Krishna Kanta's Will (Chatterjee, Knight)/Part 2/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V.
See how slowly the slender-streamed Chitrâ floweth onward, its banks adorned with a forest of fig, kâdamba, mango, date, and other trees, from which comes the song of the cuckoo, the dayal and pâpiyâ. There is no village near. About two miles away stands a small bazar named Prasâdpur. Here, at some former time, some indigo factor, seeing the loneliness of the place and thinking it one where deeds of violence might be done with impunity, had built a factory. Now the factor and his wealth had gone to destruction, and all his underlings were enjoying the fruits of their works, according to their deserts, in another world. A native of Bengal had bought the beautiful deserted dwelling standing in spacious grounds, and had furnished it handsomely. Flowers. statues, seats, mirrors, pictures adorned the house. We enter the fine hall on the upper story. In this room were some fine pictures, but also some offensive ones, indescribable. On one of the softly stuffed, handsome seats sat a bearded Mussulman, tuning a guitar, and sitting near him a young woman beating a drum, the gold bracelets on her arms keeping time therewith, and in two large mirrors hanging on the side wall the two people reflected were also performing these operations. In a side room a young man sat reading a novel, and through the open doorway watched the young woman's proceedings. As he screwed the pegs of the guitar the bearded one fingered its strings, and when, in his opinion, the strings and the drum were in tune with each other, from amidst the darkness of that beard some snow-white teeth appeared as he began to sing in a deep-toned voice. The teeth took part in many contortions of the visage, which, with the accompanying motions of the bee-black beard, made an amusing spectacle. The young woman, urged by these contortions, began to sing, mingling her sweet voice with the other's full, deep tones, the slender and the strong voices uniting like the blending of gold and silver threads.
And here we would gladly let fall the curtain; the impure, the unseemly we will not depict. We will relate only what is unavoidable, briefly indicating the charms of this place amid the groves of asokâ, bâkul, hill jasmine and jhânti trees, the humming of bees, the voice of the cuckoo, the cackling of the geese as they floated on the waves of the little stream; the wonderful glory of the sunbeams streaming into the house through panes of tinted glass, the beauty of the well-arranged bunches of flowers in gold and crystal vases, the brightly polished furniture that beautified the house, and the pure strains of the singers. For all these surrounding influences, combining with the sweetness of the restless glances of the young woman he was so intently watching, had filled the young man's heart with animation.
The young man was Gobind Lâl, the young woman Rohini. Gobind Lâl had purchased the house and here they had taken up their abode.
Suddenly Rohini's tabla sounded out of tune, a string of the guitar snapped, the teacher's voice faltered, the song ceased, the novel fell from the hand of Gobind Lâl. For at that moment in the doorway a strange young man appeared. We know him. It was Nishâkar Dâs.