Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1

by Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay

  All would have been well if he had gone back, pushed Bhramar’s door open and said that he would return. He wanted to do so but shame stood in his way and his sense of guilt deprived him of courage. He thought there was no hurry—he could return whenever he wished. So he abandoned the idea, came outside, mounted the saddled horse and gave it the whip. As he rode out, his thoughts turned to Rohini’s beauty.

  Part 2

  1

  GOVINDALAL SENT NEWS THAT HE, HIS MOTHER AND THE PARTY HAD SAFELY reached Kashi and that they were all well. All correspondence was between him and the estate office. There was no letter for Bhramar, and she was so hurt that she did not write either.

  At last the steward was told that Govindalal had left Kashi and was coming home. Bhramar knew that Govindalal had said that only to deceive his mother, for he was really going elsewhere. She did not think he would come home.

  Now she secretly started making inquiries about Rohini. There was nothing unusual about Rohini’s life. She still performed her daily chores—cooking, bathing, washing, fetching water and so on. Then one day Bhramar heard that Rohini was ill and confined to her room where she lay all wrapped up. It was so bad that Brahmananda had to cook and look after himself. Then came the news that Rohini was somewhat better but not fully cured. Her condition of colic pain needed specialized treatment. Rohini was going to go to the famous temple at Tarakeswar and had taken a vow so that she could get the god’s blessing for a divine cure. Finally, the report reached Bhramar that Rohini had left for Tarakeswar; she had gone alone for there was no one to accompany her.

  Meanwhile, there was no news of Govindalal; nearly six months passed and still no news. There was no end to Bhramar’s tears, no end to her worries—where was he, how was he? Even the barest news would have enabled her to live. Why was it withheld from her?

  At last she got Sailavati to write to her mother-in-law After all, she was his mother. She must have some news of her son. Her mother-in-law wrote back that she had indeed heard from Govindalal, who was now in Delhi, having visited Allahabad, Mathura, Jaipur and other places. He was not staying in one place for long and would be leaving Delhi soon.

  Rohini too did not return. ‘God knows where she has gone,’ Bhramar thought. ‘I am a sinful creature and will not utter a word about my suspicions.’ She was unable to bear the situation any longer. With tears in her eyes, she went to her father’s house in a palanquin. But it was more difficult to get news of her husband there and so she returned to Haridragram. She asked Sailavati to write again. Her mother-in-law replied that Govindalal no longer wrote to her and she did not know where he was. Thus passed the first year. At the end of that year, Bhramar was lying ill, in bed. The aparajita flower had begun to wither.

  2

  BHRAMAR’S FATHER CAME TO SEE HER WHEN HE HEARD THAT HIS DAUGHTER was very ill and bedridden. We have so far not given an account of Bhramar’s father. We shall do so now Madhavinath Sarkar, Bhramar’s father, was forty-one and very handsome. There was considerable difference of opinion about his character; many praised him very highly while others thought him to be a wicked man. But all agreed that he was a very clever man and all feared him, even those who praised him.

  When he saw her, Madhavinath could not stop weeping. He found that his beautiful, dark girl, who had shapely limbs, was now pale and thin; the bones on her neck protruded and her lotus eyes had sunk in their sockets. Bhramar too shed many tears. After they had both recovered, Bhramar spoke, ‘Father, my days are numbered. Help me prepare for some religious rites. I am young but I am dying. I don’t have much time left to perform these rituals. I have so much money. I want to spend it on religious duties. You must organize them for me. Who else can help me?’

  Madhavinath could not answer; the pain of seeing his daughter so unhappy was unbearable. He left her room. He sat down in the outer building and cried for a long time. Then the pain in his heart turned into burning anger. ‘Is there no one in this world who can punish the man who has tormented my daughter?’ he wondered. Then with red-rimmed eyes he vowed determinedly, ‘I shall destroy the person who has destroyed my daughter.’

