Selected Short Stories

by Rabindranath Tagore

  If my husband had jokingly said ‘What a good idea, Pisimā – I put you in charge of the match-making’, then I would have had nothing to worry about. But he said with embarrassment, ‘Pisimā, I don’t know what you are saying.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she replied. ‘I’m saying nothing wrong. Well now, what do you say, Baumā?’

  I smiled and said, ‘You’re not asking the right person for advice. If you want to pick someone’s pocket, you don’t seek their prior agreement!’

  ‘Yes, you’re right there,’ said my aunt-in-law. ‘I suggest we confer privately, Abinash. Agreed? And I say to you, Baumā, the more wives her husband takes, the prouder a Kulin girl should be of him. Our Abinash could marry instead of carrying on as a doctor, and he wouldn’t have to worry about earning. When sick people fall into a doctor’s hands they die, and once they’re dead they don’t pay him fees any more; but Kulin’s wives are fated not to die, and the longer they live the more the husband profits.’

  Two days later my husband asked his aunt, in my presence, ‘Pisimā, can you find me a woman of good family who could help my wife like a relative? She can’t see, and if a companion was with her all the time I’d be much less anxious.’ When I was newly blind such a suggestion would have made more sense, but now I couldn’t think of any household task that was awkward because of my blindness. Nevertheless, I made no objection and kept silent.

  ‘That would be no problem,’ said my aunt-in-law. ‘My brother-in-law has a daughter, as good as she is beautiful. She’s grown up, just waiting for a suitable groom; if she could get a Kulin like you she could be married at once.’

  My husband said with alarm, ‘Who’s talking about marriage?’

  To which my aunt-in-law said, ‘How can a girl of good family come and live in your house without being married to you?’ That was true, certainly, and my husband could not think of anything to counter it.

  I stood alone, shut in the endless darkness of my blindness, crying out to God to save my husband.

  A few days later, as I came out from my morning pūjā, my aunt-in-law said, ‘Baumā, the niece of mine I mentioned, Hemangini, has come today from her village. Himu, this is your Didi, pay your respects to her.’

  At that moment my husband appeared and, as if surprised at seeing an unknown woman in the room, started to leave again.

  My aunt-in-law said, ‘Where are you going, Abinash?’

  ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  ‘She is my brother-in-law’s daughter – Hemangini,’ she replied. My husband then proceeded to show unwarranted curiosity about when she had come, who had brought her, what her background was, and so forth. I thought to myself, ‘I understand everything that’s happening, so why this pretence on top of everything else? Secrecy, covering up, lies! If you have to do wrong to satisfy your lust, then do so – but why degrade yourself further because of me? Why tell lies to deceive me?’

  I took Hemangini’s hand and led her into my bedroom. I stroked her face and body, and could tell that her face was beautiful, and her age was not less than fourteen or fifteen. The girl broke out in delicious laughter.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said. ‘Are you trying to exorcize me or something?’ At her simple, frank laughter, a dark cloud within me seemed to lift at once.

  I put my right arm round her shoulders and said, ‘I’m having a look at you, bhāi.’ I then stroked her soft face again.

  ‘Having a look at me?’ She laughed again, and said, ‘Do you have to feel me to see how big I am, like brinjal or beans in your garden?’

  I then realized that Hemangini didn’t know that I was blind. ‘I’m blind, you know, sister,’ I said. She was taken aback at this, and became more serious. I could well imagine how intently she was studying my face and my sightless eyes with her own curious, youthful, wide-open eyes.

  Then she said, ‘So this is why you invited Auntie here?’

  ‘No, I didn’t invite her,’ I said. ‘She kindly invited herself.’

  ‘Kindly?’ said the girl, with another laugh. ‘Her kindness will keep her here a long time then. But why did my father send me here?’

  Pisimā entered the room at that moment. She’d been having a long talk with my husband. As soon as she came in, Hemangini said, ‘Auntie, when are we going home, tell me?’

  ‘Well I never,’ said my aunt-in-law. ‘No sooner is she here than she wants to go. I’ve never known such a restless girl.’

  ‘Auntie,’ said Hemangini, ‘I can see that you are in no hurry to leave. You’re a relative here – you can stay as long as you like. But I’d like to go – that’s what I’m telling you.’

