I said, ‘It is better to finish that sin in one day.’
Subhashini said, ‘Then what money will you have? Where will you go?’
I said, ‘My hands do not stop.’
Subhashini said, ‘Oh, help! Pull out one or two, and then come away!’
I said, ‘Your mother-in-law won’t let me go.’
Subhashini said, ‘Oh, then tell her that you can’t see any more grey hairs—and come away.’
I laughed, and said, ‘How can such banditry be done in daylight? What will people say? It’s like the banditry I suffered at the Black Lake.’
Subhashini asked, ‘What banditry at the Black Lake?’
I used to become a little forgetful in talking to Subhashini—suddenly, unguardedly, the reference to Black Lake had come from my lips. I repressed it. I said, ‘I will tell you that story another day.’
Subhashini said, ‘Why don’t you try saying what I said, just once? At my request?’
Laughing, I went back to the mistress and sat down again to pull out grey hairs. Having pulled out several, I said, ‘I can’t see any more grey hairs. There are only one or two left; I will pull them out tomorrow.’
The woman laughed heartily. She said, ‘And the girls say all of them are grey.’
From that day, I was treated even more cordially. But I determined to arrange things so that I did not have to sit day after day pulling out grey hairs. I had received some pay; I took one rupee from it and put it in Haramani’s hand. I said to her, ‘Get someone to buy a phial of hair dye and bring it to me.’ Haramani convulsed with laughter. When she stopped laughing, she said, ‘What will you do with the hair dye, then? Whose hair will you put it on?’
I said, ‘The Brahmin cook’s.’
Now Haramani sat plump down, laughing. At this point, the Brahmin cook arrived. Then Haramani stuffed the end of her sari into her mouth to stop her laughter. Being quite unable to stop, she fled. The Brahmin cook said, ‘Why is she laughing so much?’
I said, ‘As far as I can see, she hasn’t anything else to do. I said just now, why not put hair dye on the Brahmin cook’s hair? That’s why she was laughing.’
The Brahmin cook said, ‘Then why so much laughter? What would be the harm in it? The children provoke me by calling me Grass-seed head, Grass-seed head! I would escape that trouble!’
Subhashini’s daughter, Hema, spontaneously started,
‘The old woman goes, a grass-seed head,
bell-flowers in her hair,
Stick in hand, rope round neck,
in her ears a pair of rings.
Hema’s brother said, ‘Dings!’ Then, lest ‘dings’ fall on anyone, Subhashini took him away.
I understood that the Brahmin cook wanted the hair dye very much. I said, ‘Very well, I will give you some hair dye.’
The Brahmin cook said, ‘Very well, give it to me. May you live, may you have gold ornaments. May you learn a lot about cooking.’
Haramani might laugh, but she was competent. She speedily brought me a phial of the best hair dye. I took it in my hand and went to pull out the mistress’s grey hairs. The mistress asked, ‘What is that in your hand?’
I said, ‘An essence. If you spread it on your hair, all the grey ones come out, and all the dark ones stay.’
The mistress said, ‘Really! I have never heard of such a marvellous essence. Good, spread it on and let me see. Mind that you do not use hair dye.’
I carefully spread the hair dye on her hair. When I had finished, I said, ‘There are no grey hairs left,’ and went away. When the set time had elapsed, all her hair turned black. By misfortune, Haramani saw this as she was sweeping the room. She let fall the broom, stuffed the end of her sari in her mouth and went laughing to the outer building. When there was a disturbance of ‘Where’s the maid? Where’s the maid?’ she went back to the inner chambers, and, stuffing her sari in her mouth, went up to the roof. Sona’s mother was drying her hair there; she asked, ‘What has happened?’ Haramani could only indicate her head with her hand. Unable to understand anything from this, Sona’s mother went down and saw that the hair on the mistress’s head was all black—and she started to wail aloud. She said, ‘Oh, Mother! What is this that has happened, then! All the hair on your head has gone black, then! Oh, Mother, someone must have given you some potion!’
