Kamal still looked at him and remained silent.
Ashu Babu continued: ‘Kamal, you’re her ideal; but for once her moonbeams seemed to outshine your sun’s rays. She’s mellowed what she took from you in the liquid sweetness of her heart and spread it everywhere. Over the past two days I’ve traversed two centuries of thought, Kamal. I’ve known a wife’s love: I can tell its true form and savour. But now I’m overwhelmed by the thought that conjugal affection is only one facet of a woman’s love. It comprises an intense desire to give oneself away despite all hurdles, all sufferings. I couldn’t accept her love with open arms; but words can’t describe my gratitude and respect for her proffered gift.’
Kamal realized that everything around him which had so long been obscured by the shadow of his marital love was now coming to light.
‘And yes,’ said Ashu Babu, breaking into her thoughts, ‘I’ve forgiven Mani. I shan’t let her be harassed any longer by her father’s sulks. I know she’s going to suffer: the world won’t let her escape. But for myself, though I can’t consent to what she’s done, let me bless her so that she finds herself again through her suffering. I pray to God that He may judge her weakness and follies kindly.’ His voice grew heavy with emotion.
They remained sitting silently for a long time. Then Kamal gently asked, stroking his plump arm, ‘Kakababu, what have you decided about Nilima Didi?’
An unseen power suddenly seemed to draw Ashu Babu upright. ‘My dear, I tried to explain this to you before, though I never could; and today I may have lost the power to do so. But I’ve never doubted the ideal of single-minded, devoted love. I don’t question Nilima’s love; but just as that is true, so is my refusal. This is not a futile self-delusion. I can never convince you with arguments, but I firmly believe that it’s through such apparent frustrations that humankind progresses. I can’t imagine where, but progress it must. Else the world is a lie: all creation is a lie.’
He continued, ‘Take Nilima, for instance. She could have been anybody’s cherished treasure, but today she doesn’t have a home to call her own. The futility of her life will impale me all my remaining days. If only she’d loved someone else, I keep thinking! What a mistake she’s made!’
‘She may yet correct the mistake, Kakababu,’ said Kamal.
‘How can that be? Do you believe it’s possible for her to love anyone else?’
‘It isn’t impossible. Did you imagine it was possible in your case?’
‘But Nilima! A girl like her?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Kamal. ‘But do you want her to lead a hopeless life in remembrance of a man she couldn’t have as her own, whom she never could have?’
Ashu Babu’s bright face darkened somewhat. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t wish that, but you won’t understand my meaning either. What I can do, you cannot. The basic sense of life’s truth is different in you and me—utterly different. Those who believe that this life is the soul’s ultimate gain can’t wait: they must drink up even the last drop here and now. But we believe in the idea of rebirth. We can wait indefinitely—we don’t have to gorge.’
In a quiet tone Kamal said, ‘I admit what you say, Kakababu. But I can’t accept your prejudice as reason. I won’t have the patience to wait at the Almighty’s doorstep hoping for the impossible. I hold that life true and good which I find with my natural senses amidst everybody and everything. I want this life to overflow with fruit and blossom, beauty and riches. I don’t want to insult this life by neglecting it in the hope of greater gain in the life to come. Kakababu, people like you have willingly deprived yourselves in this way. Since you’ve made light of this earthly life of joy and good fortune, that life has made light of you before the world. I don’t know whether I’ll ever meet Nilima Didi again, but if I do I’ll tell her this.’
Kamal stood up. Ashu Babu abruptly gripped her hand. ‘Are you leaving, my dear? The thought of your going away always fills me with emptiness.’
Kamal sat down again and said, ‘But I can hardly give you any comfort, Kakababu. At this time when you are so sick in body and mind, when what you most need is consolation, I seem only to be hurting you in every way. Yet I don’t love you less than anyone else, Kakababu.’
Accepting this in silence, Ashu Babu said, ‘And think of Nilima! Isn’t that amazing too? But do you know the reason for it, Kamal?’
Kamal said smilingly, ‘Perhaps it’s because there are no quicksands in your heart, Kakababu. The quicksand can’t even bear its own weight, it slips away from beneath itself and makes itself sink. But the solid earth bears the weight of stones and iron: you can build castles upon it. All women won’t understand Nilima Didi. But those who are tired with the games that life plays, those who want to lay down their burden and breathe freely, will understand her.’
‘Yes,’ said Ashu Babu and sighed. ‘And what about Shibnath?’ Kamal replied, ‘Ever since I came to understand him properly, all my anger and complaints have been wiped away, my frenzy has cooled. Shibnath is talented, he’s an artist and a poet. Continual love impedes the creativity of such people, it hinders their natural bent. That’s what I’d tried to say that day at the Taj. Women only provide the pretext for such people—they actually love nobody but themselves. They split their minds into two halves and play a game of love for a while; but it’s because the game ends that their voices give out such wonderful melody, otherwise they’d choke and dry up. I know Shibnath hasn’t deceived Mani; she has beguiled herself. The golden glow that lights up the clouds at sunset lasts only a moment; but who dares call its existence a lie?’
