It Rained All Night

by Buddhadeva Bose

  But that’s over for us now. We’ve become strangers. We don’t understand each other’s language any longer. The trouble is that I still—how shall I put it?—let’s say ‘love’ you—or if you object to that word let me say I ‘desire’ you—yes, I want you, I desire you in the entirely physical sense of the term—but your body no longer responds to me. There’s nothing anyone can do about it—not me, not you, not the drama Chandalika, not even the deepest darkness of night. Even in the dark I could sense your contempt, your scorn, your aversion to me. You were merely gritting your teeth and bearing it—and when I realized that, I, too, turned cold—cold, weak, impoverished, incapable. What an utter farce! What an insult! Yet I tried, time and again, just in case by some quirk of fate the closed door swings open again. But as time went by, a wall arose between you and me, a mute wall, a cold wall. Two beds, side by side, turned into two little prison cells, with two convicts bound in chains. Then I knew—no, I’d known way before that—from then on I accepted the fact that the foundation of our marriage had cracked. This home would not hold together much longer.

  But what am I saying, what am I thinking? How can there be any friendship between bodies when the minds stand so far apart? The body—ah, what agony with this body, yet things do not happen without it. It’s a fantastic and cruel law of God—that our hearts, or souls, or whatever they are that crave the skies, the infinite, the eternal, and so forth—when those hearts love, they choose as their vehicle, their language, their medium, this very body, this puny, filthy, ageing, loathsome body! Where’s then that ‘love’ that poets speak of? We’ve become prisoners of our bodies. We are not satisfied with contemplation or with the exchange of glances, nor with simple kissing, mouth to mouth. We have to descend into impenetrable darkness, an animal’s lair, into perverted gymnastics. The mind cannot love by itself. The mind alone cannot appease the mind, nor the body can, by itself, make the body happy.

  We want to see with our eyes, hear with our ears. But the light of our eyes, the tone of our voice, the smile on our lips—the mind controls all these too. We see beauty with our mind, desire with our mind, then that message is transmitted through the body. When we ‘want’ a woman, when we ‘enjoy’ her, we want, in fact, to possess her whole being. We seek in that one person all our fantasies—memories from books, eyes seen on a bus, some lovely pose from Konarak, some actress’s voice. Or rather, unknown to ourselves, in the heat of our desire, all those qualities coalesce in one woman—for a moment or two— how fleeting, how fragile those moments! And then we realize that what our minds desire can in no way be encompassed by our bodies, yet we have nothing else at our disposal. What a predicament! What a weird dilemma! But I have one thing to be thankful for: Maloti never lied with her body; with her mind, with her words, with her behaviour, even perhaps with her eyes, too, she lied, but she was honest with her body—the womb, the nursery, the wayside inn and the cremation ground of love, her body. Maloti, your body has answered me truthfully. It has replied to Jayanto truthfully as well. I do not blame you. You have behaved in accordance with the truth.

  More rain, pounding on the tin roof of the garage next door. How many nights have I listened to the sound of the rain. These two beds had not been separated then. This neighbourhood was infested with mosquitoes during the rainy season. Bunni was three months old, and Maloti would string up the mosquito net for her. I used to think of the bed, snugly enclosed by the mosquito net, as a fortress—a cave—something tightly held, intimate, simple. I’d catch the scent, the scent of your body, Maloti, the scent of your breasts, your hair. I would smell the milk from your breasts—you had a lot of milk, it would spill out of Bunni’s mouth and onto the sheets, and I would get almost drunk on that smell of home-made curd. I’d suck it up, inhaling deeply. I’d touch my lips to that warm stream from your nipples—how small and intimate and simple everything seemed. You were everything, Maloti, my cave, my fortress, my refuge. Was it all just a misunderstanding on my part? Was everything merely the memory of the fanciful poetry I’d read? Had I made it all up in my head?

