As Binodini sat in the room, still as a petrified statuette, her aunt-in-law returned from her trip, walked into the house and said, ‘You wretch, what is all this I have heard!’
Binodini said, ‘All that you have heard is true.’
Her aunt-in-law said, ‘Why did you have to bring your shame into the house, why did you come back?’
Binodini was silent from suppressed misery. The old lady said, ‘Child, let me tell you clearly, you cannot stay here. I am still living, even after fate has snatched away all my dear ones from me. I cannot tolerate this. Shame on you—you’ve disgraced us. Leave the house immediately.’
Binodini said, ‘I shall go right now.’
At this moment Mahendra arrived again, unshaved, dishevelled. He looked wan and his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Earlier, he’d intended to try one last time at dawn, and make Binodini go with him; but Binodini’s rudeness and vitriolic response the previous day had given rise to a host of doubts in his mind. Then, as the sun rose and the morning wore on, Mahendra saw that it was time for the train’s arrival. He pushed aside all doubts and arguments in his mind, left the station, got into a carriage and arrived straight at Binodini’s doorstep. When a person casts away all shame and embarks blatantly on a daring venture, he is imbued with a certain audacious strength; that power lent an abandoned thrill to Mahendra, sweeping away his earlier doubts and dithering. In his feral gaze the curious village folk looked like inanimate dolls in the dust. Mahendra didn’t spare a second glance to any of them, walked right up to Binodini and said, ‘Binod, I am not such a coward that I’ll desert you in the face of public outrage. By hook or by crook, I must take you from here. After that, if you wish to cast me off, do so. I shall not stop you. I can swear by you on this day that nothing will happen without your wish or consent—if you wish to be with me, I shall be grateful. If you don’t, I’ll go far away from your life. I know I haven’t been a model of trust, but please do not distrust me today. We are standing on the brink of devastation and this isn’t the time for games.’
Binodini spoke naturally and without emotion, ‘Take me with you. Do you have a carriage?’
Mahendra said, ‘I do.’
Binodini’s aunt-in-law came out of her room and said, ‘Mahendra, you may not know me, but we are related. Your mother, Rajlakshmi, is from my village and in that sense I am your aunt. Let me ask you: what kind of behaviour is this? You have a wife at home, a mother, and you walk the streets in this half-crazed, brazen fashion! How can you show your face in civil society?’
Mahendra’s world of impassioned madness got a severe jolt at these words. He had a mother, a wife and there was such a thing as civil society! This simple fact came home to him anew. There was a time when he would have trouble imagining that one day he’d have to hear these words from a stranger in an unknown, faraway village. It was a strange chapter in his life, indeed, that in broad daylight Mahendra was taking a virtuous widow by the hand and leading her away from her home. And yet, he had a wife, a mother and there was such a thing as civil society!
As Mahendra stood there dumbstruck, the old woman said, ‘If you must leave, go right away. Don’ t dally at my doorstep—go away, right now!
She walked into her room, slammed the door shut and bolted it from within. Binodini clambered onto the carriage, dishevelled, squalid, empty-handed and hungry. As Mahendra was about to board the carriage she stopped him, ‘No, the station isn’t far; you can walk.’
Mahendra said, ‘But then everyone in the village will stare at me.’
Binodini said, ‘Do you have a drop of honour left here to protect?’ She shut the door of the carriage and instructed the coachman, ‘To the station.’
The man asked, ‘Isn’t the gentleman coming?’
Mahendra hesitated a little and then decided to step back. The carriage drove off. Mahendra left the village road and took a roundabout route through the field as he headed for the station, head lowered and eyes to the ground. The village women had finished their bath and lunch; only a few hardworking old housewives, who got off work late, were walking through the mango-groves headed for the cool waters of the pond with their bowls of oil and towels.
40
RAJLAKSHMI WAS LOSING SLEEP AND HUNGER, WORRYING ABOUT MAHENDRA. Sadhucharan had hunted high and low for him but without any luck. Then, one day, Mahendra returned to Kolkata with Binodini. He dropped her off at his flat in Patoldanga and came home late at night.
