Chokher Bali

by Rabindranath Tagore

  Alas, it had vanished, the magic of the overcast monsoon evening and the full moon night after a shower of rain!

  49

  Bihari wondered how he would face the desolate Asha. When he entered the portico, he was instantly enveloped in the deep gloom of the house that had been abandoned by its master. Glancing at the faces of the watchman and the servants, Bihari bowed his head in shame for Mahendra, who had vanished in such a frenzied state. He could not greet these familiar attendants with affectionate queries, as before. When it came to entering the private quarters, his feet refused to carry him further. Bihari did not have the heart to see the cringing, wounded Asha subjected to public humiliation, the terrible humiliation that Mahendra had inflicted on her before the eyes of the entire world, the humiliation that takes away the last vestige of a woman’s privacy, forcing her to stand exposed to the inquisitive, pitying gaze of the whole world.

  But there was not much opportunity for such worry or hesitation. As soon as he entered the private quarters, Asha hurried up to Bihari. ‘Thakurpo, please come quickly,’ she begged. ‘Ma’s condition has become acute.’

  This was Bihari’s first direct conversation with Asha. In times of sorrow and hardship, a single small jolt can fling aside all obstructions; in a sudden flood, those who live apart are flung together when cast up on a narrow strip of land.

  Bihari was hurt by Asha’s unreserved expression of anxiety. This minor instance demonstrated even more clearly what Mahendra had done to his household. Under the pressure of difficult times, just as the décor and beauty of the house was neglected, so, too, had the bride of the house lost all chance of preserving at least the semblance of modesty. Asha no longer had the time to pay any heed to the niceties of deportment such as covering her head or maintaining discretion in her social behaviour.

  Bihari entered Rajalakshmi’s room. Rajalakshmi had grown pale from a sudden, brief bout of breathlessness, from which she had partially recovered.

  As Bihari offered his respects by touching her feet, Rajalakshmi signalled to him to sit by her side, and, pronouncing the words very slowly, asked: ‘How are you, Bihari? It’s been so long since I last saw you!’

  ‘Ma, why didn’t you send word to me earlier? Had I known of your illness, would I have delayed an instant?’

  ‘Don’t I know that, my child?’ said Rajalakshmi in a low voice. ‘I did not bear you in my womb, but who in this world is more my own than you?’ Tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  Quickly rising to his feet, Bihari tried to pull himself together, pretending to examine the bottles and boxes of medicine placed in the niche in the wall. Returning to her, when he tried to examine Rajalakshmi’s pulse, she resisted. ‘Let my pulse be; tell me, why have you grown so thin, Bihari?’ Rajalakshmi raised her thin hand to stroke Bihari’s collarbone.

  ‘These bones of mine can never be fleshed over unless I eat fish curry cooked by you. Get well quickly, Ma; meanwhile, let me make arrangements for you to cook.’

  ‘Make arrangements quickly, my boy—but not for cooking!’ Rajalakshmi smiled wanly. She grasped Bihari’s hand. ‘Bihari, bring home a bride, there’s nobody to look after you. O Mejobou, get Bihari married now—just see what has happened to the poor boy’s appearance!’

  ‘You get well, Didi. This is your task; you must accomplish it, and we shall join in the fun, all of us,’ Annapurna assured her.

  ‘I shall not have the time anymore, Mejobou; you must take responsibility for Bihari. Make him happy. I could not repay my debt to him, but may God bless him.’ She stroked Bihari’s head with her right hand.

  Asha could remain in the room no longer. She went out to weep. Through her tears, Annapurna cast an affectionate glance at Bihari.

  Rajalakshmi suddenly thought of something. ‘Bouma, O Bouma!’ she called.

  As soon as Asha entered the room, she asked, ‘You have made proper arrangements for Bihari’s meal, haven’t you?’

  ‘Ma, everyone is well acquainted with this greedy son of yours,’ Bihari informed her. ‘The moment I entered the portico, I saw Bami rushing towards the inner quarters, carrying a basket full of large koi fish with roe. I realized that in this house my reputation had not vanished.’ Bihari smiled, glancing once at Asha’s face.

