by Rabindranath Tagore
It was a night of full moon early in the month of Phalgun. The youthful spring was everywhere sending forth its breeze laden with the fragrance of mango-blossoms. The melodious notes of an untiring papiya (One of the sweetest songsters in Bengal. Anglo-Indian writers have nicknamed it the “brain-fever bird,” which is a sheer libel.), concealed within the thick foliage of an old lichi tree by the side of a tank, penetrated a sleepless bedroom of the Mukerji family. There Hemanta now restlessly twisted a lock of his wife’s hair round his finger, now beat her churl against her wristlet until it tinkled, now pulled at the chaplet of flowers about her head, and left it hanging over hex face. His mood was that of as evening breeze which played about a favourite flowering shrub, gently shaking her now this side, now that, in the hope of rousing her to animation.
But Kusum sat motionless, looking out of the open window, with eyes immersed in the moonlit depth of never-ending space beyond. Her husband’s caresses were lost on her.
At last Hemanta clasped both the hands of his wife, and, shaking them gently, said: “Kusum, where are you? A patient search through a big telescope would reveal you only as a small speck-you seem to have receded so far away. O, do come closer to me, dear. See how beautiful the night is.”
Kusum turned her eyes from the void of space towards her husband, and said slowly: “I know a mantra (A set of magic words.), which could in one moment shatter this spring night and the moon into pieces.”
“If you do,” laughed Hemanta, “pray don’t utter it. If any mantra of yours could bring three or four Saturdays during the week, and prolong the nights till 5 P.M. the next day, say it by all means.”
Saying this, he tried to draw his wife a little closer to him. Kusum, freeing herself from the embrace, said: “Do you know, to-night I feel a longing to tell you what I promised to reveal only on my death-bed. To-night I feel that I could endure whatever punishment you might inflict on me.”
Hemanta was on the point of making a jest about punishments by reciting a verse from Jayadeva, when the sound of an angry pair of slippers was heard approaching rapidly. They were the familiar footsteps of his father, Haribar Mukerji, and Hemanta, not knowing what it meant, was in a flutter of excitement.
Standing outside the door Harihar roared out: “Hemanta, turn your wife out of the house immediately.”
Hemanta looked at his wife, and detected no trace of surprise in her features. She merely buried her face within the palms of her hands, and, with all the strength and intensity of her soul, wished that she could then and there melt into nothingness. It was the same papiya whose song floated into the room with the south breeze, and no one heard it. Endless are the beauties of the earth-but alas, how easily everything is twisted out of shape.
Returning from without, Hemanta asked his wife: “Is it true?”
“It is,” replied Kusum.
“Why didn’t you tell me long ago?”
“I did try many a time, and I always failed. I am a wretched woman.”
“Then tell me everything now.”
Kusum gravely told her story in a firm unshaken voice. She waded barefooted through fire, as it were, with slow unflinching steps, and nobody knew how much she was scorched. Having heard her to the end, Hemanta rose and walked out.
Kusum thought that her husband had gone, never to return to her again. It did not strike her as strange. She took it as naturally as any other incident of everyday life-so dry and apathetic had her mind become during the last few moments. Only the world and love seemed to her as a void and make-believe from beginning to end. Even the memory of the protestations of love, which her husband had made to her in days past, brought to her lips a dry, hard, joyless smile, like a sharp cruel knife which had cut through her heart. She was thinking, perhaps, that the love which seemed to fill so much of one’s life, which brought in its train such fondness and depth of feeling, which made even the briefest separation so exquisitely painful and a moment’s union so intensely sweet, which seemed boundless in its extent and eternal in its duration, the cessation of which could not be imagined even in births to come—that this was that love! So feeble was its support! No sooner does the priesthood touch it than your “eternal” love crumbles into a handful of dust! Only a short while ago Hemanta had whispered to her: “What a beautiful night!” The same night was not yet at an end, the same yapiya was still warbling, the same south breeze still blew into the roam, making the bed-curtain shiver; the same moonlight lay on the bed next the open window, sleeping like a beautiful heroine exhausted with gaiety. All this was unreal! Love was more falsely dissembling than she herself!
The next morning Hemanta, fagged after a sleepless night, and looking like one distracted, called at the house of Peari Sankar Ghosal. “What news, my son?” Peari Sankar greeted him.