  She then took my arm and said, ‘What do you think, bhāi? You’re not really relatives of mine.’ I embraced her instead of replying. I could see that however domineering Pisimā might be, she was no match for this girl. She betrayed no outward annoyance – indeed she tried to show affection; but Hemangini brushed her aside. Laughing the whole matter off as a spoilt girl’s joke, she started to leave – but then had further thoughts and turned back, saying to Hemangini, ‘Himu, come along, it’s time for your bath.’ Hemangini came up to me and said, ‘Let’s both of us go to the ghāṭ – what do you say, bhāi?’ My aunt-in-law forbore to stop us, despite her reluctance to let us go; she knew that if it came to a tussle with Hemangini the girl would win – and besides, a quarrel wouldn’t look good in front of me.

  As we made our way to the ghāṭ behind the house, Hemangini asked, ‘Why haven’t you got any children?’

  I smiled and said, ‘How should I know why not? God hasn’t given me any.’

  ‘I dare say you had some kind of sin in you,’ said Hemangini.

  ‘That too is only known to God,’ I replied.

  The girl said conclusively, ‘Look at Auntie, though. She has such crookedness in her, no children can possibly form in her womb.’

  I had no understanding myself of the mysteries of sin and virtue, suffering and happiness, punishment and reward – so I couldn’t explain them to the girl. All I could do was sigh and inwardly say to God, ‘You know!’

  Hemangini hugged me and said, laughing, ‘Oh dear, even my words made you sigh! Usually no one listens to what I say!’

  I noticed that my husband was beginning to neglect his medical practice. If a call came from a long way off he did not go; if he went on a call near by he would deal with it as quickly as possible. Formerly he would stay in his surgery during gaps in his work, only coming home for his midday meal and siesta. Now my aunt-in-law summoned him at all hours, and he himself came to see her quite unnecessarily. When I heard her calling out, ‘Himu, bring my pān-box, will you?’ I knew that my husband was in his aunt’s room. For the first two or three days, Hemangini fetched pān-box, oil-bowl, vermilion-pot or whatever else she was asked for. But after that she refused to budge, and sent the maid with the requested article. If my aunt-in-law called, ‘Hemangini, Himu, Himi’, the girl would embrace me with a kind of intense pity: dread and sorrow came over her. She would now never mention my husband in my presence, even by mistake.

  Meanwhile my elder brother came to see me. I knew how observant he was. It would have been practically impossible to hide from him what was afoot. My brother was a harsh judge of people. He never forgave the slightest wrong-doing. My greatest fear was that he would see my husband as a criminal. I tried to cover things up with a smokescreen of excessive cheerfulness: by talking and fussing to an extreme degree, by putting on an elaborate show. But this was so unnatural to me, it increased the danger of detection. My brother, however, did not stay very long: my husband’s uneasiness took the form of blatant rudeness towards him – so he left. Before he went, he placed his hand – trembling with pure love – on my head for a long time: I could feel the passionate blessing his touch conveyed; his tears fell on my own tear-soaked cheeks.

  That Caitra evening, I remember, market-goers were making their way home. A storm was approaching, bringing rain from a long way off; one co
uld sense it in the dampness of the wind and the smell of wet earth. People were anxiously calling for their friends in the dark fields. I never sat with a lamp alight in the dark blindness of my bedroom, in case my clothes caught fire by brushing against it, or some other accident happened. I was sitting on the floor in my lonely dark room, clasping my hands and crying out to the God of my blind world. I was saying: ‘Lord, when I do not feel your mercy, when I do not understand your wishes, what can I do but cling with all my might to the rudder of my helplessly broken heart? Blood pours from my heart, but how can I control the tempest? What further trials must I suffer, weak as I am?’ Tears streamed down as I prayed – I buried my face in the bed and sobbed. I’d spent the whole day doing housework. Hemangini had followed me like a shadow: I’d had no chance to release the grief welling up inside me. That evening at last the tears came out; and it was then that I noticed the bed stirring a little, the swishing sound of someone moving about, and a moment later Hemangini had come and thrown her arms round my neck and was silently wiping my eyes with the end of her sari. She must have entered the bedroom earlier in the evening, but when, and with what intention, I could not tell. She did not ask a single question, and I also said nothing. She slowly passed her cool hand across my brow. I have no idea when the thunder and torrential rain of the storm passed; but at length a quietness came and soothed my fevered heart.

