Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1

by Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay

  5

  NEXT MORNING, ROHINI WAS BACK IN THE KITCHEN COOKING WHEN Haralal peeped in again. Luckily Brahmananda was out, otherwise he might have wondered.

  Rohini did not look up as Haralal approached. ‘Your pot won’t crack if you look up,’ he said. Rohini looked up and smiled. ‘Have you done it?’ asked Haralal.

  Rohini got up and fetched the stolen will and gave it to him. Haralal read it and realized that this was the genuine will. Then, beaming with joy, he said, ‘How did you get it?’

  Then Rohini began telling a tale which bore no semblance to what had really happened. As she was telling the story, she took the will from Haralal to show how it had dropped on an inkstand. When she finished telling her story, Rohini suddenly left the room with the will. When she returned, Haralal noticed that the will was not with her.

  He asked, ‘Where have you left the will?’

  Rohini said, ‘I have put it in a safe place.’

  ‘What for? I must go now.’

  ‘Must you? What’s the hurry?’

  Haralal said, ‘I can’t stop.’

  ‘Then go!’

  ‘What about the will?’

  ‘It should stay with me.’

  ‘How’s that? You won’t give it to me?’

  Rohini said, ‘It’s the same whether you keep it or I do.’

  Then Haralal asked, ‘If you won’t give it to me, why did you steal it?’

  Rohini said, ‘I stole it for you and I shall keep it for you. When you marry a widow I will give the will to your wife. You can then tear it up.’ Haralal understood. ‘It cannot be, Rohini. Whatever money you want I will give you.’

  ‘Even a lakh of rupees won’t do. You must give me what you said you would.’

  ‘That cannot be. I forged and stole for myself; for whose gain did you steal?’

  Rohini went pale and looked down.

  Haralal continued, ‘Whatever else I am, I am Krishnakanta Roy’s son, I will never marry a thief.’

  Rohini suddenly stood up, threw back her dhoti from over her head, and looked at Haralal full in the face. ‘I am a thief? And you are a saint! Who told me to steal? Who tempted me? Who deceived a simple woman? You are a son of Krishnakanta Roy, but you cheated me. You said things which the vilest of men would not say, you are a cheat and a liar. And you say that I am not worthy of you! There are no such wretched women as will have a scoundrel like you. If you were a woman I would give you the broom. Since you are a man, leave now, before I tell you what I really think of you.’

  Haralal realized that he had got what he deserved. He left with what was still left of his honour, and with a sly smile on his lips. Rohini, too, realized that Haralal had got what he deserved—but so had she—they both had. She tightened her braid, which had come loose in her anger; she sat down to cook. But tears filled her eyes.

  6

  YOU ARE KOKIL, THE BIRD OF SPRING. SING TO YOUR HEART’S CONTENT, I have no objection. But I have a particular request to make—please choose a good time for your songs. It is no good singing all day without some consideration for your listeners. As I sat down to write the story of Krishnakanta’s will, having found pen and ink after a long search, you sang out from the sky—Kuhoo! Kuhoo! Kuhoo! I admit that you have a good voice, but that does not give you the right to call out to people while they are busy at work. For me, whose hair is grey and pen active, your singing matters little. But sometimes when you sit on the broken wall of an office and sing ‘Kuhoo! Kuhoo!’, just when the young clerk is racking his brains over his accounts—the result is that he fails to balance his book. And when a beautiful woman, saddened by her lover’s absence, sits down to a meal after a day’s work with a pot of kheer in her hand and you call out ‘Kuhoo! Kuhoo!’, she forgets to eat her kheer or eats it with salt.

  However that might be, there certainly was enchantment in the kokil’s voice when it called from the bakul tree as Rohini made her way to fetch water with a pitcher on her hip . . . but first let me tell you about Rohini fetching water.

