Krishna Kanta's Will (Chatterjee, Knight)/Part 2/Chapter 6

by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay

 

CHAPTER VI.

The upper story of this mansion had been assigned to Rohini. She lived in semi-seclusion. The servants dwelt in the lower rooms. In that solitary spot scarcely any one came to visit Gobind Lâl, so outer reception rooms were not required. If at times a shopkeeper or any other person came, word was sent to the bâbu upstairs, who would come down and see him below. For this purpose a room on the ground floor had been set apart.

Nishâkar Dâs had appeared at the house door downstairs and had asked, "Who lives here?"

Gobind Lâl had two servants, one named Sonâ, the other Rupo. At the sound of a masculine voice, both men came to the door, and were surprised to see Nishâkar, whom they at once perceived to be a respectable man. He had taken care to go somewhat grandly got up. Such a person had never stepped within that door-frame, and the servants looked at each other much impressed.

Sonâ inquired, "Whom are you seeking, sir?"

"You. Inform your master that a gentleman wishes to see him."

"What name shall I say?"

"There is no need of a name; simply say a gentleman."

Now the servants knew their master was not in the habit of receiving gentlemen, and they did not care to announce the visitor. Sonâ hesitated; Rupo said, "You have come in vain, sir, my master does not see any one."

"Well, then, stay here; I will go up un-announced."

The men were in a fix, and said—

"Not so, Mahâshoi, we shall lose our places."

Nishâkar displayed a rupee, saying, "Whoever shall announce me will get that."

Sonâ meditated; Rupo, pouncing like a kite, took the rupee from Nishâkar, and sped up the stair to carry his message. The house was surrounded by a lovely garden.

Nishâkar said to Sonâ, "I will walk in this garden; do not oppose me, and when the summons comes, call me in from here," and thereupon gave him also a rupee.

When Rupo approached his master, Gobind Lâl was so occupied that the servant had no opportunity to speak of the visitor. Meanwhile Nishâkar, wandering in the garden, cast his eyes upwards and saw a lovely woman standing at the venetians looking at him. Rohini, seeing Nishâkar, was thinking, "Who can this be? I don't think he belongs to this neighbourhood. Judging from his dress he must be some grandee. What a fine man he is! handsomer than Gobind Lâl?—no, not that, Gobind Lâl's complexion is so clear; but this one has a fine mouth and fine eyes, specially the eyes. Oh, my, what eyes! Where can he have come from? He cannot be from Haridrâ village, for I know every one there. Could I not get a couple of words with him? What harm would it be? I would never be unfaithful to Gobind Lâl." While Rohini was thus thinking, Nishâkar glanced upwards and their eyes met. Whether these eyes held converse together I don't know, or if I know, I don't care to say; but I have heard that eyes do talk together.

At this moment Rupo obtained the attention of his master, and informed him of the visitor. The bâbu asked where the gentleman had come from.

"I do not know."

"Why did you not ask before you came to tell me?"

Rupo saw that the was making himself appear a simpleton, and, his intelligence coming to his aid, said, "I did ask, but the gentleman said he would tell you himself."

"Then tell him I shall not see him."

Meanwhile, Nishâker began to fear from the delay that Gobind Lâl had refused him a meeting. "Why," he thought, "should I be civil to an evildoer? Why should I not go up myself?" So, without waiting_for the servant's return, Nishâkar re-entered the house. He found neither Sonâ nor Rupo in the lower rooms, so, unhindered, he proceeded up the stairs to the place where were Gobind Lâl, Rohini, and Dânesh Khân, the singer. Rupo, noticing him, pointed out that this was the gentleman who desired an interview. Gobind Lâl was enraged; but he perceived the visitor was a gentleman, and asked, "Who are you, sir?"

"My name is Râs Bihâri Dé."

"Where do you live?"

"Barâhanagar."

Nishâkar pompously took a seat. He understood that Gobind Lâl would not invite him to be seated.

"Whom do you seek?" asked Gobind Lâl.

"Yourself."

"If you had waited a little instead of forcing yourself into my house, you would have heard from the servants that I have no leisure to see you."

"But I see you have plenty of leisure. I am not a man to be cowed by threats. If I were I should not have come to see you. Since I have come it is best to settle the matter by listening to a few words from me."

"I have no desire to listen to you, but if a few words will end the matter, pray speak them and depart."

"I will tell you in a couple of words. Your wife, Bhramar Dâsi, wishes to lease out the property."

The singer, Dânesh Khân, was putting a fresh string to his guitar. As he did this with one hand, he held up a finger of the other hand, saying, "One word is spoken."

Nishâkar continued, "I wish to take a lease of that property." Dânesh, counting, counting on his fingers, said, "Two words are spoken."

Nish.   "For that purpose I went to your house at Haridrâ."

Dânesh.   "You have had your two words, this makes three."

Nish.   "O Tutor, are you counting your pigs?"

With angry eyes the teacher said to Gobind Lâl, "Dismiss this rude man, Bâbu Sâhib."

But the Bâbu Sâhib, otherwise occupied, did not speak.

Nishâkar resumed. "Your wife has consented to take me as a tenant, but awaits your assent. She had not your address, and also did not wish to write, so the task of discovering your wish fell upon me. After much search I have traced you and am come to obtain your assent."

Gobind Lâl did not answer. His thoughts were elsewhere. After many days he had news of Bhramar, his own Bhramar. Nearly two years had passed.

Nishâkar understood something of what was in Gobind's mind. He repeated, "If you are willing, just give me a line to say that you have no objection and I will go."

Gobind Lâl still did not reply, and Nishâkar saw he must speak yet again; so once more he explained the matter from beginning to end. Gobind Lâl, forcing himself to attend, heard what was said. The reader knows that Nishâkar's tale was a false one, but Gobind Lâl did not suspect it. Throwing off his former harsh manner he said, "There is no need for my permission. The property is my wife's, not mine. I think you know that. She can deal with the property as she pleases. It is not for me to order or prohibit. Neither will I write anything. Now I think you might let me be."

Nishâkar had now no choice but to go. When he was gone Gobind Lâl bid the tutor sing something. Dânesh Khân tuned the guitar and asked, "What shall I sing?"

Gobind Lâl replying "What you will," took up the tabla. He had formerly known something of music and was now become a proficient. But to-day, somehow, he and Dânesh Khân were not in accord, the measures got adrift. Dânesh Khân, annoyed, threw aside the guitar and stopped singing, saying, "I am tired to-day." Then Gobihd Lâl took a sitâr and strove to play it, but forgot all the airs. Abandoning the sitâr he tried to read his novel, but could not take in the meaning of what he read. He threw down the novel and went into the sleeping-rooms. He did not see Rohini, but the man Sonâ was in attendance. From the doorway Gobind Lâl said to Sonâ, "I am going to sleep, let no one disturb me till I get up." He then «closed the door of the bedroom, but though he had closed the door, Gobind Lâl did not sleep. He sat on the bed, covered his face with his hands and wept. I know not why he wept, whether for Bhramar or for himself, I cannot say. I think for both.

Except weeping, I see not what remedy Gobind Lâl had. He might weep for Bhramar, but he could not return to her. He could not again show his face in Haridrâ. The path to that village was beset with thorns. He could only weep.