Binoy never drank tea. Long back, he had also given up bread and biscuits prepared by Muslims. But today he had no choice. ‘Yes, indeed, I’ll have some,’ he forced himself to say, raising his head. He glanced at Gora. A faint sneer appeared on Gora’s lips. The tea tasted bitter upon Binoy’s tongue, but he swallowed it nevertheless.
‘Aha, this Binoy is such a nice boy!’ said Borodasundari to herself. She turned her back on Gora and devoted all her attention to Binoy. Noticing this, Poresh drew his chowki close to Gora and began to converse with him in a low voice.
Presently, a hawker came down the street, selling warm, roasted peanuts. Hearing his call, Leela clapped her hands in delight. ‘Sudhirda, please send for the peanut-seller!’ she pleaded. Satish at once began calling out to the peanut-seller from the terrace.
Meanwhile, another gentleman joined them. Everyone greeted him as Panubabu, but his real name was Haranchandra Nag. Within their circle, he was known for his learning and intellect. Neither side had said anything definite, but the likelihood of his marrying Sucharita was in the air. That Panubabu was attracted to Sucharita was something no one doubted, and the girls never spared a chance to tease Sucharita about it. Panubabu taught at a school. Because he was a mere schoolmaster, Borodasundari did not respect him much. Her manner indicated it was just as well Panubabu had not dared to express a preference for one of her daughters. Her future sons-in-law must vow to attain a deputyship, a feat of marksmanship as challenging as the legendary lakshyabheda.
When Sucharita pushed a teacup towards Haran, Labanya smirked at her from afar. That smirk did not escape Binoy’s notice. Very quickly, his eye had grown quite sharp and alert in certain matters, though he had not been known earlier for his acuity of vision. Haran and Sudhir had known the girls in this house for so long and were so closely involved in their family history, they had become the subject of secret signals between the sisters. This now struck Binoy as a painful instance of divine injustice.
Meanwhile, Sucharita felt more hopeful, now that Haran had arrived. She could overcome her indignation only if someone curbed Gora’s arrogance somehow. Previously, she had often been irritated by Haran’s argumentativeness, but now, upon seeing this champion debater, she delightedly plied him with tea and bread.
‘Panubabu, meet our …’ Poresh began.
‘I know him very well,’ Haran interrupted. ‘He was once a very enthusiastic member of our Brahmo Samaj.’ With these words, he turned to his cup of tea, making no attempt at conversation with Gora.
At that time, only a couple of Bengalis had come to these parts after entering the civil services. Sudhir spoke of the welcome that one of them had received.
‘However successful they may be at passing examinations, Bengalis are incapable of doing any work,’ Haran declared. To prove that no Bengali magistrate or judge would be able to discharge his duties after assuming charge of a district, he began to analyze the faults and weaknesses of the Bengali nature.
In no time, Gora’s face reddened in fury. ‘If that is indeed your opinion, aren’t you ashamed to sit at this table, chewing bread?’ he demanded, restraining his lion-like roar as far as possible.
‘What do you suggest I should do?’ asked Haran, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Either erase the blot on the Bengali character, or go hang yourself. Is it so easy to declare that our race will forever remain good for nothing? Didn’t you choke on your bread, saying such things?’
‘Should I not speak the truth?’ Haran retorted.
‘No offence meant, but if you really took it to be true, you could never have stated it so casually, with such arrogance. It’s because you know them to be false that such words could pass your lips. Haranbabu, uttering falsehoods is a sin, making false accusations is a greater sin, and there are few sins to match that of falsely condemning one’s own community.’
Haran was beside himself with fury.
‘Are you, alone, superior to your entire community?’ Gora asked. ‘You, alone, have the right to be angry, whilst all of us must tolerate all your remarks on our ancestors’ behalf?’
Now it became even harder for Haran to admit defeat. His condemnation of Bengalis grew even more shrill. Referring to sundry Bengali social customs, he declared: ‘As long as such things prevail, there is no hope for Bengalis.’
‘Your account of social evils is merely learned by rote from English books,’ Gora asserted. ‘You yourself know nothing of such practices. You should voice your opinions on this subject only when you are capable of expressing a similar contempt for all English malpractices.’
