Chokher Bali

by Rabindranath Tagore

  It was futile to try avoiding people in a tiny locality. Here, there was no dark, private corner where she might have the chance to nurse her broken heart. From all directions, sharp, inquisitive eyes would gaze upon her wounds. The more Binodini’s inner self thrashed about like a captured fish in the fisherman’s basket, the more she hurt herself within the narrow confines of her environment. Here, there was no space even to fully savour her pain.

  On the second day, when the time for mail delivery was past, Binodini shut her door and sat down to write:

  Thakurpo, don’t be afraid, I do not intend to write you a love letter. You are my judge; I bow before you in obeisance. You have punished me harshly for my sins; at your command, I have taken that punishment upon my head with great deference. Sadly, you could not witness the harshness of the punishment you have inflicted. I have been deprived even of the pity you would have felt, had you seen or known it. Remembering you, mentally bowing down to you, I shall bear even this. But my lord, does a captive in prison not even receive any nourishment? Not a feast, to be sure, but surely, she is entitled to the minimum rations required for her to stay alive? A two-line letter from you would be such sustenance for me in exile; if I don’t receive it, you would have condemned me not only to exile, but to death. Don’t test me thus far, my judge. There were no limits to the arrogance of my sinful heart; I had not imagined, even in my dreams, that I would ever have to bow my head thus before anyone else. Victory is yours, my lord; I shall not rebel. But have pity on me: let me live. Offer me sustenance, in meagre portions, during my stay in this wilderness. Nobody and nothing then can shake my faith in your authority. I disclose to you only this small part of my suffering. I have vowed not to let you know all the other things that are in my mind, which my heart yearns to tell you. I hereby keep my vow.

  Yours

  Binod Bouthan.

  Binodini posted her letter. Her neighbours cried shame. To remain at home behind closed doors, writing letters, accosting the postman in the hope of receiving a letter! Even if one had fallen upon hard times in Kolkata, should one be so disgracefully brazen about it?

  Even the next day, there was no letter. All day, Binodini remained still and silent; her face hardened. Hurt and humiliated, tormented from within and without, a cruel, destructive power took shape deep within the dark recesses of her heart, and struggled to burst forth. In fearful anticipation, Binodini locked her door.

  She had nothing of Bihari’s with her—no picture, not even a one-line letter, nothing. She seemed to be groping for something in empty space, some token of Bihari’s self to clasp to her breast and to bring tears into her dry eyes. She wanted to melt all the hardness of her heart in a flood of tears, to quench the flames of rebellion, and to enshrine Bihari’s harsh decree in the tenderness of her love. But her heart blazed like the noontime sky during a drought, with no sign of tears anywhere on the horizon.

  Binodini had heard that a person invoked in prayer during intense meditation cannot but appear. Hands folded in supplication, eyes shut, she began to call Bihari: ‘My life is empty, my heart is empty; emptiness is all around me. Into this emptiness, please come just once, come for just one moment, you have to come, I shall not give you up.’

  Repeating these words with heartfelt fervour, Binodini felt herself grow stronger. It seemed to her that the force of her love, the power of her invocation would not be in vain. Merely wallowing in nostalgia, watering the plant of despair with the heart’s blood, makes the heart dejected. But through intense meditation, exerting the full force of one’s desire, one feels empowered. As acute desire singlemindedly seeks to attract its target, the desired one seems to draw closer, slowly and surely, moment by moment.

  When her deep meditation on Bihari had permeated the dark, unlit room in the evening, when world and society, village and neighbourhood, the universe itself, had faded away from her consciousness, drowned in the flood of her love, Binodini suddenly heard a knock on the door. Swiftly arising from the floor, she rushed to open the door, calling out in complete certainty: ‘My lord, have you come?’ She was firmly convinced that at this moment, nobody else in the world could have come to her door.

  ‘I have come, Binod!’ announced Mahendra.

  With boundless indifference and tremendous contempt, Binodini exclaimed, ‘Go, go! Go away from here. Go at once.’

  Mahendra was stunned.

  An elderly neighbour came up to Binodini’s door. ‘Hello, Bindi, if your Didishashuri, your mother-in-law’s aunt, were to arrive tomorrow …’ Then she exclaimed, ‘Oh, my goodness!’ and covering her face and head with her aanchal, she ran off at great speed.

