And such wonderful service it was. Not a moment of lassitude. Such neat work, such wonderful cooking, and such sweet conversation!
‘It’s late, my girl, go and have something to eat,’ Rajalakshmi would say.
Binodini would refuse to obey. Until she had fanned her pishima to sleep, she would not get up.
‘But you’ll fall sick if you go on like this, my girl.’
Displaying utter unconcern for herself, Binodini would respond, ‘Sickness does not touch unfortunates like me, Pishima. You have come to your birthplace after such a long time, but what do we have to offer you here, what can I pamper you with?’
In no time, Bihari became the leader of the neighbourhood. People would come to him for medicine to treat their ailments, for legal advice, to request him to find employment in some office for their sons, or to write applications for them. From gatherings of old men playing cards and chess, to the toddy-drinking sessions of the lower caste Bagdis, he went everywhere, carrying with him his good humoured curiosity and natural warmth. Nobody considered him an outsider; yet he commanded everyone’s respect.
Behind the scenes, from the seclusion of the inner quarters of the house, Binodini would try to mitigate the suffering of this young man from Kolkata who found himself exiled to this godforsaken place. Every time Bihari returned from his wanderings in the neighbourhood, he would find that someone had cleaned and tidied his room, arranged a bunch of flowers in a brass tumbler, and placed volumes of Bankim and Dinabandhu beside his mattress. In the flyleaf of each book, inscribed in a firm yet feminine hand, was Binodini’s name.
Such care was rather different from the forms of hospitality customary in rural areas. When Bihari pointed this out admiringly, Rajalakshmi would be full of reproach. ‘And you boys slighted such a girl!’ she would remind him.
Bihari would smile. ‘We did not act wisely, Ma, we were deceived. But it is better to be deceived without being wed; being deceived after marriage can cause a real problem.’
‘This girl could have become my daughter-in-law,’ Rajalakshmi would think. ‘Why didn’t that happen?’
Rajalakshmi had only to mention the subject of her return to Kolkata and Binodini’s eyes would grow moist. She would plead, ‘Pishima, why did you come just for a few days? When I did not know you, the days would somehow pass. How will I live without you now?’
In an outburst of emotion, Rajalakshmi would exclaim, ‘My dear, why did you not become my daughter-in-law? For then I could have kept you close to my heart!’
Embarrassed, Binodini would get up and go away on some pretext.
All this while, Rajalakshmi was awaiting a distressed, beseeching letter from Kolkata. Since his birth, her Mahin had never stayed apart from his mother for so many days. Surely, by now his mother’s absence would have made him restless! Rajalakshmi thirsted for a letter from her son, begging her indulgence even as it revealed his hurt feelings.
Bihari received a letter from Mahendra. Mahendra had written, ‘Ma must be very happy to be visiting her birthplace after such a long time.’
‘Ah, Mahendra has written this out of wounded pride,’ Rajalakshmi thought. ‘Happy? As if this unfortunate mother could live happily anywhere in Mahendra’s absence!’
‘O Bihari, what has Mahendra written next? Why don’t you read it to me, my boy?’
‘There’s nothing more, Ma.’ Bihari crumpled the letter in his fist, placed it inside a book, and hurled the volume into a corner of the room with a thud.
Rajalakshmi could not remain calm after this. Mahendra’s letter must have been so reproachful towards his mother that Bihari refused to read it to her.
As a calf nudges the cow’s udder to stimulate the flow of milk and maternal love, so Mahendra’s rage prodded Rajalakshmi into expressing her stifled maternal affection. She forgave Mahendra. ‘Mahin is happy in his wife’s company. So let him be happy—let him be happy by all means. I shall not trouble him about his wife anymore. Poor Mahin is angry with his mother, because she who could not live without him for a single hour has abandoned him!’ Again and again, tears welled up in her eyes.
That day, Rajalakshmi repeatedly pleaded with Bihari: ‘Go baba, go and take a bath. Your habits have grown very irregular since you came here.’
Bihari seemed to have no inclination to bathe or dine that day. ‘Ma, wretches like me are better off in an unkempt state,’ he said.
‘No, my boy, please go and bathe,’ Rajalakshmi pleaded.
