The Boat-wreck

by Rabindranath Tagore

  One evening Ramesh tugged at the bun on her head, saying, ‘You haven’t done up your hair well today, Sushila.’

  ‘Why do all of you call me Sushila?’ she blurted out.

  Ramesh stared at her in surprise, unable to understand the significance of this question.

  ‘Do you suppose I will bring you good fortune simply through a change of name?’ she asked. ‘I’ve brought bad luck to everyone since childhood – it won’t end till I die.’

  Ramesh’s heart began to thump, his face turned pale. Something was wrong somewhere – he was suddenly overcome by doubt. ‘What do you mean, you’ve brought bad luck since childhood?’ he asked her.

  His wife said, ‘My father was dead before I was born, my mother died within six months of my birth. I lived a miserable life with my maternal uncles. Suddenly I was told that you had arrived from nowhere and picked me as your bride. We were married within days and then you know the horrible things that happened.’

  Ramesh collapsed on his bed. There was a moon in the sky, but its brilliance suddenly drained. Afraid of asking any more questions, he wanted to distance himself from what he had discovered, dismissing it as delirium, as a nightmare. A summer breeze blew in from the south, like someone sighing after regaining consciousness. A sleepless lark kept calling in the moonlight, while the song of boatmen from the boats moored in the river nearby rose in the air. When Ramesh had not spoken for a long time, his wife touched him gently. ‘Are you asleep?’

  ‘No,’ answered Ramesh.

  But there was no further response from him. His wife fell asleep. Sitting up, Ramesh gazed at her slumbering figure. Whatever the creator had written into her fate had not yet left a mark on her face. How could such a terrible destiny be lurking behind such a beautiful face?

  6

  Ramesh realized that he was not the husband of this young woman but finding out who was was not easy. Cunningly he asked her, ‘What was your impression of me when you saw me for the first time during the wedding?’

  ‘I did not see you,’ she answered simply. ‘I had lowered my eyes.’

  ‘You didn’t even know my name?’

  ‘The wedding took place the very next day after I was told I was to be married. I was never told your name. My aunt got rid of me as quickly as possible.’

  ‘You have learnt to read and write, haven’t you? Can you write your name for me?’ Ramesh finally asked, handing her a sheet of paper and a pencil.

  ‘Of course I can,’ she responded. ‘It’s easy to spell my name.’ She wrote her name in large letters – ‘Srimati Kamala Devi.’

  ‘Very well. Write down your uncle’s name now,’ Ramesh said.

  Kamala wrote: ‘Sri Tarinicharan Chattopadhyay.’ And looking up, she asked,‘Did I make a mistake?’

  ‘No,’ said Ramesh. ‘Can you write the name of your village?’

  She wrote, ‘Dhobapukur.’

  The details of her life which Ramesh extracted cautiously did not help very much.

  Now Ramesh began to consider where his duty lay. Her husband had probably drowned. Even if he could locate her husband’s family, it was doubtful whether they would accept her. Nor would she be treated justly if she were to be sent back to her uncle and aunt. If he were to reveal the truth after she had been living as his wife all this time, how would society treat her? Where would she find refuge? Even if her husband were alive, would he be inclined to – or bold enough – let her live with him? She would sink into the depths wherever Ramesh abandoned her now.

  Ramesh could not let her stay with him except as his wife, but there was nowhere else where she could live, either. But that didn’t mean he could accept her as his wife. All those portraits he had drawn of her on the canvas of the future with his loving paintbrush had to be wiped off hastily.

  Ramesh could not go on living in the village. He would find a solution amidst the teeming masses in Calcutta – with this thought he took Kamala to the city, renting a house a long way from the area where he used to live.

  Kamala was eager to see all of Calcutta. On the first day after moving into their new home, she sat down by the window, where the constant flow of people kept her engaged in ever-new bursts of curiosity. They had employed a maid to whom Calcutta held no novelties. Equating her young mistress’s wonder with meaningless ignorance, she said in annoyance, ‘What are you staring at? It’s time to have a bath, the day won’t wait for you.’