  39

  The matter created a stir in the neighbourhood. The village elders gathered at the chandimandap, the shrine meant for the annual Durga Puja. ‘This cannot be tolerated!’ they declared. ‘We could ignore what was happening in Kolkata, but the brazenness of writing letter after letter to Mahendra, to drag him here, right into our neighbourhood! We cannot permit such a fallen woman to remain in the village.’

  Binodini was certain of receiving Bihari’s reply to her letter by the next morning, but no reply arrived. She began to ask herself, ‘What claim does Bihari have upon me? Why did I accept his decree? Why did I let him believe that I would bow to his will? Beyond the need to protect his beloved Asha, does he have no further interest in me? Have I no claims of my own, no demands, not even for a paltry two-line letter? Am I so worthless, so contemptible?’ At this, Binodini’s bosom swelled with the poison of envy. ‘One may suffer all this pain for anyone else, but surely not for Asha! To bear this poverty, this exile in the wilderness, this public opprobrium, this negligence, this frustration in every area of my life just for Asha’s sake! Why did I allow myself to be cheated so! Why did I not carry out my vow of revenge and destruction before I came away? What a fool I am! Why did I fall in love with Bihari?’

  As Binodini sat stiffly in her room like a wooden statue, her didishashuri, back from her son-in-law’s house, accused her: ‘You wretched woman, what’s all this I hear?’

  ‘What you hear is entirely true.’

  ‘Then what was the need for you to bring such disgrace into this neighbourhood? Why did you come here?’

  Suppressing her rage, Binodini remained silent. ‘My child,’ her didishashuri informed her, ‘you cannot remain here. I was unfortunate enough to survive the loss of all who were near and dear to me, but I cannot tolerate matters of this nature. For shame! You have disgraced us. Please leave at once.’

  ‘I shall leave at once.’

  Right then, Mahendra suddenly arrived on the scene, unwashed, unfed, his hair uncombed. His eyes were bloodshot from a sleepless night, and his face was wan. He had decided to come early in the morning, while it was still dark, to make a second attempt at taking Binodini away. But smarting from Binodini’s unprecedented display of contempt on the previous day, many doubts arose in his mind. Gradually, as the day rolled on, and the hour of the train’s departure drew close, he emerged from the waiting room at the station, and sweeping aside all doubt and hesitation, mounted his carriage and drove straight to Binodini’s door. Spurred by the arrogant power that accompanies a defiant, daring deed, Mahendra experienced a wild joy. All his lethargy and hesitation evaporated. To his frenzied eyes, the curious villagers seemed like lifeless clay dolls. Without glancing in any direction, Mahendra came straight up to Binodini. ‘Binod,’ he declared, ‘I am not coward enough to leave you here in the face of public ignominy. I must take you away from here somehow. After that, if you wish to abandon me, you may do so; I shall not stop you. I swear it will be exactly as you wish: if you take pity on me, I shall live; if you do not, I shall remove myself from your life. I have committed many faithless deeds in my life, but do not mistrust me today. We are facing a deluge; this is no time for deception.’

  With an unperturbed air, in a very natural tone, Binodini replied, ‘Take me with you. Do you have a carriage?’

  ‘I do.’


  Emerging from the hut, Binodini’s didishashuri intervened: ‘Mahendra, you don’t know me, but we are no strangers. Your mother Rajalakshmi belongs to our village; as a fellow-villager, I am like her mami, her maternal aunt. I ask you, what sort of behaviour is this? To wander about in this shameless, wild fashion, leaving your wife and mother at home! How will you show your face in civilized society after this?’

  Though lost in a realm of lunacy, Mahendra was jolted by her words. He had a mother, a wife, and a place in what was known as civilized society. This simple fact resurfaced in his mind with renewed urgency. Once, he could never have imagined that he would have to listen to such words at the door of an unfamiliar house in some unknown, far-off rural locality. In broad daylight, in front of the entire village, for him to coax a young, respectable, widowed lady out of her home and into the street was indeed a strange episode in the story of Mahendra’s life. But still, he had a mother, a wife, and a place in civilized society.

