The clouds parted at one end, to reveal the moon on the third night of its dark quarter. In the magic of the moonlight, river and riverbank, sky and horizon, were transported beyond the earthly realm, breaking free of worldly ties. The thread of time was broken, all history erased, all future consequences rendered invisible. Only this silver-flooded moment remained, an eternal present beyond the laws of earthly life, containing within it Mahendra and Binodini, this river and this riverbank.
Mahendra was intoxicated. That Binodini could spurn him, refusing to assume the role of Lakshmi to fulfil the promise of this secluded piece of heaven on this moonlit night, was impossible for him to imagine. Rising to his feet at once, he went towards the house in search of her.
Entering the bedchamber, he found the room redolent of flowers. Through the open windows and doors, the moonlight streamed in, to fall upon the white bed. Weaving garlands of flowers plucked from the garden, Binodini had placed them in her hair, around her neck, and around her waist. Adorned with flowers, she lay on the moonlit bed like a vine laden with the weight of its blossoms.
Mahendra’s enchantment intensified. In a choked voice, he said, ‘Binod, I was waiting on the shore of the Yamuna; the moon brought me tidings that you awaited me here, so here I am!’
With these words, Mahendra advanced towards the bed.
Starting, Binodini quickly extended her right arm and said, ‘Go away! Don’t sit on this bed!’
Mahendra stood in stunned disbelief, like a boat in full sail when it strikes a sandbank. He remained speechless for a long time. Fearing that Mahendra might not accept her admonition, Binodini left the bed and rose to her feet.
‘Who have you adorned yourself for, then? For whom are you waiting?’ demanded Mahendra.
‘He is inside my heart, the person for whom I have adorned myself,’ answered Binodini, clutching her bosom.
‘Who is he? Is it Bihari?’
‘Don’t bring his name to your lips.’
‘Is it for him that you have been wandering in the west?’
‘For him alone.’
‘Is it for him alone that you are waiting here?’
‘For him alone.’
‘Have you found out his address?’
‘I haven’t, but I shall find it out, somehow.’
‘I shall not let you find out under any circumstances.’
‘If you don’t let me find out, then you will never be able to oust him from my heart.’
With these words, Binodini closed her eyes and felt Bihari’s presence in her heart. Simultaneously attracted and repelled by this image of the flower-bedecked Binodini racked by the pangs of separation, Mahendra suddenly grew violently angry.
Clenching his fists, he vowed, ‘I shall carve him out of your heart with a knife.’
‘Your knife will enter my heart more readily than your love,’ rejoined Binodini, unperturbed.
‘Why are you not afraid of me? Who is here to protect you?’
‘You are here to protect me. You will protect me from yourself.’
‘Do you still have that little bit of respect, that little bit of trust left in you?’
‘Else, I would have killed myself. I would never have ventured forth with you.’
‘Why didn’t you kill yourself? Why do you drag me from place to place, with the noose of that little bit of trust cast round my neck as if to kill me? Think how beneficial your death would have been!’
‘I know, but as long as there is hope of Bihari, I cannot die.’
‘Until you die, my hopes will not die, either—there will be no release for me. From today, I shall pray for your death with all my heart. Don’t be mine, and don’t be Bihari’s either. Go! Let me go, too. My mother weeps for me, my wife weeps for me—their tears scald me from afar. Until you die, until you are beyond hope for me and for everyone else on earth, I shall not have leave to wipe away their tears.’
With these words, Mahendra rushed out of the room. He had destroyed the web of enchantment that Binodini had woven around herself in solitude. Standing in silence, she gazed at the scene outside. All the nectar in her heart had evaporated, emptying the sky of moonlight. She saw the garden with its flowerbeds; beyond it the sandy riverside; beyond that the black waters of the river; and beyond that the indistinctness of the opposite shore. The entire scene seemed like a mere pencil sketch on white paper, utterly lifeless and futile.
