Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  I had heard this particular lament often enough. So I made no comment. What surprised me was that Sunanda didn’t either. She smiled and was silent. I wondered what lay behind her smile. Was it disdain at Rajlakshmi’s concern for the correct pronunciation of words whose meanings eluded her? Or was her smile one of modest self-abnegation? If it was the former, if Sunanda had relegated Rajlakshmi to the category of women who habitually express similar sentiments only to forget them a minute later, she had made a terrible mistake. A time would come when she would be compelled to revise her opinion. Rajlakshmi, who had an instinctive understanding of people’s reactions, expressed or otherwise, clammed up immediately. She didn’t mention the subject again but commenced talking, in a low voice, of ordinary everyday matters. I was left alone to pull at my hookah and pursue my own thoughts.

  There’s a general belief, and I share it, that the male of the species has subordinated the female and forced her to occupy a position of extreme degradation. Exactly how he managed to do so was a question I had considered from many angles over many years but my speculations had never yielded any satisfactory results. That afternoon, sitting in Sunanda’s broken veranda, I got my answer. Had I never met her I would have remained in the dark to this day.

  I had seen and heard of many forms of women’s emancipation both in my own country and abroad. I have already mentioned the sight that met my eyes on my first day in Rangoon—of three women belabouring a hefty male with sticks of sugar-cane. I remember Abhaya muttering dejectedly, ‘If only our women were like them.’ I have heard an uncle of mine rail against a Marwari woman who had boxed his ears and nose in a railway compartment for daring to report her to the authorities and I remember how my aunt had sighed wistfully and regretted that such a system was not to be found among us. While sympathizing with the women of our land I still failed to see how ‘such a system’ would have given them the enhanced status they sought. Looking at Sunanda I realized where the trouble lay. Sunanda’s father had given her little of material things but he had educated her as he would have educated a son. He had exposed her to the doctrines and philosophies of learned men and had encouraged her to think and act for herself. It was here, in this freedom of thought and action, that the source of her power over self and environment lay. It was from this power that she had derived the courage to walk out of her husband’s ancestral home, to entertain a man in his absence and become a mother to young men of her own age. Her husband didn’t dream of criticizing her actions or of imposing restrictions. Neither did anyone else. Her father had given her a good deal of learning but what she was to do with it was her own concern.

  The shadows of evening were falling, yet Nyaya Ratna moshai did not return. I rose unwillingly, for the desire to meet him again was strong.

  Rajlakshmi said, ‘I’ll come again if you don’t mind,’ and I added, ‘I have no one to talk to. I, too, would like to visit you sometimes if I may.’ Sunanda smiled and bent her head.

  On the way home, Rajlakshmi said enthusiastically, ‘She’s a fine girl. Husband and wife are perfectly matched. I didn’t bring up the subject of their breaking away from the family because I’m not sure I understand Kushari moshai well as yet. But there’s no denying that the wives are excellent women.’

  ‘True,’ I admitted. ‘Why don’t you try to reconcile them? Your power over human beings has been tested often enough.’

  ‘Don’t judge by your own case. Anyone could have done what I did.’ Rajlakshmi smiled and tossed her head.

  The afternoon had been shadowy, cool and calm. But now an angry black cloud swam over the sun causing the western sky to glow like a flame. In that unearthly light, the expanse of the dun-coloured earth over which we walked, became a sheet of gold. A twisted tamarind and a clump of bamboos in the distance seemed smudged in lamp black against a sky of deepening rose and violet. The beauty of the scene flushed my being, entering my very soul.

  I glanced at Rajlakshmi. The smile was still on her lips. Never had she appeared more beautiful to my eyes. Was it only the colour of the sky that had thrown this web of enchantment on a familiar landscape—external and internal? Or was the colour and light derived from the person of the woman I had just left? Rajlakshmi may have felt as I did for she heaved a sigh of deep contentment. This day has been a memorable one. I feel I’ve found a true friend and companion.’

  But the moment we stepped into the house we were flung into the glare of harsh reality and the peace and serenity that had been ours was rudely shattered. The yard was full of people. Ratan, evidently in the act of delivering a fiery oration, stopped short on seeing us and said in a triumphant voice, ‘Ma! I’ve told you over and again that this would happen, haven’t I?’