‘I know,’ said Ashu Babu. ‘But colour alone isn’t enough in life, and no metaphor can wipe away this pain. What about that?’
A weariness came over her face. She said, ‘Kakababu, that’s why the same question k
eeps cropping up again and again. When you go, leave Mani the blessing that she might discover her true self through her suffering. May everything meant to wither and die fall away from her, letting her know herself clearly. And you too must realize that marriage is one event in life out of many—no more. The day people took it as the ultimate end for a woman—that’s the day the biggest tragedy of women’s lives began. Before you leave this country, set your daughter free from these shackles of falsehood. That’s my last plea to you.’
The unexpected sound of footsteps at the door made them look up. Harendra came in.
‘I’ve come to take Boudi away, Ashu Babu. She’s ready to leave. I’ve sent for a carriage.’ Ashu Babu’s face grew pale.
‘Right now? But soon it’ll be dark.’
‘It’s not a great distance, only a few minutes’ ride,’ replied Harendra. His face was as grave as his speech was firm.
‘That’s true,’ said Ashu Babu softly. ‘But it’s almost evening. Couldn’t you wait till tomorrow?’
Harendra took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ashu Babu. ‘You decide,’ he said.
The letter read, ‘Thakurpo, if you can’t take me away from here, please let me know. But don’t accuse me later of having kept you in the dark.—Nilima.’
Ashu Babu was dumbfounded. Harendra said, ‘I’m not a close relative of hers, but you know her nature. I didn’t dare wait after such a letter.’
‘Will she be staying in your house?’
‘Yes, till we can make better arrangements. I thought that as she’d stayed in this house so long, there could be no great objection to my house either.’
Ashu Babu remained silent. He refrained from asking why such excellent logic had not been exercised all these days. The servant entered to announce that the magistrate sahib had sent his servant to collect the memsahib’s luggage.
‘Show it to him,’ said Ashu Babu. As his eyes met Kamal’s, he said, ‘Bela left this house yesterday. The magistrate’s wife is a friend of hers. I’d forgotten to give you the good news, Kamal. Bela’s husband has arrived—I think there’s been a reconciliation.’
Kamal expressed no surprise. She only said, ‘Why didn’t he come here?’
‘Perhaps it hurt his pride,’ answered Ashu Babu. ‘When she sued for divorce, I’d supported the idea in my reply to Bela’s father’s letter. Her husband could not forgive that.’
‘You supported the idea?’
‘Why should that surprise you, Kamal? I see nothing wrong in deserting a dissolute husband. Surely it would be wrong to deny the wife this right?’
Kamal stared at him. She realized yet again that there was no deceit in this man. His actions and his thoughts were exact reflections of each other.
Nilima took her leave from the threshold of the room. She neither entered it nor looked at anyone.
For a long time Kamal went on stroking Ashu Babu’s hand. No words were exchanged between them. Before leaving she said, ‘There’ll be nobody from the old times left in this house except Jadu.’
‘Jadu?’
‘Yes, your old servant.’
‘But he isn’t here, my dear. His son is ill. He took leave and went home five days ago.’
Again there was no exchange for a long time. Then Ashu Babu suddenly asked, ‘Have you any news of that boy Rajen?’
‘No, Kakababu.’
‘I wish I could see him once before I leave. You two are like brother and sister, two flowers off the same tree.’ Having said this, he was about to relapse into silence when a thought suddenly seemed to strike him. ‘Both of you are poor; but your poverty is like that of Lord Shiva. You seem to have infinite wealth and fortune which you carelessly scatter here and there, so contemptuously that you won’t even hunt for it.’
Kamal laughed and said, ‘What are you saying, Kakababu! I don’t know about Rajen, but I slave away day and night for a few rupees.’
‘That’s what I hear,’ said Ashu Babu. ‘And it makes me think.’
Kamal was late in returning home that evening. As she finally left, Ashu Babu said, ‘Don’t worry about me. She who has never left me won’t desert me today either.’ He pointed to the portrait of his deceased wife on the opposite wall.
On reaching home, Kamal discovered that entry into her house would not be easy. The doorway was jammed with at least a dozen boxes and suitcases. Her heart trembled. She made her way upstairs with difficulty. There were loud voices in the kitchen. She peeped in. She found Ajit, helped by the Hindustani maid, boiling a kettle on the stove and looking for tea and sugar.