Finally, after a thousand persuasions, Bihari went to bathe. As soon as he left the room, Rajalakshmi quickly extracted the crumpled letter from within the book.
Handing the letter to Binodini, she said, ‘Take a look, my dear, see what Mahin has written to Bihari.’
Binodini began to read aloud. Mahendra had begun by writing about his mother; but that was very brief, not much more than what Bihari had already told her.
Immediately after, he had written of Asha. Mahendra had written as if intoxicated by the delights of love, its mystery and its joy.
After reading out just a bit, Binodini paused in embarrassment. ‘Pishima, you wouldn’t wish to hear any more of this!’ she faltered.
The expression of eager affection on Rajalakshmi’s face froze instantly into a rock-like hardness. ‘Let it be!’ she said, after a short silence, and left without reclaiming the letter.
Carrying the letter, Binodini entered her room. She locked the door from within and, sitting down on the bed, began to read.
What emotion the letter evoked in Binodini only she knew. But it was not amusement that she felt. As she read the letter over and over again, her eyes began to burn like sand in the glare of the afternoon sun. Her breath grew fiery like the hot desert wind.
What was Mahendra like, what was Asha like, and what was the nature of their amorous relationship?—this was the sole question that incessantly tormented her. Leaning against the wall, with her legs outstretched, the letter in her lap, she sat for a long time, staring straight ahead of her.
Bihari never found Mahendra’s letter again.
That afternoon, Annapurna suddenly arrived on the scene. Fearing bad tidings, Rajalakshmi’s heart suddenly began to quake; she did not dare ask any questions, just gazed at Annapurna with a pale face.
‘All is well in Kolkata, Didi,’ Annapurna assured her.
‘Then what brings you here?’
‘Didi, please take charge of your own household once again. I have no interest in worldly matters anymore. I have set out on a pilgrimage to Kashi. That is why I have come to seek your blessings. Whether knowingly or unknowningly, I have committed many misdemeanours; please forgive me. And as for your daughter-in-law, she is young and motherless.’ As she spoke, her eyes grew moist and tears began to flow. ‘Guilty or innocent, she is yours.’ She could say no more.
Rajalakshmi busied herself with arrangements for Annapurna’s bath and dinner. Hearing the news, Bihari came running from Gadai Ghosh’s chandimandap, the Ghoshs’ family shrine for the annual Durga Puja. Reverently touching Annapurna’s feet, he protested, ‘Kakima, how is this possible? Could you be so cruel as to abandon us?’
‘Bihari, don’t try to make me return,’ pleaded Annapurna, controlling her tears. ‘May all of you live happily. My absence will make no difference.’
Bihari sat in silence for a while. Then he said, ‘It is Mahendra’s misfortune that he has caused your departure.’
‘Don’t say such things!’ cried Annapurna, startled. ‘I am not at all angry with Mahin. Unless I leave, good fortune will not visit the household.’
Gazing into the distance, Bihari sat in silence. Annapurna undid the knot in the aanchal of her sari and extracted two thick gold bangles. ‘Baba, please keep this pair of bangles. When you marry, give them to your bride with my blessings.’
Reverently touching the pair of bangles to his forehead, Bihari rushed to the adjoining room to stem his tears.
When it was time to leave, Annapurna said, ‘Bihari, look a
fter my Mahin and my Asha.’ Handing a piece of paper to Rajalakshmi, she said, ‘In this document, I have transferred my share of the property, my father-in-law’s legacy, to Mahin. Just send me fifteen rupees every month.’
She prostrated herself, and touched Rajalakshmi’s feet. Taking her leave, she set out on her pilgrimage to the holy land.
8
Asha was frightened. What was happening! Ma had gone away, and now Mashima had left as well. It seemed as if the conjugal bliss of the newlyweds was driving everyone away. As if it would be her turn next. In the empty, abandoned household, their playful, amorous antics began to strike her as rather excessive.
