‘What are you saying?’
‘I am beginning to see it as your family weakness. Until now this trait was not obvious in your brother’s case. Mark my words, it will be far more pungent because it was bottled up so long. The ardour with which he held to his purse, oblivious of the world around, will now be exercised over his wife.’
‘So be it. Let the senior uxorious man take the floor, but how will his junior carry on?’
‘That’s my lookout. Now you do as I tell you. You have to search his drawers.’
Nabin implored with folded hands, ‘I shall willingly put my hand into a snake-pit if you ask me, but I beg of you Mejobou, don’t ask me to put them into his office drawers.
‘If it were the snake-pit I would have done it myself; but the drawers are your job.You know very well that no letter can be delivered to anyone without first showing it to him. I have a strong feeling that a letter from her brother has actually reached him.’
‘I too feel the same way, but at the same time I also feel that if I so much as touch that letter, no punishment will be enough as far he is concerned. Maybe the death penalty along with seven years of rigorous imprisonment will just about do.’
‘You don’t have to do anything, not even touch the letter, just check if it is there.’
Nabin had great regard for his wife, in fact sometimes he felt that he was undeserving of her. So he welcomed any opportunity to accomplish some difficult task for her, even if he were a little frightened.
The same night she learnt from Nabin that indeed there was a letter and a telegram, in Madhusudan’s drawer, for Kumu, from her brother.
The excitement which drove Kumu from her bedroom to a maid’s job was waning. Her heart was now heavy with the pall of sadness which was replacing the annoyance at her own humiliation. She knew this could not be a permanent arrangement, yet how would she carry on without some such solution?You couldn’t possibly live in a household forever, with such forced detachment.
So ran her thoughts in her closed room which was in one corner of the veranda, screened by a wooden fencing. Except for the entrance, it had no openings. There were wooden racks all along the walls up to the ceiling. All kinds of lighting equipment and accessories were kept on those shelves. The room was thick with soot. Some servant had satisfied his aesthetic sense by sticking on the wall near the door pictures cut out from the wrapping of the lamps. In one corner, some powdered chalk was kept in a tin box. Next to it was a basket of dry tamarind and a few dirty dusters. There was also a row of kerosene tins, mostly empty, except for two or three tins.
Kumu started her day’s chore in her amateur fashion. After finishing her job in the store room, Motir-ma peeped in to witness Kumu’s predicament in trying to accomplish the impossible. She watched for a while and feared the end nearing for some of the fragile objects. In this house, the slightest loss of things did not go unnoticed.
So she did not wait any longer but volunteered with, ‘My hands are free, so I thought I could help in Didi’s work and earn some merit.’ And she pulled the basket of glass globes and chimneys to herself and started cleaning them.
There was not much force in Kumu’s protest because by now she had nearly completed the discovery of her own incompetence. Motir-ma was a godsend. But there was a limit even to Motir-ma’s native talent. She found it beyond her to fix the wick in a kerosene lamp to the right length. The entire job was done always under her supervision and she herself measured out the kerosene, but she had never got down to adjusting wicks with her own hands. So she proposed to seek the help of Banku, the old lampman.
The two women had to concede defeat. Banku the farash came and finished the job in no time. By the evening the lamps had to be distributed properly in their respective rooms. Banku asked if he were needed for that job as usual. He was a simple fellow but still there was perhaps a touch of sarcasm in his query. Kumu felt her ears reddening.
Before Kumu could say anything, Motir-ma said firmly, ‘Of course you should come.’ It was clear to Kumu that her effort to help with the work was nothing but an impediment.
31
AFTER LUNCH, BEHIND HER CLOSED DOOR SHE BEGAN TO RESOLVE SERIOUSLY, not to let the flame of anger flash in her mind any more. She said to herself, ‘Let me be calm and prepare my mind the whole of today. Then from tomorrow, with the blessings of my deity I shall tread the true path of a housewife.’ In this task of resolving the strife within herself, her biggest weapon was the memory of her brother. She had seen the amazing depth of patience in him. The sadness in his face mirrored the greatness of his heart. Her Dada, who embraced the current belief amongst the educated class, of Positivism, who did not have the outward show of saluting the gods but whose life itself was filled with divinity, he would be her role model for the future now.
