The Boat-wreck

by Rabindranath Tagore

  Stricken, Umesh said, ‘If you can persuade Babu to part with a few coins, I can get a large rohu.’

  An anxious Kamala said, ‘No, I’m not letting you get off the steamer any more. No one will stop for you if you’re left behind again.’

  ‘Why should I get off the steamer?’ said Umesh. ‘Many large fish were caught in the boat’s fishing nets today, the deckhands might be willing to sell one or two.’

  Kamala immediately gave Umesh a rupee, telling him, ‘Bring the change back.’

  Umesh brought the fish, but no change. ‘They refused to take less than a rupee.’

  Kamala realized this was not the unadulterated truth. Smiling, she said, ‘When the steamer stops the next time I must make sure to get some small change.’

  ‘Extremely important,’ responded Umesh gravely. ‘Once a rupee goes out it’s difficult to get anything back.’

  Sitting down to eat, Ramesh said, ‘Most delicious. But how did you find so much fish? This is an actual fish-head.’ Holding it up tenderly, he said, ‘This is not a dream, not an illusion, not a delusion, this really is a fish-head – the crown of what is referred to as the rohu.’

  And so luncheon was completed with great fanfare. Ramesh retired to a deck chair to concentrate on digestion. Kamala made Umesh sit down to eat. Umesh found the fish preparation so palatable that Kamala’s enthusiasm turned from amusement to apprehension. Anxiously she said, ‘No more, Umesh. I’m keeping it for you, you can have the rest at night.’

  In this way the chores of the day and laughter and anger lifted the weight that had gathered in Kamala’s heart that morning – she did not even realize how.

  Gradually daylight waned. The rays of the sun slanted, growing longer and occupying the deck of the steamer from the west. The mild sunlight of early evening twinkled on the moving water. On the narrow trails running between the tender green stalks of autumnal crops on either side of the river, women approached the water with pitchers for a bath.

  By the time Kamala had prepared the paan, put up her hair, washed her hands and dressed for the evening in fresh clothes, the sun had set behind the bamboo groves in the village. The steamer had dropped anchor for the day.

  Kamala’s cooking was not going to be elaborate tonight. Much of what she had prepared in the morning would come in handy now. At that moment, Ramesh appeared to announce that he had overeaten in the afternoon and would not eat at night.

  ‘Nothing at all?’ asked Kamala, dejected. ‘Perhaps some fried fish and…’

  ‘No fried fish,’ declared Ramesh and left.

  Kamala emptied all the fried fish and curry on Umesh’s plate. ‘Aren’t you keeping some for yourself?’ asked Umesh.

  ‘I have eaten already,’ she answered.

  There was no habitation on the moonlit banks. Like a lover in mourning, the silent silver night lay awake over the vast expanse of the dense, soft green rice fields.

  In the small hut with a tin roof on the bank which was used as the office of the steamer company, an emaciated clerk was sitting on a stool and writing his books by the light of a kerosene lamp on his desk. Ramesh could see him through the open door. Sighing, he reflected, ‘If only my fate were to bind me like that clerk to a narrow but clearly defined life! I would have written up the accounts, done my work, been scolded for my mistakes, and gone home at night. But I would have been saved, I would have been saved.’

  Eventually, the lights in the office went out. Locking the door, the clerk wrapped a shawl around himself to keep the chill out and disappeared slowly along the deserted fields of grain, and could no longer be seen.

  Ramesh had not realized that Kamala had been standing in silence at the railing behind him. She had expected Ramesh to come looking for her in the evening. When he did not, she went to the deck on her own, but stopped abruptly, unable to get herself to go up to him. The moonlight had fallen on Ramesh’s face, revealing a distant expression that did not suggest he was thinking of Kamala. Wrapped in the moonlight, the vastness of the night seemed to be keeping a silent watch on Ramesh, sunk in his reverie, and this lonely young woman.

  When Ramesh hid his face in his hands and lowered it on the table, Kamala went off quietly towards her cabin. She tread softly, lest Ramesh discover she had come in search of him.

  But when she entered her dark, desolate cabin, her heart trembled, and she felt utterly abandoned and lonely. The tiny wooden cubicle opened its jaws wide like a cruel wild beast to wrap her in the darkness of its cavernous mouth. Where was she to go? Where could she lay down her frail body and say, closing her eyes, ‘This is where I belong’?