Today, realizing how forcefully she had attracted Mahendra, how she had uprooted him like a tree in a tremendous storm, her heart grew even more turbulent. If she had such power, why did Bihari not come before her and break upon her shore like a swollen sea wave on a full moon night? Why, every day, was her mental peace disturbed by the onslaught of an unwanted love that broke her meditation with its lamentation?
Why, again and again, did an anguished cry intrude upon her heart from outside, not giving her inner tears a chance to spend themselves? What would she do all her life with this great turbulence that she had set in motion? How could she quieten it?
She tore off the floral garlands with which she had bedecked herself, knowing that Mahendra’s enraptured gaze had fallen upon them tonight. All her powers, all her efforts, her entire life was futile; this garden, this moonlight, this Yamuna shore, this exquisitely beautiful world—everything was pointless.
Such frustration, yet her situation remained exactly the same as before; in the outer world, nothing had changed. The sun would rise tomorrow as usual, the world would not forget its smallest routine task, and Bihari would remain unperturbed and distant as he was, practicing a new lesson with his Brahmin boy.
Binodini burst into tears. It seemed she had been using all her strength, all her desire in trying to move a rock. Her heart bled, but her destiny did not alter in the slightest.
52
Mahendra could not sleep all night; towards dawn, worn out and tired, he dozed off. Waking up at eight or nine in the morning, he sat up abruptly. Some undercurrents of pain, persisting after the events of last night, seemed to have flowed through him in his sleep. As soon as he awakened, Mahendra began to feel the agony. After a little while, the events of the night came back to him clearly. In the clear light of day, in the fatigue of insufficient sleep, the whole world, his whole life, seemed utterly devoid of interest. Why should he have to bear the burden of disgrace for having abandoned his household, remorse for having forsworn his religion, and emotional distress for the wild existence that he led? In the early morning sunlight, shorn of all enchantment, Mahendra felt that he did not love Binodini. Glancing at the street, he saw that the whole world was awake, busily rushing to work. Mahendra now realized clearly the folly of flinging all his self-respect into the mire to enslave his life at the feet of a woman who was averse to him. After the exuberance of a violent emotion, there is a sense of exhaustion; the tired heart then wants to temporarily distance itself from the subject of its emotion. During this emotional ebb tide, all the concealed mire of the riverbed lies exposed; what had earlier seemed enchanting now appears distasteful. Today, Mahendra was unable to understand why he had degraded himself in this fashion. He told himself: ‘I am superior to Binodini in every way, but still, accepting all forms of abject humiliation, I run after her day and night like a contemptible beggar. What devil has possessed me that I should give in to such strange lunacy!’ Today, to Mahendra, Binodini was just another woman, nothing more. She had attracted a radiant aura all around her, drawn from all the beauty in the world, all the poems and tales ever composed. But today, the aura had vanished like a mirage, and only an ordinary woman remained with nothing unique about her.
Mahendra now became eager to sever himself from this condemnable spell of enchantment, so that he could return home. The peace, love and affection that had once been his now appeared to be, like the rarest nectar, beyond easy reach. Bihari’s unwavering friendship, dating back to their childhood, now seemed invaluable to him. Mahendra remarked to himself: ‘We fail to understand the value of that whic
h is truly deep and stable, because we can immerse ourselves in it without any effort or hindrance. That which is merely a fleeting illusion, which brings no trace of happiness even in its fulfilment, impels us to give chase breathlessly as in a race; hence, we take it for coveted treasure.’
‘I shall return home this very day,’ Mahendra decided. ‘I’ll arrange for Binodini to stay wherever she wishes. Then I will be free.’ I will be free—as soon as he had declared this resolve in words, his heart felt a sudden thrill, and the oppressive burden of hesitation that he had borne for so long was lightened. All these days, from moment to moment, he had vacillated between repulsion and submission; he was unable to say yes or no with any conviction; he would suppress the dictates of his conscience to take the path of transgression. Now, as soon as he declared, ‘I will be free,’ his tormented heart felt immediate relief and greeted his resolve with joy.
Leaving his bed at once, Mahendra washed his face and went to see Binodini. He found her door closed. Banging on her door, he called: ‘Are you asleep?’