  Rajlakshmi looked bewildered. ‘What has happened? What have you told me over and over again? I don’t understand—’

  ‘Nabin has been arrested. He has murdered Malati.’

  The blood drained from Rajlakshmi’s face. One of the men spoke up quickly, ‘No, mistress. He has beaten her badly but she isn’t dead.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Ratan bore down aggressively on the hapless optimist. ‘Has anyone seen her? Who knows if she’s alive or dead since she’s not to be found? Don’t forget that you’ll all be under suspicion if—’

  ‘Go stand in that corner, Ratan, and don’t speak till you’re spoken to.’ Rajlakshmi threw him a burning glance and, turning to Malati’s father who stood trembling like a leaf, she said in a commanding voice, ‘I want to hear the truth. Don’t try to hide anything or you’ll be in trouble.’

  The old man (his name was Bishwanath) said that, following the previous evening’s incident, his daughter Malati had left her husband’s house and come to her father’s. This afternoon, as she was filling her ghara (pitcher) at the pond, Nabin had rushed out from behind the bushes where he had been hiding and, falling upon her, had beaten her mercilessly. With blood streaming down her face from a deep cut in the head, and weeping bitterly, she had first come here and not finding us at home had gone to Kushari moshai’s house. Not finding him there either she had gone to the thana and filed a case. She had arrived with a constable just as Nabin was sitting down to his midday meal. The constable had kicked away the rice Nabin had been about to eat and, binding him with iron fetters, had taken him away.

  Rajlakshmi’s face turned a fiery red as she heard the story. She disliked Malati heartily and had no love for Nabin but the full force of her anger was directed against me, ‘I’ve told you a hundred times not to meddle in the filthy affairs of these low-caste people, but would you listen? Now manage the situation as best as you can. I have nothing to do with it. ‘And sweeping into her room, she slammed the door with the parting shot, ‘Nabin ought to be hanged. And if that slut is dead—it’s a good riddance.’

  A death-like silence fell on the people in the yard. ‘She is right,’ I thought. ‘Had I not mediated and brought them together, this would never have happened.’ But I forget that my readers have not been introduced to Nabin and Malati and are unaware of the events of the previous evening. I’ll go over the facts briefly.

  Ever since I had come to Gangamati I had been hearing of the exploits of Malati, the young wife of Nabin Dom. She was like a smouldering coal that threatened to kindle the heart of any man who came near her. All the women of Dom Para were terrified of her power. Pretty, vivacious and sharp-tongued, she stood out from them all in appearance and personality. She wore fine saris with broad, black borders, drenched her long hair in lemon oil and marked her lovely eyebrows with a green beetle’s glittering wing. She was not unduly bashful and the sight of her uncovered face atop an arched neck was often to be seen in the lanes of Gangamati. It was said that she had refused to cohabit with her husband till he went away to the city and, working for a year, returned to the village with a tin trunk, a pair of silver bracelets, some expensive saris, coloured ribbons and a bottle of rose water. With these riches he had been able to buy, not only her presence in his household but her heart as w
ell. However, all this is hearsay. Unfortunately, beautiful relationships do not last. No sooner had Malati surrendered heart, soul, and body to their rightful owner than Nabin began suspecting her of an illicit relationship. Violent fights broke out and beatings became quite frequent. A cut in the head was nothing new. Perhaps that was why Nabin had sat down to his meal without any qualms or fears. He hadn’t dreamed that Malati would set the police on him and have him arrested.

  The previous evening, when Malati’s shrieks rent the sky more piercingly than usual, Rajlakshmi had said disgustedly, ‘This is not to be borne. Why don’t you give her some money and tell her to leave the village?’

  ‘Nabin is equally to blame,’ I answered. ‘He doesn’t do a stroke of work. All he does is drink toddy and beat up his wife.’

  Needless to say, these were habits he had picked up in the city.

  ‘There’s nothing to choose between them,’ was Rajlakshmi’s verdict. ‘He would have worked if she hadn’t occupied all his time.’

