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Srikanta

Page 20

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay


  He asked me who I was and when I told him I was a friend of his brother he shook his head in disbelief. ‘You look as though you are from Calcutta, and my brother has never left Chittagong in his life. How do you know him?’

  I told him that his brother had come to Rangoon with the intention of taking him back and that he was, even now, eagerly waiting to cast his anguished eyes on his long lost brother.

  The next morning a tearful reconciliation took place in Da Thakur’s hotel followed by a lengthy confabulation conducted chiefly in whispers. Thereafter, the younger brother appeared at the hotel morning, noon and night. Some conspiracy was obviously afoot. Three or four days later I got the first inkling of what it was. We had been invited, the day before, to drink a cup of tea in the Burmese woman’s drawing-room and it was then that I first got a chance to talk to her. I found her a gentle, exceedingly humble creature, wholeheartedly devoted to the Bengali youth she loved and lived with. So when I was informed by my roommate that they proposed to leave for Chittagong on the first boat available, my heart missed a beat.

  ‘Your brother will return to Burma, will he not?’ I asked, rather frightened.

  ‘Heavens! No. The idea!’

  ‘Have you told the girl?’

  ‘If we do the whole clan will descend on us like a swarm of locusts.’ Then, winking broadly, he added, ‘French leave, moshai, * French leave.’

  ‘It will make the girl very unhappy.’ I said, acutely depressed.

  The man laughed till tears came to his eyes. Then, controlling himself with an effort, he said, ‘Unhappy! Burmese women are filthy, casteless whores. She’ll catch another man before the boat leaves the harbour. The sluts eat neppi (a pickle of decomposed fish called guanpi) and stink to high heaven. They are not like our women, moshai. Unhappy indeed!’

  ‘Stop it!’ I cried suddenly. ‘You forget that she has fed and clothed your brother and kept him like a king for the last four years. Isn’t there such a thing as common gratitude?’

  The man’s face flushed. He said in strident tones, ‘You surprise me, moshai! Young men must sow their wild oats. Which son of a bastard doesn’t? My brother’s case is a little more complicated than normal. I admit it. But must he be made to sacrifice his future for a trifling error committed in the heat of youth? Does he not have a country and a family? Is it not important that he returns to them, marries, begets children and becomes a respectable member of society? People get away with far more serious offences. Some men I know have even eaten fowl when they were young and headstrong. With age and wisdom they have admitted their folly. We, as older men, should forgive and forget. Therein lies our greatness. Think over what I have said without passion or bias and then tell me if I’m right or wrong.’

  I was so taken aback at his assumption that eating fowl was a more serious offence than exploiting an innocent girl’s love and then abandoning her, that I was rendered speechless. It being time for me to leave for work I went away without another word.

  When I returned that evening the gentleman beamed at me. ‘I’ve been thinking over what you said. You were right. We ought to prepare the girl or she might create a scene and stop him from going. I don’t trust these flat-nosed bitches. They are shameless and depraved with no sense of right or wrong. More like animals than human beings!’

  I approved of his decision but something told me that this was part of a bigger conspiracy. I came to know only on the afternoon of their departure—as we were waiting for the ship to leave—how senselessly cruel and shamelessly selfish it was. It being a Sunday and having nothing better to do, I walked across to the harbour to see the brothers off.

  Among the people who were assembled at the jetty with a similar end in view stood the Burmese girl holding her little sister by the hand. Her eyes were red with weeping and every line of her white face bore the marks of an inconsolable grief. Her young man was busy transporting his trunks, bedding, bicycle and innumerable other possessions on board with the help of coolies. When everything had been safely stowed away he came up to the weeping girl and, under the pretence of bidding farewell, acted out a scene that made my cheeks burn with indignation.

  I’ve often wondered why he had to do that, why he had to damage his immortal soul the way he did. True, she was not his wedded wife. But she was a woman, a member of that fraternity of mothers, sisters and daughters on which a man is so dependent. In the four years that they had lived together she had given him an unswerving loyalty and devotion. Why did he have to ridicule her and make her the laughing-stock of the common people who stood around, even as he left her?