In the afternoon Banku farash knocked and she opened the door and went out. She told Motir-ma that she would not need any dinner that night. This fast on her part was to cleanse her own mind. Observing her face Motir-ma felt surprise. No longer was Kumu’s face flushed crimson with the fire in her heart. Instead, her eyes and her forehead were radiant with a calm tenderness, as if she had just emerged from a holy dip. Her deity seemed to have soothed all her anguish. She appeared to be enveloped in the fragrance of a flower-offering in her heart. And because she knew that Kumu’s decision to fast was not for self-torture or out of pique, she did not raise any objection.
Kumu went and sat on the terrace, with the image of her deity in her mind. She realized clearly now that had it not been for this cruel blow, she would never have come so close to her god. She folded her hands in prayer, in the glow of the setting sun, and said, ‘My lord, do not desert me ever, make me cry as much as you wish to, but hold me close to you.’
The winter day faded out. Dust, smog and smoke from the factories combined to throw a pall of grey over the clear and sombre majesty of eventide.The sky seemed to be coming down with the burden of spreading grime and likewise Kumu’s mind was pulled down with the unbearable burden of worry for her brother.
So she entered her den with mixed feelings of relief at being free of the bondage of resentment and a misgiving on her brother’s account. She wished she could also put this burden of worry (regarding her brother’s health) faithfully upon her god. But as she herself kept telling herself not to worry she could not feel confident. The question kept on tormenting her—why was there no reply to her wire?
Madhusudan was unable to put his finger on the subtle obstacle in the way of a woman surrendering herself. Even the approach to his own wife over whose body and mind he had full rights, was proving inaccessible. He was at a loss to find a strategy to combat this unexpected conspiracy of fate.
There had never been an occasion for him to neglect his business. But now even that grave symptom was in evidence. Everyone knew how he never slackened in his work even when his mother was ill and dying. In fact they admired his resoluteness. But to discover this new identity of his—that he could give something else, that too a woman, priority over his work—was a stunning experience. He was not sure as to where this strange external force was leading him.
He came to the bedroom after dinner, hoping against hope to find his wife there. So he came in a little later than usual. He was used to going to sleep by the clock. As soon as he lay down, like any normal healthy person he fell asleep. But now, he did not go to bed at all; what if he fell asleep and Kumu came into the room? She would, no doubt, return. He sat on the sofa for a while, then paced up and down the terrace. His time for bed was nine-o’clock; suddenly he heard the bell at the main gate sound eleven. He felt ashamed. Twice or thrice he got up and stood in front of his bed, but could not bring himself to lie down. Then he decided to go and have it out with Nabin, that very night.
When he reached the front veranda he found a light in Nabin’s room. As he was about to enter it, he met Nabin coming out with a lantern in his hand. If it were daylight, he would have seen how Nabin’s face went pale in a secon
d.
He asked, ‘What are you doing here so late at night?’
Nabin was quick to think up an answer, ‘Every night at this time I go to the main hall to wind the clock and change the date card before I turn in.’
‘All right. But right now, listen to what I have to say.’
Nabin stood to attention like an accused in the dock. Madhusudan said, ‘I don’t like anyone else to fill Borobou’s head with ideas. My wife will abide by my wishes. That is how it must be.’
Nabin agreed gravely, ‘Sure. That is how it should be.’
‘So I think, Mejobou should go back to her village home.’ Nabin pretended to be greatly relieved.
‘It is just as well, Dada. I was also wondering about how to approach you, for you may not have approved.’
Madhusudan was surprised. ‘What do you mean? he asked.
‘Well, for the last few days she has been pestering me to let her go home. In fact she has already packed. Just waiting for a suitable day to start.’
Needless to say it was all made up. Madhusudan could order anybody out of his house, but he could not tolerate the idea that anyone should want to leave on their own. He was annoyed. ‘Why, what is the hurry?’