  It was true that the situation was becoming intolerable. I thought of sending for them and giving them a talking to but before I could do so, they arrived at my door—followed by a crowd of eager spectators.

  ‘Babu,’ Nabin said in a solemn voice. ‘This woman is a whore. I can’t keep her in my house.’

  ‘Make him break my conch bangles and take off my iron hoop,’ Malati, the shrew, screamed from behind her veil.

  ‘You must return the silver bracelets first,’ was her husband’s condition.

  Malati pulled them off her wrists and threw them in the yard. Nabin picked them up and said, ‘You can’t keep the trunk either.’

  ‘I don’t want to keep it.’ Malati fumbled for the key that was tied to one end of her sari and flung it at his feet. Now Nabin marched up to her and broke her conch bangles with the air of a conquering hero. Then, pulling off the iron hoop from her wrist, he flung it over the wall. ‘Go,’ he roared at her. ‘I’ve made you a widow.’

  I was too shocked to react. An old man in the crowd explained that without this ritual, Malati could not marry again. Her brother-in-law’s younger brother had been wooing her for the last six months. He was a rich man and had offered Bishu Dom a bride price of twenty rupees. No wonder Bishu was tempted. The suitor had also promised Malati silver anklets, silver bangles and a gold nose stud and had even deposited these articles with her father. I felt sickened and unhappy for I realized that this conspiracy had been going on for some time now.

  ‘I’m tremendously relieved,’ Nabin puffed out his chest and said importantly. ‘Now I can go to the city and work in peace. There’s such a good time to be had in the city! As for a wife—I can marry twenty like you. Hari Mandal of Rangamati has been begging me for years. His daughter is a hundred times prettier than you.’ Saying this, he tucked the bracelets and the key into his waist and departed. But the look on his face belied his brave words. It was clear that the prospect of working in the city and marrying Hari Mandal’s peerless daughter did not enthuse him in the least.

  Ratan came to me and said, ‘Babu! Ma says you must rid the house of all these people at once.’ At these words, Bishwanath and his daughter rose and left the house. The others followed. I entered my bedroom with a heavy heart. I tried to tell myself that what had happened was for the best. It was much better to end an incompatible relationship than to live a cat and dog life together, particularly when remarriage was permissible for both.

  But what I heard the next day left me utterly confounded. It seemed that Nabin’s proclamation of his wife’s widowhood meant nothing at all. He had retained his right to beat and abuse her. I stood at my window looking out into the twilight and wondering where the girl could be. I was not sorry for Nabin. ‘Serves the scoundrel right,’ I said to myself. ‘The poor girl can breathe freely at last.’

  Rajlakshmi entered the room with a lamp in her hand. She stood looking at me for a few seconds, then turned to leave the room. But, before she could cross the threshold, there was a sound as that of a heavy body falling. The lamp wobbled and fell from her hand but it didn’t go out. She picked it up and held it close to the bundle that clung to her feet. The broad black border of Malati’s sari was not to be mistaken.

  ‘Why did you touch me, you wicked girl?’ Rajlakshmi wailed. ‘Now I’ll have to bathe in this twilight hour and catch my death. Ma go! * What is this on my feet?’ I took the lamp from Rajlakshmi’s hand and held it aloft. The blood, streaming freely from the wound in Malati’s head, was flowing all over Rajlakshmi’s feet.

  ‘Save him, Ma! Save him,’ Malati knocked her head harder on Rajlakshmi’s feet.

  ‘Why? What do you want now?’ Rajlakshmi asked in a tone of anguish.

  ‘The constable says he will be jailed for five years,’ Malati shrieked between sobs.

  ‘So what?’ I thundered. ‘He deserves it.’

  ‘What is it to you if Nabin is alive or dead? You are not his wife anymore,’ Rajlakshmi said bitterly.

  ‘Don’t say that; Ma! Please don’t say that. Save us this time—only this time. We will leave the village and never trouble you again. The constable kicked his rice away. He has had nothing to eat all day. I’ll die if you don’t save him,’ and Malati wept as if her heart was breaking.

  Rajlakshmi’s eyes glistened. She put out a hand and touched the dark head. ‘Be quiet,’ she said huskily. I’ll see what I can do.’