  Clasping her neck with one arm and holding a handkerchief to his eyes, the man muttered something in mournful tones while the girl, her face buried in her veil, sobbed uncontrollably. I was standing a little distance away so I couldn’t hear what he was saying at first. But, noticing some of the crowd grinning widely and others trying hard to suppress their laughter, I pushed my way towards them and heard him say in crude Bengali, ‘You think I’m coming back with tobacco from Rangpur? You’ll be waiting for me? Oh! My jewel! You can go on waiting for me till doomsday for I’m finished with you for ever. My only regret is that I got only five hundred out of you. Not a thousand as I had hoped. If I had only had the time I could have made you sell your house and give me the money! That would have been something worth bragging about back home. Five hundred is a paltry sum. Oh! What a cruel world it is!’

  The man was obviously enjoying his own humour, and the entertainment it afforded to the Bengalis around him spurred him on to greater heights. But the girl understood nothing. She only heard her beloved’s sobbing voice and, weeping louder, put up her hand to wipe his tears away. The sailors now called out to him to board for they were in the process of removing the gang planks.

  The man moved towards the ship, then, coming back, took the girl’s hand in his. Pointing to the large unflawed ruby she wore on her finger he sobbed, ‘Ah! Let me have this—the last token of our love. I can sell it for three hundred rupees at the very least. Why do you deprive me of it, my jewel?’

  The girl quickly took off the ring and slipped it on his finger. Then, crumbling suddenly, she, sank to her knees on the ground. The man carried on his act as he crossed over the planks leaving his audience rocking with merriment. But the poor girl saw nothing, heard nothing—so thoroughly immersed was she in her own grief.

  As the ship moved away comments like ‘What a boy!’ ‘Really a fine young man!’ and ‘God! How he made me laugh!’ were heard from the crowd. No one deigned to cast a glance at the abandoned woman.

  As I went up to them, the little girl, who had been pulling her sister by the hand, threw me a grateful glance and said, ‘Get up, sister. Look who is here!’

  The girl lifted her head and, seeing the expression on my face, burst into another fit of weeping. I had no words with which to console her, but I couldn’t leave her and go away either. I escorted her to her carriage and, at her request, drove home with her.

  ‘Oh, why did I send him to Rangpur?’ she said over and over again all the way home. ‘A month! A whole month! How shall I live without him? How shall I bear the loneliness? And he—he’ll be sick and miserable without me in a foreign land. I shouldn’t have let him go. We have managed so far with tobacco from the Rangoon bazaars. Oh! Why couldn’t I remain content? Why was I tempted to look for greater profit? My heart is bursting with unhappiness, Babuji. I’ll go to him on the next boat.’

  I sat silent, staring out of the window in an attempt to hide my tears.

  ‘Babuji,’ the girl went on, ‘our men don’t love us the way you do. They are not as kind or considerate.’ Then, pausing to recover her breath, she went on, ‘When we first started living together my kinsfolk warned me not to put my faith in an alien. But I didn’t heed them and I’ve never regretted my decision. Now all the Burmese girls envy my happiness.’

  The carriage was now approaching the crossroads from where the hotel could be reached after a short wa
lk. I wanted to get off and make my way there but the girl wouldn’t let me. Barring the door with both arms she said, ‘No, Babuji. First come home with me and have a cup of tea.’ I couldn’t refuse. The carriage rolled on and the unhappy girl, weary with weeping, fell silent. Suddenly she sat up and asked anxiously, ‘How far is Rangpur, Babuji? Have you ever been there? What sort of a place is it? Is it possible to get a doctor if someone is ill?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said shortly.

  She heaved a sigh, ‘Fei * will guard him and keep him well! I have nothing to fear. His brother is with him. He is a good, kind man and will protect his younger brother with his life. Indians are so noble! So full of duty! Why do I worry?’

  I stared out of the window trying to assess the extent of my own involvement in the monstrous crime that had just been committed. I had to plead guilty on two counts. I had been aware of the plot but had not warned the girl. Worse, I had not made a whisper of a protest when the grisly scene of betrayal was being enacted. The thought made my face burn with shame. I couldn’t bear to look into those innocent, trusting eyes.

