Thinking these thoughts, Kunda went towards Nagendra’s house, at the end of the night. Nearing the buildings, she saw that dawn was a little way off. Kunda looked along the path and saw that Nagendra was not there—she looked towards the rooftop—Nagendra was not there either—nor was he at the window. Kunda thought, ‘He has probably not yet got up—it is not yet time to get up. I will sit under the tamarisk trees until dawn.’ Kunda sat down under the tamarisk trees. Under the tamarisk trees it was very dark. Several tamarisk flowers and leaves fell gently into the water. The birds in the trees overhead shuffled their wings. O ccasionally, the sounds of the gatekeepers of the house unlocking and banging the gates could be heard. The cool wind presaging the arrival of dawn blew.
Then the hawk-cuckoo called, setting the sky ringing overhead. A little after, the kokil in the tamarisk tree called. Finally, all the birds joined together in a tumult. Then Kunda’s hope faded—she could no longer stay sitting under the tamarisk trees; dawn had come—someone would see her. Kunda got up to go back. One hope grew strong in her mind. Sometimes Nagendra would get up at dawn and go to take the air in the flower-garden adjoining the inner buildings. Perhaps Nagendra had all this time been walking there. Kunda could not go back without once looking there. But that garden was enclosed with a wall. Unless the garden gate was open, there was no way of entering it. Nor was it possible to see it from outside. Kunda went to see whether the gate was open or closed.
She saw that the gate was open. Drawing forth courage, Kunda went in. And slowly coming to the end of the garden, she stood in the shelter of a bakul tree.
The garden was thickly surrounded with many trees, creepers and shrubs. Amongst the rows of trees were beautifully made paths; in different places, trees and other plants were embellished with many flowers—white, red, blue, yellow—and on these, groups of bees, enticed by the dawn nectar, were circling, settling, rising and humming. And, in imitation of human nature, they were descending in flocks on certain flowers particularly rich in nectar. Tiny coloured birds riding like fruit on clusters of fully-opened flowers were drinking their nectar; from the throats of some issued mingled notes of the musical scale. Slender branches weighed down with blossoms, swayed in the gentle current of the dawn wind—the flowerless branches did not sway, for they did not bend. Master Kokil, hiding his black complexion in the bakul tree, enchanted everyone with the music from his throat.
In the middle of the garden was a marble pavilion for creepers to climb on. On its support, many kinds of creepers held up their flowers, and beside it, in borders of earth, were planted rows of flowering shrubs.
Standing in the shelter of the bakul tree, Kundanandini looked about at the garden but could not see the tall, god-like figure of Nagendra. Casting a glance within the pavilion, she saw that someone was lying on its cool stone; Kundanandini supposed it to be Nagendra. In order to see better, she went forward slowly from the shelter of one tree to another. Unfortunately, at that moment, the person within the pavilion got up and came out. Unlucky Kunda saw that it was not Nagendra but Suryamukhi.
Kunda, terrified, stood in the shelter of a flowering kamini tree. In her fear, she could not move forward—nor could she retreat. She saw that Suryamukhi was moving around the garden picking flowers. Suryamukhi was gradually approaching the place where Kunda was hidden. Kunda realized that she would be discovered. At last Suryamukhi saw Kunda. From a distance she did not recognize her, and asked, ‘Who is that?’
Kunda remained silent in fear—and did not move a step. Then Suryamukhi came near—saw—recognized Kunda. In amazement she said, ‘Why, is this not Kunda?’
Still Kunda could not answer. Suryamukhi took Kunda’s hand. She said, ‘Kunda! Come—come, sister. And I will not reproach you.’
With these words, Suryamukhi led Kunda into the inner building.
24
Descent
THAT EVENING, DEVENDRA DATTA, IN DISGUISE, HIS EYES REDDENED FROM drinking, appeared at Hira’s house in search of Kundanandini. Looking into this room and that, he saw that Kunda was not there. Hira covered her mouth and laughed. Devendra, enraged, asked, ‘Why do you laugh?’
Hira said, ‘Seeing your sorrow. The caged bird has escaped—even a police search of my house would not produce her.’