Mahendra stepped into his mother’s room and found it in darkness; the kerosene lamp was shaded so as to shield the glare of the flame. Rajlakshmi lay on the bed, looking ill; Asha sat at her feet, stroking them gently. At long last, the bride of the house had her place at the mother-in-law’s feet. At Mahendra’s advent, Asha looked up in surprise and left the room hurriedly. Mahendra cast away his diffidence forcefully and said, ‘Mother, I cannot attend to my studies from here; I have rented a flat near college; I’ll stay there.’
Rajlakshmi pointed to a corner of the bed and said, ‘Mahin, sit down.’
Mahendra sat down awkwardly. Rajlakshmi said, ‘Mahin, you are free to stay where you wish, but please, I beg of you, don’t make my daughter-in-law suffer.
Mahendra was silent. Rajlakshmi continued, ‘I am so unlucky that I didn’t know the worth of my darling daughter all these days.’ Her voice broke as she spoke. ‘But you have known her for so long, loved her so much; how could you cast her into such misery?’ She began to weep openly.
Mahendra desperately wished to get up and leave, but something stopped him from doing so. He sat still in the dark, on one corner of his mother’s bed.
Much later, Rajlakshmi said, ‘Are you staying here tonight at least?’
Mahendra said, ‘No.’
She asked, ‘When will you leave?’
Mahendra said, ‘Right now.
Rajlakshmi sat up with great difficulty and said, ‘Right now? Don’t you wish to meet your wife just once and speak to her properly?’
Mahendra was silent. Rajlakshmi said, ‘Can’t you even guess how she has spent the last few days? Oh you shameless wretch, it breaks my heart to see just how cruel you can be.’ Rajlakshmi fell back on the bed like a felled branch.
Mahendra rose and walked out. He tiptoed stealthily up the stairs towards his bedroom. He had no wish to run into Asha. But there she was, lying down on the covered terrace adjacent to his room. She hadn’t heard his footsteps. When he stood in front of her, she sat up in confusion and began to arrange her clothes hurriedly. At that moment if he had called out just once, ‘Chuni,’ she would have taken his transgression upon her own head, fallen at his feet in remorse and guilt, and wept all the tears she could ever weep. But Mahendra couldn’t bring himself to utter that beloved name. However hard he tried and wished with all his might that he could be intimate with her again, though he felt sorrier than ever, he couldn’t forget that caressing Asha today would be nothing but an empty gesture on his part. What would be the use of consoling her, when he had closed out all options of renouncing Binodini?
Meanwhile, Asha was flooded with shame as she sat there. She was too embarrassed to stand up, walk away or try to move in any way at all. Mahendra began to pace the floor slowly without uttering a single word. The sky was moonless tonight. In a corner of the terrace a tuberose plant yielded two stems of flowers in an earthen pot. In the dark sky overhead, the same stars that had once been witness to many scenes of impassioned love being enacted between these two, now twinkled mutely.
Mahendra wished he could wipe out the devastating events of the last few days in the dark of the night, and take his accustomed place beside Asha on the mat, on that terrace. No questions, no explanations, just the same trust, the same love and that pure, simple joy. But alas, there was no way of going back to that space ever again. On this terrace, that little space beside Asha upon the mat was lost to Mahendra forever. Until now, his relationship with Binodini had no ties. There was the unfettered pleasure of loving, but non
e of its ancillary bindings. But now that he had ripped her apart from society with his own hands—now that there was no place to keep her, or to send her back to, Mahendra was her sole recourse. Now, whether he liked it or not, he was bound to shoulder all responsibility for her. This thought weighed heavy on him. All of a sudden, he found great solace in this room on the terrace, in the memory of the peace, the sweet romancing of lovers at night that came with it. But this solace, to which he had full rights once, was out of his reach today. Not even for a day would he be allowed to put aside the burden he had promised to shoulder all his life and catch a moment’s peace for himself.