‘No, now that the mistress of the house is here, it is only appropriate that she takes charge of the household. Mejobou felt that there might be some loose talk if she continued here.’
‘Is she the sole judge of such matters?’
Nabin pretended to be naive, and said, ‘You know women and their whims! Somehow it has got into her head that one day you would sack her over something or the other and that would be too insulting for her. So she is determined to go now. A couple of days before the night of the auspicious full moon, she wants to hand over the accounts and leave by that date.’
Madhusudan said, ‘Look Nabin, you have spoiled her. Tell her sternly that she cannot go now. You are a man. I can’t bear to see you unable to rule your own house.’
Nabin scratched his head and said, ‘I shall try. But . . .’
‘All right, tell her it is my decision. When the time comes, I shall arrange it myself.’
‘But you said you wanted to send her home. That is why I thought . . .’
Madhusudan got agitated.
‘Did I say that she had to leave this very moment?’
Nabin crept out of the room. Madhusudan lit a gas lamp and lay down on a chaise-longue. The guard did a round in front of the rooms at night; Madhusudan dozed off for a while and suddenly woke up to find the chowkidar holding a lantern and staring at his face. Maybe he was wondering whether the Maharaj had just fainted or passed away. Embarrassed, Madhusudan got up in a hurry. It struck him in a moment that the pathetic sight of the newly-married Rajabahadur would be quite demeaning in the guard’s eyes. He told the guard in a huff, ‘Shut the room,’ as if it was the guard’s fault that it was not shut. The gong at the main gate struck two in the morning.
Before leaving the room, he opened the drawer, dithered a little, put Kumu’s telegram in his pocket and walked into the house.
One is not in command of all one s strength as one gets up from a sleep. Maybe that is why one’s character during the day is somewhat different from what it is in the night. At this hour of the night when no one was looking and he was answerable to no one but himself, Madhusudan found it easy in his mind to concede defeat to Kumu.
32
HE TURNED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE STAIRS. HIS HEART WAS IN A TUMULT. There was a lighted lantern in front of a closed door. He picked it up and walked up to the lamproom. He found the door ajar and it opened easily. Kumu was asleep on the same mat, covered in a sheet, her left hand resting on her breast. He put down the lantern in a corner of the wall and came and sat down on her left. The reason why this face attracted him with such compulsion was its indescribable serenity. Kumu never had any conflict within herself. In her brother’s home, she had suffered from want but that concerned her external environment; it never affected her inner nature. Her household was totally in tune with her own temperament. This was why her expression was one of complete innocence; her bearing always dignified. To Madhusudan, who had to constantly struggle for existence and who had to be alert against daily uncertainty, this grandeur of her unperturbed tranquillity was a matter of great wonder. He himself was never at ease, but there she was—as simple as a divinity. This polarity in their characters drew him strongly towards her. When he looked back on the events that took place when Kumu arrived at his house as a new bride, he found his own helpless anger at the failure of his overlordship a direct contrast to her easy but firm expression of self-respect. Never did her behaviour betray any lack of decency common in saucy females. If she had been like all the other women, then he would have had no hesitation in imposing a husband’s rights. But he hadn’t been able to really break the ice as far as she was concerned; he could never make out what went wrong, nor could he fathom what strange reason kept her beyond his reach.
He decided to stay up next to her, without waking her up. After a while he got impatient and slowly he moved her hand from her breast and took it in his own. She stirred in her sleep, pulled her hand in and turned on the other side.
He could wait no longer. He bent down and whispered into her ears, ‘Borrobou, there is a telegram from your brother.’
She sat up instantly and stared at him in amazement. Madhusudan held up the telegram and said, ‘See, it has come from your brother,’ and then he fetched the lantern from the corner.
She read it. It was in English, ‘Do not worry about me. I am getting better day by day. My blessings for you.’ It was such a relief after the agonizing worry, that her eyes were filled with tears. She wiped her eyes and carefully folded the telegram and tied it in the corner of her sari. This made him squirm in pain. They were both at a loss for words. Then it was Kumu who spoke, ‘No letters from Dada?’
