‘Not a chance,’ said Hiralal.
‘Just hand it to me once.’
Hiralal handed me the staff. I broke it into two. He was probably astounded to see my strength. I handed him one half and kept the other half to myself. He must have also been annoyed to see that I’d broken his staff. I said, ‘Now I can relax—don’t be upset. You’ve seen my strength, you’ve seen’this half of the staff in my hand—even if you so desire, you wouldn’t dare do me any harm.’
Hiralal was silent.
7
HIRALAL AND I BOARDED THE BOAT AT THE JAGANNATH GHAT. IT WAS NIGHT and the southern breeze puffed up the sails. Hiralal told me that their home was in Hooghly; I’d forgotten’to ask that earlier.
As the boat moved over the waters, Hiralal said, ‘So now that your marriage to Gopal is off, why don’t you marry me?’ I said, ‘No.’ Hiralal began’to argue. His intent was to prove to me that he was the best possible groom on’this earth, and also that I was the worst possible bride. I acceded to both, but still I maintained, ‘I shall not marry you.’
At this, Hiralal got really angry. ‘Who wants to marry a blind girl, anyway?’ he asked of the world and fell silent. Thus the hours crawled away.
Suddenly, towards very early morning, Hiralal ordered the boatmen’to draw up to the bank. They followed his orders. I could hear the boat pull up to the bank. ‘Get down,’ Hiralal told me, ‘We have reached.’ He took my hand and helped me ashore. I stood on’the bank. Then I heard sounds of Hiralal getting back to the boat. He said to the boatmen, ‘Go on, set sail again.’
I said in alarm, ‘What’s this—why are you setting sail after dropping me off?’
Hiralal said, ‘Find your own way now.’ The boatmen began’to row; I heard the oars splashing through the water. I pleaded pitifully, ‘Please, I beg of you, I am blind—if you must leave me behind, at least take me to someone’s home. I have never come here before, how will I find the way?’
‘Will you marry me, then?’ he asked.
I wanted to weep. I did cry for some time; but I was also really angry—I said to Hiralal, ‘Go away; it would be wrong to be indebted to you. When’the night ends, I shall meet hundreds of men kinder than you. They’d surely have pity on a blind girl.’
‘That’s if you meet them,’ he retorted. ‘This is an island, there’s water all around. Will you marry me?’
I could make out that Hiralal’s boat had already gone some distance. Hearing was my livelihood, my ears did the work of my eyes. When someone spoke, I could gauge from how far or from which direction’the voice came. I made a guess regarding the distance of Hiralal’s boat, got into the water and began’to run, meaning to catch the boat. I was neck-deep in water, but didn’t get a hold on’the boat; it was further away. If I tried to catch it, I’d drown.
The palm wood staff was still in my hand. Once again I estimated from how far and from which direction he’d spoken. I stepped back and waded up to waist-high water once again, gauged the distance and hurled the staff with all my might.
Hiralal screamed as he fell down on’the boat’s deck. ‘Murder, murder,’ the boatmen shouted and picked up anchor. In reality that rascal wasn’t dead; I heard his sweet voice in a minute as the boat rowed away and he cursed me at the top of his voice. With the foulest and most hideous language, he polluted the Ganga as he sailed on her. I also heard his voice—loud and clear across the water—threatening to start up his newspaper again and to write articles defaming me.
8
THERE I WAS, A BLIND YOUNG GIRL STANDING ALONE ON’THAT ISLAND THAT night, hearing the waters of the Ganga lapping at her feet.
Alas, the life of man! It is so futile—why does he come, stay or go? Why such a grief-stricken life? The thought of it is so pointless. One day Sachindra Babu had been explaining to his mother that everything follows a law. This life of a person—was it a corollary of this law? The laws that made flowers bloom, clouds glide, the moon rise, water-bubbles float, laugh and vanish, that made the dust particles flutter, the grass burn, the leaves fall, did the same laws govern, complete and conclude a human life? Was it the same law that made the crocodile crouch in’the water for its prey, that made all other insects on’this island hunt their quarry, and was it the same law that was making me willing to give up my soul for Sachindra? Shame on giving up my soul! Shame on romance! Shame on’this life! Why don’t I give it up on’the banks of this river?