‘No. Please go away now.’
‘I have something important to say. I shall not stay long.’
‘I can’t bear to listen to your words anymore. Please go away. Don’t trouble me, leave me alone.’
At any other time, this rejection would have heightened Mahendra’s desperation. But today, he felt extreme contempt. He thought, ‘Have I so degraded myself in the eyes of this common woman, that she can assume the right to dismiss me so contemptuously at her own will? This is not her natural right. It is I who have granted it to her, and thereby allowed her to become so arrogant.’ After this humiliation, Mahendra tried to remind himself of his own superiority. ‘I shall be victorious,’ he vowed. ‘I shall go away, breaking the ties that bind me to her.’
After lunch, Mahendra went to the bank to withdraw some money. Having collected the amount, he began to wander about in the Allahabad market to buy some nice new things for his mother and Asha.
Once again, there was a knock on Binodini’s door. At first, she was too exasperated to answer, but when the knocking continued, she flung the door open in a temper and demanded: ‘Why must you come to trouble me, again and again?’ Before she could complete her sentence, Binodini saw Bihari standing there.
Bihari glanced into the room to see if Mahendra was there. He saw the bedroom strewn with faded blossoms and tattered garlands. In an instant, his heart turned virulently hostile. When Bihari was far away, it was not as if suspicions about Binodini’s lifestyle had never arisen in his mind; but the play of fancy had obscured those doubts, creating instead the glittering image of an enchantress. Bihari’s heart was quaking as he entered the garden estate, his mind cringing lest the image of his dreams be suddenly shattered. As soon as Bihari stood before the door to Binodini’s bedchamber, he received the jolt that he had feared.
While he was away, Bihari had imagined that the purifying touch of his love would easily purge Binodini’s life of all pollutants. Coming close to her, he realized that this would not be easy. But why did he not feel any pity or tenderness in his heart? Suddenly, a wave of disgust engulfed him. To Bihari, Binodini now seemed utterly impure.
Abruptly, Bihari turned around and called out, ‘Mahendra! Mahendra!’
Binodini felt insulted. ‘Mahendra is not here, he has gone to town,’ she told him, in a low, gentle voice.
When Bihari prepared to leave, Binodini pleaded, ‘Bihari Thakurpo, I beg you, please stay here awhile.’
Bihari had not intended to listen to any pleas. He had decided to remove himself at once from this disgusting scene, but when he heard Binodini’s piteous, pleading tone, for a brief instant his feet refused to move.
‘If you turn away from me today, I swear that I shall die,’ declared Binodini.
Bihari turned around. ‘Binodini, why must you entangle me in your life?’ he demanded. ‘What have I done to you? I have never stood in your way, nor interfered in your joys and sorrows.’
‘I had once declared to you the extent of your power over me, but you did not believe me. I repeat the same thing today, even in the face of your aversion. After all, you denied me the time to communicate my feelings without words, in a modest fashion. You have spurned me, yet I fall at your feet and say, I …’
‘Don’t say it, don’t bring those words to your lips!’ interrupted Bihari. ‘I cannot believe those words.’
‘Common people may not believe them, but you will. That is why I ask you to remain here awhile.’
‘Whether I believe or not, how does it matter? Your life would continue in the same fashion.’
‘I know it will make no difference to you. It is my misfortune that I have no right to stand by your side without injuring your dignity. I must forever remain at a distance from you. All the same, my heart refuses to relinquish this tiny claim upon you: wherever I am, you must think of me with some tenderness. I know that you had developed some respect for me: that will be my only succour. That is why you must listen to all I have to say. I beg with folded hands, Thakurpo, please stay awhile.’
‘Very well, let’s go.’ Bihari prepared to move to a different spot.
‘Thakurpo, it is not as you think. No disgrace has touched this room. You had slept in this room one night. I have dedicated this room to you; those flowers were offered to you in devotion, and now lie faded. You must remain in this very room.’