  Today, Asha no longer felt shy. She accepted Bihari’s joke with an affectionate smile. Before this, Asha had not fully realized the importance of Bihari’s role in this household. She had often ignored him as an unwanted visitor; often, she had treated him with hostility. Full of remorse and self-condemnation, she now felt a strong urge to express her respect and sympathy for Bihari.

  ‘Mejobou,’ said Rajalakshmi, ‘this is beyond the capacity of bamunthakur, our cook; you must personally supervise the cooking. This bangal son of ours from East Bengal can’t dine unless the food is loaded with chillies.’

  ‘Your mother was from Bikrampur, and you call a civilized Nadia boy a bangal? This is not to be borne,’ joked Bihari.

  There was much laughing and joking about this issue; after a long time the pall of gloom over Mahendra’s house seemed to have lifted.

  But in the course of all this conversation, nobody uttered Mahendra’s name. Earlier, Mahendra had been the sole topic of conversation between Bihari and Rajalakshmi. Mahendra would joke with his mother about this. Today, Bihari was secretly astonished to find that Rajalakshmi did not take Mahendra’s name even once.

  When Rajalakshmi showed signs of drowsiness, Bihari came out and remarked to Annapurna: ‘Ma’s illness is not a simple one.’

  ‘That is obvious.’ Annapurna sat down by the window. After a long silence, she suggested: ‘Won’t you go and fetch Mahendra here, Bihari? It is not wise to wait any longer.’

  ‘I shall do as you decree,’ replied Bihari, after a short silence. ‘Does anyone know his address?’

  ‘Nobody knows exactly; it will have to be found. Bihari, let me say one more thing. Take a look at Asha’s face. If you cannot rescue Mahendra from Binodini’s clutches, Asha will not survive. If you observe her expression, you will realize that she has been struck by the arrow of death.’

  Smiling bitterly to himself, Bihari thought, ‘I am supposed to come to the rescue of other people, but Lord, who will come to my rescue?’ He protested: ‘Kakima, can I summon up a magic spell that would permanently protect Mahendra from Binodini’s attraction? He may act with restraint for a few days, on account of his mother’s illness, but how can I predict that he will never return to his old ways again?’ At this moment, Asha came to sit at her mashima’s feet, wearing faded clothes, her head partially covered. Knowing that Bihari and Annapurna were discussing Rajalakshmi’s illness, she had come anxiously to listen. Seeing the quiet grace of silent sorrow on the countenance of Asha, the devoted wife, Bihari felt an extraordinary respect for her. Anointed with the scalding, sacred water of sorrow, this young woman had achieved the calm dignity of an ancient goddess. She was an ordinary woman no more; in her terrible grief, she seemed to have attained the maturity of the female ascetics described in the Puranas.

  Having discussed Rajalakshmi’s diet and medicine with Asha, Bihari saw her off. With a sigh, he promised Annapurna: ‘I shall rescue Mahendra.’

  Bihari visited Mahendra’s bank, where he was told that Mahendra had recently begun conducting transactions with their Allahabad branch.

  50

  Arriving at the station, Binodini immediately entered the ladies’ coach in the intermediate class and took a seat there.

  ‘What are you doing?’ exclaimed Mahendra. ‘I’ll buy you a second-class ticket.’

  ‘What need for that? I shall be fine here.’

  Mahendra was amazed. Binodini was a person of refined tastes. Before this, she had shown extreme distaste for anything that smacked of poverty; she used to be ashamed of her impoverished circumstances. Mahendra knew that the abundant flow of money in his house, the items of luxury available there, and their prestigious position as a rich family among ordinary people had on
ce appealed to Binodini. She had been very excited at the prospect of becoming the mistress of all this wealth, all this comfort and social eminence. Today, when the time came for her to assume dominance over Mahendra, when she could enjoy all his wealth and possessions without having to ask, why did she so arrogantly embrace this painful, degraded state of poverty, spurning him with such unbearable indifference? She wanted to keep her dependence on Mahendra as limited as possible. In his state of frenzy, Mahendra had forced her to discard her respectability forever; Binodini now wanted nothing from him that could be construed as the price to be paid for her degradation. All these days, while Binodini lived in Mahendra’s house, she had not adhered rigidly to the code of widowhood; but now, she denied herself all pleasure in life. Now she ate one meal a day and wore coarse fabric. Her endless flow of laughing banter had also disappeared. Now she was so still, so deeply veiled, so remote, so terrifying, that Mahendra did not dare to insist on anything. Angry, impatient and surprised, he wondered, ‘Having managed with such extreme effort to pluck me from the treetop like a rare fruit, why does Binodini now fling the fruit to the dust without so much as sniffing its aroma?’

