VIII
Rajlakshmi reached her native village. Vihari, who was to have returned after escorting her thither, could not do so after seeing what the place was like.
The only distant relatives still living in Rajlakshmi's childhood's home were one or two aged widows. A dense jungle of bamboo thickets and tangled vegetation had grown all around; the water of the pond had turned green; and the disquieting howl of jackals was to be heard even in broad daylight.
"This may be your birthplace, mother, right enough," said Vihari, "but it certainly can't be described as 'more glorious than heaven!'[1] Come back with me to Calcutta. 'Twould be a sin and a shame to leave you here alone."
Rajlakshmi was also beginning to feel a great sense of oppression, when, in the very nick of time, Binodini came to the rescue and took shelter with her.
Ever since the death of her husband, Binodini, like a garden-plant in the wilderness, had been drooping in this dreary village. Now that she had come to pay her respects to her husband's respected relative, she entirely gave herself up to her service.
And what a service it was! What unremitting devotion! How deft was she in household work, how clever in the kitchen, how sweet-spoken!
Rajlakshmi would have to say, "It's late, my little mother, go and have something to eat."
But would she hear of it? How could she rest till she had fanned her Pishima[2] into her afternoon nap?
Rajlakshmi, after a while, would insist, "You'll get ill, my little mother, if you go on like this."
Binodini, with great self-depreciation, would reply, "No, Pishima, we who live in sorrow never get ill. What is there here, what have I got with which to welcome you home after all these years?"
Vihari in a few days got to be the boss of the village. Some would come to him for medicine, some for legal advice; he would be asked to find jobs for sons in some big Calcutta office, he would have to write out applications. His genial humour and quizzical curiosity took him everywhere, from the chess gathering of the elders to the drinking-haunts of the outcasts; nowhere was he looked upon as a stranger, they all respected him.
Binodini, also, from behind the scenes, tried her best to lighten the exile of the Calcutta youth in so dull a place.
As often as Vihari came back from his rounds in the village, he would find that someone had been arranging his room, putting flowers into a brass pot, placing novels by the side of his cushion seat; and in each book was written in a firm feminine hand, the name "Binodini."
This was rather different from the ordinary kind of hospita1ity met with in villages! Whenever Vihari al1uded to this in terms of praise; Rajlakshmi would say, "And this is the girl whom you people thought beneath notice!"
Vihari would laugh in reply. "We did wrong, mother, we are duly penitent. But isn't it better to regret a failure to get married?—it would be so awful to have to regret the marriage proving a failure!"
But Rajlakshmi would be continually harping on the thought, "Would that this girl had been my daughter-in-law. Why, oh why, was it not so!"
If Rajlakshmi so much as alluded to her return to Calcutta, Binodini's eyes would fill with tears. "Oh Pishima", she would say, "why did you come for so short a visit? I was getting along somehow while I did not know you, but how can I live without you now?"
And in the effusiveness of her emotion Rajlakshmi would cry out, "Oh! my little mother, why did you not come to me as the bride of my house, then I could have kept you in my arms for ever."
And when the conversation took this turn, Binodini would contrive some excuse for leaving the room to hide her blushes.
Rajlakshmi was awaiting a repentant letter of entreaty from Calcutta. Since the day he was born, her Mahin had never been separated from her for so long—he must, she thought, be greatly worrying over her absence by this time. So Rajlakshmi was athirst for this letter in which Mahendra would stormily lay claim to his mother's love.
It was Vihari, however, who got Mahendras' letter. He wrote, "Mother must be so happy to be in her native village after all this time."
"Poor Mahin is fearfully cut up," thought Rajlakshmi, "that's why he puts in that little touch about my being happy. As if his wretched mother could be happy anywhere away from her Mahendra!"
"Go on, Vihari, my child, what does he say next?"
"That's all, mother, nothing more," said Vihari, as he crushed the letter in his hand, slipped it into a book, and threw it into a corner.