At this, Bihari’s heart was filled with rapture. He entered the room. With both hands, Binodini gestured towards the bed. Bihari went and sat on the bed. Binodini settled herself on the floor, at his feet. When Bihari made as if to arise, in alarm, Binodini stopped him. ‘Thakurpo, please remain seated; don’t get up, I insist. I am unworthy of a place at your feet: it is your kindness that you allow me to sit here. Even when I am far away, I shall retain this right.’
Binodini lapsed into a short silence. Then, with a sudden start, she asked: ‘Have you eaten, Thakurpo?’
‘I ate at the station before coming here.’
‘I wrote you a letter from my village. Why did you send it back to me, unopened, through Mahendra’s hands?’
‘But I never received that letter.’
‘Did you meet Mahendra in Kolkata this time?’
‘I met Mahendra the day after I escorted you to your village. Immediately after that, I travelled west, and I did not meet him again.’
‘Before that, on another day, had you read my letter and returned it unanswered?’
‘No, that had never happened.’
Binodini sat dumbfounded. Then she sighed: ‘I understand everything. Now let me tell you all about myself. If you believe me, I shall consider myself fortunate; if you don’t, I shall not blame you, for it is hard to have faith in me.’
By now, Bihari’s heart had softened. He could not slight the homage that Binodini, bowed down by the weight of her devotion, offered so humbly. ‘Bouthan, you need not say anything,’ he told her. ‘I believe you without hearing your words. I cannot hold you in contempt. Please do not say another word.’
Hearing this, tears began to flow from Binodini’s eyes. Touching Bihari’s feet, she pleaded, ‘If I don’t tell you everything, I shall die. You must listen with patience. What you had decreed, I accepted with deference. Although you had not even written to me, I would still have spent my life in my village, putting up with the mockery and blame heaped upon me by the people there. I would have accepted your admonition in place of your affection, but destiny was averse even to that. The sin I had committed did not permit me to survive even in exile. Coming to my village, to my door, Mahendra humiliated me in front of everyone. There was no longer any place for me in the village. To seek your instructions for the second time, I searched for you everywhere, but was unable to find you. Mahendra deceived me, returning from your house with my letter, which had been opened. I thought you had forsaken me completely. After this, I could have utterly ruined myself, but you have the strange power to protect me even from a distance;
because I had given you a place in my heart, I could remain chaste. Like the hardness of gold, or of a jewel, the hard self you revealed to me the day you spurned me is inside my heart, refining my life and giving it value. My lord, I touch your feet and declare: that value has not been destroyed.’
Bihari sat in silence. Binodini, too, said no more. The late afternoon sunlight began to fade. At this moment, Mahendra, approaching the door to the room, was startled to see Bihari. The indifference he had begun to feel towards Binodini almost vanished in the face of jealousy. Seeing her seated silently at Bihari’s feet, Mahendra’s pride was wounded. He remained in no doubt that this union had been brought about by an exchange of letters between Binodini and Bihari. All these days, Bihari had been unwilling; now, if he willingly surrendered himself, there would be no stopping Binodini. Mahendra could relinquish Binodini, but seeing Bihari, he realized that he could not give her up to someone else.
In frustrated rage, Mahendra mocked Binodini: ‘Now it’s time for Mahendra to leave the stage, and for Bihari to enter. The scene is beautiful; I feel like applauding. But I hope this is the last act, for after this, nothing will be seemly.’
Binodini’s face grew scarlet. Now that she was dependent on Mahendra, she could not answer this insult. She only cast an anguished glance at Bihari.
Bihari got up from the bed. Advancing, he declared, ‘Mahendra, don’t insult Binodini like a coward. If your good breeding does not forbid you, then I have the right to do so.’
‘Has your right been established already?’ Mahendra laughed. ‘Today, let us rename you Binod-Bihari, the playful adventurer!’
Sensing the deliberate provocation, Bihari grasped Mahendra’s hand. ‘Mahendra, I declare to you that I intend to marry Binodini; so, from now on, be careful what you say.’
Chokher Bali Page 24