At this point, Subhashini came and seized me—laughing, she said, ‘Wicked girl, did you do that, did you put hair dye on Mother’s hair?’
I said, ‘Yes.’
Subhashini said, ‘Plague take you! Look what you’ve done!’
I said, ‘Don’t worry.’
At this point, the mistress herself summoned me. She said, ‘Well, then, Kumo! Did you put hair dye on my head?’
I saw that the mistress had a very pleased expression on her face. I said, ‘Who told you such a thing, Mother!’
The mistress said, ‘Sona’s mother told me.’
I said, ‘What of Sona’s mother? That was not hair dye, Mother, it was a potion of mine.’
The mistress said, ‘It is a good potion, child. Bring a mirror and let me see.’
I brought a mirror and gave it to her. When she had looked in it, the mistress said, ‘Oh God! All my hair has gone black! You ill-fated wench, now people will say you have used hair dye on me!’
The mistress’s face was all smiles. That evening, she praised my cooking, and increased my wages. Moreover, she said, ‘Child! You go around with only glass bangles on your arms, which is distressing to see.’ With these words, she presented me with a pair of gold bangles of her own, which she had long since given up wearing. I was ashamed to take them—I could not restrain my tears. So I did not have the chance to say, ‘I will not take them.’
When she had the chance, the old Brahmin cook took hold of me. She said, ‘Sister, is there any of that potion left?’
I said, ‘Which potion? The one I gave to the Brahmin woman to subdue her husband?’
The Brahmin cook said, ‘Certainly not! That is a childish thought. Have I any such thing?’
I said, ‘No? Is that so? Not even one?’
The Brahmin cook said, ‘I suppose you have five of them?’
I said, ‘If not, how could I cook as I do? Unless one is Draupadi, good cooking is lost! Get five of them, and people will fall in love with your cooking.’
The Brahmin cook sighed deeply. She said, ‘There isn’t even one available—let alone five! Muslims are allowed to, but for the daughters of Hindus it is a sin. And what good would it be if there were? With this grass-seed hair! That is why I was asking if there was any more of that potion which makes hair black?’
I said, ‘Is that what you mean! Certainly there is!’
Then I gave the phial of hair dye to the Brahmin cook, and went away. In the night, after the meal, at bedtime, in the dark, the Brahmin cook spread it on her hair; some went on her hair, some did not, some went on her face and eyes. When she appeared in the morning, her hair looked like the fur of a tortoiseshell cat: some white, some red, some black; and her face looked somewhat like a monkey’s and somewhat like a cat’s. As soon as they saw her, the people of the house laughed aloud. That laughter did not stop. Whenever someone looked at the cook they laughed. Haramani, out of breath from laughing, threw herself at Subhashini’s feet, and said, gasping, ‘Mistress, let me go, I can’t stay in such a house of laughter—some day I’ll choke to death.’
Subhashini’s daughter, too, vexed the old woman; she said, ‘Old Aunt—who made you up?
Death said, Golden moon,
come into my house.
So she decorated the cremation ground
with vermilion and cow-dung.’
One day, a cat had eaten a fish from the pot, and had got soot on her face. Subhashini’s son had seen this. When he saw the old woman, he said, ‘Muvver! Ole Aunt has eaten ve pot.’
But, following my instructions, no one let on to the Brahmin cook. Unperturbed, she showed that splendid mixture of monkey and
cat to everyone. Seeing them laugh, she asked everyone, ‘Why do you laugh, then?’
At my instruction, everyone said, ‘Didn’t you hear what that boy said? He said, “ Ole Aunt has eaten ve pot.” Everyone is talking about who went to your kitchen to eat from the pot last night; and saying, would Sona’s mother do such a thing at her age?’
