Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1

by Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay

  Suryamukhi had got up and gone from there, and sat down in a forest. There she met an old woman. The old woman had come to collect wood—but because there might be a reward if she could find Suryamukhi, she too was searching. When she saw Suryamukhi, she said, ‘Hello, aren’t you our mistress?’

  Suryamukhi said, ‘No!’

  The old woman said, ‘Yes, you are our mistress.’

  Suryamukhi said, ‘Who is your mistress, then?’

  The old woman said, ‘The wife in the Babu’s house.’

  Suryamukhi said, ‘Is there a golden necklace around my neck that I should be the wife in the Babu’s house?’

  The old woman thought, ‘That’s true, isn’t it?’

  She went off, to gather wood in another forest.

  Thus the whole day passed fruitlessly. Neither did the night produce any result. Nothing was accomplished the next day, or the day after, either—yet there was no slackening in the search. Most of the people searching did not know Suryamukhi—they brought many beggars and poor people before Nagendra. Finally, it became dangerous for the daughters of the gentlefolk to go along the path to the landing, to bathe. Seeing them alone, Nagendra’s faithful Hindustanis would chase them, calling, ‘Mistress’ and preventing them from bathing, would bundle them into a palanquin and take them to Nagendra. Many had never ridden in a palanquin, and took the opportunity of a free ride.

  Shrishchandra could no longer stay. He returned to Kolkata and started a search from there. Kamalamani stayed back, searching in Govindapur.

  31

  All Happiness Has Bounds

  THE HAPPINESS WHICH KUNDANANDINI HAD NEVER HOPED FOR HAD become hers. She had become Nagendra’s wife. On the day of the marriage, Kundanandini thought, ‘This happiness has no bounds, no measure.’ After that, Suryamukhi left. Then she felt remorse—she thought, ‘Suryamukhi looked after me in my hard times—if she had not, where would I have gone—but now she has left home on my account. It would have been better if I had died instead of becoming happy.’ She saw that there are bounds to happiness.

  In the evening, Nagendra came and lay down on the bed—Kundanandini sat at his head and fanned him. Both were silent; this was not a good sign; there was no one else there—yet the two of them were silent—if their happiness had been complete, this would not have been so.

  But since Suryamukhi’s flight, where was this complete happiness? Kundanandini was ceaselessly thinking, ‘How can things be made as they were again?’ Now, today, Kundanandini asked this aloud, ‘How can things be made to be as they were, once again?’

  Nagendra said angrily, ‘As they were? Do you regret that I married you?’

  Kundanandini was hurt. She said, ‘Did I ever hope for the happiness you gave me by marrying me? I am not saying that—I am saying, how can Suryamukhi be brought back?’

  Nagendra said, ‘Do not say that again. It torments me to hear Suryamukhi’s name on your lips—it was because of you that Suryamukhi left me.’

  Kundanandini had known this—but she was hurt by Nagendra’s words. She thought, ‘What is this rebuke? I have an evil fate—but I have done nothing wrong. It was Suryamukhi herself who arranged this marriage.’ Kunda said nothing more, but went on fanning. Seeing Kundanandini silent for so long, Nagendra said, ‘Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you angry?’ Kunda said, ‘No.’

  Nagendra persisted, ‘You say only one little “No” and then you are silent again. Don’t you love me anymore?’

  Kunda said, ‘I love you lots and lots.’

  Nagendra mimicked, ‘“I love you lots and lots”! That’s childish cajolery. Kunda, I believe you never did love me.’

  Kunda said, ‘I have loved you always.’

  Nagendra did not understand that this was not Suryamukhi. It was not that Kundanandini did not love as Suryamukhi did—but Kunda did not know the words for it. She was a child, timid-natured; she did not know the words: what else should she say? But Nagendra did not understand this, and he said, ‘Suryamukhi loved me always. Why put a pearl necklace round a monkey’s neck?—An iron chain would be better.’