  ‘What destination shall I buy tickets for?’ he inquired.

  ‘Let’s go west, to any place you like. We’ll get off at any station, wherever the train stops tomorrow morning.’

  This manner of travel did not appeal to Mahendra. He found it hard to bear any hindrance to his comforts. If they did not find some proper accommodation in a big city, it would be very difficult for him. By nature, he was not resourceful enough to explore and improvise ways and means to get things done. Hence, he boarded the train in an extremely irritable, exasperated frame of mind. Meanwhile, he was haunted by the constant fear that Binodini might alight somewhere and give him the slip.

  In their wanderings, Binodini seemed to spin like the planet Saturn, throwing Mahendra into a spin as well; she gave him no respite. Binodini could easily strike up a relationship with people; in a very short time, she would make friends with her co-passengers on the train. She would find out all about the place she wished to visit. She would take shelter in traveller’s inns, and wherever she went, she would explore all the places of interest, getting about with the help of her friends. Feeling that Binodini had no need for him, Mahendra daily suffered a sense of humiliation. He had no task save purchasing tickets; the rest of the time, he fought his own desires. For the first few days, he wandered the streets with Binodini, but soon, he found it intolerable. Thereafter, Mahendra would try to catch a nap after meals, while Binodini roamed about all day. Nobody could have imagined that Mahendra, so lovingly pampered by his mother, could traverse the outside world in this fashion.

  One day, at the Allahabad station, the two of them were waiting for a train which, for some reason, had been unexpectedly delayed. Meanwhile, other trains came and went, and Binodini carefully inspected all the passengers. Travelling around in the western region, looking at everything around her, she seemed to be searching for someone she desperately hoped to find. At least there was some peace to be found in this daily hunt, this hustle and bustle of the open road, rather than daily suffocating oneself, frozen immobile in a desolate flat in a blind alley.

  When Binodini’s gaze fell on a glass box at the station, she gave a sudden start. In this box, the post office had displayed letters addressed to people who were untraceable. Inscribed on one of the letters in the box, Binodini saw Bihari’s name. The name Biharilal was not uncommon; there was no reason to imagine that the addressee of the letter was the Bihari Binodini sought. All the same, upon seeing Bihari’s full name there, she had no doubt it was her one and only Bihari and no other. She memorized the address written on the letter. Approaching Mahendra, who sat on a bench looking very unhappy, she proposed: ‘Let’s stay in Allahabad for a few days.’

  Mahendra’s masculine pride was injured, and his spirit rebellious at the fact that Binodini manipulated him as she pleased, while still denying succour to his hungry, frustrated heart. He would be extremely relieved to stay on in Allahabad and get some rest. But even if this corresponded with his wishes, his mind was suddenly averse to the prospect of consenting to every whim of Binodini’s. Angrily, he insisted, ‘Now that we have set out, we must go on. We cannot turn back.’

  ‘I shall not go.’

  ‘Then you can stay here alone; I am going.’

  ‘That’s better.’ Saying no more, she beckoned a porter and left the station.

  Mahendra remained sitting on the bench, his face black as thunder, nursing his male pride. As long as Binodini was within sight, he remained still. When she had walked out without a backward glance, he quickly loaded his luggage on a porter’s head and began to follow her. Emerging from the station, he saw Binodini enter a carriage that she had engaged. Without saying anything, Mahendra loaded his luggage onto the top of the carriage, and mounted the coachbox. He did not have the courage to throw his pride to the winds and sit facing Binodini inside the carriage.

  But the carriage drove on and on. More than an hour had passed; having crossed the city, they were now travelling through ploughed fields. Mahendra felt ashamed to question the coachman, because this might give the impression that the woman inside the carriage was the decision maker, who had not even consulted this redundant male about their destination. Mahendra sat silently on the coachbox, angry, reproachful thoughts churning in his mind.