Poresh tried to change the subject, but there was no restraining the incensed Haran. The sun went down. From within the clouds, an exquisite rosy glow lit up the sky. Overriding the babble of argument, a certain melody stirred Binoy’s soul. To attend to his evening prayers, Poresh left the terrace for a paved platform beneath the large champa tree at one end of the garden.
While Borodasundari had developed an aversion to Gora, she was also not particularly fond of Haran. When she could no longer bear the argument between them, she called out:
‘Come, Binoybabu, let us go indoors.’
Borodasundari’s affectionate partiality compelled Binoy to leave the terrace and go indoors. Boroda called the girls to join her. Sensing which way the argument was going, Satish had already vanished with Khudé, on the pretext of getting a small serving of peanuts.
Borodasundari began to sing her daughters’ praises to Binoy. ‘Why don’t you fetch that notebook of yours, for Binoybabu to see?’ she proposed to Labanya.
Labanya had grown used to displaying this notebook to all new acquaintances who visited them. In fact, she now looked forward to such occasions. This evening, she had been upset at the argument that had developed. Opening the notebook, Binoy found inscribed in it the poems of Moore and Longfellow. The handwriting was neat and laborious. The titles of the poems and the first letter of every line were etched in Roman characters. The sight of these writings filled Binoy’s heart with unfeigned wonder. In those days, it was no mean feat for girls to copy Moore’s poems into their notebooks.
Observing that Binoy was suitably impressed, Borodasundari addressed her second daughter: ‘Lalita, my angel, that poem of yours …’
‘No, Ma, I can’t,’ protested Lalita firmly. ‘I don’t remember it properly.’ She moved to a window at a distance, and gazed at the street.
Borodasundari explained to Binoy that Lalita remembered everything, but was too reserved to display her erudition. Recounting a few anecdotes as proof of Lalita’s extraordinary learning and wit, she said Lalita had been like this since infancy, unable to shed tears even when she wanted to weep. She commented on the girl’s similarity to her father in this respect.
Now it was Leela’s turn. As soon as she was asked, she burst into a peal of laughter. Then like a clockwork organ, she rattled off the nursery rhyme Twinkle twinkle little star, all in one breath, without understanding a word of it. Realizing it was now time to display their musical talent, Lalita left the room.
Out on the terrace, the argument had gone out of hand. In a fit of rage, Haran was on the verge of abandoning argument for abuse. Embarrassed and annoyed at his lack of restraint, Sucharita had taken Gora’ side. Haran did not find this comforting or soothing at all. The sky grew heavy with darkness and rain-clouds. From the street came the call of a hawker selling jasmine garlands. Fireflies twinkled in the clustered foliage of the roadside krishnachura tree opposite the house. A deep blackness descended upon the pond next door. Done with his evening prayers, Poresh appeared on the terrace. Seeing him, both Gora and Haran subsided, feeling embarrassed.
‘It’s late. I’ll take your leave now,’ said Gora, rising to his feet.
Binoy, too, made his exit from the room and appeared on the terrace.
‘Listen, you must come here whenever you like,’ Poresh invited Gora. ‘Krishnadayal was like a brother to me. We don’t see eye to eye now, nor do we
meet or correspond, but childhood friendships remain in the blood. My relationship with Krishnadayal makes me feel very close to you. May the Almighty bring you good fortune.’
At the sound of Poresh’s calm, affectionate voice, Gora’s heated, argumentative mood seemed to soften. When he first came there, Gora had shown scant respect for Poresh. But while taking leave, he touched Poresh’s feet with genuine deference. Gora made no gesture of farewell to Sucharita. He thought it uncivil to make any move acknowledging her presence. Binoy bowed at Poresh’s feet, and turning to Sucharita, offered a namaskar before quickly stepping out after Gora.
Avoiding these farewell greetings, Haran went indoors, picked up a book of Brahmosangeet from the table, and began to leaf through the musical score. As soon as Binoy and Gora had left, he hastened to the terrace. ‘Sir, I don’t like the idea of your introducing the girls to all and sundry,’ he told Poresh.
Sucharita was seething inwardly. ‘If Baba had followed that rule, we couldn’t have met you, either,’ she protested, unable to restrain herself.
‘It is best to confine introductions to our own circle,’ Haran declared.
‘You wish to extend the inner quarters of the home, to create an antahpur within society,’ smiled Poresh. ‘But I believe the girls should mingle with gentlemen of various persuasions, or we’d be deliberately curbing their intellect. I see no cause for anxiety or shame in this.’
