The Boat-wreck

by Rabindranath Tagore

‘I do not know.’

  ‘Who else has gone with them?’

  ‘Nalin-babu.’

  ‘Who is Nalin-babu?’

  ‘I do not really know.’

  Ramesh’s further questioning revealed that Nalin-babu was a young man who had been frequenting Annada-babu’s home of late. Although Ramesh had been prepared to leave with all hope extinguished, he felt no burst of affection for Nalin-babu.

  ‘How is your Didi-thakrun?’ Ramesh finally asked.

  ‘She is very well,’ said the servant.

  Sukhan had expected Ramesh to be happy and reassured at this pleasant news. The Almighty knew how wrong Sukhan was.

  ‘I want to go upstairs,’ said Ramesh.

  The servant escorted Ramesh to the first floor with the light of his smoking kerosene lamp. Ramesh wandered about like a wraith, picking a chair here and a sofa there to sit down briefly. Everything was arranged as before, but who was this interloper Nalin? No hole remained empty for a long time. Ramesh had stood at a window by Hemnalini’s side once, embellishing the silent union of two hearts on a day when it had rained incessantly – but it wasn’t as though the setting sun would no longer cast its glow on that window. Were a couple to walk up to the same window, would history really come in their way and keep them at a distance? Ramesh’s heart burst with disappointment and hurt.

  Instead of making a stop at Allahabad, he went directly to Ghazipur the next day.

  34

  Ramesh had spent nearly a month in Calcutta. It had not been a brief period for Kamala. The currents of her life were flowing towards culmination rather swiftly. Just like the speed with which the glow of dawn turns into broad daylight, Kamala’s womanliness had awakened from its slumber quickly. Had she not become intimate with Shailaja, had the lustre and warmth of love not radiated from Shailaja’s life to shine on her heart, it is difficult to say how long she would have had to wait for this awakening.

  Meanwhile, because of Ramesh’s delayed return, Chakraborty had arranged for a bungalow outside the city, by the river, for Kamala and him. He had even made arrangements for some furniture and engaged servants and maids to make the new household habitable.

  When Ramesh returned at last from his long sojourn in Calcutta, there remained no excuse to stay in Chakraborty’s house any longer. Finally, Kamala entered her own independent household.

  There was sufficient land around the bungalow for a garden. A shaded path wound through two rows of tall Indian rosewoods. Reduced to a trickle in winter, the Ganga had retreated into the distance, and a low sandbank had appeared between the river and the house. Peasants were cultivating wheat and melon on it. A large neem tree stood on the southern periphery of the house, a paved platform running around its base.

  Because of the long absence of a tenant and the resultant neglect of the land, the garden had no trees to speak of. The rooms were dirty, too. But Kamala liked everything she saw. Blissfully radiant in her own household at last, she perceived all of this as beautiful. Kamala decided what use to put each of the rooms to, and what kind of trees she would plant in different parts of the garden. Talking it over with Chakraborty, she made up her mind to cultivate the entire land around the house. She supervised the construction of the kitchen oven personally, and made whatever changes were necessary in the adjoining larder. Cleaning and mopping, arranging things – there was no end to her activities. Her tender touch was evident everywhere.

  Nowhere is a woman’s beauty as unique, as pleasing, as in household work. Today Ramesh viewed Kamala in the midst of this work; it was as though he was seeing a caged bird fly freely. Ramesh had not seen Kamala in her own place all this time. When he finally saw her at the pinnacle of her own household, there was something noble about her beauty.

  Going up to her, Ramesh said, ‘Kamala, you’re working too hard, you’ll be exhausted.’

  Pausing, Kamala looked up at Ramesh and smiled sweetly. ‘No, I won’t.’

  Accepting Ramesh’s concern for her as a reward, she immersed herself in her labours once again.

  Charmed, Ramesh found another pretext to talk to her. ‘Have you eaten, Kamala?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ said Kamala. ‘Long ago.’

  Ramesh was aware of this, but he could not keep himself from displaying his newfound love for Kamala. And it wasn’t as though Kamala was not pleased at Ramesh’s redundant question.

