But that morning I missed her. Bhuban and Swarno mourned at the ghāt.[1] They said that their friend had been led away to her husband's house, which was a place far away from the river, with strange people, strange houses, and strange roads.
In time she almost faded out of my mind. A year passed. The women at the ghāt now rarely talked of Kusum. But one evening I was startled by the touch of the long familiar feet. Ah, yes, but those feet were now without anklets, they had lost their old music.
Kusum had become a widow. They said that her husband had worked in some far-off place, and that she had met him only once or twice. A letter brought her the news of his death. A widow at eight years old, she had rubbed out the wife's red mark from her forehead, stripped off her bangles, and come back to her old home by the Ganges. But she found few of her old playmates there. Of them, Bhuban, Swarno, and Amala were married, and gone away; only Sarat remained, and she too, they said, would be wed in December next.
As the Ganges rapidly grows to fulness with the coming of the rains, even so did Kusum day by day
- ↑ Bathing-place.