  The maid was to go home after the day’s work since they could not find someone who would stay at night. ‘I cannot sleep on the same bed as Kamala any more,’ mused Ramesh, ‘but how is she to spend the night alone in this unfamiliar place?’

  Once the maid left for the day after their dinner, Ramesh told Kamala, ‘Go to bed, I’ll sleep after I’ve finished my book.’

  He pretended to read his book, while a tired Kamala quickly sank into sleep.

  The first night passed this way. The next night, too, Ramesh made Kamala go to bed alone on some pretext. It was particularly warm that day. Spreading out a sheet on the open terrace outside their room, Ramesh lay down on it and, reflecting on different things as he fanned himself, eventually fell asleep.

  At about two or three in the morning, a half-asleep Ramesh sensed that he was not alone and that someone was fanning him. Drowsily drawing her close to himself, he mumbled, ‘Go to sleep, Sushila, no need to fan me.’ Afraid of the dark, Kamala slept in comfort in Ramesh’s arms, her head on his chest.

  Ramesh woke up with a start the next morning to discover Kamala’s sleeping arm entwined around his neck. Exerting herself right over Ramesh, she was sleeping in his embrace without any reservation. Ramesh’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of the sleeping young woman. How was he to disentangle himself from these trusting, tender arms? He remembered how she had sat down at his side in the middle of the night to fan him. With a deep sigh, he freed himself from her arms gently and left.

  After much thought Ramesh decided to make arrangements for Kamala at the hostel at a girls’ school. Even if only temporarily, he would be relieved of his worries.

  ‘Would you like to study, Kamala?’ he asked her.

  Kamala looked at him, as though asking, ‘What do you think?’

  Ramesh held forth on the benefits and pleasures of education. None of this was necessary, for Kamala said, ‘Yes, educate me.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll have to go to school,’ Ramesh told her.

  Surprised, Kamala blurted out, ‘School? At this age?’

  Smiling at her pride in her own maturity, Ramesh said, ‘Girls older than you go to school too.’

  Kamala didn’t protest any more, and Ramesh took her to school in a carriage. It was a huge building – she could not count the number of girls, both older and younger than her. As Ramesh was leaving the premises after depositing her with the principal, Kamala came up to him and started walking alongside him. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asked Ramesh. ‘You have to stay here.’

  ‘Won’t you stay too?’ asked Kamala in a frightened voice.

  ‘I cannot stay here,’ Ramesh told her.

  ‘Then I cannot, either,’ said Kamala, gripping his hand. ‘Take me home.’

  ‘For shame, Kamala,’ said Ramesh, freeing himself.

  She was silenced by this admonition, her face falling. A miserable Ramesh left quickly but her bewildered, helpless, frightened expression remained imprinted on his mind.

  7

  Ramesh had decided to start practising law at Alipore Court. But he was heartbroken. He did not have the enthusiasm to work with a calm mind and overcome the obstacles that would come between him and his endeavours. For a few days, he wandered aimlessly on the bridge over the river and around Goldighi. ‘Should I travel?’ he asked himself. That was when he received a letter from Annada-babu.

  He had written, ‘The Gazette says that you have passed your examinations – I am disappointed not to have heard the good news from you. We have had no news of you in a long time. I wo
uld be reassured and happy if you informed me how you are and when you propose to visit Calcutta.’

  It would not be irrelevant to state here that the young man from England, whom Annada-babu had set his sights on, had returned with his degree and arrangements were under way for his marriage with a wealthy man’s daughter.

  Ramesh could not decide whether it would be appropriate to meet Hemnalini, considering all that had taken place in the meantime. He did not consider it his duty to tell anyone about his relationship with Kamala, for he did not wish to have the innocent young woman humiliated. But how would he regain his position in Hemnalini’s eyes unless he told her everything?

  And yet, it would not be proper to delay his reply to Annada-babu’s letter. Ramesh wrote: ‘I have been unable to meet you owing to unavoidable circumstances. I seek your forgiveness.’ He did not add his new address.

  Posting the letter, Ramesh appeared at the Alipore Court the very next day in the garb of a lawyer.

  On his way back one evening, he was about to engage a carriage a few steps away from the court when he heard a familiar voice say exclaim excitedly, ‘Baba, there’s Ramesh-babu!’