  To initiate another conversation, Ramesh said, ‘Are you going to do everything yourself, Kamala? Give me some work too.’

  The trouble with competent people is that they have no faith in other people’s abilities. They fear that if they do not do it themselves, someone else will inevitably bungle it. ‘No, this isn’t for you men.’ Kamala smiled.

  ‘It is only because men are extremely patient that we tolerate this contempt without rebelling,’ said Ramesh. ‘Had we been women, we would have quarrelled vociferously. You don’t hesitate to make Khuro work for you, am I so very inept?’

  ‘I don’t know all that,’ said Kamala, ‘but the very thought of you clearing the cobwebs in the kitchen makes me laugh. Go away now, there’s a lot of dust here.’

  To continue the conversation, Ramesh said, ‘Dust doesn’t discriminate between people, it treats you the same way that it treats me.’

  ‘I have to bear it because I have work to do. You don’t, so why should you bear it?’

  Lowering his voice to prevent himself from being overheard by the domestic staff, Ramesh said, ‘Whether there’s work here for me or not, I want to be part of all that you have to bear.’

  Kamala’s ears reddened. Without answering, she moved away and said, ‘Pour some more water here, Umesh – can’t you see how muddy it has become? Give me the broom.’

  She proceeded to wield the broom vigorously.

  At this Ramesh suddenly grew agitated. ‘What are you doing, Kamala?’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that, Ramesh-babu?’ he heard someone say behind him. ‘You people read English books and pay lip service to equality. If you consider sweeping the floor so demeaning, why do you ask your servants to do it? I am ignorant, but if you ask me, every stick in that broom in Ma’s hand is as bright as a sunbeam. I’ve cut down most of your jungle, Ma, you’ll have to show me where you want your vegetable patch.’

  ‘Just a minute, Khuro-moshai, I’m almost done with this room.’

  Finishing her cleaning, Kamala untied the end of her sari from around her waist and put it on her head before going out of the room for a detailed conversation with Chakraborty over the vegetable patch.

  And so the day wound down, but things in the house were not yet in their place. The bungalow had been locked up and unused for a long time – it would not be habitable until all the rooms were mopped and cleaned and the doors and windows kept open for two or three days more.

  Accordingly, they had to take shelter in Chakraborty’s house again in the evening. Ramesh was a little dismayed by this. All day long he had imagined the evening lamp burning in their own private room tonight, by the light of which he would offer his overwhelmed heart to Kamala’s shy smile. Now that it seemed it would take three or four days more, Ramesh left for Allahabad the next day on work related to his law practice.

  35

  Shailaja was invited to a picnic at Kamala’s new house the next day. After Bipin had left for his office, Shailaja set off to honour the invitation. Chakraborty had not gone to school that Monday on Kamala’s request. The two of them were cooking beneath the neem tree, with Umesh as assistant.

  After the meal had been prepared and eaten, Chakraborty went inside and sank into an afternoon nap, while the two friends sat down under the shade of the tree and began their eternal discussions. Blending with the stories, the riverbank, the winter sunshine, the shade of this tree all appeared beautiful to Kamala. Just like the hawk streaking like an arrow high in the cloudless blue sky, an aimless desire resident in Kamala’s breast also flew away into the distance.

  No sooner had the sun
declined to the west that Shailaja grew anxious. Her husband would return from his office soon. ‘Can you not break your rule even a single day?’ asked Kamala.

  Without answering, Shailaja smiled and took Kamala’s chin between her fingertips to give it an affectionate shake. Then, entering the bungalow and waking her father up, she said, ‘I’m going home, Baba.’

  Chakraborty told Kamala, ‘You come too, Ma.’

  ‘No, I have some more work here, I’ll come in the evening.’

  Leaving his long-standing retainer and Umesh behind with Kamala, Chakraborty escorted Shailaja home, where he had some unfinished work. ‘I shall be back soon,’ he told Kamala.

  The sun had not yet set when Kamala finally completed her household chores. Drawing a shawl around herself, she sat down beneath the neem tree. In the distance, the masts of boats moored across the river appeared like black scratches against a sky on fire. The sun set behind them.