‘What’s all this?’
Ajit started and looked round. ‘You seem to keep your tea and sugar locked up in an iron safe. The kettle’s almost boiled dry.’
‘But how do you expect to find out where I’ve put my things? Come away, let me make the tea.’
Ajit moved aside.
‘But what’s all this? Whose boxes and cases are these?’
‘Mine. Haren Babu has given me notice.’
‘But that could only have been notice to leave his premises. Who gave you the idea of coming here?’
‘Oh, that was my own idea. I’ve lived all this while on others’ ideas. Now I’ve come up with my own.’
‘Well done,’ said Kamal. ‘But are those things going to remain downstairs? They’ll be stolen.’
This alarmed Ajit. ‘I hope they haven’t already been stolen. There’s a leather case with a lot of money in it.’
Kamal shook her head and said, ‘Wonderful! There’s a species of human beings who don’t come of age till they’re eighty. They always need a guardian. God in His mercy arranges one for them. Forget the tea and come downstairs. We’ll try to carry up your things between us.’
27
THE LANDLORD HAD JUST COME AND COLLECTED THE FULL month’s rent. Among the bundles and boxes scattered around the room, Ajit lay reclined on a deckchair with his eyes shut. His face was shrunken: one could tell by looking at him that there was no joy in his heart. Kamal was checking the luggage and listing the items on a piece of paper. There was no sign of tension in her preparations for leaving: she made it seem like a routine job. She was only a little more silent than usual.
An invitation to dinner had arrived from Harendra—delivered not by hand but by post. Ajit read the letter. A dinner party was being thrown on the occasion of Ashu Babu’s departure. Many people they knew had been invited. In a corner of the letter was a brief message: ‘Kamal, my friend, do come. Nilima.’
Ajit showed her that portion and asked, ‘Will you go?’
‘Of course. I’m not such an important person that I can turn down invitations. But what about you?’
Ajit’s voice betrayed his hesitation. ‘I don’t know. I don’t feel well today.’
‘Then don’t go.’
Ajit’s eyes were on the letter before him, otherwise he would surely have noticed Kamal’s amused smile. It had somehow become common knowledge to the Bengali community that the two were leaving Agra; but the details were not yet known, and speculation hovered in the air like unseasonal clouds. It would not have been difficult to obtain definite information: a simple question to Kamal would have told them that they were heading for Amritsar. But no one could muster the courage to ask.
Ajit’s father, a disciple of Guru Gobind Singh, had built a bungalow in the great Sikh pilgrim-town, near Khalsa College. He used to spend a few days there whenever possible. The house had been rented out after his death but had recently fallen vacant. It was in this house that they had decided to put up for some time. The luggage would go by truck. They themselves would start by car early the next morning. This was Kamal’s wish—to revive memories of their first day together.
‘Will you go alone to Haren’s?’ asked Ajit.
‘Why not? The door of the ashram will always be open for you; you can go whenever you like. But I can’t hope for that, so I might as well take the opportunity to visit them for the last time. What do you say?�
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Ajit remained silent. He could clearly see that under various pretexts, many sharp and bitter barbs, stated and unstated insinuations would fly there in one direction only. It would be cowardly to desert a lonely woman faced with such an attack. But he did not have the courage to accompany her, nor could he very well forbid her to go.
A new car had been bought. Shortly after dark, the chauffeur drove Kamal to the ashram. A new, expensive carpet had been laid out for the guests in the large room upstairs. There were many lights and a lot of noise. Ashu Babu sat in the middle with a few gentlemen around him. Bela was there with another lady—Malini, the magistrate’s wife. A man sat talking to them with his back to the door. Nilima was not to be seen; perhaps she was busy elsewhere.
Harendra entered the room and immediately noticed Kamal standing by the door. ‘Kamal! When did you come? Where’s Ajit?’ he cried in surprised welcome.
All eyes immediately turned to her. Kamal could now see the face of the man talking to the ladies. It was none other than Akshay. He had grown a little thinner: although he had escaped the influenza, he had not been so lucky with the malaria in his native village. It was fortunate that he had returned, otherwise he would never have met Kamal again. He would have had to live with the loss.
‘Ajit Babu hasn’t come. He isn’t well,’ she said. ‘As for me, I arrived quite some time ago.’
‘A long time ago! But where were you?’
‘Downstairs, having a look at the boys’ rooms. You’ve cheated religion of its due; I was finding out whether you’d betrayed the work ethic as well.’ She entered the room laughing as she said this. She was like a slender monsoon creeper lifting its head high with all the resources for its own survival rather than for others’ needs. It had no fear or anxiety about hostile surroundings—as though there was no question of guarding it by a barbed-wire fence.
The Final Question Page 32