Hemanta, flaring up like a big fire, said in a trembling voice: “You have defiled our caste. You have brought destruction upon us. And you will have to pay for it.” He could say no more; he felt choked.
“And you have preserved my caste, presented my ostracism from the community, and patted me on the back affectionately!” said Peari Sankar with a slight sarcastic smile.
Hemanta wished that his Brahmin-fury could reduce Peari Sankar to ashes in a moment, but his rage burnt only himself. Peari Sankar sat before him unscathed, and in the best of health.
“Did I ever do you any harm?” demanded Hemanta in a broken voice.
“Let me ask you one question,” said Peari Sankar. “My daughter—my only child-what harm had she done your father? You were very young then, and probably never heard. Listen, then. Now, don’t you excite yourself. There is much humour in what I am going to relate.
“You were quite small when my son-in-law Nabakanta ran away to England after stealing my daughter’s jewels. You might truly remember the commotion in the village when he returned as a barrister five years later. Or, perhaps, you were unaware of it, as you were at school in Calcutta at the time. Your father, arrogating to himself the headship of the community, declared that if I sent my daughter to her husband’s home, I must renounce her for good, and never again allow her to cross my threshold. I fell at your father’s feet, and implored him, saying: ‘Brother, save me this once. I will make the boy swallow cow-dung, and go through the prayaschittam ceremony. Do take him back into caste.’ But your father remained obdurate. For my part, I could not disown my only child, and, bidding good-bye to my village and my kinsmen, I betook myself to Calcutta. There, too, my troubles followed me. When I had made every arrangement for my nephew’s marriage, your father stirred up the girl’s people, and they broke the match off. Then I took a solemn vow that, if there was a drop of Brahmin blood flowing in my veins, I would avenge myself. You understand the business to some extent now, don’t you? But wait a little longer. You will enjoy it, when I tell you the whole story; it is interesting.
“When you were attending college, one Bipradas Chatterji used to live next door to your lodgings. The poor fellow is dead now. In his house lived a child-widow called Kusum, the destitute orphan of a Kayestha gentleman. The girl was very pretty, and the old Brahmin desired to shield her from the hungry gaze of college students. But for a young girl to throw dust in the eyes of her old guardian was not at all a difficult task. She often went to the top of the roof, to hang her washing out to dry, and, I believe, you found your own roof best suited for your studies. Whether you two spoke to each other, when on your respective roofs, I cannot tell, but the girl’s behaviour excited suspicion in the old man’s mind. She made frequent mistakes in her household duties, and, like Parbati (The wife of Shiva the Destroyer), engaged in her devotions, began gradually to renounce food and sleep. Some evenings she would burst into tears in the presence of the old gentleman, without any apparent reason.
“At last he discovered that you two saw each other from the roofs pretty frequently, and that you even went the length of absenting yourself from college to sit on the roof at mid-day with a book in your hand, so fond had you grown suddenly of solitary study. Bipradas came to me for advice, and told me everything. ‘Uncle,’ said I to him, ‘for a long while you have cherished a desire to go on a pilgrimage to Benares. You had better do it now, and leave the girl in my charge. I will take care of her.’
“So he went. I lodged the girl in the house of Sripati Chatterji, passing him off as her father. What happened next is known to you. I feel a great relief to-day, having told you everything from the beginning. It sounds like a romance, doesn’t it? I think of turning it into a book, and getting it printed. But I am not a writing-man myself. They say my nephew has some aptitude that way—I will get him to write it for me. But the best thing would be, if you would collaborate with him, because the conclusion of the story is not known to me so well.”
Without paying much attention to the concluding remarks of Peari Sankar, Hemanta asked: “Did not Kusum object to this marriage?”
“Well,” said Peari Sankar, “it is very difficult to guess. You know, my boy, how women’s minds are constituted. When they say ‘no,’ they mean ‘yes.’ During the first few days after her removal to the new home, she went almost crazy at not seeing you. You, too, seemed to have discovered her new address somehow, as you used to lose your way after starting for college, and loiter about in front of Sripati’s house. Your eyes did not appear to be exactly in search of the Presidency College, as they were directed towards the barred windows of a private house, through which nothing but insects and the hearts of moon-struck young men could obtain access. I felt very sorry for you both. I could see that your studies were being seriously interrupted, and that the plight of the girl was pitiable also.