  Now Kundanandini could not restrain her tears. Slowly she got up and went out. There was no one to weep with her. Since Kamalamani’s arrival, Kunda had not gone near her. Thinking herself guilty of this marriage, Kundanandini had not been able, for shame, to show her face. But in her present pain she wished to talk to the compassionate, affectionate Kamalamani. On the day when she had despaired of love, Kamalamani had been sorrowful at her sorrow, had taken her on her lap and wiped away her tears—remembering that day, she went to weep with her. Kamalamani was displeased to see Kundanandini—seeing Kunda approach she was surprised and said nothing. Kunda sat down near her and started to weep. Kamalamani said nothing; nor did she ask what had happened. So Kundanandini herself was silent. Then Kamala said, ‘I have work to do.’ And she got up and went away.

  Kundanandini saw that indeed all happiness has bounds.

  32

  The Fruit of the Poison Tree

  (NAGENDRA DATTA’S LETTER TO HARADEV GHOSHAL)

  You wrote that of all the things I have done on this earth, marrying Kundanandini is the greatest mistake. I acknowledge this. By doing this, I lost Suryamukhi. To have Suryamukhi as a wife was the greatest good fortune. Everyone digs in the earth, but only one is fated to find the Kohinoor diamond. Suryamukhi is that Kohinoor. How could Kundanandini fill her place?

  Then why did I install Kundanandini in her place? Mistake, mistake! Now I am aware of it. Kumbhakarna woke up to die. I, too, have woken from this sleep of illusion to die. Where shall I ever find Suryamukhi?

  Why did I marry Kundanandini? Did I love her? I did love her, of course—I was going mad because of her—was losing my life. But I understand now that it was only a superficial love. Otherwise why would I say, just fifteen days after marrying her, ‘I did love her’? Why did I love her? I still love her—but where has Suryamukhi gone? I had intended to write to you on many things, but I cannot. I am in great distress.

  Haradev Ghoshal’s reply:

  I understand your heart. It is not that you did not love Kundanandini—you still love her; but you said rightly that this was only a superficial love. Your deepest affection is towards Suryamukhi—it was overlaid only for two days by Kundanandini’s shadow Now, having lost Suryamukhi, you understand that. While the sun is uncovered, we are scorched by its rays, and welcome the clouds. But once the sun has set, we understand that it is the sun which is the eye of the world. Without the sun, the world is dark.

  Not understanding your heart, you committed this big mistake—I will not reproach you any more for this—for the error you fell into is one which is very difficult to dispel. There are many sensations in the mind which people call love. But it is the state of mind in which we are ready of our own accord to sacrifice our own happiness for the happiness of another is correctly called love. ‘Ready of our own accord’, that is, not because of knowing our duty or in the desire for virtue. Consequently, the desire to enjoy the beauty of a beautiful woman is not love. As you cannot call the hunger of a hunger-stricken man for food, love, so you cannot call the mental agitation of a man stricken with lust for a beautiful woman, love. The great poets described this mental agony as being caused by the arrows of Madan. The propensity whose fancied incarnation is Madan, who broke the meditation of Shiva, by whose favour, in the poets’ descriptions, the bucks rub their bodies on the does, and the male elephants break lotus stalks and give them to the she-elephants, that is this illusion born just of beauty. This propensity, too, is sent by God; it is by means of it, too, that the world’s desires are realized, and it fascinates all creatures. Kalidasa, Byron, and Jayadeva are its poets; Vidyasundara14 distorts it. But it is not love. Love is based on the faculties of the mind. When the qualities of one who is an object of love are apprehended by the faculties of the mind, and the heart, becoming enchanted by these qualities, is drawn towards that person and is moved, then the desire for union with th
e person who holds these qualities is born, and devotion towards that person grows. The result is sympathy, and in the end, self-forgetfulness, and self-renunciation. This is truly love. Shakespeare, Valmiki, and the author of the Bhagavata Purana are its poets. It is not born of beauty. First comes the apprehending of the qualities of the mind, and after that, the desire for union; once union is realized, there is companionship, and as a result of this, love, and from love, self-renunciation. It is this that I call love. At least, this is my judgement concerning the love of men and women. I believe that the root of other loves, too, is there. Yet, affection is not present as a cause. But all causes are in the faculties of the mind. At least, without the affection that arises from the faculties of the mind it will not be permanent. Fascination born of beauty is not so. The intensity of all the upheaval of the mind which arises from the sight of beauty becomes less with recurrence. That is, it is allayed by repetition. This is not so with what arises from qualities. For beauty is a single thing—every day, it is manifested in the same way; qualities manifest themselves newly day by day in new actions. Love arises both from beauty and qualities—for from both arises the desire for union. If both are united then love arises quickly; but once love and companionship are deep-rooted, it is the same whether beauty remains or not. Affections towards the beautiful and the ugly are constant sources of illustrations of this.