  The next day Hemangini said, ‘Auntie, you may not want to go home, but there’s a servant who can take me back – so there!’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ said my aunt-in-law. ‘I’m also going tomorrow; we can go together. Look at this, Himu, our dear Abinash has brought a pearl ring for you.’ She then proudly put the ring on to Hemangini’s finger.

  ‘Now you watch, Auntie,’ said Hemangini, ‘what a good aim I have.’ She threw the ring through the window, right into the middle of the tank behind the house.

  My aunt-in-law bristled with anger and surprise and dismay. She clutched my hands and said again and again, ‘Baumā, be sure you don’t tell Abinash about this childish behaviour; the poor boy will be very hurt if you do. Promise me, Baumā.’

  ‘You needn’t say any more, Pisimā,’ I said. ‘I shan’t tell him a thing.’

  The next day before they left Hemangini embraced me and said, ‘Didi, don’t forget me.’ I stroked her face with both hands and said, ‘The blind never forget, sister. I have no world; I live only in my mind.’ I then took her head and sniffed her hair and kissed her. My tears mingled with her hair.

  When Hemangini left, my world dried up. She had brought perfume and beauty and music into my life, bright light and the softness of youth: now that she was gone, what was there for me when I stretched out my arms? My husband came and said with exaggerated gusto, ‘They’ve gone! Now we can breathe again – now I can do some work.’ How wretched I was! Why did he put on such an act? Did he think I was afraid of the truth? Had I ever flinched at a blow? Didn’t my husband know this? When I gave up my eyes, did I not accept eternal darkness calmly?

  For a long time blindness had been the only gulf between me and my husband, but now there was a further division. My husband never mentioned Hemangini’s name to me, even in error; as if she had been totally removed from his world, as if she had never at any time made any mark on it. Yet I could easily tell he was, frequently, inquiring after her by letter. Just as when a pond fills up with flood-water so that lotus-flowers tug at their stalks, whenever he was affected by even the slightest elation I could feel a tugging at my heart. I was perfectly aware of when he got news of her and when he did not. But I couldn’t ask him about her. My soul longed to hear about the bright and beautiful star who had briefly shone so vividly in the darkness of my heart, but I had no right to speak of her to my husband even for a moment. On this, there was a total silence between us, full of suppressed words and feelings.

  About the middle of Baisākh, the maid came to me and asked, ‘Māṭhākrun, they’re loading up a boat at the ghāṭ – where is the master going?’ I knew that preparations were afoot. In the sky of my fate there had been, for some days, a lull before the storm. Tattered clouds of doom were gathering now: Shiva was silently pointing his finger, amassing all his destructive power above my head – I knew that well. But I said to my maid, ‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t heard anything.’ The maid didn’t dare to ask any more questions, and left, sighing heavily.

  Very late at night my husband came and said, ‘I’ve been called to a place a long way off – I must leave at dawn tomorrow. I probably shan’t be back for two or three days.’

  I rose from my bed and said, ‘Why are you lying?’ He answered in a weak trembling voice, ‘What lies have I told you?’

  ‘You are going to get married,’ I said.

  He was silent. I also stood stock-still. For a long time no sound was heard in the room. In the end I said, ‘Give me an answer. Say, “Yes, I’m going to get married.” ’

  He replied like an echo, ‘Yes, I’m going to get married.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘you will not be able to go. I shall save you from this dreadful danger, this terrible sin. If I cannot do that, what kind of wife am I? For what have I offered so many pūjās to Shiva?’

  Once again the room fell silent for a long time. I slumped to the floor, clung to my husband’s feet and said, ‘What wrong have I done you? Where have I fallen short? What need have you for another wife? I beg you, speak the truth.’