  After a while, having regained his composure, he went to his daughter. ‘I was thinking of what you said about religious rites. Such rituals will involve much fasting. You cannot fast now, in your present condition, but only when you are a little better.’

  ‘Shall I ever be better?’

  ‘Of course you will. You are not seriously ill. You are not getting proper medical treatment here and that is your problem. You have no father-in-law, no mother-in-law and no one else to help you. I want you to come home with me and you will be treated there. I’ll stay here a couple of days and then take you to Rajgram.’

  Rajgram was Bhramar’s paternal home.

  Madhavinath left his daughter and went to the estate office. He asked the steward, ‘Do you get letters from the young master?’

  ‘No,’ said the steward.

  ‘Where is he now?’ Madhavinath asked.

  ‘None of us can tell you that, he does not send us any news.’

  ‘Who can give me some news?’

  ‘If we knew that we would have made inquiries ourselves. We sent a man to Kashi to ask the old mistress about her son. Even she does not know his whereabouts. The young master is living somewhere secretively,’ answered the steward.

  3

  MADHAVINATH RESOLVED TO AVENGE THE WRONG DONE TO HIS DAUGHTER. He knew that Govindalal and Rohini were at the root of all this mischief. He vowed to find those two sinners, otherwise the wicked would go unpunished and Bhramar would perhaps die.

  They had completely hidden themselves, cutting off every thread and effacing every footprint. Madhavinath said to himself that he would find them if he had any pride in his manhood. With this firm resolve, he set out alone from the Roy house.

  There was a post office in the village. With a cane in his hand and a betel leaf in his mouth, Madhavinath went inside the office, looking meek and innocent.

  This office was managed by a deputy postmaster whose salary was fifteen rupees per month. It was dark inside the thatched post office. On a broken mango-wood table, lay some gum in an earthen saucer, a pair of scales, a seal and some other articles.

  In this atmosphere, the postmaster—or the post-babu as he was often called—solemnly ruled over the postman, who received a salary of seven rupees per month. For the postman, the difference between him and the postmaster was no more than the difference between seven annas and fifteen annas. For the postmaster, however, the difference was similar to that between heaven and earth. He considered himself Lord of his subordinate in life and death. To prove it, he constantly scolded the postman, who gave back at least half of what he received.

  The postmaster was weighing a letter and scolding the postman when Madhavinath’s calm and smiling face appeared before him. So the postmaster stopped shouting and gaped at the visitor instead. He recognized the visitor as a gentleman, and vaguely thought that civility demanded that he greet the visitor, but he did not know how to offer his greetings.

  Madhavinath saw that he stood before a monkey. ‘Are you a Brahmin?’ he asked the postmaster.

  ‘Yes, and you?’

  Suppressing a smile, Madhavinath bent his head and touched his forehead with folded hands, ‘My morning’s respects to you.’

  ‘Please sit down.’

  This created a problem for Madhavinath. Where was he to sit? The only seat available was an ancient three-legged chair, which was already occupied by the postmaster. Then the postman, who was called Haridas Bairagi, removed a heap of torn books from a wooden stool and offered it to Madhavinath. ‘Hallo, how are you? Haven’t I seen you somewhere?’ the visitor asked Haridas, fixing him with his eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir, I deliver the letters.’

  ‘Ah! That’s how I know you. Do you think that you could prepare a hookah for me?’

  In fact, Haridas had never met Madhavinath. They lived in different villages. But
the poor postman thought that this strange gentleman would give him a baksheesh if he did him a favour. So he ran out to prepare a hookah for the visitor. Madhavinath did not smoke—he asked for the hookah to get rid of the postman.

  After Haridas had left the room, Madhavinath said to the postmaster, ‘I have come here to ask you some questions.’

  The postmaster could not help smiling to himself. He was from Bikrampur, a town in East Bengal; however crude he was in matters of civility, the postmaster was a shrewd man when it came to serving his own interests. He guessed Madhavinath’s purpose. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘Do you know Brahmananda Ghosh?’