  When Mahendra stood silent without offering any reply, the old woman ordered: ‘If you must leave, go at once, right now. Don’t remain standing in the veranda outside my hut, don’t delay a moment longer.’

  With these words, she entered the hut and locked the door from within. Unwashed, dressed in stale clothes, and on an empty stomach, Binodini entered the carriage empty-handed. When Mahendra tried to climb into the carriage, Binodini stopped him. ‘No. The station is not far away; you must walk.’

  ‘But all the village folk will see me.’

  ‘Do you still have any shame?’ With these words, Binodini closed the carriage door. ‘Take me to the station,’ she ordered the coachman.

  ‘Won’t Babu go with us?’ the coachman inquired.

  After some hesitation, Mahendra’s courage failed him. The carriage drove away. Leaving the village street, Mahendra took the winding path through the fields, and walked towards the station with his head bent low.

  At that time, the village women had completed their bath and their morning meal. Just a few industrious elderly matrons, who were free only at this late hour, were walking with their gamchhas and bowls of oil towards the secluded edge of the pond, a shaded area redolent with mango blossom.

  40

  In her anxiety over Mahendra’s disappearance, Rajalakshmi could neither eat nor sleep. Sadhucharan was searching for him in all sorts of places, probable and improbable, when Mahendra returned to Kolkata with Binodini. Establishing her in a rented flat at Potoldanga, Mahendra returned to his own home at night.

  Entering his mother’s room, Mahendra found it in almost complete darkness, except for the dim glow of the shaded kerosene lantern. Like a patient, Rajalakshmi lay on the bed, and sitting at her feet, Asha was gently massaging her legs. At long last, the bride of the house had found her rightful place at her mother-in-law’s feet.

  As soon as Mahendra appeared, Asha gave a start and left the room. Shedding all hesitation, Mahendra declared, ‘Ma, it is not convenient for me to study at home; I have taken an apartment near the college; that is where I shall stay.’

  Pointing to the end of the bed, Rajalakshmi said, ‘Mahin, wait awhile.’

  Self-consciously, Mahendra sat on the bed.

  ‘Mahin, stay wherever you please, but don’t torment my Bouma,’ said Rajalakshmi.

  Mahendra remained silent. Rajalakshmi continued, ‘It is my misfortune that I failed to perceive the angelic nature of my daughter-in-law.’ As she spoke, her voice choked with emotion. ‘But having known her so long, loved her so much, how could you ultimately inflict such suffering upon her?’ Unable to control herself, Rajalakshmi burst into tears.

  Mahendra longed to get up and escape somehow, but he found himself suddenly unable to rise. In the dark, he sat on the edge of his mother’s bed, motionless.

  ‘You will stay here tonight, won’t you?’ inquired Rajalakshmi, after a long silence.

  ‘No.’

  ‘When will you leave?’

  ‘Right away.’

  ‘Right away?’ exclaimed Rajalakshmi, sitting up with difficulty. ‘Will you not even meet Bouma once?’

  Mahendra did not reply.

  ‘Have you any idea how Bouma has spent these last few days? You shameless boy, I am heartbroken at your cruelty.’ With these words, Rajalakshmi collapsed like a branch severed from a tree.

  Leaving his mother’s bed, Mahendra went out. Noiselessly, with a gentle tread, he crept up the stairs to his bedchamber. He wanted to avoid Asha.

  When he arrived upstairs, Mahendra found Asha lying on the floor of the covered terrace in front of their bedchamber. She had not heard Mahendra’s footsteps. Suddenly seeing him before her, she sat up quickly, straightening the folds of her sari. At that moment, if Mahendra had called out, ‘Chuni,’ she would have instantly taken all the blame upon her own head, and cried her heart out, clasping Mahendra’s feet like a forgiven sinner. But Mahendra was unable to utter that term of endearment. Try as he might, much as he wanted to, much as he suffered, he could not forget that any amorous gesture towards Asha tonight would in truth be empty mockery. What was the use of offering her verbal consolation, when Mahendra himself had closed the door on any possibility of his giving up Binodini?