  Dusk was falling when I left her house. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally, but the prospect of going back to the clamour and bustle of Da Thakur’s hotel daunted me. I wandered about in the streets of Rangoon, innumerable thoughts going round and round in my head like rats caught in a trap. But, however hard I tried, I could not subdue the gut feeling that a relationship of this kind was doomed from the start.

  The Burmese have rather flexible rules regarding matrimony. There is such a thing as a social and religious ceremony. But the other kind—marriage by virtue of eating out of a common bowl and sleeping under the same roof for three nights in succession—is equally acceptable to that society. Thus the Burmese girl’s conviction that hers was a true marriage was neither foolish nor unfounded. From the young man’s point of view, however, it was as ephemeral as a summer breeze for there was no sanction for it in Hinduism. There was no way he could reconcile the presence of a Burmese wife with his rightful place in Hindu society. Only two options were open to him. One was a lifelong exile. The other—a total and complete break with his partner.

  As I walked on aimlessly, speculating on the worth of a religion that inflicts such cruel suffering, my eyes fell on a wayside tea-shop. I recognized it as the one that stood opposite Rohini Babu’s house—the one in which I had opened Abhaya’s note. I had a cup of tea, then walking across, knocked on Rohini Babu’s door. It opened and within its frame stood Abhaya.

  ‘You!’ I cried, amazed.

  Abhaya blushed to the roots of her hair and, turning suddenly, ran to her own room and banged the door shut. Even in the faint starlight there was no mistaking the shame and guilt that were stamped on her face.

  As I stood, irresolute, my ears were suddenly assailed by the sounds of two kinds of weeping. I had heard them that very afternoon—the bitter, heartbroken sobs of the Burmese girl and the cruel, mocking one of her companion.

  I had started walking away but I stopped myself. ‘No,’ I said to myself, ‘I cannot leave Abhaya—not this way. I have no right to humiliate her. So many dos and don’ts are ingrained in us from childhood. What are they truly worth? Who has the right to sit on judgement over another human being? Not I, certainly. Not you. Not even God.’

  Ten

  THERE WAS A CLICK AND ABHAYA OPENED HER DOOR AND STOOD before me.

  She said, ‘Forgive me for running away, Srikanta Babu. It was out of a false sense of disgrace, a momentary surrender to the conditioning of centuries. Do not make the mistake of thinking that it reflected my true feelings.’

  I was amazed at her for having the courage of her convictions.

  ‘Rohini Babu will be back in a few minutes,’ she went on. ‘Then you can put us both in the dock and deliver your verdict.’ This was the first time that I heard her refer to Rohini as ‘Babu’.

  ‘When did you come?’ I asked inconsequentially.

  ‘The day before yesterday. You must be curious to know why.’ And, lifting her arm, she pointed to where the lash of a whip had cut deep into the flesh. ‘There are many like this,’ she said dispassionately.

  The blood boiled in my veins. If the scoundrel had stood before me I would have torn him limb from limb.

  ‘Please don’t imagine that this is the cause of my return. This is only a token of our relationship as master and slave—a small reward, you may say, for my years of wifely devotion.’ After a brief silence she continued, ‘A woman who pursues her husband without his leave, makes claims on him and disturbs his peace is a traitor and a rebel. No man will tolerate such audacity. Hence my husband dealt with me as a man deals with a wife in such cases. He used every kind of ploy to get me to his house and, once there, demanded from me my reasons for coming to Burma with Rohini Babu. I told him that I had been orphaned some time ago and that I had had no one else to turn to and that I had written several letters which he had left unanswered. He unhooked a whip from the wall and said, “This is my answer,”’ and Abhaya touched the mark on her arm.

  The bloated, evil face of the disgusting beast came before my eyes and my stomach churned with nausea. But the conditioning of centuries—that which had prompted Abhaya to run and hide herself—was upon me. I could not bring myself to utter the words: ‘You were right in leaving him.’ I sat in silence for a while, then said with an effort, ‘I don’t blame you for coming away but—’

  ‘That is just what I want you to explain—that “but” which stands in the way of all rational thinking. May my husband live happily with his Burmese wife. I grudge him nothing. Only one question, Srikanta Babu! Do Vedic mantras have the power to command a wife’s loyalty, even after her husband has stripped her of all her rights and driven her away by brute force into the streets? Do you have an answer?’