  Well, it was like this. Brahmananda Ghosh was poor and could not afford to keep a maidservant. Whether that was an advantage or disadvantage, I cannot say. But a house which has no maidservant has no deceit, no falsehoods, no quarrels and no dirt; the goddess called maidservant is the creator of these four evils. The house with many maidservants is a field on which epic battles, like the one in Kurukshetra or the one in Lanka where Ravana was killed, are fought daily. Some maidservants strut alone, broom in hand, like Bhima with his club, while others are like King Duryodhan, Bhima’s rival, admonishing his generals, like Bhishma, Drona or Karna. Yet others are like Kumbhakarna, they sleep for six months and eat everything in sight when they wake up. Some are like Sugreeva, stretching their necks, planning to kill Kumbhakarna.3 Brahmananda, however, was free from these afflictions. But it meant that all domestic chores, including fetching water and washing dishes, had to be done by Rohini. She used to fetch water in the afternoon when she had finished her other domestic chores. The following day, after the events which I have already described, Rohini, with a pitcher on her hip, was going to fetch water at the usual hour. She always went to Varuni, a large tank with clear and sweet water. Other girls of the village went in a group. They were light-hearted girls, full of light-hearted laughter, with light pitchers to bring water. Rohini went alone, her pitcher was heavy, her manner somewhat solemn. Maybe this was so because she was a widow. Although, to look at her you would not think so: her lips were tinged red with betel leaves, she wore bracelets on her wrists, her very attractive plait lay on her neck like a black snake. She carried a brass pitcher on her hip; it swayed gently and rhythmically like a swan swaying on soft ripples. Her feet fell softly on the ground like blossoms falling from trees; she moved like a ship in full sail. So, lighting up the path to the tank, beautiful Rohini was walking along to fetch water, when from the bough of a bakul tree, the kokil sang: ‘Kuhoo! Kuhoo!’

  Rohini looked around. I can swear if that little bird had seen Rohini’s uplifted restless glance, it would have been immediately struck by her look as by an arrow, and since birds are small creatures, the kokil would have plumped down, head over heels, feet drawn in. But the bird’s fate decreed otherwise, it was not linked with the eternal chain of cause and effect. The bird had earned no merit from previous births to deserve such an ending. So the foolish kokil sang again: ‘Kuhoo! Kuhoo!’

  ‘Go away, Blackface!’ Rohini exclaimed, and went on her way. But she could not forget the kokil. It’s our firm belief that the bird had called at an inauspicious moment. It should not have called when a poor, young widow was going alone to fetch water. The song of the kokil brings to mind some queer thoughts—something has been lost, the loss has made one’s life a waste—the lost object can never be found. There is something or somebody missing, something has not happened and will remain unrealized. We then feel that we have lost a jewel and must cry—that our life has been in vain, our cup of happiness has never been full, we have tasted nothing of this endless, beautiful world.

  Again the bird sang ‘Kuhoo! Kuhoo!’ Rohini looked up and saw the clear, blue, endless sky, silent yet attuned to that kokil’s song. She saw the new mango blossoms, pale-gold, cool-scented, among layers of green leaves, buzzing with honeybees and bumblebees. They too seemed attuned to the ‘Kuhoo’ sound of the kokil. On the other side of the tank was Govindalal’s flower-garden, where myriads of flowers bloomed in cluster on cluster, row upon row, on every branch and every leaf; white, red, yellow, blue, large and small. Some had honey bees on them, others bumblebees, their buzzing too was attuned to the kokil’s song. The breeze was bringing the strong scent of the blossoms across the tank, which too was attuned to the call of the bird. There, in the shade of a flowery grove, stood Govindalal himself; his thick, black hair fell in curls over his shoulders, golden brown as the champak flower, and a flowering creeper swayed over his tall figure, more beautiful than a tall flowering tree. This too seemed in keeping with the mood of the
kokil’s song. The kokil sang out again, this time from an ashoka tree.

  Just then Rohini was descending the steps of the tank. She reached the end of the steps, floated her pitcher, then sat down and began to cry. I cannot say why Rohini started crying. How can I say what a woman thinks? I suspect the wicked kokil made Rohini cry.

  7

  I AM FACING A LOT OF TROUBLE WITH THE VARUNI TANK; I FIND IT HARD TO describe. The tank was very large; it resembled a blue mirror framed by a border of grass. Beyond this frame was the frame formed by the garden on all four of its sides; trees and walls appeared endless there. This was an impressive frame, enamelled with flowers of many colours—red, black, green, rose, white and saffron, and studded with many fruits, as with gems. Here and there, the white pleasure houses glittered like diamonds in the rays of the setting sun. The sky above was framed by the garden; it too was a blue mirror. The sky, the grass frame, the garden, the flowers, fruits, trees and houses were all reflected in the blue water. Now and then the kokil called. All this I can describe, but I cannot describe the connection between Rohini’s mind and that sky, that tank and the kokil’s voice. That is why I said I am facing a lot of trouble with the Varuni tank.