  Umesh appeared on the pretext of asking a question. ‘You haven’t had a paan in a long time, Ma – I brought some when we came away.’ He handed her a packet.

  Kamala realized that evening was here. She jumped to her feet. ‘Chakraborty-moshai has sent a carriage,’ Umesh told her.

  Before leaving, Kamala entered the bungalow once more for a final survey of the rooms.

  There was a fireplace in the Western style in the drawing room. A kerosene lamp was burning on an adjoining shelf. Putting the packet of paan on it, Kamala was about to take a closer look at something when her own name on the piece of paper in which Umesh had wrapped the paan caught her eye.

  ‘Where did you get this piece of paper?’ Kamala asked Umesh.

  ‘It was in a corner of Babu’s room, I picked it up while sweeping the floor.’

  Unfolding the sheet of paper, Kamala began to read it.

  This was the elaborate letter that Ramesh had written Hemnalini. He had no idea when and where he had carelessly dropped it.

  Kamala finished reading.

  ‘Why are you just standing there, Ma? It’s getting late.’

  The room was wrapped in silence. Umesh was frightened by the expression on Kamala’s face. ‘Can’t you hear me, Ma?’ he said. ‘Let’s go, it’s late.’

  Chakraborty’s retainer appeared a little later, saying, ‘The carriage has been waiting a long time, Mai-ji. Let’s go.’

  36

  ‘Aren’t you well today, Kamala?’ asked Shailaja. ‘A headache?’

  ‘No,’ answered Kamala. ‘Where’s Khuro-moshai disappeared?’

  Shailaja said, ‘His school is closed for Christmas. Ma has packed him off to Allahabad to look after Didi…she hasn’t been well for some time.’

  ‘When will he back?’ asked Kamala.

  ‘Not for another week at least. You’re working too hard on doing up your bungalow, you look rather ill today. Why don’t you go to bed early tonight?’

  Kamala would have been relieved if she could have told Shailaja everything, but this was not something she could reveal. ‘The man I considered my husband all this time is not my husband’ – it was not something she could tell Shailaja of all people.

  In her bedroom, Kamala closed the door and sat down to read Ramesh’s letter once again by lamplight. The person to whom the letter had been written was neither named nor identified by address, but it was obvious that it was a woman someone Ramesh was to have been married, and whose relationship with Ramesh had ended over Kamala. Nor had Ramesh made a secret of the fact that it was the recipient of the letter whom he loved with all his heart and that only an ill turn of fate had forced him to snap this bond of love forever out of pity for an orphaned young woman.

  Kamala relived all her memories, starting with her first meeting with Ramesh on the sandbank in the river, going all the way to their arrival here in Ghazipur. All that was unclear became clear now.

  Kamala felt her embarrassment scarring her like a burning iron rod every time she considered how she had confidently considered Ramesh her husband and had been about to make a permanent home with him, while he had always thought of her as someone else’s wife and was distraught wondering what to do with her. Recalling every single incident, she wanted to sink through the floor. This shame was fused into her life now, she would never be released from it.

  Opening the door, Kamala stepped out into the back garden. It was a dark winter night, the black sky as cold as a black rock. There was not a trace of mist, the stars shone brightly.

  A grove of bonsai mango trees added to the darkness. Kamala’s thoughts would not still. She sat down on the cold grass, as still as a statue. Not a teardrop escaped her eyes.

  It was not possible to say how long she would have remained sitting this way had the intense cold not squeezed her heart, making her shiver. When the rise of the waning moon late at night finally sliced through the edge of the darkness within the silent palm grove, Kamala rose to her feet, went back to her room and shut the door.

  In the morning, she opened her eyes to find Shailaja standing by her bed. Realizing how late it was, Kamala shot upright in her bed.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ said Shailaja. ‘I’m sure you’re not well – you must sleep a little longer. Your face looks drawn, you have dark circles beneath your eyes. What is it? Tell me.’ Sitting down by Kamala, Shailaja put her arms around her.

  Kamala’s chest began to heave, her tears would be dammed no longer. Burying her face in Shailaja’s shoulders, she burst out sobbing. Shailaja held her close without a single word.