Then the old woman started a string of abuses—‘Shameless ones! Cursed ones! Unfortunate ones!’ with these and many other such incantations she invited Yama many times to come and take them and their husbands and children—but the King of Death showed no eagerness in the matter for the time being. The Brahmin cook’s countenance remained as it was. In that same condition, she went to serve Raman Babu’s meal. Seeing her, Raman Babu, suppressing his laughter, choked on his food, and ate no more. I heard that when she went to serve Ramram Datta his meal, the master chased her away.
Finally, Subhashini had pity on her, and said to the old woman, ‘There is a big looking-glass in my room—go and look in it.’
The old woman went and looked at herself. Then she started to weep loudly and abuse me. I tried to explain that I had told her to spread the stuff on her hair, not on her face. The old woman did not understand. She invited Yama again and again to eat my head. Hearing this, Subhashini’s daughter recited this verse—
She whom Death calls
is the most beautiful.
Let ashes fall on her face.
Old woman, why won’t you die.
Finally, that three-year-old son-in-law of mine got a piece of firewood and put it on the old woman’s back. He said, ‘My muvver-in-law!’ Then the old woman fell down and started weeping loudly. The more she wept, the more my son-in-law danced round her, clapping his hands and saying, ‘My muvver-in-law, my muvver-in-law!’ I went and took him on my lap and kissed him, and then he stopped.
10
The Lamp of Hope
THAT SAME DAY, IN THE AFTERNOON, SUBHASHINI TOOK ME BY THE HAND, drew me to a secluded place, and made me sit down. She said, ‘My son’s mother-in-law! You said you would tell me the story of the banditry at the Black Lake—you still haven’t done so. Tell me now—I want to hear it.’
I thought for a long time. At last I said, ‘It is the story of my misfortune. I have said that my father is an important man. Your father-in-law is also an important man—but there is no comparison. My father is still alive—he still has his immeasurable wealth; there are still elephants in his elephant stalls. That I am earning my living by cooking is because of the banditry at the Black Lake.’
After these words, we were both silent. Then Subhashini said, ‘If it distresses you to talk of it, then don’t: when I asked for the story, I didn’t know.’
I said, ‘I will tell you everything. You care for me so much, and have done so much for me, that there is no distress in telling you.’
I did not tell her my father’s name, nor the name of the village where my father’s house was. I did not tell her the names of my husband or father-in-law I did not tell her the name of the village where my father-in-law’s house was. I told her everything else, up to the time of my meeting Subhashini. As she listened, Subhashini wept. It is unnecessary to say that I, too, wept from time to time as I told my story.
So much for that day. The next day, Subhashini again took me to a secluded place. She said, ‘You must tell me your father’s name.’
I told her.
‘You must also tell me the name of the village where his house is.’
I told her that, too.
Subhashini said, ‘Tell me the name of the post office.’
I said, ‘The post office! The name of the post office is “post office”.’
Subhashini said, ‘Oh, wicked one! The name of the village where the post office is.’
I said, ‘That I don’t know. I only know “post office”.’
Subhashini said, ‘Tell me, is the post office in the same village where your home is, or in another village?’
I said, ‘I don’t know’
Subhashini was depressed. She said nothing more. The following day, again in private, she said, ‘You are the daughter of an important man. For how long will you earn your living by cooking? If you go away I will weep a lot—but I am not such a sinner as to ruin your happiness for the sake of my own. So we advise you—’
I interrupted her to ask, ‘Who are “we”?’
Subhashini said, ‘I and R. Babu.’
‘R. Babu’ was Raman Babu. Subhashini used to refer to him thus in our conversation. She went on, ‘Our advice is that we should write a letter to your father saying that you are here; that is why I was asking you yesterday about the post office.’
I said, ‘So you have told him everything?’
Subhashini said, ‘Yes—was that wrong?’
I said, ‘Not wrong at all. And then?’
Subhashini said, ‘We concluded that there must now be a post office at Maheshpur, and sent the letter there.’
I said, ‘The letter is already written?’
Subhashini said, ‘Yes.’