  I was silent. Abhaya looked steadily at me for a few minutes and said, ‘Rights and duties are inextricably linked, Srikanta Babu. There can be no question of one without the other. My husband took the marriage vows, as I did, but they have played no part in shaping his needs and desires. They are no more to him than a piece of rhetoric, uttered in an idle moment, to be blown away at will. Yet these same vows bind me to him with iron fetters simply because I’m a woman. You said you did not blame me for coming away and added a “but”. What did that mean, Srikanta Babu? Were you trying to tell me that it is my duty to atone for my husband’s sins by voluntarily embracing a death-in-life? Why? Because once, long ago when I was still a child, I had involuntarily pronounced some words of which I knew not the meaning? Are those words, uttered in ignorance, all that is true and meaningful in my life? And the terrible injustice and affliction that has been heaped on my head—are they of no consequence? I am deprived of my rights as a wife and a mother. I am denied my legitimate place in society. Love, laughter and joy are not for me. Why, Srikanta Babu? Why? Simply because I had the misfortune of being chained in wedlock to a selfish, brutal, loathesome creature? And am I to be denied my womanhood because such an animal would have none of me? In no society other than the Hindu is the woman so crushed and crippled. Do you understand what I am saying, Srikanta Babu?’

  I was speechless.

  ‘Why don’t you answer me?’ Abhaya went on inexorably.

  ‘Is there really any need? You did not seek my advice before you took your decision.’

  ‘There was no time for that.’

  I stared moodily at the darkening world outside. I felt sunk in gloom. After a long silence I said, ‘My heart is very heavy, Abhaya. Do you know why I came here tonight? Because only this afternoon I was a mute witness to a terrible crime against a defenceless woman.’ And I described the scene in the harbour. ‘What future do you visualize for this young woman?’ I asked.

  Abhaya shuddered and shook her head.

  ‘And now I’ll tell you about two other women whose sufferings have been no less than yours.’ I recounted Annada Didi’s history from beginning to end. As I did so, I noticed Abhaya’s bo
dy stiffen and her eyes grow large and sombre. When I came to the end she touched the ground with her forehead and, sitting up, wiped her eyes with the end of her sari.

  ‘What happened after that?’ she asked.

  ‘After that I lost track of her. Now let me tell you about Pyari Baiji. When she was a young girl called Rajlakshmi she loved—someone. Do you know how? The way Rohini Babu loves you. Then, many years later, they met. She wasn’t Rajlakshmi any more. She had become Pyari Baiji. But her lover discovered, on that very first day, that Rajlakshmi had not died. She lived and was immortalized in Pyari Baiji.’

  ‘And then?’ Abhaya asked curiously.

  I told her the rest of the story ending with the sentence, ‘And the day came when Pyari sent away the man she loved above all else in the world—above her own life.’

  ‘What happened then? Do you know?’

  ‘I do. Nothing happened.’

  Abhaya sighed and said, ‘Are you trying to tell me that I’m not the only one? That women have suffered these misfortunes through the ages and that their submission to suffering is their greatest achievement?’

  ‘I’m not trying to tell you anything. I only ask you to accept the fact that women are not men. Their actions cannot be weighed on the same scales. And even if one were to do so it would not be worthwhile.’

  ‘Can you tell me why not?’

  ‘No, I cannot. Besides, my mind is in such a turmoil tonight that it is unfit to unravel issues of such complexity. I can only tell you of my own feelings. Many women have come into my life but only a few hold exalted positions in my heart. Do you know how? Through their capacity for suffering. My Annada Didi carried the burden of her sorrow in mute silence. Even when her burden became too grievous to be borne she did not abandon it. My heart would burst with pain if I even imagined her doing what you have done.’

  After a brief silence I continued, ‘And Rajlakshmi! What a grievous affliction was upon her when she sacrificed her dearest love! I have seen it with my own eyes. I don’t mind telling you that it is her capacity for suffering that has won her the highest place in my heart.’

 

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