  Asha was frozen with embarrassment. She felt too shy to stand up, or to go away, or to make any movement at all. Without speaking a word, Mahendra began to slowly pace on the terrace. The moon in its dark quarter had not yet risen. In a corner of the terrace, two flowers bloomed on separate stems of the tuberose planted in a small flowerpot. From above, the stars in the dark sky gazed down at them in silence—the same constellations, the Great Bear and the Orion, which on many previous evenings had been silent witnesses to many private acts of love.

  Mahendra began to wish for the brief tale of his recent rebellion to be wiped out by the darkness that stretched across the sky, so that he could spread a mat on this open terrace and take his permanent place beside Asha, just like before! No questions, no answerability, just the same trust, the same love, the same simple joy as before! But alas, in this world, there remained no way for them to return to that tiny space, their shared past. That corner of the mat, on this terrace, by Asha’s side, was lost to Mahendra forever. All these days, Mahendra had enjoyed a free and flexible relationship with Binodini. There was the wild pleasure of love, without its unbreakable bonds. Now that he had severed all her links with society, there was no other place where Binodini could be kept, or to which she could be returned. Mahendra was her sole refuge. Now, whether or not he wanted to, he had to bear full responsibility for Binodini. Mahendra was inwardly tormented at the thought. Suddenly, their domestic nest on this terrace, this peaceful atmosphere, the nights of free conjugal intimacy in complete seclusion seemed a great luxury. But this easy comfort, to which he alone had a right, was now beyond Mahendra’s reach. Having taken a lifelong burden upon his shoulders, not for an instant could Mahendra put it down to seek some relief.

  With a sigh, Mahendra glanced at Asha. She still sat motionless, her heart full of silent tears. Like a mother’s aanchal, the darkness of the night covered her embarrassment and her pain. Mahendra stopped his pacing to suddenly come and stand beside her as if he wanted to say something. All the blood in her body rushed to Asha’s head and began pounding in her ears. She closed her eyes. Mahendra forgot what he had been about to say. What was there to say, indeed! But he could not turn back without saying something. ‘Where is the bunch of keys?’ he asked.

  The bunch of keys lay beneath the mattress on the bed. Asha got up and went into the room. Mahendra followed her. Extracting the keys from beneath the mattress, Asha placed them on the bed. Taking the bunch of keys, Mahendra began trying them, one by one, on the lock of his almira. Asha could bear it no longer. In a low voice, she said, ‘I did not keep the keys to that almira.’

  Asha could not bring herself to utter the name of the person who kept the keys, but Mahendra understood. She quickly left the room for fear that she might burst into tears in Mahend
ra’s presence. Her face averted, she stood in a corner of the terrace, and began to weep, trying with all her might to restrain her overflowing tears.

  But there was not much time to cry. She remembered suddenly that it was time for Mahendra’s meal. Asha raced down the stairs.

  ‘Where is Mahin, Bouma?’ Rajalakshmi asked her.

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘Then why did you come down?’

  ‘His dinner …’ faltered Asha, with lowered head.

  ‘I shall arrange for his dinner, Bouma; you go and freshen up a little. Quickly, put on that new Dhakai sari, and come to me. I’ll do your hair.’

  Asha could not ignore her mother-in-law’s affection, but cringed with embarrassment at her suggestion that she should dress up. Just as Bhishma, wishing for death, had silently endured the shower of arrows, Asha, too, bore with supreme patience the ordeal of submitting her body to the adornments chosen by Rajalakshmi.

  Her toilette complete, Asha climbed the stairs unhurriedly, with a silent tread. She glanced at the terrace but found that Mahendra was not there. Slowly approaching the door, she saw that Mahendra was not in his room, either; his food lay untouched.

  Lacking the key, Mahendra had forced open the almira, taken a few essential garments and medical textbooks with him, and left the house.

  The next day was Ekadashi, the eleventh day of the lunar quarter. Ailing and in pain, Rajalakshmi lay on the bed. Outside, storm clouds were gathering. Slowly, Asha entered the room. Gently placing herself on Rajalakshmi’s bed, she touched her feet. ‘I have brought milk and fruits for you, Ma; please come and eat.’

  Seeing her unhappy daughter-in-law’s unaccustomed attempt to care for her, Rajalakshmi’s eyes brimmed with tears. Sitting up, she drew Asha onto her lap and kissed her tear-wet cheeks. She asked, ‘What is Mahin doing now, Bouma?’