Then, at Devendra’s questions, Hira related what she knew, from beginning to end. Finally she said, ‘At dawn, when I saw she was not here, I looked everywhere, and, searching, I saw her at the Babu’s house—this time she was warmly welcomed.’
Devendra was turning away, crestfallen, but his suspicions were not dispelled. He wanted to stay a little longer and learn more. There was a gathering of clouds in the sky; seeing this, he said, ‘There seems to be rain coming.’ He stammered a little. Hira wanted Devendra to stay for a while—but she was a woman—she was there alone—it was night—she could not ask him to stay. If she did, she would be taking another step downwards; that, too, was in her destiny. Devendra said, ‘Is there an umbrella in your house?’
There was no umbrella in Hira’s house. Devendra said, ‘Will anyone think anything of it if I sit here for a while with you because of the rain?’
Hira said, ‘Why would they not? But the offence of your coming to my house at night has already been committed.’
Devendra said, ‘Then I can sit down.’
Hira did not answer. Devendra sat down.
Then Hira made up a very neat bed on a plain cot, for Devendra to sit on. And she took from a chest a small silver-bound hookah. With her own hands, she filled it with cold water, prepared tobacco for it, fixed on the lid and the pipe, and gave it to him.
Devendra took from his pocket a flask of brandy, drank from it, and, kindled by it, saw that Hira’s eyes were very beautiful. Indeed, her eyes were beautiful. Her eyes were wide, deep black, shining, and quick-moving.
Devendra said to Hira, ‘You have the eyes of a goddess!’ Hira laughed softly. Devendra noticed that a damaged violin was lying in a corner. Devendra, humming a song, took up the violin and set the bow to it. The violin was out of tune. Devendra asked, ‘Where did you get this violin?’
Hira said, ‘I bought it from a beggar.’ Devendra took the violin, tuned it so that it was roughly tolerable, and, mingling his voice with it, sang sweet songs of sweet sentiments. Hira’s eyes grew even brighter. For a few moments Hira completely forgot herself. She forgot that she was Hira, that he was Devendra. She thought, ‘He is my husband—I am his wife.’ It seemed to her that God had created them for each other, that they had been joined long since, that they had been happy for ages in each other’s love. Overwhelmed by this illusion, Hira spoke aloud the words in her mind. Devendra heard in Hira’s half-articulate speech that in her mind Hira was offering herself to him.
After she had spoken, Hira came to herself, her head spinning. Then, like a madwoman, in distress, she said to Devendra, ‘Go away from my house at once!’
Devendra, astonished, said, ‘What is this, Hira?’
Hira said, ‘Go away at once—or I will go.’
Devendra said, ‘What is this, why are you driving me away?’
Hira repeated, ‘Go away—or I will call someone—why did you come here to ruin me?’
Hira was out of control, like a woman gone mad.
Devendra said, ‘This is woman’s nature!’
Hira was enraged—she said, ‘Woman’s nature? Woman’s nature is not bad. It is the nature of men like you that is so evil. You have no knowledge of virtue—you do not care about the good or ill of others—you seek only your own pleasure—you only go about trying to find out how to ruin some woman. Otherwise, why did you sit down in my house? Did you not intend to ruin me? You considered me a prostitute, otherwise how would you dare to sit here? But I am not a prostitute. We miserable people, we earn our food by physical labour—we do not have the leisure to become prostitutes—whether we would if we were the wives of important men I cannot say.’ Devendra frowned. Hira was glad to see it. Then, raising her face towards D
evendra and looking at him unwaveringly, she said, ‘Lord, I became maddened by the sight of your beauty. But do not judge me to be a prostitute. I am happy only to look at you. It was for this that I could not forbid you when you asked to sit down in my house—but women are weak—was it proper for you to sit down just because I could not forbid you? You are a great sinner; you tried to ruin me by entering my house by means of this strategem. Now go away at once!’
Devendra drank another mouthful of brandy, and said, ‘Very good, very good. Hira, you have made a good speech. Will you give a speech one day at our Brahmo Samaj?’