Mahendra heaved a sigh and glanced at Asha. She sat in still silence, holding back her mute tears. The dark of the night shielded her mortification and pain, like a protective mother.
Mahendra paused in his pacing and walked up to her, as if to say something. Asha’s blood roared in her veins and she closed her eyes. Mahendra lost track of what he had wanted to say and couldn’t figure out what he should do. But he couldn’t step back without saying something at least. So he asked, ‘Where are the keys?’
They were under the mattress. Asha got up and went into the room—Mahendra followed her. Asha took the bunch of keys from under the mattress and placed them on the bed. Mahendra picked them up and began to insert them one by one, to unlock his clothes-cupboard. Asha couldn’t check herself; she spoke softly, ‘Those keys are not with me.’
She couldn’t bring herself to say who had those keys, but Mahendra understood. Asha left the room in a hurry, fearing she’d be unable to hold back her tears any longer. In the dark, she stood in one corner of the terrace and sobbed her heart out, trying very hard to keep the noise down. But she didn’t have much time in hand. Suddenly she remembered it was time for Mahendra’s dinner. Quickly, she ran downstairs.
Rajlakshmi asked her, ‘Bou-ma, where is Mahin?’
Asha said, ‘He is upstairs.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘Then why have you come down?’
Asha lowered her eyes. ‘His dinner—’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘I will take care of that. Why don’t you freshen up, Bou-ma. Wear your new sari from Dhaka and come to my room—I shall do your hair.’
Asha couldn’t refute Rajlakshmi’s affection, but all this talk of dressing up made her wish she could sink through the floor. She bore Rajlakshmi’s ministration patiently, in tortured silence.
Decked up to the full, Asha went upstairs slowly. She peeped in and saw that Mahendra was not on the terrace. Quietly, she walked up to the room and found it empty. His dinner lay untouched.
Having given up on the keys, Mahendra had wrenched open his cupboard, taken some essential clothing and medical textbooks, and left.
The following day was ekadasi, the three-quarter moon fast; Rajlakshmi lay on her bed, weak and fatigued. Outside, the wind blew fiercely, brewing up for a storm. Asha stepped into the room gently. She sat at Rajlakshmi’s feet, stroked them softly and said, ‘I have brought you milk and fruits; come and eat.’
Rajlakshmi’s parched eyes flooded with tears at this diffident attempt at nursing by her sad-eyed bride. She sat up, drew Asha to her heart, kissed her tear-soaked temple and asked, ‘Bou-ma, what is Mahin doing?’
Asha felt embarrassed as she said softly, ‘He has gone.’
Rajlakshmi said, ‘When did he leave—I wasn’t even told?’
Asha bowed her head as she replied, ‘He went away last night.’
Immediately, all trace of gentleness vanished from Rajlakshmi’s face and her touch lost its tenderness. Asha sensed a silent rebuke, and walked away slowly with her head bowed.
41
WHEN MAHENDRA HAD GONE HOME ON THAT FIRST NIGHT, BINODINI SAT alone in the Patoldanga flat in the midst of the ceaseless commotion of Kolkata, thinking about herself. She had never been blessed with a lot of spaces to turn to; but there had always been enough room to turn over and lie on the other side, if the bed felt too uncomfortable. But today the space left to her was very restricted indeed. Her boat would pitch her straight into the water if it so much as tilted a little to one side. Hence, she had to steer it very carefully now—there was no room for a single error or even a little bit of dithering. It was a daunting prospect for any woman. Where was the space, in these narrow confines, for those little hide-and-seek games so necessary to keep a male mind in thrall? She’d have to spend all her life face-to-face with Mahendra, without any veils. The difference was that if the boat did overturn he had the means to scramble to the shore, but she had none.
As Binodini’s vulnerable position became very clear to her, she began to gather strength within herself. She had to find a way out—this wouldn’t work for her.
The day she had admitted her love for Behari, she had reached the end of her tether. The lips that she had raised for his kiss, and had been forced to draw back, were suspended in an incompleteness of desire—unable to find their place in this world and carried from place to place like the flowers preordained for a certain deity but never used in worship. Binodini’s heart was unfamiliar with the concept of despondency—under no circumstances did she usually let go of hope. Her heart still claimed, every minute of every day, with great vehemence, ‘Behari will have to accept my appeal one day.’