  Love which arises from qualities is indeed everlasting—but it takes time to recognize qualities. For this reason, this love does not acquire strength all at once—it grows gradually. But the fascination born of beauty will achieve its full strength all at once. Its strength is such that it is difficult to subdue: all the other faculties are crushed by it. Is this fascination—is this lasting love, or not—the power of discerning this is lost. It is judged to be everlasting love. You judged it to be that—in the first strength of this fascination, your lasting love towards Suryamukhi became invisible to your eyes. This was your mistake. Human nature is very proficient at making this mistake. So I will not reproach you. Rather, I offer you advice: try to be happy in it.

  You need not despair. Suryamukhi will certainly return—how long can she go without seeing you? While she does not return, be affectionate to Kundanandini. As far as I can understand from your letters, and so on, it seems that she, too, is not lacking in qualities. Never mind about the fascination arising from beauty; in time, lasting love will develop. That being so, you will be able to be happy with her, and if you never see your first wife again, then you will even be able to forget her. Moreover, your second wife loves you. Never neglect love, for mankind’s only pure and imperishable happiness is in love. It is love which is the ultimate means of humanity’s progress—if only people would love one another, there would be no more damage done by humanity on earth.

  Nagendranath’s rejoinder:

  I have received your letter, and as to the cause of my mental suffering, I have nothing to add. I have understood all that you have written; and that your advice is true advice, that also I know. But I cannot remain mentally calm at home. A month ago my Suryamukhi left me and went away; I have resolved that I too, will take that path. I, too will leave home. I will wander from place to place in search of her. If I find her, I will bring her back; otherwise I will not return. I cannot stay at home with Kundanandini. She has become a torment to my eyes. It is not her fault—the fault is mine—but I can no longer bear to see her face. Before, I said nothing—now, I constantly reproach her—she weeps—what should I do? I have set out, and shall soon be with you. After seeing you, I will go elsewhere.

  Nagendra did as he had written. Entrusting the management of his affairs to the steward, he left home and set out on his travels without delay. Kamalamani had already returned to Kolkata. So of all the characters described in this story, Kundanandini alone remained in the inner building of the Datta establishment, with Hira the maidservant to look after her.

  That well-appointed building of the Dattas’ became dark. As a theatre, bright with many lamps, filled with people, and pervaded with the sound of music, becomes empty and silent when the play is finished, so that great building, abandoned by Suryamukhi and Nagendra, became dark. As a child, playing one day with a painted doll, throws the doll away when it breaks, and the doll lies where it fell on the earth, and earth falls on it, and grass and plants grow over it, so Kundanandini, abandoned like a broken doll by Nagendra, remained alone and uncared for in that great building. As in a forest fire, a nest and its young being burnt, the mother bird, returning with food, sees that there is no tree left, no nest, no young; and then, uttering high calls of distress, flies circling over the burnt forest in search of her nest, so Nagendra went wandering from place to place in search of Suryamukhi. As a pearl once fallen into the depthless waters of the endless ocean is seen no more, so difficult to find had Suryamukhi become.

  33

  As a Sign of Love

  LIKE A BURNING COAL IN COTTON CLOTH, DEVENDRA’S MATCHLESS FORM burnt through layer on layer in Hira’s heart. Many times, Hira’s fear of religion and public disgrace were on the point of floating away on the tide of love; but Devendra’s affectionless and sensual character would come into her mind and check her. Hira was able to control her mind very well, and because of this she had easily been able to preserve her chastity, even though she was not particularly religious. By that power, knowing her strong attraction towards Devendra to be unworthy, she was easily able to keep it under control. Rather, Hira decided, as a means of controlling her mind, to resort to becoming a maidservant again. If she was engaged daily in the chores of someone else’s house, then, preoccupied with other thoughts, she would be able to obliterate the pain, like a scorpion’s sting, of this fruitless attraction. When Nagendra set out on his travels, Hira begged for a position, on the strength of her former allegiance. Knowing Kunda’s preference, Nagendra appointed Hira to look after her.