  The rest of us saw too. A couple of hundred rupee notes disappeared from Rajlakshmi’s coffer that night and neither Nabin Mandal nor Malati was seen in Gangamati from the next morning onwards.

  Nine

  MALATI AND NABIN WERE SOON FORGOTTEN BY ALL CONCERNED. The only exception was Ratan. It was obvious that he disapproved of Rajlakshmi’s action though, wisely, he kept his feelings to himself. As for Rajlakshmi herself, her passion for improving her Sanskrit pronunciation became more and more intense as the days went by. A visit to Sunanda’s house became part of her daily routine. I have no idea of how much information was imparted within those mouldy walls. All I could see were the consequences which were unexpected, even alarming. I was, habitually, a late riser and my bath and morning meal were seldom concluded before noon. Rajlakshmi had always grumbled about it and scolded me heartily but never in a manner that forced me to mend my ways. But now, in these days of her spiritual awakening, I was made to feel acutely ashamed of any delay, however minimal. ‘If you don’t care to look to your own health, you might consider the convenience of the servants,’ she would say with a sullen face. ‘When are they to have their own meals and rest if you insist on delaying yours?’

  The words were the same—yet not quite the same. The tone of loving tolerance had been replaced by one of simple irritation—so obvious that even the servants saw the difference. So I would, out of consideration for the servants, have my morning meal before I was hungry. How much they valued this sacrifice I cannot say. But ten or fifteen minutes later, Rajlakshmi would be seen crossing the field that led to the bridge on the canal. Sometimes, Ratan went with her but more often than not she went alone. I spent the day in my lonely room, idle and vacant, while she spent hers in a state of tense excitement. And thus, we gradually drifted apart.

  I knew that I didn’t enter her thoughts even momentarily, that my unhappiness and frustration made not a dent in her consciousness, yet I could not stop myself from gazing at that lithe figure stepping over the sun-baked earth, till it was lost from sight. I would rub my eyes and strain them to see if there was even a speck of her in the distance, then, sighing, I would turn from the window and seek refuge in my bed. Sometimes I would sink into a heavy, dreamless sleep induced by the terrible weariness of an aimless existence; sometimes I would lie awake for hours staring at the babla bushes out of which the cooing of doves fell softly and plaintively on my ear. On hot afternoons, when the warm winds set up a sighing and rustling amongst the bamboo leaves, I had the strangest feeling that these sounds came from within me and not without. At such moments, the
premonition that this phase of my life was soon to end was upon me. If Ratan tiptoed in, as he often did, to see if I needed anything, I would feign sleep out of fear that he would see the pain and bewilderment in my eyes.

  That afternoon, after Rajlakshmi’s form had merged into the haze of sky and sun, I was suddenly reminded of Burma. I sat down to write a letter to Abhaya. I thought of writing one to my British officer in Rangoon but what I would write and why … I could not think. As I sat, pen in hand, a woman, her veil pulled low over her face, walked rapidly past my window. There was something familiar about her form and the way she walked. I thought it was Malati but by the time I got to the window all I could catch a glimpse of was a red-bordered sari, before it turned the corner of the wall and disappeared from view.

  A month had passed since Malati, the shrewish daughter of Bishu Dom, had knocked her head on Rajlakshmi’s feet and begged her to secure her husband’s freedom. Everyone in Gangamati had forgotten about her—Rajlakshmi most of all—but I hadn’t. I often thought of her and wondered where she was and what she was doing. Genuinely believing that she had taken the right step in leaving Gangamati and its base temptations, I visualized her living happily with her wedded husband in some distant village.

  I went back to my letter but had barely started writing when Ratan appeared at my elbow—a hookah in his hand.

  ‘Leave it, Ratan. I’m busy,’ I said

  ‘Babu,’ Ratan said by way of introduction as he always did, ‘Ratan Paramanik can see the future as clearly as in a mirror. The only thing he can’t predict is the hour of his death.’

  I looked up and smiled. ‘But since I can’t predict anything at all you’d better tell me what you’ve come to say.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell Ma not to get taken in by these wily Doms? Didn’t I beg her not to give Malati the two hundred rupees?’