  My husband then said slowly, ‘This is the truth: I am frightened of you. Your blindness has covered you with a perpetual shroud, which I have no means of piercing. You are like a goddess, terrifying as a goddess – I cannot go on living with you for ever. I want an ordinary woman whom I can scold, whom I can be angry with, whom I can fondle, whom I can deck with ornaments.’

  ‘Cut open my breast and see!’ I said. ‘I am an ordinary woman – in my heart I am nothing but that young bride you married. I want to believe, I want to trust, I want to worship: do not demean yourself and bring misery to me by raising me above you! Please, keep me in all respects beneath you!’

  I cannot remember all that I said. Does a turbulent sea hear its own roaring? All I recall is that I said, ‘If I have been true to you, then God will never allow you to break your righteous vows. Either I’ll be widowed or Hemangini will die before you commit such a sin!’ With that I fainted.

  When I regained consciousness, the dawn chorus had not quite begun, and my husband had gone. I shut myself into the prayer-room to perform a pūjā. I stayed in the room for the whole day long. In the evening we were shaken by a Kāl-baiśākhī storm. I did not say, ‘O God, my husband is on the river now, look after him.’ I said, passionately, ‘God, let whatever is my fate happen, but save my husband from his terrible sin.’ The whole night passed like this. I continued my pūjā through the next day too. Who gave me strength to last for so long without sleep and food I cannot say; but I stayed sitting like stone before the stone image of the deity.

  In the evening, someone started to push at the door from the outside. When the door burst open, I passed out again. When I came round I heard, ‘Didi!’ – and I found I was lying in Hemangini’s lap. When I moved my head, her new wedding-sari rustled. O God, you did not heed my prayer! My husband had fallen!

  Hemangini lowered her head and said slowly, ‘I have come for your blessing, Didi.’

  For the first minute I froze; then I sat up and said, ‘Why should I not bless you, sister? What wrong have you done?’

  Hemangini laughed her sweet high laugh and said, ‘Wrong? Did you do wrong when you married? What wrong is there in my marrying?’

  I hugged her and laughed too. I said to myself, ‘Do my prayers have the last word? Is God’s will not supreme? Let blows fall on my head if they must, but I shall not let them fall on the place in my heart where I keep my faith and religion. I shall stay as I was.’ Hemangini bent down and took the dust of my feet. ‘May you be eternally blessed, eternally happy,’ I said.

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nbsp; ‘I want more than your blessing,’ she said, ‘I want you to welcome me and my husband together into your chaste arms. You must not feel shy about him. If you give me permission, I shall bring him here.’

  ‘Bring him,’ I said.

  A little later I heard a new footfall in the room, and the affectionate question, ‘Are you well, Kumu?’

  I hurriedly stumbled from the bed and did obeisance to him, crying, ‘Dādā!’

  ‘What do you mean “Dādā”?” said Hemangini. ‘Don’t be silly! He is your new bhagnīpati!’1

  I understood all. I knew that my elder brother had vowed not to get married: our mother was no more, he had no one to push him into marriage. He had married now because of me. Tears rolled down my cheeks; I couldn’t stop them. My elder brother gently ran his hands through my hair; Hemangini hugged me and went on laughing.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. I waited with beating heart for my husband to return. How would he contain his shame and bitterness?

  Very late at night, the door opened slowly. I sat up with a start. It was my husband’s step. My heart pounded. He came on to the bed and took my hand and said, ‘Your brother saved me. I was in a state of madness for a while and was about to destroy myself. When I got into the boat God alone knew the weight that was pressing on my breast; when we ran into a storm on the river and I feared for my very life, I thought, “If I drown, I shall have been saved.” When I arrived at Mathurganj I was told of the marriage, the previous day, of your brother and Hemangini. I cannot describe the shame but also the joy with which I returned to the boat. In these past few days I have learnt for sure that I would find no happiness in deserting you. You are my goddess.’

  I smiled and said, ‘No, I don’t want to be a goddess. I am the keeper of your house – an ordinary woman.’

  ‘I also have a request,’ said my husband. ‘Never embarrass me again by calling me a god.’

  The next day the neighbourhood resounded with ululations and the sound of conches.1 Hemangini began to tease my husband mercilessly, from morning to night, at meals and at rest, giving him no relief; but no one alluded to what had happened, or where he had gone.