  ‘Coachman, stop!’

  A carriage drew to a halt next to Ramesh. Annada-babu and his daughter were on their way back from a picnic at the zoo when they spotted him.

  As soon as Ramesh saw Hemnalini’s familiar serene elegance, her special way of draping her sari around herself, the hairdo which he knew so well, her austere bracelet and two pairs of gold bangles, his heart seemed to lurch upwards into his throat.

  ‘There you are, Ramesh,’ said Annada-babu, ‘how lucky to meet you on the road. You have stopped writing to us, and even when you do, you don’t give your address. Where are you going now? Anything important?’

  ‘No, on my way home from the court,’ Ramesh said.

  ‘Then you must come home with us for a cup of tea.’

  Ramesh’s heart was full – there was no room for hesitation in it.

  He climbed into the carriage. Making a great effort to overcome his inhibitions, he said to Hemnalini, ‘I hope you are well.’

  Without responding to his enquiry about her health, she said, ‘You did not inform us that you had passed your examinations.’

  Unable to answer this, Ramesh said, ‘I saw that you have passed too.’

  ‘At least you still keep yourself informed about us,’ Hemnalini smiled.

  Annada-babu asked, ‘Where do you live nowadays?’

  ‘Darzipara,’ said Ramesh.

  ‘But there was nothing wrong with your old accommodation at Colootola,’ remarked Annada-babu.

  Hemnalini looked expectantly at Ramesh in anticipation of his answer. Her eyes bore into Ramesh, who answered at once, ‘Yes, I have decided to go back to the same house.’

  Ramesh realized clearly that Hemnalini considered his change of address a misdemeanour. Knowing that he could offer no excuse pained him. No other questions were asked. Hemnalini stared at the road outside. Unable to contain himself, Ramesh offered a redundant justification. ‘A relative of mine lives near Hedua, I took up residence at Darzipara so that I can attend to his needs.’

  While not a complete lie, the argument seemed implausible. Was Hedua too far from Colootola to be visited? Hemnalini’s eyes remained fixed on scenes outside the carriage. The hapless Ramesh had no idea what else to say. He could only ask, ‘So what news of Jogen?’

  Annada-babu said, ‘He failed in his law examination and has decided to travel.’

  When they reached their destination, the familiar house and its interiors cast their spell on Ramesh. A sigh emerged from his heart. He proceeded to drink his cup of tea without a word. Suddenly Annada-babu said, ‘You spent a long time at home – did you have a lot of business to attend to?’

  ‘My father passed away,’ said Ramesh.

  ‘What! How terrible. How did it happen?’

  ‘He was returning home on the Padma when a storm capsized the boats, causing him to drown.’

  Just like a gust of wind that clears the sky in an instant, this tragic news dissolved the disquiet between Ramesh and Hemnalini. Hem told herself repentantly, ‘I misunderstood Ramesh-babu – he was overcome with grief at losing his father. Possibly he is still distracted by it. We blamed him without knowing of the crisis in his family and the burden on his heart.’

  Hemnalini proceeded to take extra care of the fatherless young man. Ramesh had no appetite but she pleaded with him to eat. ‘You have become so thin,’ she said, ‘don’t neglect your health.’ To her father she said, ‘Why doesn’t Ramesh-babu have dinner with us, Baba?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Annada-babu.

  Akshay arrived at this moment. He had ruled single-handedly over Annada-babu’s tea sessions for some time. Today he was astonished to see Ramesh here. Restraining himself, he said with a smile, ‘Oh, it’s Ramesh-babu! I thought you had quite forgotten us.’

  Ramesh smiled without answering. Akshay continued, ‘Considering the speed with which your father arrested and whisked you away, I thought he was determined to get you married … I hope there’s no threat of that any more.’

  Hemnalini cast an irritated look at Akshay.

  Annada-babu said, ‘Ramesh has lost his father, Akshay.’

  A wan Ramesh sat with his eyes downcast. Hemnalini was irked with Akshay for adding to Ramesh’s agony. Turning to Ramesh, she said quickly, ‘We haven’t shown you our new album yet, Ramesh-babu.’ Fetching the album, she drew Ramesh to one end of the table and began to discuss the photographs. A little later she asked softly, ‘You live alone in your new house, don’t you, Ramesh-babu?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ramesh.

