Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  Yet, many women whose antecedents were cloaked in mystery were allowed to live with their families in the mistri palli and become part of the mainstream. Their children, when questioned about their caste, declared they were Bengalis. By this they meant that they were Hindu—not Muslims or Christians. When these children married, usually others like themselves, Brahmin pandits from Chattogram performed the ceremony. There were widows too among the women, who did not live the life of harsh abstinence that is the norm in Bengal. They did not marry (perhaps the pandits shrank from sponsoring such unholy unions, even in Burma) but they lived openly with their protectors and bore their children. The latter grew up with no stigma attached to them and when they married, pandits performed the ceremony without a demur. Only under the most severe stress did a woman change her protector, for such a change was looked down upon as unworthy and shameful in the mis tri palli. Treating her relationship as irrevocable, she performed all the customary rites for the welfare of her family with no less devotion than the purest of wedded wives in Bengal.

  Seven

  AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT ABHAYA AND ROHINI BABU, WITH WHOM I had shared all the ups and downs of the sea trip and the quarantine, were left behind at one end of the city while I took up my quarters in the other. Thus, it was a good fortnight before I saw them again. During that period I had occupied myself in a zealous, though fruitless, search for employment. All day I ran around in circles coming back late at night, bones aching with exhaustion. When I had almost reached the conclusion that jobs are no less elusive in Burma than they are in Bengal, I suddenly thought of Rohini. He was worse off than I was for, knowing rural Bengal as I did, I realized that he did not have the option I had—of going back. They had little money between them, most of which had already been spent. The only course left to him was taking up a job and, as I had seen from my own experience, that was easier said than done. Simple and childlike as well as burdened with the care of a woman, he had even less of a chance than I had of securing one. I felt worried and decided to go and see them the very next day. It was evening by the time I stepped into the compound of the tiny house that they had rented. Rohini Dada was seated on a stool in the front veranda, his face dark and ominous.

  ‘Srikanta Babu!’ he said without much enthusiasm. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I am well,’ I replied. ‘And you?’

  ‘Well enough. Why don’t you go in? She’s in her room.’

  ‘I’ll do that but why don’t you come too?’

  ‘I would prefer to sit here for a while. I work hard enough all day to kill myself. I need a rest.’

  Though there were no signs of an imminent death on his countenance I felt perplexed and faintly disturbed. I had never seen him like this before. On the boat and in the quarantine camp he had seemed passive and gentle. I wondered where he had hidden this gravity and self-importance all those days. As for working hard enough to kill himself—what did that mean? Was he, like me, dragging his feet all over the streets of Rangoon looking for work?

  As I stood hesitating on the steps, Abhaya’s face appeared from behind the door. She smiled and beckoned me to follow her.

  ‘Come, Rohini Dada,’ I said, a little uncomfortably. ‘Let’s sit inside and have a chat.’

  ‘A chat!’ Rohini exclaimed bitterly. ‘Do you know what I wish for most urgently at this moment? Death!’

  I had to confess I hadn’t known when Abhaya’s face appeared again. This time I followed her inside. It was a tiny house with two rooms and a kitchen. The front room, the larger of the two, was Rohini Dada’s. As I stepped inside, the first thing I saw was a thala (plate) piled with luchi (puffed pancakes), fried vegetables and halwa, set before asan and a brass tumbler of water. Even the most determined optimism could not prompt me into imagining that Abhaya had made these arrangements in anticipation of my arrival.

  I realized that some sort of quarrel was in progress.

  ‘How long you have been in coming, Srikanta Babu!’ Abhaya said plaintively. ‘Had you forgotten our existence?’

  I sat on the bed and pointed to the thala. ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

  Abhaya smiled and shook her head. ‘It is nothing,’ she said. ‘Tell me, how have you been?’

  I was silent for a few moments. ‘I really can’t say,’ I said, at last, ‘Rohini Dada just said—’

  Before I could complete my sentence, Rohini Babu walked in, his torn slippers clattering on the wooden floor. Without glancing at anyone he walked straight to the tumbler of water and put it to his lips. Then, setting it down with a bang, he went out muttering, ‘Does anyone care if I’m hungry or thirsty? I am all alone in this alien land, Srikanta Babu. I have no one of my own to feed me and look after me.’