Hira was mortified at this taunt, and said in a voice distressed by anger, ‘I do not deserve your taunts—if even a very lowly person loves you, it is not good to make a joke of their love. I am not religious, I do not understand religion—I do not think about religion. But I am proud that I am not a prostitute, because I have promised myself that I will not court disgrace in the desire for your love. If you had loved me even a little, I would not have made that promise—I count shame as a straw in comparison to your love. But you do not love me—for what happiness, then, would I court disgrace? For what gain would I discard my pride? You never reject a young woman who is available, so you would accept me too, but tomorrow you would forget me, or, if you did remember me, you would joke about me to your friends—so why should I become your slave-girl? But if you ever come to love me, on that day I will become your servant and worship at your feet.’ Devendra listened to these words of Hira’s. He understood her state of mind. He thought to himself, ‘I know you; I can make you dance to my tune. When I choose to, I will finish my work with you.’ With these thoughts, he went away.
Devendra had not fully come to know Hira.
25
Good News
IT WAS THE SECOND PRAHAR. SHRISH BABU WAS AWAY AT HIS OFFICE. EVERYONE in the house was sleeping after the meal. The reception room was closed. A cross-bred kind of terrier was sleeping outside the reception room, on the doormat, with her head between her paws. Seizing the opportunity, a lovesick maidservant, sitting beside a lively manservant, was smoking tobacco, and chattering away in a whisper. Kamalamani was sitting relaxed in the bedroom with needle in hand, embroidering a carpet—her hair was a little dishevelled—there was no one about, only Satish Babu sat there uttering various kinds of sounds and dribbling onto his chest. Satish Babu had at first approached his mother and tried to make off with the wool, but seeing that the guard was very strict, he had become engaged in licking the head of an earthenware tiger. At a distance, lying with paws spread out, a cat was observing them both. Her thoughts were very deep; on her face were the signs of great learning; and her thoughts were as unperturbed as a yogin’s. Probably the cat was thinking, ‘The state of mankind is really terrible; their minds are always engaged in such trivial pursuits as embroidering carpets and playing with dolls; they have no propensity for good deeds; their minds are not on the business of procuring food for cats; so what will become of them in the afterlife?’
Elsewhere, a lizard was hanging on the wall, gazing at an insect in front of it. No doubt, it too was thinking to itself how bad the character of insects was. A butterfly was flying about; the place where Satish Babu had sat eating a sandesh was seething with insects—ants, as well, had started to form a queue.
After a while, the lizard, unable to seize the insect, moved away in another direction. The cat, too, seeing no signs of human character changing for the present, yawned and went away slowly. The butterfly flew outside. Kamalamani, dissatisfied, put the carpet aside and started a conversation with Satish Babu.
Kamalamani said, ‘O Satu Babu, can you tell me why people go to the office?’
Satu Babu said, ‘Illy-ly-ly.’
Kamalamani said, ‘Satu Babu, don’t ever go to office.’
Satu said, ‘Kiss!’
Kamalamani said, ‘What’s this idea of yours of kissing? You won’t have to go to the office to kiss. Don’t go to office—if you do, your wife will sit down at noon and weep.’
Satu Babu understood the word ‘wife’, for Kamalamani used to frighten him by saying that when his wife came, she would beat him. Satu Babu now answered, ‘Wife—beat.’
Kamala said, ‘Remember that. If you go to office, your wife will beat you.’
For how long the conversation might have gone on in this way, it is impossible to say, for at this point a maidservant, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, came and handed a letter to Kamala. Kamala saw that the letter was from Suryamukhi. She opened it. She read it, and read it again. Having read it again, she sat sorrowfully silent. The letter went thus:
Dearest! Since you returned to Kolkata you have forgotten us—otherwise why have you written only one letter? Don’t you know that I am always eager for your news?
You asked about Kundanandini. She has been found—you will be happy to hear this—give thanks to the goddess Sashthi. Apart from that, there is another piece of good news—my husband is going to marry Kunda. I am arranging this marriage myself. Widow remarriage is in the shastras—so what fault is there in this? The wedding will be in a couple of days. You will not be able to come to it—otherwise I would have invited you. If you can, then come for the flower-bed ceremony. For I have a great desire to see you.