Rajlakshmi could hardly contain herself. Mahin must be so furious with his mother, she concluded, that Vihari did not care to read out to her how strongly he felt. Like the toss of the sucking calf, the thought of Mahendra's anger, while it pained Rajlakshmi, drew forth, as well, an overflowing tenderness. She at once forgave Mahendra. "Let him be happy with his wife," she said to herself. "I'll not worry him anymore over her shortcomings. How very angry poor Mahin must be that his mother, whom be can't bear to be away from for a moment, should have left him—" and her eyes repeatedly brimmed over.
Rajlakshmi kept on coming to Vihari's room and saying, "Go and have your bath, my son, I am afraid the irregular hours you are keeping here will tell on your health."
Vihari somehow seemed not to be at all in the mood for toilet or food that day, and replied, "A bit of irregularity is good for a vagabond like me, mother."
But Rajlakshmi insisted, "No, my son, you really must get on with your bath."
At last after repeated urging Vihari went. As soon as he left the room Rajlakshmi hunted out the crumpled letter from the book, and taking it to Binodini, said: "Will you tell me, my little mother, what Mahin has been writing to Vihari."
Binodini proceeded to read the letter out aloud. In the beginning there was a little bit about his mother,—just what Vihari had read out, nothing more. Then came all about Asha! Mahendra seemed to be revelling in a boundless intoxication of rapturous love and excitement.
After reading out a little Binodini stopped for very shame and asked, "Pishima, need I go on?"
The affectionate eagerness in Rajlakshmi's face had in a moment frozen into a stony stare. After a short silence she said, "Let it be," and went away without taking back the letter.
Binodini shut herself into her room, settled down on the bed, and went on with her reading.
What charm Binodini found in that letter Binodini alone knew. But it was not the mere satisfaction of curiosity. As she read it over and over again, her eyes glowed like the sand under the midday sun, her breath came in hot gasps like the desert wind. What was Mahendra like, what was Asha like, what was the love between Mahendra and Asha like, these were the questions that kept whirling round and round in her mind. Leaning with her back against the wall, her feet stretched out on the bed, and the letter pressed on her lap with her hands, she sat long, staring straight before her.
Vihari was not able to find that letter of Mahendra's again!
That afternoon Annapurna suddenly made her appearance. Rajlakshmi's heart beat violently for fear of evil tidings; she could not bring herself to put any question, and gazed at Annapurna with blanched face.
"All is well at Calcutta" said Annapurna.
"What brings you here, then?" asked Rajlakshmi.
"Come and take charge of Jour household, sister," said Annapurna. "I have ceased to care for the world, I am going to Benares to end my days there, and have come to take the dust of your feet.[3] If knowingly or unknowingly I have wronged you, I beg your forgiveness. As for your daughter-in-law," here her eyes filled with tears, "she is but a child, and motherless; be she to blame or not to blame, she is after all your own—" she was unable to continue.
Rajlakshmi hurried away to look after Annapurna's toilet and food arrangements. Vihari, hearing of her arrival, rushed back from a neighbouring farmer's house, and after prostrating himself at her feet said, "No, Kaki, this won't do at all. Do you really mean to be so cruel as to forsake us?"
Annapurna, holding back her tears, said pleadingly, "Don't try to turn me back, Vihari. I wish all of you every happiness, but no part of it depends on me."
Vihari was silent for a time, and then said, "Fate is indeed unkind to Mahendra that it has made him part with you."
"Don't say that," said Annapurna with a little start, "Mahendra hasn't in any way annoyed me. But unless I go there can be no peace in the house."
Vihari looked away in silence. Annapurna then took out a pair of gold bangles from the folds of her sari and said, "Keep these bangles, my son. When you bring home your bride, put these on her wrists for me with my blessing."
Vihari touched his forehead with the bangles in reverent acceptance of the gift, and went oft into the next room to conceal his emotion.
At the time of departure Annapurna said, "Vihari, look after my Mahin and my Asha." Then putting a document into Rajlakshmi's hands she said, "Here is a deed of gift making over my share in the family property to Mahin. It will be quite enough if you send me fifteen rupees every month."
With which she prostrated herself, and, taking the dust of Rajlakshmi's feet on her head, started on her pilgrimage.