As a flower plucked from a tree gradually droops and shrivels, love that avoids the harsh realities of practical life cannot thrive on its own resources. Asha, too, began to secretly notice that a jaded, weary note had crept into their constant togetherness. Every now and then, their mutual passion would show signs of fading; without the firm support of the world of everyday duty, it was difficult to keep up this fervour. Unless love is rooted in purposeful activity, its delights are neither fulfilling nor lasting.
Defying hostile disapproval, Mahendra, too, tried to make a great show of celebrating their conjugal bliss in the ominous atmosphere of the empty home by summoning all the amorous resources at his command.
‘Chuni, what’s the matter with you nowadays?’ he taunted Asha. ‘Why are you so morose about Mashi’s departure? Don’t all other forms of love find their culmination in our love for each other?’
Wounded by his remark, Asha thought, ‘There must be something lacking in my love, then. After all, I think of Mashi often, and I feel afraid because my mother-in-law has gone away.’ And so she tried her utmost to compensate for the crime of loving all these other people.
Now, the housework did not proceed smoothly, as the servants had taken to shirking their duties. One day, the maidservant reported sick and the cook vanished somewhere in a state of inebriation.
‘What fun, let us cook for ourselves today,’ Mahendra proposed to Asha.
Mahendra went by carriage to New Market to shop for groceries. Having no idea what was required and in what quantity, he came home joyfully carrying a few packages. Asha, too, was not sure what was to be done with these items. Two or three hours went by in experimentation. Mahendra felt greatly amused, having produced a variety of novel, inedible dishes. However, Asha could not join in Mahendra’s merriment; she felt ashamed and hurt at her own ignorance and lack of expertise.
Things were in such disarray in all the rooms that nothing could be found when required. One day, Mahendra’s surgical instrument was banished to oblivion in the garbage after being used for chopping vegetables, and his notebook, having served its purpose as a hand-held fan, now rested in the ashes of the kitchen.
Mahendra’s amusement knew no bounds in the face of such unimaginable domestic turmoil, but Asha continued to find it distressing. To this young girl, there seemed to be something horrifying in the way they were drifting along blithely, after drowning the entire household in a flood of unrestrained willfulness.
One evening, the two of them were lounging on a bed laid out in the covered veranda. Before them lay the open terrace. After the rains, the Kolkata skyline, a row of palatial domes extending across the horizon, was flooded with moonlight. Her head bowed, Asha was stringing a garland of wet bakul blossoms plucked from the garden. Trying to provoke her unnecessarily, Mahendra kept tugging at the garland, hindering her work and making critical remarks. If Asha began to scold him for such unreasonable disruptive behaviour, Mahendra would cover her mouth, nipping her admonitions in the bud.
Suddenly, they heard the call of the caged koel next door. Mahendra and Asha immediately glanced up at the cage suspended above their heads. Their own koel could never silently endure the cooing of the bird next door. Why was she not responding today?
‘What is the matter with the bird today?’ asked Asha anxiously.
‘The sound of your voice has put her to shame.’
‘No, don’t joke, please see what has happened to the koel,’ begged Asha.
Mahendra lowered the cage. Removing the cover, he saw that the koel was dead. After Annapurna’s departure, the attendant had gone away on leave, and nobody had taken care of the bird.
Asha’s face grew pale. Her fingers refused to move; the flowers lay neglected. Although Mahendra was shaken, he tried to laugh off the matter lest their amorous mood be dispelled in an untimely manner. ‘It’s all for the better; it would have plagued you with its cooing while I was away practising medicine.’ With these words, Mahendra enfolded Asha in his arms and tried to draw her towards him.
Slowly disengaging herself, Asha shook out the bakul blossoms from her aanchal. ‘No more of this!’ she cried. ‘We should be ashamed. Go quickly and bring Ma back.’
9
Just then a voice from the first floor called: ‘Mahinda, Mahinda!’
‘Who is it? Come in, come in!’ Mahendra replied. Hearing Bihari’s voice, Mahendra’s heart grew cheerful. After the wedding, Bihari had sometimes seemed an obstacle to their happiness, but today, he was a welcome intrusion.
Asha, too, felt relieved at Bihari’s arrival. Covering her head with her aanchal, she quickly rose to her feet. Mahendra said, ‘Where are you going? It’s only Bihari.’