To this unrestrained ardour was added her strong desire for self-defence. Behari was her only way out. Binodini knew Mahendra very well indeed—if she leaned on him, he d not be able to take the pressure. He could be attained only if he was allowed to go—if he were clung to, he would wish to run. Behari alone was capable of giving her the tranquil, reliable, safe haven that a woman needed. Today, she couldn’t let go of Behari at any cost.
The day she left the village, Binodini had made Mahendra go to the post office adjacent to the station and leave firm instructions for all letters in her name to be forwarded to her new address in Kolkata. She couldn’t bring herself to accept that Behari wouldn’t answer even a single one of her letters. She said to herself, ‘I shall be patient and wait for seven days—after that I’ll decide what to do.’ She then opened the window and sat there in the dark, staring out unmindfully at the streets of Kolkata lit by gaslamps. On this dark night, Behari was somewhere in this very same city—a few roads and lanes lay between her and his house, with the same tiny courtyard that had a tap in it, those stairs, that same well-arranged, brightly lit, secluded room—Behari sitting alone on his armchair, amidst tranquil peace; perhaps Vasant, the fair, healthy and handsome boy with large eyes, sat beside him turning the pages of his book. As she conjured up this image bit by bit, Binodini’s heart was flooded with love and affection. If she wanted to, she could go there immediately. Binodini’s heart picked up this thread of thought and played with it; in the past she would have rushed to fulfil her desires. But now she had to think before taking such steps. Now it was no longer about fulfilling a desire but about accomplishing a mission. Binodini said, ‘Let me first see how Behari responds and then I can decide on my course of action.’ She did not dare to go and disturb Behari without first understanding his reactions.
As she sat lost in her thoughts, the clock struck ten and Mahendra returned. The last few sleepless nights and fitful days had taken their toll on him; now, when he was finally successful in bringing Binodini to his home, he seemed overwhelmed by fatigue and exhaustion. He had no strength left to fight with himself or with his state in life. Today, he was bent low with the unwieldy burden of his future life.
Mahendra was too embarrassed to stand before the closed door and bang on it. Where now was that ardour that had helped him to overlook the entire world? Even the eyes of a complete stranger on the road were enough to make him cringe in shame.
The new servant was fast asleep inside. It took a while to get the door opened. As he stepped inside an unfamiliar, new home in the dark, Mahendra’s heart plummeted. The apple of his mother’s eye, Mahendra was used to certain comforts, hand-pulled fans and decorative furniture, and the lack of it all struck him anew this p
articular evening. Mahendra would have to fill in the requirements himself, he had the sole responsibility of this household. He had never given much thought to someone else’s comforts. But from this day, the burden of a new, unfinished household with all its minute details, rested on his shoulders alone. A kerosene lamp on the staircase emitted smoke continually—it needed to be replaced by a proper lamp. The area between the corridor and the stairway was damp and soggy from its proximity to the tap. He must call the mason and get it fixed. He would have to fight with the landlord about the two shops in the front of the house that were occupied by shoe sellers who were yet to vacate the property. In a flash he realized that each of these things could only be done by him, and it merely served to increase the weight of his burdensome fatigue.
Mahendra stood below the stairs for some time, trying to compose himself. He tried to stoke the embers of the love he felt for Binodini. He tried to tell himself that eventually he had got the person he had wanted above all else in the world; today nothing stood between the two of them—it was a day of great joy for Mahendra. But perhaps the fact that nothing stood between them was the greatest barrier—today Mahendra was his own hurdle.
Binodini, spotting Mahendra at the door, left her meditative pose, got up and lit a lamp. She picked up her sewing, lowered her eyes and immersed herself in the needlework. This sewing was her shield, she felt safe behind it.
Mahendra stepped into the room and said, ‘Binod, you must be terribly uncomfortable here.’
Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1 Page 17