Madhusudan could not bring himself to tell the truth. He just blurted out, ‘No, there is no letter.’
Kumu felt awkward to sit by in such a manner with her husband in that room. She was about to get up when he said abruptly, ‘Do not be angry with me, Borrobou!’
This did not sound like a master’s voice but more like a lover’s entreaty. Kumu was surprised beyond belief. She thought it could only be divine intervention, because during the day she had been telling herself, ‘Do not be angry,’ and now who had brought the same words to Madhusudan’s lips?
Madhusudan asked her again, ‘Are you still sore with me?’
She said, ‘Not one bit. Not at all.’
It was his turn to be surprised. He stared at her face. It seemed she was talking to herself, or with someone unseen.
He said, ‘In that case, leave this room and come to your own room.’
Kumu was not ready to be with Madhusudan, not that night. It is difficult to steel your heart as soon as you get up from your sleep. After her morning prayers she had resolved to enter the married woman’s world from the next day. But, her deity had not given her any time. He called her now, in the middle of the night! She was afraid that the immense distaste she felt would count as an offence. So she snapped out of this revulsion and forced herself to stand up and say, ‘Let us go.’
Upstairs, she stopped in front of her bedroom and said, ‘I shall not be long, I’ll be back soon.’
She went to her room, and stepped into the terrace. She sat there and looked up—a sliver of moon, in its dark fortnight, was up in the sky.
She went on repeating to herself, ‘Lord, you’ve called me, you’ve called me because you haven’t forsaken me. You have decided to take me along the thorny path and that will be with you alone, none else, my lord.’
She wanted to blot out everything. All the rest were but an illusion. Even if it were thorny all along, it was still only a part of the way—the way to Him. For this prickly journey she had the protection of her brother’s blessings—which she had carefully tied in a knot at the end of her sari. She touched her forehead with
it and then bent down on the floor in salutation. She was startled to hear Madhusudan’s voice behind her, ‘It is cold outside, Borrobou, do come inside.’ This was not in tune with the voice of her lord which she wanted to hear within herself. This was her test. Today her god would not lure her with his flute, He would remain concealed.
The more her mind, as an individual, was filled with disgust and distaste, and the more her new home forced its rights upon her, the more she drew a shell round herself. A kind of wall that would keep out the reality of likes and dislikes. In other words it would dull her consciousness about her own feelings. But this was not a matter of a few hours, she had to keep at bay her feeling of dislike and aversion, night and day. In such a situation women are usually helped by a guru to forget themselves. But it was not possible in her case. So she could only try to keep alive by chanting her own mantra constantly in her mind.
Tasmat pranamya pranidhaya kaayam
prasadaye twam ahameesham-eedam
piteb putrasya sakheb sakhyuh
priya priya-yarhasi deb sodhum.
(O my venerable lord, I bow to thee with my body and soul, to ask of you this benediction—may you bear with me just as the father does his son, the friend his companion, or the lover his beloved.)
‘I too can forgive everything out of love for You, this is the only proof that You do love me.’ She prayed with her eyes closed, ‘You have proclaimed that You will never abandon one who sees You everywhere and in everything and does not ever forget Your presence. Let me not ever slacken in this goal of mine.’
In the morning, she took a long time with her bath and anointed herself with sandal-water. She dedicated her pure, fragrant body to her deity and tried to concentrate on the thought that her hand was always held in His, and her whole being was ever in touch with Him. It was He who truly possessed her; the corporeal body was merely an illusion. It was but dust to be mingled unto dust in no time. As long as she could feel His touch nothing could debase it. The more she dwelt on this, the happier she felt and tears of joy filled her eyes; her body was free of its fleshly bond. In fact she revered her body as the object of a divine union. If she had a garland of white flowers she would have put it round her neck and on her hair. She wore a white sari with a wide red border; and when she came and sat on the terrace she felt as though the sunbeams caressed her body in a warm welcome.
Tagore Omnibus, Volume 1 Page 62