  I glanced at Abhaya. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment and her eyes glittered. But her voice, when she spoke was calm and detached. ‘If you were truly hungry you would have picked up the thala and not the tumbler.’

  Rohini Babu pretended not to hear. He went out but came back in half a minute. Then, addressing himself to me, he said, ‘I work so hard at the office all day that, by evening my head starts swimming with fatigue and hunger. This is why I couldn’t converse with you when you came in. You must forgive me, Srikanta Babu.’

  ‘Certainly,’ I answered.

  ‘Can you arrange for me to stay at your lodgings, Srikanta Babu?’

  I couldn’t help laughing at his expression. ‘I can,’ I said, ‘but they don’t serve luchi and halwa.’

  ‘I can do without all that,’ Rohini answered. ‘When one is hungry a glass of water and gur (jaggery) is food for the gods. There is no one here to give me even that.’

  I looked questioningly at Abhaya. She shook her head and said softly, ‘I had a headache and fell asleep in the afternoon. So my cooking got delayed and I was a few minutes late in serving his meal.’

  I was so shocked that I exclaimed aloud, ‘Is that an offence?’

  ‘That is a serious offence, Srikanta Babu,’ Abhaya said, deliberately. ‘Not to you, perhaps, but certainly to him who feeds and clothes a woman. Why should he not extract his comfort to the last degree if he is paying for them?’

  Rohini reared up like a wounded snake. ‘Have I ever said that I feed and clothe you?’

  ‘You don’t need to say it. You make it obvious in so many ways.’

  ‘I! I make it obvious! Oh my God! Did you tell me you had a headache?’

  ‘Suppose I had? Would you have believed me?’

  Rohini Babu turned to me and said, ‘This is the way she talks to me all the time. And it was for her that I left my village and family. What am I today? A tramp, a wanderer with no home and no country. I—’

  ‘You need not concern yourself about me anymore,’ Abhaya said angrily. ‘Go back home whenever you wish. Why should you suffer these agonies for my sake? Who am I to you? I would much rather fend for myself than hear your taunts day in and day out.’

  Rohini Dada could bear it no longer. His voice broke and tears rushed to his eyes as he screamed incoherently, ‘Listen to her, Srikanta Babu. Just listen to her. All this insulting talk—for a bit of cooking! I forbid you … if you dare enter the kitchen—I’ll eat in a hotel. I swear I will,’ and, pressing the edge of his dhoti to his trembling mouth, he rushed out of the room.

  Abhaya’s face grew pale. She bowed her head in an effort, I’m convinced, to hide her tears.

  Suddenly, the truth was crystal clear. Whatever they were quarrelling about had nothing to do with Abhaya’s headache or the meal getting delayed. The cause of Rohini Babu’s grievance and Abhaya’s indignation lay deeper, far deeper, than that. I guessed that it was connected with Abhaya’s determination to seek out her husband.

  I stood up. Breaking the silence I began, ‘I have a long way to go—’

  ‘When will you come again?’ Abhaya lifted a tense white face. ‘I live very far away and—’

  ‘Then wait a minute.’ Abhaya rose and went into the inner room. Returning in a
few minutes she pressed a piece of paper into my hand and said, ‘I came to Burma with a definite purpose, as you know, and you promised to help me. Go through the note and do the best you can.’ Saying this she knelt on the floor and touched my feet with her forehead. Before I could recover from my surprise she rose and said in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘Can you give me your address?’ I gave it to her, then gripping the note in my palm, I walked out of the room.

  The veranda was deserted. Rohini Dada was nowhere to be seen. My curiosity was so great that I couldn’t wait till I reached the hotel. Entering a dilapidated tea-shop I ordered a cup of tea and opened the note before a flickering oil lamp. It was written in pencil in a bold masculine hand. Giving her husband’s name and address Abhaya had written: I know that you have guessed the truth about us. I also know that I trust you and depend on you. That is why I asked for your address.