My life was bleak, but not because all joy was missing from it; the rose plant will yield rose blossoms and nothing else. A life of misery will be sorrowful and that doesn’t qualify it as bleak. But I call it bleak because my misery seems to be an end in itself, and there doesn’t appear to be anything beyond it. I have the sole benefit of the misery of my soul; no one else knows of it, comprehends it; I cannot express it because I do not possess the skill to do so. There is no audience and so no one witnesses it or understands it. From one rose plant several rose plants may rise; but how many other people would share in your grief? How many such others have been born who can plumb the depths of the misery of another? Who on’the face of this earth will understand the grief of a blind flower girl? Who can follow the waves of sorrow and joy that rise every moment in every word, every sound and every letter that this insignificant heart utters? Sorrows and joys? Yes, there are those too. When, at the onset of spring, along with the piles of flowers the bees buzzed into our home, who could even guess just how the sound thrilled my heart? No one knew how it delighted me when’the sounds of music from the musicians’ home floated on’the gentle breeze into my ears. One cannot comprehend the joy that rushed through me when Bamacharan spoke his first words, when he said ‘totter’ for water and ‘Jonji’ for Rajani. Hence, who could fathom my misery? Who would know the grief of not being able to see; that may even be comprehensible, but would he understand my sorrow at never being able to express my grief? Would he know how sad it is that sorrow has no language in’this world? You do not appreciate plain people saying big words—how can I express deep sorrow in plain words? Such is my grief that even if my heart bursts away, I myself cannot gather all of my sorrow into it at one time.
In’the human language there are no such words, in’the human psyche there are no such thoughts. I suffer my agony, but I can scarcely fathom it. What is my angst? I do not know, but my heart is rent asunder by it. You may often notice that your body grows thinner, you lose your strength, but you cannot perceive the cause; similarly, sometimes it happens that grief is tearing away at your heart, threatening to rip away your soul and send it heavenward, but you do not understand what you are sad about. If you cannot fathom it yourself, how can anyone else? This is no simple grief. No wonder I say this life is bleak!
If this life is so miserable, why am I so keen on holding on’to it? Why don’t I just give it up? Here I stand in’the heart of a flowing Ganga—two steps further and death could be mine. Why don’t I take those steps? What’s the use of this life? Let me end it!
Why was I born? Why am I blind? If I had to be born, why couldn’t I be a match for Sachindra? And since I am not his equal, why did I have to fall in love with him? If I had to fall in love with him, why couldn’t I stay near him? Why did I have to bear him in my heart and leave home? Helpless and sightless, why did I have to come to these banks to die? Why did I have to float like the proverbial straw against the currents of this life, along uncharted waves? There are many sad people in’this world, but why am I the saddest? Who plays this game—the gods? What do they gain from such pain given’to man? Why would one create only to torture? Why would I worship such cruelty personified as gods? Why should I worship heartlessness? Such terrible grief in man can never be God’s gift—if it were, then’they are worse than demons. Is it then’the fruit of my own labour? What sins have caused me this blindness at birth?
I began’to take a few steps forward—death, be mine! The waves of the river crashed around my ears—perhaps death would elude me—I love sweet sounds. No, I shal
l die! The chin went under, the lips went under, just a little bit more. The nose went under, my eyes went under, I went under!
I went under, but I didn’t die. But I do not wish to carry on with this tale of suffering. Let someone else speak.
I began’to float away on’those early morning currents of the river. Gradually, my breathing slowed and the senses dulled.
Part II
Amarnath
1
IT IS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY FOR ME TO TRANSCRIBE THE TRIVIAL TALE OF my futile life. I wish to paint a picture ohe screen of this world, of the exact point where the boat of my life crashed on the banks of life. Sailors of today may perhaps take heed and learn from it.