  The carriage came to a stop inside a lovingly tended garden on the secluded banks of the Yamuna. Mahendra was amazed. Whose garden was this, and how did Binodini know its location?

  The house was locked. After much calling and shouting, an old caretaker came out. ‘The owner is a rich man,’ he informed them. ‘He lives not far away. If you obtain his permission, I can let you stay in this house.’

  Binodini glanced at Mahendra’s face. He was tempted at the sight of this beautiful house. He cheered up at the prospect of leading a stable existence for a few days, at long last. ‘Then let’s go to this rich man’s house,’ he suggested to Binodini. ‘You will wait in the carriage while I go inside and fix the rent.’

  ‘I can’t travel around anymore. You go; I’ll stay here and rest in the meanwhile. I see no reason to be afraid.’

  Mahendra went away in the carriage. Calling the old Brahmin, Binodini asked about his children: who were they, where did they work, who had his daughters married? Hearing of his wife’s death, she remarked sorrowfully: ‘Ah, you must have a very hard life. To be left alone at this age! Is there nobody to look after you?’

  After that, in the course of conversation, Binodini asked, ‘Biharibabu was here, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was indeed here for a few days,’ replied the old man. ‘Does Ma ji know him?’

  ‘He is related to us.’

  From the account of Bihari that Binodini received from the old man, there remained no doubt in her mind. Getting him to unlock the rooms, she found out which room Bihari had slept in, which room he had used as a sitting room, and other such information. Since the rooms had remained locked after his departure, it seemed that the presence of the invisible Bihari still lingered, filling the rooms, as if the breeze had failed to blow it away. Breathing it in, Binodini filled her heart with it, letting it caress her entire body in the stillness of the atmosphere; but of Bihari’s whereabouts, there was no information. He might even return, but there was no clear indication. The old man assured Binodini that he would go and ask his master and then let her know.

  Having paid advance rent and obtained permission to stay, Mahendra returned.

  51

  The snow on the Himalayan peaks eternally feeds the waters of the river Yamuna. Eternal, too, is the flow of romantic verse poured into the Yamuna by poets through the ages. What varied rhythms resound in the babbling of the waters, what age-old raptures of emotion well up in the play of waves!

  When Mahendra came to sit on the bank of the Yamuna at dusk, the aura of heavy romance produced a deep sense of enc
hantment, permeating his gaze, his breath, his veins, his bones. In the sky, the rays of the setting sun resembled a golden veena, vibrating with exquisite melodies of agony, music for celestial ears.

  On the desolate expanse of sand, in many-hued radiance, the daylight waned gradually. Lost in the realm of poetry, eyes half-closed, Mahendra could hear in his imagination the lowing of Brindaban cows as they returned to the fold at this twilight hour, their hooves kicking up a haze of dust.

  The sky became overcast with rain clouds. The darkness of an unfamiliar place is not merely a black cloak, but also full of strange mystery. The faint glow and the dim shapes visible through such darkness speak an unknown, unuttered language. The indistinct paleness of the sand on the opposite shore, the ink-black darkness of the waveless waters, the heavy stillness of the dense foliage of the enormous neem tree in the garden, the curving line of the treeless, dusty shore—all this, combined with the blurred, indistinct shapes of that rainy Ashadh evening, enveloped Mahendra.

  He remembered the descriptions in traditional Padavali verse of the heroine setting out for a romantic assignation in the rain. The heroine goes forth. At the far end of that Yamuna shore, she stands alone. How will she cross over? ‘Ferry me across, O boatman, please ferry me across!’ The call reached the inner recesses of Mahendra’s heart: ‘O ferry me across!’

  The heroine stood far away, in the darkness of the other shore, but Mahendra saw her clearly. She was timeless and ageless, forever a Gopika, beloved of Krishna, but still, Mahendra recognized her: she was Binodini. With all her pangs of separation, all her agony, all her voluptuous youth, she had set out on her romantic rendezvous in those ancient times, and travelled through so many songs, so many rhythms, to arrive at the shores of the present time. Tonight, it was her voice that was heard, echoing in the sky above this desolate Yamuna shore—‘O boatman, please ferry me across!’ For how many ages must she remain standing alone on the shore, waiting in the dark for the ferry boat—‘O ferry me across!’