  Like me, Govindalal was also in trouble. Govindalal, standing behind the flowery creeper, saw Rohini weeping on the steps of the tank. He concluded that Rohini must have had a row with some girl from the neighbourhood. We should not pay too much attention to Govindalal Babu’s conclusion. Rohini continued to cry.

  I cannot say what was in Rohini’s mind, but it must have been something like this:

  ‘For what fault was I destined to become a widow while still a child? Have I committed more sins than others that I should be deprived of all worldly pleasures? What is my fault that although I am young and beautiful, I am condemned to live the rest of my life like a dried-up piece of wood? People who have all the happiness that life can give—take Govindalal’s wife for instance—what virtues do they have that I have not? What spiritual merits have they acquired that they should have so much happiness while I have none? I do not really grudge them their happiness, but why are all paths closed to me? What shall I do with my unhappy life?’

  Well, I told you, Rohini was not a nice person. See how jealous she could be over small matters. She had many faults: do you feel like crying at the sight of her tears? No, you do not. Maybe it is better to cry at the sight of her tears than to judge her; gods do not withhold rain from thorny fields.

  Say a kind word for Rohini. She is still there on the steps of the tank, weeping, with her head in her hands, while the empty pitcher on the water dances in the breeze.

  At last the sun went down; and slowly a dark shadow fell over the blue water. As darkness fell, birds flew back to their nests and the cattle turned homewards. The moon rose, shedding a soft light on the darkness. Rohini was still crying, her pitcher still floating on the water. As Govindalal started for home, he saw Rohini still sitting there on the steps, alone and weeping. He reflected, this woman may be good or bad, but she is a humble creature of God; I too, am a humble creature of God, hence she is my sister. If I can relieve her sadness, why should I not do it?

  Govindalal descended the steps, and quietly stood beside her like a statue in the champak moonlight. Rohini was startled. He said, ‘Rohini, why have you been crying?’ Rohini stood up but remained silent. Govindalal continued, ‘Won’t you tell me what’s troubling you? I may be able to help.’

  Rohini could speak like a shrew to Haralal, but now, standing beside Govindalal, she could not utter a word. She stood like a sculpted figure, enhancing the beauty of the steps. In the clear water of the tank, Govindalal saw the reflection of that figure, the full moon and the gold-flowering trees. Everything is beautiful, only cruelty is ugly. Creation is kind, only human beings are unkind. Govindalal read clearly the book of nature. He spoke again, ‘If you are in any trouble, let me know soon. If you cannot speak to me directly, then let me know through one of the ladies of our house.’

  Then Rohini spoke, ‘Some day I will tell you. Not today. Some day you must hear what I have to say.’

  Govindalal nodded and went home. Rohini stepped into the water and filled her pitcher. I know that empty vessels, whether earthen or human, make a lot of noise in protest if one tries to fill them. When the pitcher was filled, Rohini came out of the pond, neatly covered herself with her wet dhoti and slowly walked home. A dialogue then took place between the pitcher, the water in the pitcher and Rohini’s bracelets. And Rohini’s mind joined in.

  Rohini thought, ‘Stealing the will.’

  The water said, ‘Chalat.’

  Rohini felt, ‘It wasn’t right.’

  The bracelet spoke, ‘Thin-thina, no indeed it wasn’t.’

  Rohini wondered, ‘What should I do now?’

  The pitcher said, ‘Thanak-dhanakdhan, use me with a cord. Tie a rope around yourself and me.’

  8

  THAT EVENING, ROHINI FINISHED HER COOKING EARLY, FED BRAHMANANDA; then without eating anything, she went into her bedroom and closed the door; she went to bed, not to sleep, but to think.

  Reader, leave the opinions of your philosophers and scientists for a moment and listen to a few plain words of mine. A goddess named Sumati (good counsel) and an ogress named Kumati (bad counsel) dwell in human hearts, and they are always at war. As two tigresses fight for the carcass of a cow or two she-jackals for a human corpse, so do these two fight for living human beings.

  Sumati asked, ‘Is it right to ruin such a nice man?’

  Kumati said, ‘I did not give the will to Haralal. So how have I ruined Govindalal?’

  ‘Return Krishnakanta’s will to Krishnakanta.’