My home—or ancestral dwelling—is in Shantipur. At present, I have no fixed address. I am born into a high caste but in my ancestral family there was once a great scandal. My paternal uncle’s wife had run away from home. My father was wealthy enough for me to live off it without earning anything on my own. People considered him to be well-off. He had spent a lot of money on my education. I too had acquired some knowledge, but let that subject be for now. As the king has his crown, I had my learning.
When I reached the marriageable age, many matches were brought for me. But none met my father’s approval. He wanted the bride to be breathtakingly beautiful, her father to be immensely rich and for all caste restrictions to stay in place. But no such match came forth. In reality, once they heard about our family scandal, no well-settled family wished to marry off their daughter to me. Thus, as he was still searching for the right match for me, my father passed away.
Eventually, after my father was no more, one of his cousins—my aunt—brought forth a match. On the other side of the Ganga there was a village called Kalikapur. In this narration, another village called Bhawaninagar will be mentioned. Kalikapur was close to Bhawaninagar. My aunt’s marital home was in Kalikapur and she had fixed a match for me with a girl of this village. Her name was Labanga.
I had met Labanga quite often even before this alliance was fixed. I used to visit my aunt quite often and on some occasions I’d seen Labanga in my aunt’s house, as well as in her own home. At times I’d even tutored Labanga from the first book of letters: A for apple, B for ball. From the time that her match was brought for me, she stopped appearing before me. But from that very moment, I too became increasingly eager to catch sight of her. At that time, Labanga was past the age for marriage—she was a bud ready to blossom. Her eyes darted restlessly, yet timidly, her laughter was soft and shy, her quick footsteps had slowed down. I felt I had never seen such beauty before—it was a rare beauty, even for a young damsel. In effect, the beauty of childhood-past but youth-unattained, and that of a child before he learns to speak is unparalleled, even by that of youth in full bloom. In the youthful damsel, the choice of clothing, the display of smiles and peeks, the sway of braids, the swing of the arm, the slant of the neck and the whorls of her words, all adds up to a veritable showcase. And the eye with which we take in that beauty too is jaundiced. The true beauty is that in the perception of which, the senses and their related emotions are not in use.
At this point, rumours of our family scandal fell on the ears of the girl’s father. The match was broken. My heart had just about installed Labangalata on its pedestal when Ramsaday Mitra from Bhawaninagar came and uprooted her from it. Labangalata was soon wedded to him. I was despondent.
A few years after this, an incident took place that I can barely describe. I do not know if I can ever describe it. Since then I left my home and began to roam from place to place without a fixed address to my name.
No fixed address, but I could have had one any time I wished. If I so desired, I could have married many more times than even a high-caste Brahmin. I had everything—wealth, status, youth, erudition, strength. By a stroke of bad luck, on a single day’s misapprehension I let go of everything, the comfort of home, my life as fragrant as a garden, and took to roaming through the land like the bat driven by a fierce wind. If I’d wanted to, I could have started a beautiful life in a pretty home in my motherland, raised the flag of joy against the winds at play and shot arrows of laughter at the monster called grief. But—
Now I do wonder sometimes, why didn’t I? The meting out of sorrows and joy may be in others’ hands, but this heart is mine. Just because the boat went under, why did I have to follow suit? I could have easily stayed afloat. Besides, what is sorrow? It is a state of mind, which is in one’s own hands. Were my sorrows and joys really in the hands of others, or in my own? Others were the doers in the external world, in my own mind I was the sole achiever. Why couldn’t I be happy with my own kingdom? The material world was real, and wasn’t the inner world equally real? Can’t a person live with his mind alone? How many elements does your external world have that my inner self doesn’t have? Could you even hope to show me in your outer world some of the things that my soul has? The flower that blooms on this soil, the breeze that blows in this firmament, the moon that rises in this sky, the ocean that dances its own merry dance in this dark, scarcely has a match in your outer world.
Why then, that night did that sleeping beauty’s—oh, for heaven’s sake. In one silent night this unbounded earth shrunk to the size of a dried pea in my eyes—I could barely find a place to hide. I took to roaming the lands.
2
GRADUALLY THE COOL FINGERS OF TIME PLACED ITS BALM ON MY SORE SPOT.