  I read these lines again and again but could make nothing of them. That she was intelligent enough to appreciate my intelligence had been obvious from the start. That she depended on me had been obvious, too. She had given me her husband’s name and address on the boat. Why did she put it down again? And what was the cryptic message all about? Did she want me to look for her husband or didn’t she? And why had she asked for my address? From Rohini’s conversation I gathered that he had found himself a job—a job lucrative enough to enable them to eat luchi and halwa. Their financial problems were obviously at an end. Did she, then, foresee some new trouble and had sought my help in anticipation? All this and much more went round and round my head all the way home. One thing, alone, was clear. I was not to seek out Abhaya’s husband, however great my curiosity, till I was expressly commanded to do so.

  The days went by but my luck did not change. The beaming countenance of the deterministic Da Thakur did, however, gradually assume the hues of deep gloom. My meals first degenerated in quality, then got depleted in quantity. But Fortune eluded me, determinedly, deliberately. I grew frustrated—even frightened. Then, one day, I realized why Fate had favoured Rohini Babu and not me.

  One morning, as I was passing through the market-place, I saw Rohini Babu buying grocery and vegetables. His shoes were broken and dusty and his clothes, grubby and worn with many years of service, hung from his emaciated frame. But one glance was enough to tell me that he was buying the best produce of the market and that too in generous quantities. I watched him from a distance as he went from stall to stall examining each item carefully, deliberating, then making his choice. The tenderness and devotion, the impulse to cherish and nurture that lay behind his effort to take home only the best, was as clear as the white-hot light that streamed from the Burmese sky. As he walked out of the market, staggering under the load of provisions, his thin, perspiring face glowed with an inner light. I knew, then, as I had never known before, why he had managed to make a living in this alien land while I hadn’t. He had succeeded because he had had to succeed. I had only myself to look after and my efforts were attuned to that alone. He had another—far more valued and beloved than himself.

  Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched Rohini Babu’s frail form melt away. Wiping them on my sleeve I directed my steps homeward, marvelling all the while at the strength and endurance that flows from a true devotion. But the conditioning of centuries was not to be subdued. It rose like a cloud of moths fluttering urgently within me. ‘No! No!’ a voice breathed in harsh whispers. ‘This love is illicit, impure. No good can come of it.’

  As soon as I reached the hotel a large envelope was handed to me. Opening it I found that I had been offered a post in a reputed timber firm of Rangoon. Relief swept over me but it was mixed with a little apprehension. I had never worked before so I had no idea of what it meant, in practical terms. I was doubtful, too, of being able to retain the job for any length of time.

  But my fears proved to be totally unfounded. My boss, though an Englishman, spoke fluent Bengali and was very affable. Within a fortnight he said to me, ‘Srikanta Babu, from tomorrow you will work at another table and your salary will be raised by a hundred and fifty per cent.’

  I thanked him profusely, in relief and happiness at the turn of events. As I shifted my files from my rickety table to a solid one of Burma teak covered with green baize, I thought of Da Thakur and his faith in Providence. I had laughed at him, not dreaming that I, myself, would prove a glowing example of his philosophy and that too in a few days.

  In my new found state of prosperity I hired a carriage one evening and went to Abhaya to give her the good news. It was the same hour of evening and Rohini Babu, just back from work, was sitting down to a lavish meal. I was invited to join him, and I accepted with alacrity for the food looked and smelt delicious.

  As soon as he had eaten Rohini Babu got ready to go out again. Abhaya watched him in sullen silence as he put on his shirt, then burst out angrily, ‘Why do you insist on doing these tuitions? We don’t need any more money. We have enough to live on.’

  Rohini turned to her with a smile, ‘I can’t afford to keep a cook for you and you say that we have enough to live on.’ And, stuffing a paan into his mouth, he went out.

  Abhaya suppressed a sigh and, turning to me, said in a sombre voice, ‘I’m afraid for him, Srikanta Babu. He isn’t strong and all this hard work is telling on his health. But he doesn’t listen to a word I say. He really believes that cooking for two is killing me.’

  I smiled but did not comment.