  Maloti, could you hear what I said—why did you sit up? Why did you get up from the bed and stand there by the window? I see you indistinctly—a dim white shadow. Your body has lost its fleshy physicality and has become impalpable like a dream. You’re standing there facing outside. Your eyes are shut, it seems. The wind and the rain are washing over your face. I can sense anticipation in the way your back is poised. By this time it may be dawn, but it’s not light out yet, because of the clouds. Come, in this silent, beautiful, solemn moment, let us be together again—forget the rest, it was all a mistake. Come close again, come near once more—‘Maloti!’ I got up and placed my hand gently upon her shoulder. The warmth of her blood beneath my fingers—in my breath, the smell of her, that old smell. I called again, in tune with my breath, ‘Maloti!’ All of a sudden she started to tremble violently. Turning around, she hid her face in my chest. I raised her head and kissed her cheek salty with tears. I kissed her eyes, her neck, the cleavage of her breasts. Tears flowed together with the splattering rain. The wind and the rain washing over us—light, soft, refreshing, as though our twelve years together were in the dawn breeze strewing memories, sweet perfumes. The pounding of one’s breast on the other’s, breath intermingled with breath, we are husband and wife—astonishing. Children grow up and go away. Friends remain friends no longer. In the end there’s only the husband and wife. Come, let us live, survive together. Let us come alive again. See there, life is awaiting us—waiting through the night. Come, let us pick it up, enclose it within the folds of our embrace—come—your lips have opened like a flower bud, reached out to me. In the darkness your soft, tear-soaked smile—no, not a word, don’t beg forgiveness, Maloti, come—

  I bent over her open lips—but my lips did not taste moisture. Maloti was like the wind among winds, and I had my open mouth upon the pillow, a corner of the sheet clenched in my fist. And over my sleep, my dream, my awakening, was spread the compassionate darkness, the pouring merciful rain. Come down, rain, ever more tumultuously. Be more impenetrable, darkness. Conceal those who are afraid to wake up this morning. Conceal the embarrassment that they still lie in the same room. Dawn, go away. May no light come to the skies.

  five

  Towards dawn both of them fell asleep. They got up late. The clouds had gone, and it was a bright, sunny day outside.

  They sat down to morning tea. The sun streamed in through the window, falling diagonally across the table. The cups were sparkling and white.

  Durgamoni entered with the tea. Nayonangshu opened the newspaper.

  ‘We got up rather late this morning. Durgamoni, you’d better go to the market right away.’

  ‘De Gaulle, I see, is becoming a real bully. By the way, I don’t have to go to the office today. It’s a holiday for Muharram.’

  (He has the day off. I’ll have to do something today. Have to keep myself busy the entire day. I’ll take all my saris out of the cupboards, fold them, and put them back again neatly. Clean the cobwebs on the walls. Dust the fans. Scrub the kitchen. Scrub the bathroom. Scour the windows with wet newspaper until the panes glitter. I’ll get Keshto to do all this, and do the supervising myself. No, I’ll do it all with my own hands. That’s the best thing to do—physical labour. No time to think about anything. Sweep away whatever’s on the mind. Hunger. Fatigue. Sleep. Do the servant girls from the slums ever worry their little heads about love? They bend their backbones scrubbing floors, house after house, washing pots and pans and clothes, daily, from morning till evening. Under the load of that labour go unnoticed the kicks from mothers-in-law, the snarls and growls of husbands, and the number, and early deaths of, offspring. No time for happiness, no time for sorrow. Work is the best of physicians.)

  ‘This pineapple jam is rather nice. Do you want to taste it?’

  ‘No. There’s been another train accident. What are things coming to!’

  ‘Rather like autumn, the weather tod
ay.’ Maloti turned her gaze away from the outside. Light green walls, glass dishes in the cabinet, the picture of a sunflower somebody had painted. Everything sparkling in the brilliant sunshine after the night-long rain.

  ‘You have the day off?’

  ‘I have the day off.’

  (I have the day off. I’m in a fix. What shall I do sitting around the house all day? Maloti and I. In the same house, alone, all day. What’ll I do? Separation? In court? Yuck! Pure melodrama. A lot of fuss for nothing. But if Maloti wants it? Would she? What would she get then that she doesn’t get now! Mere infatuation—it’ll pass. Jayanto—he’ll leave one day. He too has a wife, children, a family. And Maloti has Bunni, her father’s family, and her father-in-law’s. And—when all is said and done—all that worry about what people will say. And me—but no! This is unbearable. I am being humiliated, month after month, day after day—insult, torture, embarrassment. I won’t tolerate it. I won’t allow it to continue. I shall get revenge. Divorce. I won’t give up Bunni. I will give nothing by way of compensation. I’ll teach Bunni—your mother is bad. You must forget your mother. Let her go wherever she wishes. Let her go to the dogs. Let her go to blazes. Let her marry again. I couldn’t care less. I shall take my revenge.)

  While drinking his tea, Nayonangshu had a fit of hiccups. Maloti said, ‘Here, take a sip of water.’ Nayonangshu took a gulp from the glass and turned the page of his newspaper.

