EYESORE
By Rabindranath Tagore.
XXV
THE moon sets on the one side, the sun rises on the other. Asha went away, but Binodini did not appear on Mahendra's horizon. Mahendra wandered forlorn, in season and out of season invading his mother's apartments, but the tricky Binodini was not to be caught.
"With his wife away, nothing in the house seems to please poor Mahin," concluded Rajlakshmi, noticing his disconsolate looks. The thought that his mother should count comparatively so little in his life, for pleasure or for pain, cut her to the quick; nevertheless his lackadaisical melancholy air evoked her sympathy. She sent for Binodini and said: "I've got short of breath ever since that influenza, and can't be going up and down the stairs as I used to. Will you see to Mahin's meals and everything, my child? He's been looked after all his life, and can't do without it. Don't you see how he's moping since his wife left? What a wife to be sure! How could she desert him like this!"
Binodini with face averted fumbled with the bed-clothes.
"Well child, what's troubling you? There's nothing to hesitate about. Whatever people may say, you're quite one of us."
"Wouldn't it be better not to—?" murmured Binodini.
"All right then, don't!" snapped Rajlakshmi. "I'll get along as best as I can by myself," with which she essayed to mount the stairs to do up Mahendra's room.
"Oh stop, please!" cried Binodini in a flutter. "I'm going. Forgive me if I've seemed disobedient. I'll do exactly as you wish."
Rajlakshmi had a supreme contempt for society gossip. Since her husband's death her social circle had been mostly limited to Mahendra and herself. Binodini's hint of Mahendra's incurring social censure had annoyed her. Hadn't she known Mahendra since his infancy? Where could you find such another immaculate youth? To think of anybody daring to speak ill of him! Wouldn't the tongue that uttered such a foul calumny wither and drop off!
That evening when Mahendra came home from college, the state of his room took him by surprise. The perfume of incense greeted him as soon as he entered. His mosquito-curtain had acquired a pink silk flounce. The bed on the floor was spotless and trim, and the usual bolster had been replaced by square cushions of the English pattern, the embroidery on which represented days of Binodini's toil. "For whom are you working these?" Asha had often asked her, and had received the bantering reply: "For my funeral pyre; death is the only sweetheart I'll ever have."
Mahendra's portrait on the wall had been adorned with little coloured bows at the corners, and under it a small table had been placed against the wall with a vase of flowers upon it,—as if it were an offering from some unknown worshipper. Altogether the room wore a changed aspect. The bedstead had been slightly shifted from it former position, and the clothes-horse draped to form a screen between it and the floor-bed, dividing the room into two parts for the day and night. The little cabinet in which Asha used to keep her trinkets had red Turkey-cloth fastened inside its glazed door, so that its contents could no longer be seen. The old associations had been completely overlaid by the touch of a new hand.
As the tired Mahendra threw himself on the floor-bed and leaned back on the cushions he found them scented with the pollen of nageswar flowers. As he closed his eyes it seemed to him to be the fragrance of the champak[1] fingers which had worked the cushions.
Then the maid appeared with pared fruits on a silver salver, and a crystal goblet of iced pineapple sherbet. This was also a new departure, and bore witness to the manipulation of skilful hands. Each one of Mahendra's senses was assailed by this insidious novelty.
As Mahendra finished his repast with great relish, Binodini entered with pan and spices, and said with a smile: "Forgive me, friend Mahin, if I've not been able to look after you these last few days; you know I've got to attend to all the household work. Whatever you. may do, swear for my sake not to tell my Eyesore that I've been neglecting you!" She then pushed the pan-box towards him. Even the pan was not the same, with its aroma of screw-pine blossoms.
Mahendra.—"It's glorious to have intervals of neglect like this!"
Binodini—"Why, may I ask?"
Mahendra.—"One can make a grievance of it, and get it paid back with compound interest."
Binodini.—"And how much interest do I still owe you, Mr. Banker?"
Mahendra.—"As you weren't here while I was eating, you must prolong your stay after the meal, and even then some debt will be left over!"
"What a shark," laughed Binodini. "Once in your clutches there's no getting out, I see."
"My accounting may be strict," rejoined Mahendra, "but what have I realised in cash?"
"What is there to realise?" sighed Binodini, suddenly becoming grave. "Yet the debtor has been made captive."
"Is this then no better than a gaol, friend Eyesore?" said Mahendra becoming also grave.
The boy came in with a lighted lamp, which he placed on the table. Binodini shaded her eyes with her palm from the sudden light. "Who knows, friend?" she said in reply. "There's no getting even with you in words. Let me go now. I've got other duties to attend to."
Mahendra clasped her hand as he said: "Since you've allowed yourself to he made captive, you shall not be released!"
"Unhand me, for shame!" cried Binodini. "Why want to bind me when I've no way of escape?" With which she tore away her hand and left the room.
Mahendra fell back on the scented cushions, the blood throbbing within his breast. What with the quiet of the evening, the solitude of the room, the breath of the new spring, he felt he could hardly contain himself. He put out the lamp, bolted the yenetian door, barred the glazed sashes and retired for the night, though it was quite early yet.
Even the bed seemed different; with an extra quilt over the mattress it was softer, and again there was a subtle perfume of khuskhus.[2] Mahendra tossed from side to side, as if trying to recover some token of the past to cling to; but they all seemed to elude his grasp.
At nine o'clock in the evening there was a knock at the closed door. Binodini was standing outside, saying: "Friend Mahin, your supper is waiting, open the door."
Mahendra jumped up to undo the fastenings, but as he touched the bar he stopped short, and throwing himself on the floor-bed, he cried out: "No, no, I'm not hungry, I don't want anything."
The anxious reply was heard: "Is anything the matter with you? Shall I bring you some water, is there anything else you'd like?"
"Nothing, thank you, nothing!"
"Don't keep anything back from me, please. If you're all right, why aren't you opening the door?"
"Mahendra almost shouted as he hurriedly replied: "No, no, I'm not going to open the door, not for worlds. Do go away!" with which he again got into bed, and resumed his gropings in the darkness, in the emptiness of his bed, in the turmoil of his heart, for some memory of the absent Asha.
Finding that sleep would not come, Mahendra got up, lit the lamp, and sat down with paper and pen to write a letter to Asha.
Oh my Asha, do not leave me alone here any longer. You are my good Angel,[3] when you are not with me my desires break their bonds and try to run away with me, I know not whither. Where is the light to guide me on to the right path—your trustful loving eyes alone can give it. O my true, my only one, come back to me, keep me safe, keep me filled with yourself. Rescue me from the sin of doing you wrong, the terrible fate of forgetting your love.
Thus Mahendra, to spur himself on towards Asha, kept writing through the long night hours. The distant church-clocks chimed, one after another, the hour of three. The sound of passing carriages in the street had almost entirely ceased. The Vehaga tune which was being voiced by some neighbouring dancing-girl had long since died away into the prevailing silence of sleep. Mahendra, somewhat consoled with the outpourings of his heart which he had addressed to Asha, went back to bed and this time fell asleep at once.
It was late when he woke next morning. The rays of the sun had entered his room. As he sat up he felt the tension of last night considerably lightened. Coming out of bed he saw the letter he had written lying on the table. "What have I been doing?" thought he. "What a sentimental ass I've been. How lucky I didn't post it! What would Asha have thought of me—the poor girl wouldn't have understood half of it!" Mahendra felt miserably ashamed think how he had been worked up, and for what a trifling reason. He tore up that letter and wrote a short and simple one in its place:
How much longer are you going to be? If your guardian is not returning soon, just let me know and I will run over and fetch you. I am not feeling a bit happy all alone!