  A little later Kamala freed herself from Shailaja’s arms, wiping her eyes and forcing herself to smile. ‘Go on, no need to smile,’ said Shailaja. ‘I know a lot of girls, but never seen another one as secretive as you. But if you think you can hide from me…I’m not such a fool. Shall I say it? You’re upset because Ramesh-babu hasn’t written to you since he went to Allahabad – you’re so sentimental! But you must realize he’s there on work and will back soon, how can you be so angry if he hasn’t had the time to write? Really! But I admit, for all my advice, I’d have behaved precisely the same way. Women have to shed so many of these useless tears. But when they’re wiped out and replaced with a smile, you won’t remember any of this.’ Drawing Kamala close, Shailaja said, ‘Today you are determined never to forgive him, isn’t that right? Tell me truly.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Kamala.

  Stroking her cheek, Shailaja said, ‘Indeed! We’ll see. Want to bet?’

  Shailaja wrote to her father in Allahabad at once, saying, ‘Kamala is very worried at receiving no letters from Ramesh-babu. First she’s taken to a new place to stay, and then Ramesh-babu abandons her frequently, not bothering to write. Can you imagine how she’s suffering? Is his work in Allahabad unending? Everyone is busy, but that does not mean he cannot make time to write her a short letter.’

  Chakraborty met Ramesh, reading out portions from his daughter’s letter reproachfully. It was true that Ramesh was considerably attracted to Kamala, but this had only heightened his hesitation.

  Trapped in this quandary, Ramesh was unable to return from Allahabad. Meanwhile, Chakraborty read out Shailaja’s letter to him.

  Ramesh realized that Kamala was anxious about him – but he had not written only out of embarrassment. He proceeded to write a letter to her without any further delay. This is what he wrote:

  Dearest—

  Kamala, do not consider my form of address a convention of correspondence. Were I not to consider you the dearest person to my heart in the world today, I would not have addressed you this way. If you have been in doubt about this, if I have ever dealt a blow to your tender heart, let my addressing you as ‘dearest’ terminate all your doubts, all your agony. How can I be more explicit than this? Much of my behaviour must have caused you pain – if you have levelled accusations against me about this, I shall not protest in the least. I shall only declare that today you are my dearest, there is no one dearer to me. If not even this can conclusively mitigate all my sins, all my unfair acts
, nothing can.

  Therefore, Kamala, by calling you my ‘dearest’ today, I am pushing away our clouded past, with this address of ‘dearest’ I begin the future of our love. My ardent plea to you today is that you believe wholeheartedly that you are indeed my dearest. If you can accept this in your heart, there shall be no need to ask me again to clarify your doubts.

  Now, I do not dare ask if I have your love. Nor shall I. I have not the least doubt that a favourable answer to my unarticulated question shall pass one day from your heart to mine in silence. I say this on the strength of my love. I do not pride myself on my abilities, but why shall my worship not bear fruit?

  I realize only too well that what I write here does not sound natural, that it reads like a composition. I wish I could tear this letter up. But it is not possible for me at the moment to write the letter I really wish to. For a letter belongs to two people – when only one of them corresponds, not everything can be written properly. I shall succeed in writing a letter worth its name when there shall be nothing left to know about each other’s hearts. Only when doors facing one another are kept wide open does the breeze flow freely. Kamala, my dearest, when will you open your heart to me fully?

  All this shall be resolved by and by, there is nothing to be gained from haste. I shall arrive at Ghazipur on the morning after the day on which you get this letter. My request to you is this: I wish to see you in our own home in Ghazipur. I have spent a long time in a homeless state – I have no more patience – now I shall enter our home to see the goddess of my heart transformed into the goddess of the home. That shall be the moment our eyes shall meet again. Do you remember the first time they did? On the moonlit night, by the river, on the deserted sandbank. There we had no roof over our heads, no walls, no relationship with members of our families or neighbours – it was entirely outside the home. It was like a dream, none of it seemed real. That is why a second meeting of our eyes awaits us, by the soft and pure light of the morning, within the home, within truth. On a sacred winter morning I shall etch your unsullied, smiling figure in my heart forever – this is what I await eagerly. Dearest, I am a guest come to your heart, do not turn me away.