  ‘They’re going to put five hundred more taxis on Calcutta’s streets. Good.’

  ‘I’ve promised Bunni for a long time now that we’d take her to the zoo. Never seem to get around to it.’

  (That’s fine. We’ll go out, take Bunni to the zoo. With Angshu and—and Jayanto. What’s the harm in that—it’s okay, fine. Wide awake, in that darkness, the sound of the rain—everything seemed to loom so large last night. I got frightened. I felt as if I’d suddenly lost my way in some unknown territory. But today in this autumn-like sunshine everything seems so simple to me—simple and natural. What’s happened? Nothing’s really happened. Jayanto is Nayonangshu’s friend, my friend too. Bunni loves Jayanto. I feel secure when Jayanto is around—he’s my greatest support in the household. And whose household is this anyway? Nayonangshu’s.)

  ‘They’re tearing down the Darbhanga House on Chowringhee. A skyscraper’s coming up there.’

  ‘I was thinking we could take her today. It won’t be too hot today. No rain either.’

  ‘Fine. Let Keshto go fetch Bunni.’

  ‘I sent him already. Bunni will be here any moment now. You like looking at animals. Will you go?’

  ‘Me? No—I’m not going.’

  (No shame! ‘Will you go?’ She lies with her eyes, with her mouth, with every movement she makes. But I’ll not forgive her. I will not forgive. I’ll make her suffer, inflict on her little torments, torture her—day after day, year after year, all through her life! I will not forget. I will not spare her. I will not forgive. I will inflict and invite suffering—all our lives. As Bunni grows up she’ll hear from her mother that her father is a cruel, capricious, tyrannical person. Bunni won’t love me. Everyone will take her side, because she’s a woman. And because she’s a woman, I won’t be able to say a thing, ever. I’ll have to keep my mouth shut my entire life. I must maintain my wife’s honour. And we call women the weaker sex! How deadly is the strength of frailty, and men—if they’re gentlemen—how incredibly helpless!)

  ‘They’ve got a polar bear at the zoo now. They’ve kept him in a refrigerated enclosure. Will you come along?’

  ‘I’ve got something else to do today. Why not send word to Jayanto? He can hoist Bunni upon his shoulders and show her everything.’

  ‘Will Jayanto babu find the time at such short notice?’

  ‘If you ask him, of course he’ll find the time. Send Keshto over.’

  Their eyes met, for the first time since they’d got up this morning. Two glances collided, then turned away from each other.

  (Now why’d I say that? That was foolish! No, this is my revenge. I am giving you just what you want. I’m releasing you. And yet I’m really not. I’ll inflict torments on you, subtle torments, day after day, year after year—that’s why you’re necessary to me. Only for that? Aren’t there any memories? But those memories, too, I’ll erase from my mind. I’ll pluck them out, trample them underfoot. But what if I still love her—in spite of everything, with all this taken into consideration, love her? Without hope, without requital, forgetting all suffering? Isn’t that possible? Anything is possible, if only one exerts his will. Being able to love is of itself a form of happiness—even if I love only love itself, even if there’s nothing more tangible. But no, I’ll exert my will the other way around. I’ll pluck out the tree by its very roots, the tree on which one day flowers and fruits had appeared. I’ll tear off each leaf with my own hands. I’ll stamp upon, trample upon flower, fruit, leaf and root. From that very soil will blossom forth my suffering, my hate, like some strange, huge, exotic flower. As beautiful as a cactus and as covered with thorns, a cactus blossom, precious, like the hood of a cobra, beautiful and deadly. This is my revenge.)

  Nayonangshu came into the sitting room. He sat down on the sofa and started to browse through the magazine Art and Publicity.

  (What marvellous book jackets are being produced in America these days! Cigarettes get really damp during the monsoon season. I’ll have to get my fountain pen repaired. Haven’t shaved yet. Shall I shave? Forget it. I have the day off. If I don’t shave, it itches. Let it. Shall I not shave then? No, yes, no, yes, no. It’d be nice to spend the whole day reading a book. A novel? A play? Some biography? A biography would be nice—no, a novel. Shall I go out somewhere wearing my sandals and this rather soiled panjabi and pajama? No—the sun is too bright today. I like cloudy days, shadows, rain, dusk. I like the city, the rain, the double-decker bus, the neon lights, and a hazy city, hazy people, hazy day.)