‘I don’t say girls shouldn’t mingle with people of diverse views, but these people lack the civility to know how to conduct themselves with girls,’ Haran expostulated.
‘No, no, how can you say that!’ cried Poresh. ‘What you call lack of civility is merely an awkwardness that cannot be overcome unless one mingles with the female sex.’
‘Listen, Panubabu, during today’s argument I felt ashamed at the way members of our own community behaved!’ declared Sucharia indignantly.
At this moment, Leela came running to her. ‘Didi! Didi!’ she cried, and dragged Sucharita indoors by the hand.
~11~
Haran had been particularly keen that day to humiliate Gora, to flaunt his own victory before Sucharita. At first, that was also what Sucharita had wanted. But by a quirk of fate, quite the opposite happened. In religious faith and social perspective, Sucharita differed from Gora. But affinity with her nation and sympathy for her countrymen came naturally to her. Although she did not always involve herself in political issues, Gora’s sudden, thundering outburst against criticism of his own people had struck an answering chord in her heart. Never before had she heard anyone speak of the nation so forcefully and with such conviction. Generally, our countrymen like to wax eloquent about our nation and its people, but they don’t have a deep, sincere belief in such ideas. However lyrical their patriotic utterances, they have no faith in the nation. But Gora could look beyond all the sorrows, travails and weaknesses of our land to perceive the manifestation of a great truth. That was why, without ignoring its impoverished state, he still cherished such strong reverence for the country. He was so firmly convinced of the nation’s intrinsic power, that in his company, listening to the unquestioning patriotism of his utterances, skeptics were compelled to admit defeat. Confronted with Gora’s unqualified faith, Haran’s contemptuous arguments struck Sucharita as painfully insulting. Throwing decorum to the winds, she could not refrain from protesting indignantly at certain moments. Later in Gora and Binoy’s absence, when Haran, in a fit of petty jealousy, accused them of being uncivil, Sucharita felt compelled to take Gora’s side against such unfair meanness.
Not that Sucharita’s heart had completely ceased to rebel against Gora. Even now, she felt inwardly offended by Gora’s rather overstated, flagrant display of Hindu orthodoxy. She could somehow sense that this Hindu fanaticism had a perverse quality; neither natural and peaceful, nor replete with personal devotion, but constantly and aggressively militating against others.
That evening, in all her words and actions, at dinnertime, and during Leela’s storytime, Sucharita was constantly tormented by some unknown pain in the recesses of her heart. It was a pain she could not dismiss by any means. One can remove a thorn if one knows where it is lodged. That night Sucharita lingered alone on the terrace above the porch, trying to locate the thorn in her heart. With the night’s gentle darkness, she tried to wipe away the unwarranted burning sensation within, but to no avail. The indeterminate heaviness in her heart made her want to weep, but no tears came.
That Sucharita should be tormented all this while merely because a young stranger had arrived with a tilak on his forehead, or because he could not be humbled in argument! Nothing could be more ridiculous! She dismissed this reason as utterly impossible. Then she remembered the real reason, and felt very ashamed. For three or four hours that day, Sucharita had sat opposite the young man, and had even supported his arguments from time to time, yet he appeared not to have noticed her at all, seemingly oblivious of her presence even at parting. Doubtless, it was this complete disregard that had stung Sucharita deeply. There was a shy diffidence in the behaviour of someone unaccustomed to mingling with women of other families, an awkwardness apparent in Binoy’s conduct. But there was no trace of it in Gora’s manner. Why did Sucharita find it impossible now, to either tolerate or dismiss his tremendous, heartless indifference? She wanted to die of shame at her own garrulity for having joined the argument with such lack of restraint, despite this great indifference. Once, when Sucharita reacted strongly to Haran’s unfair arguments, Gora had glanced at her face; there was no diffidence in that gaze, but it was also hard to gauge its meaning. Was he saying to himself, ‘What a brazen girl!’ or ‘How arrogant of her, to join a male argument uninvited’? But if that was how he felt, what did it matter? It did not matter at all, yet Sucharita was deeply disturbed. She struggled to forget it all, to erase it from her mind, but without any success. She began to resent Gora. She longed fervently to dismiss him as a prejudiced, arrogant young man. But the memory of the self-assured gaze of that towering male figure with his thundering voice made her feel very small. Try as she would, she could not sustain her pride. Sucharita had grown accustomed to being the apple of everyone’s eye. Not that she craved such affection, but why then did Gora’s indifference feel so intolerable? After much thought, Sucharita concluded it was her keen desire to outwit Gora that made his unshakable indifference so painful to bear.