“One day I called Kusum to me, and said: ‘Listen to me, my daughter. I am an old man, and you need feel no delicacy in my presence. I know whom you desire at heart. The young man’s condition is hopeless too. I wish I could bring about your union.’ At this Kusum suddenly melted into tears, and ran away. On several evenings after that, I visited Sripati’s house, and, calling Kusum to me, discussed with her matters relating to you, and so I succeeded in gradually overcoming her shyness. At last, when I said that I would try to bring about a marriage, she asked me: ‘How can it be?’ ‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘I would pass you off as a Brahmin maiden.’ After a good deal of argument, she begged me to find out whether you would approve of it. ‘What nonsense,’ replied I, ‘the boy is well-nigh mad as it were, what’s the use of disclosing all these complications to him? Let the ceremony be over smoothly and then—all’s well that ends well. Especially, as there is not the slightest risk of its ever leaking out, why go out of the way to make a fellow miserable for life?’
“I do not know whether the plan had Kusum’s assent or not. At times she wept, and at other times she remained silent. If I said, ‘Let us drop it then,’ she would become very restless. When things were in this state, I sent Sripati to you with the proposal of marriage; you consented without a moment’s hesitation. Everything was settled.
“Shortly before the day fixed, Kusum became so obstinate that I had the greatest difficulty in bringing her round again. ‘Do let it drop, uncle,’ she said to me constantly. ‘What do you mean, you silly child,’ I rebuked her,’ how can we back out now, when everything has been settled?’
“‘Spread a rumour that I am dead,’ she implored. ‘Send me away somewhere.’
“‘What would happen to the young man then?’ said I.’ He is now in the seventh heaven of delight, expecting that his long cherished desire would be fulfilled to-morrow; and to-day you want me to send him the news of your death. The result would be that to-morrow I should have to bear the news of his death to you, and the same evening your death would be reported to me. Do you imagine, child, that I am capable of committing a girl-murder and a Brahmin-murder at my age?’
“Eventually the happy marriage was celebrated at the auspicious moment, and I felt relieved of a burdensome duty which I owed to myself. What happened afterwards you know best.”
“Couldn’t you stop after having done us an irreparable injury?” burst out Hemanta after a short silence. “Why have you told the secret now?”
With the utmost composure, Peari Sankar replied: “When I saw that all arrangements had been made for the wedding of your sister, I said to myself: ‘Well, I have fouled the caste of one Brahmin, but that was only from a sense of duty. Here, another Brahmin’s caste is imperilled, and this time it is my plain duty to prevent it.’ So I wrote to them saying that I was in a position to prove that you had taken the daughter of a sudra to wife.”
Controlling himself with a gigantic effort, Hemanta said: “What will become of this girl whom I shall abandon now? Would you give her food and shelter?”
“I have done what was mine to do,” replied Peari Sankar calmly. “It is no part of my duty to look after the discarded wives of other people. Anybody there? Get a glass of cocoanut milk for Hemanta Babu with ice in it. And some pan too.”
Hemanta rose, and took his departure without waiting for this luxurious hospitality.
It was the fifth night of the waning of the moon—and the night was dark. No birds were singing. The lichi tree by the tank looked like a smudge of ink on a background a shade less deep. The south wind was blindly roaming about in the darkness like a sleep-walker. The stars in the sky with vigilant unblinking eyes were trying to penetrate the darkness, in their effort to fathom some profound mystery.
No light shone in the bedroom. Hemanta was sitting on the side of the bed next the open window, gazing at the darkness in front of him. Kusum lay on the floor, clasping her husband’s feet with both her arms, and her face resting on them. Time stood like an ocean hushed into stillness. On the background of eternal night, Fate seemed to have painted this one single picture for all time—annihilation on every side, the judge in the centre of it, and the guilty one at his feet.
The sound of slippers was heard again. Approaching the door, Harihar Mukerji said: “You have had enough time,—I can’t allow you more. Turn the girl out of the house.”
Kusum, as she heard this, embraced her husband’s feet with all the ardour of a lifetime, covered them with kisses, and touching her forehead to them reverentially, withdrew herself.
Hemanta rose, and walking to the door, said: “Father, I won’t forsake my wife.”
“What!” roared out Harihar, “would you lose your caste, sir?”
“I don’t care for caste,” was Hemanta’s calm reply.
“Then you too I renounce.”