In Kashi, I met a genteel and very old man called Govindakanta Dutta. He had been staying there for many years.
One day, the subject of police torture came up in our conversation. Many people who were seated with us mentioned several stories related to that topic. Some were true; some must have been fabricated by the narrators. Govindakanta Babu narrated a story that went roughly thus:
‘In our village there was a poor Kayastha called Harekrishna Das. He had only one offspring, a daughter. His wife was no more and he himself was ill. Hence, he had entrusted his daughter’s upbringing to a near relative. His daughter owned some gold ornaments which he hadn’t handed over to his relative. But when death was close, he called me, handed me the ornaments and said, “Please give these to my daughter when she comes of age. If I give it to her now, Rajchandra will sequester it.” I accepted the ornaments. Later, when Harekrishna died, the parody of an inspector arrived on the scene with his joker-assistants and declared that the body was an unclaimed one. He began to confiscate Harekrishna’s bowls and glasses, clothes and all material possessions as they were supposedly “not spoken for”. Some people pointed out that he had a daughter in Calcutta. The inspector shut them up saying, “If she is the successor, let her present herself in court.” At that point, a few of my enemies saw their chance and let it slip that Govinda Dutta held some of Harekrishna’s ornaments in his keeping. I was summoned. I stood before His Highness the police inspector, palms joined in supplication. Some curses were hurled at me. It looked like I would be sent away into prison. What could I say? When blows were aimed at me, I poured out all the ornaments as well as a fifty-rupee note at the feet of the inspector and only then was I released.
‘Needless to say, the inspector took the ornaments home for his own daughter to wear. To his superior he reported that Harekrishna Das owned nothing beyond a cup and a plate and that he had died leaving behind no successors.’
I had heard of Harekrishna Das. I asked Govinda Babu, ‘Does this Harekrishna Das have a brother called Manohar Das?’
Govindakanta Babu said, ‘Yes, how did you know?’
I didn’t say much more, but merely asked, ‘What is the name of this relative of Harekrishna to whom he entrusted his daughter?’
‘Rajchandra Das,’ replied Govindakanta.
‘Where does he live?’
‘In Calcutta. But I have forgotten the exact address.’
I asked, ‘Would you know his daughter’s name?’
Govinda Babu said, ‘Harekrishna had named his daughter Rajani.’
Fairly soon after
this incident, I left Kashi forever.
3
I NEED TO FIRST UNDERSTAND WHAT IT IS THAT I AM SEARCHING FOR. MY heart is despondent, this world is dark and full of despair. If I were to die today, I would not see tomorrow. If I cannot even relieve my misery, what use is my manhood? But before the disease can be cured, it has to be diagnosed. Before I aimed at ending my misery, I needed to know what was causing it.
What is sorrow? A lack. All sorrow rises from a feeling of want. Disease is grievous because of the lack of good health. Lack is not necessarily agony, and that I know. The lack of a disease would not be so sorrowful. Only certain kinds of lack brought grief in its wake.
What did I lack? What did I want? What does a man want? Wealth? I had enough of that. Fame? There is no one in the world who doesn’t have that. The practised conman is notorious for his shrewdness. I have even heard of the fame of a butcher—he never cheated anyone in matters of meat; he had never handed anyone dog-meat as mutton. Everyone had fame. And then again, no one had it in full measure. Bacon was famous for corruption; Socrates’ notoriety earned him a death sentence. Yudhishthira was a liar in the manner he chose to kill Drona, Arjuna was defeated at the hands of Bavruvahana. It is well known that Kaiser was also called the queen of Bethunia. Voltaire had called Shakespeare a clown. I do not crave fame.
Fame rests on the tongue of common men. But they are no one to judge anybody because common men are thick-skinned and stupid. What would I gain from being famous among the thick-skinned and stupid? No, I do not crave fame.
Respect? Who is there in this world whose respect would bring me joy? The few that are there, do respect me. From anyone else, it’s nothing but an insult. Respect in the royal court is a mere symbol of your subjugation and I defy it. I do not crave esteem. I only desire it from my near and dear ones.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 49