  ‘Don’t take too much time to move in next door,’ Hemnalini told him.

  ‘No, I shall definitely move next Monday,’ said Ramesh.

  ‘I’m thinking of taking your help for my BA philosophy course.’

  Ramesh expressed great enthusiasm for the idea.

  8

  Ramesh wasted no time moving back to his old home.

  The slight distance that had sprung up between Hemnalini and Ramesh disappeared entirely. Ramesh became one of the family again. The atmosphere grew joyous.

  Hemnalini’s intensive academic pursuit had lent her a fragile appearance. It seemed as though a strong gust of wind might break her back. She had even grown to be reticent, and everyone was afraid to talk to her, lest she take offence at the most harmless statement. But a miraculous transformation now took place in a short period. A rosy hue appeared on her pale cheeks. Her eyes danced with laughter every now and then. Earlier, she used to consider paying attention to one’s attire a sign of frivolity, even a transgression. Only the Almighty could tell how she had changed her mind about this without entering into an argument.

  Weighed down by responsibilities, Ramesh used to be no less despondent. His body and mind had both slowed down under the inexorable need to exercise his judgement constantly. Like an observatory whose complicated array of instruments had forced it into inactivity while the dazzling stars and planets in the sky continued their way, Ramesh too had turned inert under the sheer weight of his academic compulsions. But what had made him so unburdened today? When, earlier, he could not come up with a retort to a barb, he burst into laughter these days. He had not actually begun combing his hair yet but his garments were no longer as soiled as they used to be. There was new life in his body and mind.

  9

  None of the facilities that poetry prepares for lovers is available in Calcutta. Where is the row of flowering trees, where the bower of vines beneath the full moon, where the honey-throated cuckoo’s songs? But still the magic of love is not thwarted in this harsh and arid metropolis devoid of beauty. Hundreds of times every day and every night, amidst this suffocating crowd of vehicles, through these tram lines imprisoned in iron bars, the evergreen god of love hides his bow and arrow to pass in full view of red-turbaned policemen.

  When it came to the flowering of
their romance, no one could claim that just because Ramesh and Hemnalini lived in rented houses opposite a seller of hides next to a grocery in Colootala, they lagged behind the inhabitants of pastoral abodes nestled within arbours. The tiny, discoloured, tea-stained table in Annada-babu’s house gave Ramesh no cause to feel the absence of a lake strewn with lotuses. Even though Hemnalini’s pet cat was no darkling fawn, Ramesh scratched its neck with ardent affection – and when it arched its back and abandoned its languor to lick itself clean, his enthralled gaze held the glory of this creature in no less esteem than that of any other quadruped’s.

  Hemnalini’s determination to pass her examinations had prevented her from honing her skill at needlework, but now she had engaged herself with great concentration in learning the art from an expert friend. Ramesh considered needlework insignificant and unnecessary. His exchanges with Hemnalini were about literature and philosophy and he was kept at a distance when it came to embroidery. Which was why he often said with a degree of impatience, ‘Why are you so taken with needlework these days? It is useful only for those who have no other way to pass their time.’ Hemnalini threaded her needle with a smile and without a response.

  Akshay said sharply, ‘All that is useful in the world is meaningless in Ramesh-babu’s judgement. You may be the greatest philosopher and poet in the world but you cannot survive a single day without these insignificant things.’

  Ramesh girded his loins for a spirited argument, but Hemnalini interrupted him, saying, ‘Why must you enter into a debate over everything, Ramesh-babu? You have no idea how many unnecessary words it leads to.’ Lowering her head, she proceeded with her embroidery with great attention.

  One morning, Ramesh discovered a blotter on his desk, bound in silk and satin. In one corner was the first letter of his name, while on the other was embroidered a lotus with golden thread. It took him not a moment to appreciate the history and the significance of the blotter. His heart danced and his soul accepted without debate or demur that needlework was not a trite affair, after all. Holding the blotter to his breast, he felt ready to accept defeat to Akshay. At once he placed a notepaper on the blotter and wrote…