  Peeping outside her cabin, Kamala went out again. As she did, Ramesh’s umbrella fell on the tin trunk with a clatter. Startled by the sound, Ramesh lifted his eyes and, getting out of his chair, found Kamala standing outside her cabin. ‘Kamala! I thought you would have been in bed by now. Are you frightened? Very well, I shall not sit outside any longer – I’m going to sleep in the next room, I’ll keep the connecting door open.’

  ‘I am not afraid of anything,’ said Kamala, plunging into her dark room and shutting the door which Ramesh had decided to keep open. Throwing herself on her bed, she covered her face with a sheet, as though, unable to find anyone of her own in the world, she was embracing herself intimately. Her heart grew rebellious. Where there was neither dependence not independence, how was she to survive?

  The night simply would not pass. Ramesh had fallen asleep in the next room by now. Finding her bed unbearable, Kamala went out slowly. Holding the railing, she looked at the riverbank. There was no sound of a living being anywhere. The moon was declining to the west. With her eyes on the narrow trail that disappeared between fields of grain, Kamala began to wonder how many women walked home along this path every day with their pitchers of water. Home! As soon as the word formed in her mind, her heart lurched. A small home – but where was hers? The empty riverbanks stretched out before her, and the enormous sky was silent from one horizon to the other. This infinite, endless vastness was unnecessary for the young woman – all she needed was a small home of her own.

  Suddenly Kamala was startled by the presence of someone else nearby.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, Ma, it’s me, Umesh. It’s very late – why aren’t you asleep?’

  The tears that had not escaped her all this while now overflowed her eyes. The large drops refused to be held back, and kept flowing continuously. Kamala turned away from Umesh. A cloud was passing with its burden of rain – just like her, the slightest touch of a homeless wind made it shed its entire load of water. As soon as the young boy, homeless himself, said a kind word or two to Kamala, she could no longer contain the tears welling up in her breast. She tried to speak, but not a word escaped her choked throat.

  Umesh’s troubled heart did not know how to comfort her. After a while he said, ‘You know that one rupee you gave me, Ma? I saved seven annas from it.’

  By then Kamala’s tears had thinned to a trickle. Smiling fondly at Umesh’s irrelevant disclosure, she said, ‘Very well, keep it. Go to bed now.’

  The moon sank behind the trees. This time Kamala’s exhausted eyes closed as soon as she lay down on her bed. She was still asleep when the morning sun knocked on her door.

  28

  The day had only begun and already Kamala was feeling exhausted. To her eyes the sunlight seemed fatigued, the flow of the river tired, and the trees on the bank, as weary as long-distance travellers.

  When Umesh appeared to help Kamala with her tasks, Kamala said tiredly, ‘Go away, Umesh, don’t bother me today.’

  Umesh wasn’t one to give up so easily. ‘Why should I bother you, Ma? I’m here to give you a hand.’

  That morning Ramesh had asked Kamala on seeing her expression, ‘Are you ill, Kamala?’

  Kamala shook her head just once in silence to convey the redundancy and meaninglessness of such a question and went off into the kitchen.

  Ramesh realized that the problem was turning more a
cute by the day. It had to be resolved soon, very soon. He came to the conclusion that it would be easy to discharge his duty once he had arrived at a clear understanding with Hemnalini.

  After a great deal of thought, Ramesh sat down to write to Hem. Scribbling and scratching his words out, he raised his face, startled, on hearing someone say, ‘Your name, sir?’ Standing in front of him was a middle-aged man with a white moustache and the hint of baldness behind thinning hair. Evicted suddenly from its attention to the letter, Ramesh’s single-minded concentration found itself adrift for a moment.

  ‘You are a Brahmin? Namashkar. I have already found out that your name is Ramesh-babu – but you see, asking for someone’s name is a way to get to know them. It’s a matter of courtesy. Some people are annoyed by this, if you are one of them, you may extract your revenge now. Ask me – I shall tell you my name, my father’s name, I shall not baulk at telling you my grandfather’s name.’

  Smiling, Ramesh said, ‘My anger is not quite so terrible, knowing your name alone will please me.’