  There was another reason for Hira’s acceptance of the position of maidservant again. Believing that Kunda had become Nagendra’s best-beloved, Hira had previously, in her desire for wealth and so on, taken care to bring her under her own control. She thought that Nagendra’s wealth would come into Kunda’s hands, and that the wealth that came into Kunda’s hands would become Hira’s. Now Kunda had become the mistress of Nagendra’s house. Kunda had not acquired any particular control of any wealth, but this fact did not now occupy a place in Hira’s mind, either. Hira no longer thought of money, and if she had, she would have considered money obtained from Kunda as poison.

  Hira could bear the pain of her own fruitless love, but she could not bear Devendra’s desire for Kundanandini. When she heard that Nagendra was going to wander in other parts, and that Kundanandini would be the mistress of the house, she remembered Haridasi Vaishnavi and became pervaded with fear. Hira came to guard against Haridasi Vaishnavi’s comings and goings, and to create obstacles in her path.

  Hira was not motivated by a desire for Kundanandini’s welfare. Overcome by envy, Hira was so enraged with Kunda that, far from being concerned with her welfare, she would have been delighted to witness her ruin. Hira guarded Nagendra’s wife out of a fear born of envy lest there should be a meeting between Kunda and Devendra.

  Hira became one more cause of Kunda’s suffering. Kunda saw that Hira was not so caring, so affectionate or so fair-spoken. She saw that, having become her maidservant, Hira was always showing disrespect towards her, and reproving and insulting her. Kunda was very gentle-natured; even though she suffered much from Hira’s rough behaviour, she did not ever say anything to her. Kunda’s nature was peaceful, Hira’s was violent. For this reason, even though Kunda was the master’s wife, she was like a servant to her servant, and even though Hira was the maidservant, she became the master of the master’s wife. Seeing Kunda’s suffering, the other women in the house would sometimes reproach Hira, but no rhythm could establish itself against Hira’s thunder. The steward, hearing all this, said to Hira, ‘Take yourself off. I dismiss you.’ At
this, Hira, with rage-expanded eyes, said to the steward, ‘Who are you to dismiss me? The master appointed me. I will not go unless the master tells me to. I have the same power to dismiss you as you have to dismiss me.’ The steward did not speak again for fear of insults. Without Suryamukhi, no one could manage Hira.

  One day, after Nagendra had left, Hira was lying alone in a pavilion of creepers in the flower-garden next to the inner buildings. Since Nagendra and Suryamukhi had left, all these pavilions of creepers had fallen into Hira’s possession. Twilight had passed. A nearly-full moon shone in the sky. Its beams were reflected in the bright leaves of the garden’s trees. The moon beams penetrated the gaps in the creepers’ leaves and fell on the floor of the white marble building, and danced on the clear water of the nearby lake, whipped by the evening wind. The fragrance of the garden flowers intoxicated the sky. Suddenly Hira saw, among the creeper pavilions, the figure of a man. Gazing at it, she saw that it was Devendra. Today, Devendra was not in disguise; he had come in his own garb.

  Hira, astonished, said, ‘You are very daring. If anyone sees you, you will be beaten.’

  Devendra said, ‘What fear have I where Hira is?’ Saying this, Devendra sat down beside Hira. Hira was pleased. After a while, she said, ‘Why have you come here? You will not see the one you came hoping to see.’

  ‘But I have. I came hoping to see you.’

  Hira was not deceived by the hypocritical words of the greedy flatterer. She laughed and said, ‘I did not know such pleasure was in my fate. However that may be, if my fortune has turned, let us go and sit somewhere safe where I can satisfy my mind by looking at you. There are many dangers here.’

  Devendra said, ‘Where shall we go?’

  Hira said, ‘Where there is nothing to fear. Let us go to that arbour of yours.’