  ‘Maybe I do.’

  Madhavinath realized that the postmaster was about to show his true colours. ‘Do any letters come to your office addressed to Brahmananda Ghosh?’

  ‘Don’t you know Brahmananda Ghosh?’

  ‘Never mind whether I do or don’t. I came to ask you.’

  The postmaster remembered his high office and replied in a solemn and somewhat angry voice, ‘We are forbidden to give out such information.’ He started to weigh his letters.

  Madhavinath smiled to himself and said, ‘My dear man, I knew you would say that, so I have come prepared. I will give you something before I go. Now answer me truthfully.’

  The postmaster, beaming with expectation, said, ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Do you get letters addressed to Brahmananda?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘I have not yet been paid for what I have said. Produce the money, then ask another question.’

  Madhavinath planned to leave some money for the postmaster, but the latter’s attitude annoyed him. ‘My dear man, it seems that you are a stranger here; do you know who I am?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I don’t. But it does not matter who you are, we do not give out official information to anybody and everybody. Anyway, who are you?’

  ‘My name is Madhavinath Sarkar and I am from Rajgram. Do you know how many armed men I employ?’

  The postmaster was now frightened; he had heard of Madhavinath and his power; he could not speak.

  So Madhavinath continued, ‘Mind you answer me truthfully, whatever I ask. I won’t give you a pie if you try to deceive me. If you refuse to speak, or tell a lie, I’ll burn down your house and after robbing your post office I’ll produce evidence in court to prove that you had it done by your own agents. Now will you speak?’

  The postmaster was trembling with fear.

  ‘Please do not be angry, sir. I did not know who you were. I thought that I was speaking to a common man, that’s why I spoke like that. As your honour is here in person, I’ll tell you whatever you ask.’

  ‘How often do letters come for Brahmananda?’

  ‘About once a month. I am not sure.’

  ‘Are they registered letters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In what office are they registered?’

  ‘I do not remember.’

  ‘Surely you keep receipts of all your registered mail.’

  The postmaster, after searching for sometime, found a receipt and read it out, ‘Prasadpur.’

  ‘In what district is Prasadpur? Check your list.’

  The postmaster, still trembling, looked at his list and said, ‘Jessore.’

  ‘Check if there are other letters for Brahmananda from some other places. Examine all the receipts.’

  The postmaster found that all the letters lately received had come from Prasadpur.

  Madhavinath put a ten-rupee note in the postmaster’s trembling hand and left. Haridas had not yet turned up with his hookah. Madhavinath left a rupee for him with the postmaster who, it is needless to say, kept it for himself.

  4

  MADHAVINATH WENT BACK SMILING. HE HAD KNOWN ABOUT THE CLANDESTINE affair between Govindalal and Rohini. He was certain that those two were living secretively together somewhere. He also knew about Brahmananda; he had no relatives except Rohini. So when Madhavinath learnt from the post office that registered letters were sent to Brahmananda every month, he concluded that either Rohini or Govindalal was sending her uncle a monthly allowance. Letters came from Prasadpur, so they must be living somewhere near there, or in that town itself. But he wanted to be doubly sure. So when he reached the Roy household, he sent a messenger to the police station with a letter to the sub-inspector, asking him to send a constable. Madhavinath sent word he might be able to help the police about some stolen goods.

  The sub-inspector knew Madhavinath well, and was afraid of him. He immediately dispatched a constable named Nidra Singh.

  Madhavinath gave Nidra Singh two rupees and said, ‘Look, my dear man, don’t try your Hindi with me, but do as I tell you. Go and hide under that tree, but make sure that you can be seen from here.’ Nidra Singh did as he was told.6 Then Madhavinath sent for Brahmananda, who came and sat next to him.

  There was no one else there. After exchanging greetings, Madhavinath said, ‘My daughter’s in-laws considered you one of their near relatives. They are all dead now and my son-in-law is away. So I thought that it was my duty to help you when you are in danger.’