  ‘My name is Trailakya Chakraborty. In the areas to the west of Bengal I am known as uncle, “khuro”. You must have read history. Just as Bharat was the Chakraborty king of India, I am Chakraborty-Khuro to all of this land. Since you are travelling to my kingdom, my name shall not remain unknown to you. But where are you going?’

  ‘I have not decided yet,’ said Ramesh.

  ‘You are taking your time to decide, but you brooked no delay in boarding the steamer.’

  Ramesh said, ‘Getting off the train at Goaland, I discovered the steamer blowing its whistle. It was obvious that even if I needed some more time to make up my mind, the vessel was about to leave. Therefore I decided quickly.’

  ‘I salute you, sir. My respect for you grows. There is a world of difference between you and us. We make up our minds first and board the ship afterwards – for we are cowards. You have decided to travel, but have not yet chosen a destination. This is no mean achievement. Is your family with you?’

  Ramesh hesitated in saying, ‘Yes’. Since he was silent, Chakraborty said, ‘Pardon me, I have already come to know from reliable sources that your family is accompanying you. Bouma was cooking in that room there, which was where I wandered in, goaded by hunger. When I saw her, I said, “Don’t be shy because of my presence, I am the one and only Chakraborty-Khuro in this region.” Oh, she was the bountiful goddess incarnate. “Since you have occupied the kitchen,” I told her, “you must not deprive me of sustenance, for I am helpless.” She smiled sweetly at me, and I was convinced that the goddess was pleased with me. I had nothing to worry about. I always look up the auspicious minutes in the almanac before leaving home, but fortune does not smile on me every time. You are busy, I shall not disturb you any further – if you have no objection, I shall assist Bouma. Why should she have to soil her hands when I am here? No, please go on writing, do not let me interrupt your work. I am capable of performing my own introductions.’

  Chakraborty left for the kitchen, where he said, ‘The aroma is delicious, it is obvious how mouthwatering this dish will be. But I will make the ambol myself; no one who does not live in these hot lands can make it from their heart. You must be thinking the old man is babbling – how can he make ambol when there’s no tamarind? You’ll never have to worry about tamarind as long as I’m here. Wait a bit, I’ll get you everything you need.’

  Chakraborty proceeded to bring a small pot of mustard too, wrapped in paper. ‘Eat as much you like today of the ambol I make, and then put away the rest, it will take exactly four days to be pickled. After that, even a taste will tell you that Chakraborty-Khuro may be a braggart, but he can definitely make ambol. Now go and bathe, it’s late. I will finish the cooking. Don’t hesitate, I am used to this. My wife is always sickly, making ambol for her continuously to cleanse her palate has made me an expert. You’re laughing at this old man. But it’s not a joke, it’s true.’

  ‘I shall learn the art of making ambol from you,’ said Kamala with a smile.

  ‘Goodness me! Is it so easy to teach such skills? The goddess of learning would be unhappy if the lessons lasted only for a day for that would dim the pride of knowledge. You must flatter this old man for three or four days. And you needn’t worry about how to do it, I shall tell you in detail. To begin with, I’m a little partial to paan, but the betel nut must be sliced. It isn’t easy to bring me under your spell, but your smile has ensured that you are making progress. What’s your name, my boy?’

  Umesh did not answer. He was angry; the old man seemed to have come to take away a share of Kamala’s affection from him. Since he was silent, Kamala said, ‘His name is Umesh.’

  The old man said, ‘He’s a good boy. I can see he can’t be won over quickly, but take my word, we will get along. Now don’t tarry here any longer, I shall be done with the cooking soon.’

  Kamala forgot the emptiness in her heart.

  Ramesh, too, was somewhat relieved at the old man’s arrival. His behaviour with Kamala and their unrestricted proximity to each other during the first few months when he had thought of her as his wife was in such sharp contrast to the present situation that this sudden difference could not but have hurt the young woman. If this Chakraborty could distract Kamala to some extent, Ramesh would survive by concentrating his attention on his own wounded heart.

  Kamala appeared near the door to his cabin. She wanted to claim Chakraborty entirely for herself through the idle afternoon. When he saw her, Chakraborty said, ‘No, Ma, this isn’t good. This won’t do.’