‘Let me go and organize some snacks for Thakurpo.’ At the prospect of doing some work, Asha lost some of her lethargy. Head covered, she stood waiting to hear news of her mother-in-law. She still did not speak directly to Bihari.
‘What a disaster!’ Bihari exclaimed as soon as he entered. ‘I have interrupted such a romantic scene! Have no fear, Bouthan, please remain seated. I’ll be off.’
Asha glanced at Mahendra’s face.
‘Bihari, what news of Ma?’ he asked.
‘Why speak of mothers and aunts today, my friend? There will be plenty of time for all that,’ said Bihari, adding, in English, ‘Such a night was not made for sleep, nor for mothers and aunts!’
With these words, Bihari prepared to depart, but Mahendra dragged him in and forced him to sit down. Bihari pleaded, ‘Bouthan, I am not at fault, as you can see. He has forcibly dragged me here; do not curse me for a sin that Mahinda has committed.’
Because she could not offer a retort, Asha was extremely annoyed by such remarks. Bihari was teasing her deliberately.
‘I can see the condition of the house,’ he observed. ‘Isn’t it time to bring your mother back?’
‘By all means,’ replied Mahendra. ‘We are waiting for her.’
‘It would take very little time for you to write a letter informing her of this, but it would make her extremely happy. Bouthan, I beg you, you must give Mahinda a couple of minutes’ leave to perform this task.’
Asha went away in anger. Tears began to flow from her eyes.
‘The two of you must have met at such an auspicious moment!’ said Mahendra. ‘Nothing can reconcile you; you get at each other all the time.’
‘Your mother has spoilt you, and now your wife is all set to spoil you as well. It’s because I can’t bear to see it happen that I make a few remarks when I get the chance.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘Very little where you are concerned, but to me, it does make a slight difference.’
10
Bihari personally supervised the letter Mahendra wrote to his mother. Carrying the letter with him, he departed the very next day to fetch Rajalakshmi. Though Rajalakshmi realized that this letter had been written at Bihari’s instance, still, she could not keep away any longer. With her came Binodini.
Observing the condition of her house upon her return—unscrubbed, filthy, topsy-turvy—the lady of the house felt even more hostile towards the bride.
But what a change had come over her daughter-in-law! Asha would follow her like a shadow; unasked, she would come forward to help her at work. Flustered, Rajalakshmi would say, ‘Let it be, let it be, you will
ruin everything. Why interfere in a task that you don’t know how to perform?’
Rajalakshmi concluded that it was Annapurna’s departure that had brought about such an improvement in her daughter-in-law. But she thought, ‘Mahendra will think when his aunt was here, he could live in unhindered bliss with his bride, but as soon as his mother arrived, he was separated from his beloved. This will only prove that Annapurna is his well wisher, while I am an obstacle to his happiness. Why let this happen?’
Nowadays, if Mahendra sent for Asha in the daytime, she would hesitate, but Rajalakshmi would scold her, saying, ‘Should you ignore Mahin when he calls you? This is what happens ultimately when you are too pampered. Go, there is no need for you to help with the vegetables.’
Again the false games with slate, chalk and Charupath. Hurling baseless romantic accusations at each other. Groundless yet tumultuous arguments on the relative measure of their love for each other. Turning monsoon days into nights and moonlit nights into daylight hours. Forcibly warding off fatigue and lassitude. Habituating each other to a situation where even momentary freedom from the bonds of sexual union seemed a fearsome prospect, even when togetherness failed to bring any joy to their enervated hearts. Their conjugal bliss was reduced to ashes, yet they felt no urge to seek a change of activity. It is the terrible curse of self-indulgence that the joy of it is short-lived but the bondage grows insurmountable. In the meantime, Binodini came to Asha one day, placed her arms around her neck, and said, ‘My friend, may your good fortune last forever, but does my unhappy situation not merit a single glance?’
Reared in relatives’ homes as an outsider, Asha had developed an innate diffidence in her manner towards people in general. She was afraid of being rejected. When Binodini appeared on the scene, with her arched eyebrows and penetrating gaze, her flawless face and youthful voluptuousness, Asha did not have the courage to approach her.
Chokher Bali Page 4