Thus she wrestled with her own thoughts, until it grew quite late. Everyone at home had gone to bed, putting out the lights. The door at the entrance clanged shut, indicating that the bearer was preparing to retire, having completed his chores. At this moment, Lalita appeared on the terrace, dressed for bed. She walked past Sucharita without a word and leaned on the railing in a corner of the terrace. Sucharita smiled to herself, aware that Lalita was sulking. She had completely forgotten that she was to sleep in Lalita’s room that night. But Lalita was not willing to forgive a lapse of memory, for forgetting was the greatest crime of all. She was not a girl to remind one in time about one’s promises. Until now, she had remained stiffly in her bed, her petulance increasing as time went by. Ultimately, when it became intolerable, she left her bed and came only to signal silently that she was still awake. Leaving her chowki, Sucharita went slowly up to Lalita and hugged her.
‘Bhai Lalita, don’t be angry!’ she pleaded.
‘No, why should I be angry?’ protested Lalita, pulling herself away. ‘You can stay on here if you like.’
‘Come bhai, let’s go to bed,’ said Sucharita, tugging at her hand.
Lalita remained standing there, making no reply. Finally, Sucharita dragged her to the bedroom by force.
‘Why did you take so long?’ cried Lalita, in a choking voice. ‘It’s eleven, do you know? I’ve been listening to the chiming of the clock. Now you’ll doze off at once, of course.’
‘Bhai, I have acted wrongly tonight,’ said Sucharita, drawing Lalita close.
As soon as she had acknowledged her guilt, Lalita’s anger e
vaporated. ‘Who were you thinking of all this while, all by yourself, didi?’ she asked, her heart melting. ‘Was it Panubabu?’
‘What nonsense!’ Sucharita rapped her with her forefinger.
Lalita could not stand Panubabu. Unlike her other sisters, she found it impossible to even tease Sucharita about him. It angered her to think that Panubabu wanted to marry Sucharita.
‘Tell me, didi, Binoybabu is quite nice, isn’t he?’ she proposed, after a short silence. It would be hard to say definitely that her question was not intended to probe Sucharita’s feelings.
‘Yes,’ replied Sucharita. ‘Binoybabu is nice indeed, quite a decent person …’ Her words did not strike the expected note.
‘But whatever you might say didi,’ Lalita persisted, ‘I didn’t like Gourmohanbabu at all. What a strange, pale colouring, and such a rigid air, as if he doesn’t care for anybody in the world. What did you think of him?’
‘His Hindu fanaticism is quite excessive,’ observed Sucharita.
‘No, no,’ said Lalita, ‘Meshomoshai—our maternal uncle—is a staunch Hindu after all, but in a different way. But this seems—rather strange.’
‘Strange, indeed!’ laughed Sucharita. The memory of Gora’s image, with the tilak on his broad white forehead, made her angry. What angered her was that Gora had inscribed the tilak on his forehead as if to proclaim: ‘I am different from all of you’. Only by demolishing his tremendous pride in that difference could Sucharita have overcome her indignation.
Discussion over, the two of them eventually fell asleep. At two o’clock, Sucharita woke up to find it raining heavily outside. Flashes of lightning lit up their mosquito net intermittently; the lamp in the corner had gone out. In the dark stillness of the night, listening to the sound of incessant rain, Sucharita began to feel an aching sensation in her heart. Envying Lalita who slept soundly by her side, she tossed and turned, struggling for sleep, but to no avail. Frustrated, she left her bed and stepped out. Standing at the open door, she gazed at the terrace before her. Occasional gusts of wind sprayed her body with rain. Over and over again the evening’s events surfaced in her mind, recalled in minutest detail. Clear as a picture, she remembered Gora’s animated face as it had appeared in the rosy sunset glow on that terrace above the portico. She recapitulated, from beginning to end, all the arguments that evening, resonant with the timbre of Gora’s deep, powerful voice.
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