I was beside myself with joy. I calculated how many days it would be before an answer came to the letter. But no answer came. I was ill-fated—there was no post office at Maheshpur. At that time, every village did not have a post office of its own. There were post offices in certain villages—I was the pampered child of the king—I did not know of such things. Without the address of a post office, Raman Babu’s letter was opened at the main post office in Calcutta, and returned to him.
I started to weep again. But R. Babu was persistent. Subhashini came and said to me, ‘Now you must tell me the name of your husband.’
I had learned to write. I wrote down my husband’s name. Then she asked, ‘And your father-in-law’s name?’
I wrote that down too.
‘The name of the village?’
I told her that, as well.
‘The name of the post office?’
I said, ‘Do I know that?’
I heard that Raman Babu sent a letter there, also. But no answer came. I became very depressed. But then something occurred to me; overwhelmed by hope, I had not forbidden the letter-writing. Now I thought, ‘I have been abducted by bandits: what caste do I have?18 Surely my husband and father-in-law will reject me because of this. That being so, it was not a good idea to write those letters.’ When Subhashini heard this, she was silent.
Then I understood that I had no further hope. I went and lay down.
11
A Stolen Glance
ONE DAY, WHEN I GOT UP IN THE MORNING, I SAW THAT SOME EVENT WAS being prepared for. Raman Babu was a lawyer. He had one very important client. For a couple of days we had been hearing that he had come to Calcutta. Raman Babu and his father were continually going to and from his house. The reason for his father’s going was that he had some connections with him involving business. Now I heard that he had been invited for the midday meal. So special preparations for cooking were going on.
I liked to cook—so most of the responsibility for cooking fell on me. I cooked with care. The meal was being served in the inner chambers. Ramram Babu, Raman Babu and the guest sat down to eat. Serving was the old woman’s responsibility—I never served people from outside the house.
The old woman was serving—I was in the kitchen—when a disturbance broke out. Raman Babu was scolding the old woman severely. At that point, one of the kitchen servants came and said, ‘They are deliberately embarrassing her.’
I asked, ‘What has happened?’
The servant said, ‘The old woman was putting dal in Brother-Babu’s plate (she was an old servant, she called him Brother-Babu)—and he put out his hand, saying, “No, no!”—and all the dal fell on his hand.’
Meanwhile, I could hear Raman Babu scolding the Brahmin cook: ‘If you don’t know how to serve why do you come? Can’t you give that duty to someone else?’
Ramram Babu said, ‘It is not your work! Go and send Kumo.’
The
mistress was not there: who could forbid it? Meanwhile, there was the command of the master himself—how could I disregard it? I knew that if I went, the mistress would be very angry. I explained to the old woman several times—I said, ‘Put things down carefully’—but from fear she would not agree to go out again. Therefore, I washed my hands, wiped my face, cleaned myself, arranged my clothing properly, veiled my face a bit, and went to serve the food. Who foresees that such things will happen? I know that I am very intelligent—I did not know that Subhashini could sell me in one market and buy me in another.
I was veiled, but a woman’s nature is not covered up by a veil. From within the veil I took one look at the guest.
I saw that he was about thirty years old; he was fair-complexioned and very well-built; one could see that he would be very attractive to women. As if startled by a flash of lightning, I became somewhat preoccupied. I stood staring there for a while holding the dish of meat, and as I looked at him from within my veil, he raised his head—he could see that I was looking towards him through my veil. I did not intend to give him any kind of a significant look. So much sin was not in my heart. Yet I suppose that the snake, too, may not intend to raise its hood; when an occasion arrives for the hood to be risen, it raises itself of its own accord. The snake, too, may not have a sinful heart. I suppose that something of the sort happened. I suppose he would have seen a significant look. Men say that, like a lamp in the darkness, the sidelong look of a woman from within a veil shows more clearly. Probably he, too, would have seen it like that. He smiled gently, just a little, and bent his head. Only I saw that smile. I put all the meat on his plate and came away.
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