  He looked up to find Maloti standing in front of him. She had just finished her bath. Her hair hung loose on her back, and she had a comb in her hand. Suddenly Nayonangshu lost his sense of time—he thought it was some other day, another day a long time ago. He opened his eyes wide to gaze at Maloti.

  ‘You fell asleep sitting there.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘I think I’ll go to Beleghata.’

  ‘Why Beleghata all of a sudden?’

  ‘To see your aunt.’

  When he heard his aunt mentioned, everything came back to Nayonangshu.

  ‘What about the zoo?’

  ‘We’ll go another day.’

  ‘Take Bunni with you when she comes.’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll surely take Bunni. What about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Do you want to go?’

  ‘To the zoo?’

  ‘No, to Beleghata. You’ll come?’

  ‘I went yesterday.’

  ‘You can go today, too.’

  ‘No, I won’t go today.’

  (He won’t go? Certainly he will. I’ll ask him sweetly three or four times, entreat him with my eyes and say, ‘Come on now, please.’ Maybe even run my fingers through his hair once—and then he’ll slowly get to his feet. Men!—one woman can manage ten of them at once, if she has any brains in her head at all. The good Lord has created no stupider a two-legged animal. For shame! What am I thinking! Angshu hasn’t done me any harm. He’s good, but his goodness hasn’t really counted for much—that’s the trouble. Hasn’t really counted for much—now what does that mean? Have I left him, or am I able to, or is it he who will some day tell me ‘Go away’? No—no one should ever imagine that I could break up this family. How could that be—after all, I’m Bunni’s mother. I’ll have a son-in-law one day, relatives by that marriage, grandchildren. This family is mine—little by little I’ve built it up, nurtured it, adorned it. I am Angshu’s wife, and shall remain so forever—knowing all, realizing all, Angshu will have to play the role of my husband. This is his punishment. T
his is my punishment. And in this is our peace as well.)

  ‘Listen, I’m going to spend the whole day at Beleghata—I haven’t been there for a long time.’

  Nayonangshu crossed his legs, lowered his eyes back down to Art and Publicity. Maloti disappeared into the bedroom.

  (To the zoo, to Beleghata, to Chingrihata, to Ultodanga. Have I fallen asleep again? No, it won’t do to sleep; I have to think. Lest Jayanto come this evening and go away without meeting her, she must visit my aunt right now. She won’t allow herself to be lax in her duties. Or maybe she wants to avoid Jayanto today. Or maybe I’ve been wrong in everything. Or maybe I haven’t. Or maybe I’m exaggerating the whole thing. Or maybe it’s not at all what I think. Maybe it is, though. So what, let whatever’s going to happen, happen. Nothing matters to me any more. Even if I agree to go, it wouldn’t make any difference. Jayanto, Maloti, me—we’ll together take Bunni to the zoo, fine, okay. It’s the same whether I go or not. No difference at all. Or what if I shave and bathe and get dressed and spend the whole day ‘with the family’ at Beleghata? It makes no difference really whether I go or not. It’s not the French Revolution, not the Russian Revolution, not the Second World War—fifty years from now will it make any difference? Ten years from now will it make any difference? Five years from now will it make any difference? Life—a steamroller, terrible, unforgiving, bountiful. It just goes on. One day they’ll awake from their dream—Maloti and Jayanto. And Nayonangshu. No more suffering, desire will die, the body will decay, and this blazing anger will leave behind only a handful of ashes. That will be it. My anger has already subsided—the sunshine, the newspaper, the noise of the trams, all taken together, how normal, how commonplace everything is! Every day this sunlight, the noise of the tram, the paper— every day, every day, every day—then one day with a great flurry you’ll get Bunni married, then you and Maloti will slowly grow old—like countless millions everywhere—sightless, mindless, ignorant—like them you will live year after year after year. But know this for sure: a snapped wire can never be made whole again, you shall never recapture that lost melody—you shall just exist, grow old with one who does not love you, one whom you will have forgotten to love. But what difference does it make, tell me—love’s not really important. It’s the husband–wife relationship that is. What matters is life, and we must live it. Men can live on with an arm cut off, even with one lung removed—compared to that, this loss is a mere trifle! Grey—neither black nor brilliant, neither fierce nor noble nor beautiful nor cruel, neither a hermit’s nor that of a voluptuary—just life—millions and billions of people—life— endless, idiotic, inexhaustible. Are you someone extraordinary who deserves something special? Rise, Nayonangshu. Look out there, at the bright shining day. Here’s a new life for the two of you. Welcome it.)