  ‘Ha! What shall I tell Krishnakanta when he asks me where I got this will and how the counterfeit came to be in his drawer? What shall I say, then? What a strange thing to suggest! You want me and my uncle to go to prison?’

  ‘Then tell Govindalal everything, throw yourself at his mercy. He is a kind man, he will surely protect you.’

  Kumati said, ‘That is right. But Govindalal will have to tell Krishnakanta about it, otherwise the wills cannot be exchanged. If Krishnakanta calls the police, then how can Govindalal protect you? But I have another plan. Say nothing till Krishnakanta’s death, then give Govindalal the genuine will and throw yourself at his mercy.’

  Sumati argued, ‘It will be useless then. The will that will be found in Krishnakanta’s drawer will be accepted as genuine. And Govindalal will be accused of forgery if he produces the other will.’

  ‘Keep quiet, then—what is done is done.’

  So Sumati kept quiet. She was defeated. The two made peace and united. They started something else. They conjured up the god-like champak image of Govindalal, as he stood in the moonlight by the tankside. Rohini gazed at it with her mind’s eye for a long while until tears flowed from her eyes. She did not sleep that night.

  9

  FROM THAT DAY, ROHINI WENT DAILY TO THE VARUNI TANK TO FETCH WATER. Every day the kokil called, every day she saw Govindalal, every day Sumati (good counsel) and Kumati (bad counsel) made war and peace—war between Sumati and Kumati is acceptable to mankind. Peace between the two, however, is dangerous. Then Sumati takes the form of Kumati and Kumati works like Sumati. Then we cannot distinguish between the two and people follow Kumati mistaking her for Sumati.

  The image of Govindalal was imprinted in deep colours in Rohini’s heart. Whether it was the work of Sumati or Kumati, I cannot say. The picture of Govindalal was bright on a dark canvas; day by day the canvas grew darker while the picture got brighter. Then the world in Rohini’s eyes—no, we should not repeat the old story. Rohini suddenly and secretly fell in love with Govindalal.

  I cannot understand, nor can I explain why after such a long time this calamity befell her. Rohini had known Govindalal since they were children, but she had never been attracted towards him. I do not know why she should suddenly fall in love with him now. I am only narrating what happen
ed. The call of that wicked kokil; that time when Rohini wept by the tank; the time and the place; Govindalal’s unexpected kindness; and, above all, Rohini’s harmful action against innocent Govindalal. The conjunction of all these factors over a short time gave Govindalal a big place in her heart. I do not know what will come of it; I only narrate incidents as they occur.

  Rohini was very intelligent—she knew that the matter was one of life and death for her. If Govindalal had the slightest inkling of her feelings for him, he would never again tread on her shadow—he would perhaps even send her away from the village. Rohini realized that she must not breathe a word about it to anyone. So, with great effort, she kept it hidden in her heart. But she was consumed inwardly with this fiery passion. Life became too painful for her—she prayed for death day and night.

  Who can keep count of the people who wish to die? I believe that there are many happy and unhappy people who wish heartily to die. In this world there is no pure happiness, it is full of pain; no happiness is complete. So many who are happy still wish for death. The unhappy wish for death for they are unable to carry the painful burden of unhappiness.

  Those who seek death rarely find their wish fulfilled. Death comes not to those like Rohini but to those who are happy, beautiful, young, hopeful, and look upon this earth as the heavenly garden. On the other hand, humankind is too weak to bring about its own death. One can end this perishable life with the prick of a needle or half a drop of poison and merge this restless bubble with the sea of time. There are some who can do it, but Rohini was not one of them.

  Yet Rohini had made up her mind on one point—the forged will must not be passed. There was one easy way out of this. Rohini, or someone, could tell Krishnakanta that his will had been stolen; one need not tell him the identity of the thief. Once his suspicion was aroused, Krishnakanta would open his drawers and find the forged will there. He would certainly have another will drawn up and Govindalal’s estate would be saved. No one would be any the wiser about the identity of the thief. But there was a danger in this plan. As soon as he read the will, Krishnakanta would recognize that it was written by Brahmananda. So no one must know that the counterfeit will lay in Krishnakanta’s chest of drawers. Hence, Rohini could not undo the wrong she had done to Govindalal when she was tempted by Haralal. She had to protect her uncle, although she now wanted to help Govindalal. In the end, she decided to steal the counterfeit and substitute it with the genuine will, in the same way that she had stolen the genuine will.