  Unable to understand what it was that wouldn’t do, Kamala became timid. The old man said, ‘Those shoes. Ramesh-babu, you are responsible for this. Say what you will, this is not right – you must not deprive the earth from the touch of these feet, else the land will be reduced to dust. Do you think Lakshman would have been able to wander about in the forest for fourteen years had Ramchandra made Sita wear Dawson’s boots? Never. Ramesh-babu is smiling, but he doesn’t approve of what I say. And indeed, he should not. You cannot hold yourself back when you hear the ship’s whistle, you board at once, but you do not give a thought to the destination.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us where we should go, Khuro?’ asked Ramesh. ‘Your advice will be more practical than the ship’s whistle.’

  ‘There you are,’ said Chakraborty, ‘your analytical powers have improved already – even though our acquaintance is still young. Then come, come to Ghazipur. Will you come to Ghazipur, Ma? It has rose farms, and that’s where this aged admirer of yours lives.’

  Ramesh looked at Kamala. She nodded her acquiescence at once.

  Now Umesh and Chakraborty settled themselves in Kamala’s cabin. Sighing, Ramesh remained outside. The steamer chugged along in the afternoon. Coloured by the autumn sun, the diversity of the scenes on either bank of the river kept unfolding as though in a dream. Rice fields made way for moored boats, sandbanks appeared in some places, followed by village cowsheds and tin roofs in market towns, or groups of three or four passengers waiting for the ferry beneath ancient shady trees. Kamala’s pleasant laughter reached Ramesh’s ears frequently through the lulling silence of the mild afternoon. Every time it did, he felt his heart twist. Everything was so beautiful, and yet so distant.

  29

  Kamala was still young – there was no doubt that anxiety or pain could not last permanently in her heart.

  She had had no opportunity to agonize over Ramesh’s behaviour these past few days. Garbage always gathers at the spot where the current is impeded – the natural flow of Kamala’s emotions had met a sudden obstacle in Ramesh’s attitude. Whirling around it, the same thoughts had kept cropping up in her mind. With Chakraborty she began to laugh and scold and cook and feed; overcoming all obstacles, her emotions began to flow again. The eddies cleared out, all that had gathered, circling around and around, was swept away. She no longer thought about herself.

  Making the diverse scenes on the river journey all the more delig
htful, the beautiful October days turned the pages of Kamala’s daily, happy chores like pure poetry set against a golden water-colour canvas.

  The days would begin with the excitement of things to be done. Umesh no longer missed the steamer, but his basket would still be full. His morning load was the subject of great curiosity in Kamala’s tiny household empire. ‘Oh my, where on earth did you get all this! Look, Khuro-moshai, I had no idea these were available in this Hindi-speaking land.’ There would be a similar outcry over the contents of the basket every morning. The days that Ramesh was present appeared discordant, for he could not keep himself from suspecting theft. An agitated Kamala would say, ‘But I gave him the money myself.’

  ‘That makes it doubly easy for him to steal,’ Ramesh would say. ‘He steals both the money and the vegetables.’

  Then he would summon Umesh, saying, ‘Give an account of what you spent.’

  The accounts were never satisfactory. Trying to make them balance led expenditure to surpass income. This did not daunt Umesh in the least. ‘If I could keep accounts, why would I be in this predicament? I could have become a bookkeeper, could I not, Dada-thakur?’

  Chakraborty said, ‘You must judge after luncheon, for then you will be fair. For now, I cannot but encourage this young fellow. Umesh, my boy, gathering is no mean skill: very few people possess it. Everyone tries, but how many succeed? I value those with talent, Ramesh-babu. Show me the number of boys who can collect unseasonable vegetables at dawn in a foreign land. Everyone can try, sir, but only one in a thousand can gather.’

  ‘This isn’t right, Khuro, you’re wrong to encourage him,’ Ramesh protested.

  ‘The boy is not particularly well-endowed with talents. It would be a matter of great regret if lack of encouragement were to destroy whatever little he does possess. Umesh, my boy, get some neem leaves tomorrow; some uchhey would be marvellous too. Ma, we must make shuktuni tomorrow. Our ayurveda says… but never mind all that, we are getting late. Umesh, go wash the vegetables.’