  Brahmananda went pale. ‘Danger! What danger?’

  Madhavinath replied in a grave voice, ‘You are indeed in danger.’

  ‘What danger, sir?’

  ‘You are in grave danger for the police have learned that you are in possession of a stolen note.’

  Brahmananda was thunderstruck. ‘Stolen note! In my possession, how?’

  ‘You may not know that the note was stolen. Someone else might have given you the note.’

  Brahmananda said, ‘How can that be, who would give me a note?’

  Lowering his voice, Madhavinath said, ‘We know all about it. The police too know about it. In fact, it is the police who told me about it. The stolen note comes from Prasadpur. Look, there is the policeman who has come to get you. I paid him something to hold back for a while.’ Then he pointed to the policeman under the tree. He stood with a baton in hand, his bearded face lowered like a dark cloud; he looked formidable to Brahmananda. He burst into tears. Trembling all over, he clasped Madhavinath’s feet and cried, ‘Save me.’

  ‘Don’t be frightened. Just tell me the number of the latest note you received from Prasadpur. The police have given me the number of the stolen goods. If your note does not bear that number then you have nothing to fear. Even if it does, we can always change the number. Please go and fetch the latest letter and the latest note from Prasadpur and let me check the number.’

  But how could Brahmananda go? He was afraid of the policeman under the tree.

  ‘Have no fear. I shall send someone with you.’ Then Madhavinath ordered one of the gatekeepers to accompany the frightened man. Brahmananda came back with the note and the letter. The letter gave Madhavinath the information he wanted. Returning the letter and the note he said, ‘The note received does not bear the number of the stolen one. You’re quite safe and you can go home. I’ll send the constable away.’

  Brahmananda breathed again and went back home as fast as he could.

  Madhavinath took Bhramar home and arranged for proper medical treatment for his daughter. After that he left for Calcutta. Bhramar raised objections but Madhavinath went, promising to return soon.

  In Calcutta, Madhavinath had a friend called Nisakar Das, who was about ten years younger than him. Nisakar had inherited some property and had a private income. He did not have to work for a living, so he spent his time with music and travel. Madhavinath went to see him. After they had talked about various matters, Madhavinath asked, ‘Would you like to accompany me on a journey to Jessore?’

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘I want to buy an indigo factory.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  Then, after completing the necessary preparations—which took them a day or two—the two friends set off for Jessore, en route to Prasadpur.

  5

>   SEE HOW GENTLY THE LEAN RIVER CHITRA FLOWS. ON THE BANKS ARE MANY trees—aswatha, kadamba, mango, date and others. You can hear the birds, like the kokil, papiha and koel singing from these trees. There is no village nearby, and the small market of Prasadpur is about two miles away. Finding this a secluded spot, well suited for committing sinful acts with impunity, a European indigo planter had built a factory here many years ago. Now the planter and his wealth had long gone and all his underlings had met the doom they deserved. A Bengali had recently bought this secluded house. He had furnished it beautifully with flowers, statues, seats, mirrors and pictures. As we enter the large room on the first floor, we notice the pictures. Some are beautiful, while others are so offensive as to be indescribable. We see a bearded Muslim music teacher, sitting on a soft cushion, tuning a tambura, while a young woman, sitting next to him, is playing a tabla, her golden bracelets tinkling with the movement of her hand. We see the reflections of these two in two large mirrors standing close to them. Through the open doorway we see a young man in the next room, reading a novel and occasionally looking at the young woman to see how she is getting on with her lesson. After much plucking and tightening of the strings, the music teacher has decided that the tambura is in tune with the tabla. Then he begins to sing. His snow-white teeth gleam out of the darkness of his beard and moustache, and his face breaks into many contortions as he bellows like a bull. Then the young woman, taking her cue from the grimaces of her teacher, begins to sing in her own soft voice. Then their two voices, one light, the other heavy, unite like gold and silver threads, creating some peculiar music.