Kamalamani could make nothing of this letter. Thinking it over, she asked Satish Babu for advice. Satish had been chewing the corner of a Bengali book in front of her; Kamalamani read the letter out to him—she asked, ‘What is the meaning of this, tell me, Satu Babu?’ Satu Babu understood banter; he stood up, with the support of his mother’s hand, and started to eat Kamalamani’s nose. So Kamalamani forgot Suryamukhi. Once Satu Babu had finished his nose-eating, Kamalamani read Suryamukhi’s letter again. She said to herself, ‘This is not a matter for Satu Babu, this needs that counsellor of mine. Haven’t the counsellor’s office hours finished? Come now, Satu Babu, let us be angry.’
In due course, Counsellor Shrishchandra returned from the office and took off his office clothes. Kamalamani gave him some water, and finally, taking Satish, she angrily went and lay down on a cot. Shrishchandra, seeing her anger, laughed, took a hookah, and went to sit on a couch at a distance. Addressing the hookah as a witness, he said, ‘O hookah! You hold Ganga water in your body and fire in your head! Witness this: those who are angry with me shall speak to me—shall speak, shall speak! Or else I will put fire on your head and sit here and smoke ten pipe-bowls full of tobacco!’
Hearing this, Kamalamani sat up, and, turning her eyes in mock anger, said, ‘And ten bowls of tobacco will not obey you! I do not get to speak a word through the flames of one bowlful—am I then to be even more overwhelmed by ten bowlfuls!’ With these words she got up from the bed, took the hookah-bowl and sacrificed it in the sacred fire to the Tobacco God.
Once Kamalamani’s great pique had been thus assuaged, she made known the cause of it by offering him Suryamukhi’s letter to read, and said, ‘Interpret this, otherwise I will cancel your monthly counsellor’s salary.’
Shrish said, ‘Rather, give me an advance. I will make sense of it.’
Kamalamani brought her face close to Shrishchandra’s, and Shrishchandra collected his salary. Then he read the letter and said, ‘This is a joke.’
Kamala said, ‘What is the joke? Your words, or the letter?’
Shrish said, ‘The letter.’
Kamala said, ‘I will now dismiss my counsellor. Haven’t you any sense? Could a woman utter that kind of a joke?’
Shrish said, ‘Then can what is not a joke be really true?’
Kamala said, ‘In life’s troubles, it can. I believe it is true.’
Shrish exclaimed, ‘What! True?’
Kamala said, ‘If not, I’ll eat my head.’
Shrishchandra pinched Kamala’s cheek. Kamala said, ‘All right, if not, I’ll eat my co-wife’s head.’
Shrish said, ‘Then you’ll just have to starve.’
Kamala said, ‘All right, I’ve eaten no one’s he
ad—now it seems God is eating Suryamukhi’s head. Do you think my brother is being forced to marry?’
Shrishchandra became preoccupied. He said, ‘I cannot understand it at all. Shall I write to Nagendra? What do you say?’
Kamalamani agreed to this. Shrishchandra wrote a joking letter. What Nagendra wrote in reply was this:
Brother! Do not despise me—but what is the use of begging this? You will certainly despise the despicable. I am going through with this marriage. If everyone in the world casts me off, I will still make it happen. Otherwise I should go mad—that is all.
Having said this, there is probably no need to say anything further. You, too, probably will, after this, say nothing, and cut me off completely. If you do speak, then I, too, am ready to debate.
If anyone says that widow remarriage is contrary to the Hindu religion, I offer him Vidyasagar’s essay to read. When such a great scholar, learned in the shastras, says that widow remarriage is in accordance with the shastras, then who can say that it is un-shastric? And if you say, even if it is in accordance with the shastras, it is not in accordance with society, that I shall, if I make this marriage, be dismissed from society, the answer to that is, who in this village of Govindapur is capable of dismissing me from society: where it is I who am society, what dismissal from society is possible? Yet in order to comply with your wishes I will marry privately—for the present, no one knows of it.
You will not make all these objections. You will say that to marry twice is contrary to justice. Brother, how do you know that this is contrary to justice? You have learned this from the English; this is not an Indian idea. But are the English infallible? The English have this notion because it is a Jewish law—but you and I do not accept Jewish law as the word of God. Then why should I say for this reason that for a man to marry twice is against justice?
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 19