  After a while Abhaya went to her room and came back with a letter which she handed to me. Opening it I found that it was from the Burma Rail Company. The manager regretted to inform Abhaya that her husband’s services had been terminated two years ago upon his committing a grave offence and that the company had no knowledge of his present occupation or address. We sat in silence for a long while.

  Then Abhaya asked, ‘What do you advise me to do?’

  ‘Who am I to advise you?’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Abhaya burst out passionately. ‘You cannot shrug off your responsibilities so easily. You are the only one here to whom I can turn. Ever since I received the letter I’ve waited for you to come.’

  ‘You have some cheek,’ I thought to myself, ‘to land yourself in this mess and then involve me in it!’ Aloud I said, ‘Have you considered going back?’

  ‘No. I can, if you want me to. But where do I go and to whom? I have no one of my own.’

  ‘What about Rohini Babu? What are his plans?’

  ‘He refuses to leave Burma—for another ten years at least.’

  Another stretch of silence. I broke it with a question. ‘Will he undertake to look after you for all time to come?’

  ‘How do I know?’ She reflected for a few moments and added, ‘Even he—how can he be sure? But I would like you to get one thing clear. He is not responsible for what I did. Coming to Burma was my decision—only mine.’

  At this point the carriage driver called out, ‘How much longer must I wait, Babu?’

  I stood up, relieved to be able to escape. ‘I’ll come again, very soon,’ I said as I stepped into the carriage. I had hardly gone ten yards when I realized that I had left my walking-stick behind in Rohini Babu’s room. I stopped the carriage and retraced my steps.

  As I crossed the veranda, I found Abhaya lying in a heap on the floor—her body shaking with sobs. I stood quietly for a few moments—a mute witness to the agony that tore her apart—then walked out of the house.

  Eight

  THOUGH I HAD HAD EVERY INTENTION OF REDEEMING MY PROMISE to Rajlakshmi, to write to her as soon as I reached Burma, I had not done it so far. Letter writing was a task I dreaded as a rule. Besides, I had nothing interesting to tell her. But Abhaya’s pain lay so heavy on my heart, tonight, that I longed to ease the burden by sharing it with someone. And who else was there for me but Pyari? Consequently, the moment I reached home, I took out pen and paper and wrote a long letter to her. I was sensible of being disloyal to Abhaya as I conveyed the intimate details of her life to
another woman. But my curiosity to hear Rajlakshmi’s opinion of her was so great that it swamped all my finer feelings. I reasoned that since Rajlakshmi had passed through a similar ordeal herself when she had to choose between Banku and me, she and not I was the right person to advise Abhaya.

  A few days later a file was placed on my table with instructions from the manager to handle the case. On going through the papers I found that it was a case of theft. A Bengali clerk from the Prome branch of our company had been caught stealing timber and had been suspended. When I read the name I was astounded, for it was Abhaya’s husband’s. While I sat wondering what to do a Burmese clerk informed me that a gentleman was waiting outside with a request for an interview. I had expected this, knowing well enough that Abhaya’s husband would not be content with merely representing his case but would come from Prome to Rangoon to follow it up.

  I watched him closely as he shuffled in and sat in a chair opposite me. He was a big hulk of a fellow dressed in a suit and hat so grimy and worn that they threatened to fall to pieces any moment. Dark, heavy jowls were rendered darker by the masses of greasy black hair that grew over them. Thick lips—the lower one an inch and a half deep—were black with years of tobacco chewing. Even as he sat facing me, paan juice trickled from the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin in slimy streams.

  I had been reared in a tradition that exhorted a woman to revere her husband as her God. But, try as I would, I couldn’t bear to think of Abhaya in connection with this animal. Abhaya, whatever she may have done, was sensitive and refined and this creature looked and behaved like a buffalo that had strayed in from some tropical swamp of innermost Burma.

  I asked him if he admitted his guilt. In answer he spluttered and gesticulated so wildly that the spray from his mouth threatened to drench my shirt. I pushed my chair back and repeated my question. His defence, as far as I was able to make out, was that he was as innocent as the babe unborn; that the real thief was his British officer; that this officer wanted his own man on the job and had, for that reason, devised an elaborate plot to remove him from office. Needless to say, I didn’t believe a word.