VI
WHEN, without any fault on my part, I found myself forsaken by Indra, alone on the bank of the Ganges in that still, solemn night, I could not restrain my tears. So this was all the value he attached to my affection for him! I had followed him, unmindful of the strict restraints of our house: but what was that to him? He had not hesitated to call me unlucky and useless, and certainly when he left me he thought it a good riddance.
I cannot tell how much Indra's cruel indifference pained me. After this he did not seek me nor I him. If I met him accidentally in the streets, I would look away from him, pretending that I had not seen him. This pretence of mine was as gall and wormwood to me: but how much did it affect him? He was a leading spirit in our boys' world; he was captain of the football and cricket teams, the best gymnast in the gymnasium. What a number of disciples, admirers, and followers he had! And what was I? A mere nobody in comparison. But why had he called me his friend for a short time and then shut me out of his acquaintance, in the chilly world outside? Finding myself shut out, I took no special pains to get in again. How well I remember when our common friends would tell wonderful stories about Indra and I would hear them in perfect silence. Not by a single word did I ever hint that he knew me or that I knew anything about him. How well I had learned, even at that early age, the tragic fatality which ends friendship between the great and the little in this world.
Three or four months passed. We had given each other up: and whatever may have been the pangs and sorrows on each side, neither of us made any enquiry about the other. It was at this time, in the midst of the Kali-puja holidays, that a stage was erected at the Dutts' house for the local amateur theatricals. The play was going to be Meghnad-badh ('The Killing of Meghnad'). I had often seen rustic operas performed but had not seen many theatrical plays. This and the fact that, as a great favour, I had been allowed to lend a hand in preparing the stage, roused my enthusiasm to such a pitch that I gave up all my usual occupations and was indefatigable in my task. Not only was I favoured by being allowed to help, but he who was to take the part of Rama, had himself once told me to hold a rope. Accordingly I had high hopes that at night when other boys, peering through the holes of the canvas-walls of the green-room, would he repulsed at the point of sticks, the special favour of Rama would mean different treatment for me; perhaps he would single me out of the rabble and call me in once or twice. But alas for all my arduous labours throughout the day, my recompense, after the lamps were lit, was nil. Hour after hour I stood near the green-room door: Ramachandra passed and re-passed me several times, but far from asking why I stood there, he never even gave me a nod of recognition. Ungrateful Rama! Had he no further need of a rope-holder?
After ten o'clock. when the first bell rang to signal the beginning of the play, I joined the audience, extremely pained and disgusted with the whole affair, and occupied one of the seats in front. But a few minutes sufficed to wipe off all my sorrow and disgust. What a play it was! I have seen many plays in life, but never another like that. Meghnad himself was a colossal affair: his body was about seven feet in height, his circumference at least six feet. People said that after his death his body would have to be taken to the burning-place in a bullock-cart: he could not be carried on human shoulders. Though I do not remember all the details of the play, I can remember this, that the heroism Meghnad displayed that night could not be matched by Haran Palsain, of our village, even in the part of Bhima, carrying a branch of sajina tree on his shoulder, while he gnashed his teeth with all his might.
The curtain rose. A character was on the stage; I believe it was Lakshman. He was declaiming a speech when all on a sudden Meghnad, at one bound, appeared before him. The whole stage creaked and groaned and trembled: five or six lamps which formed the footlights were overturned and extinguished. The gilt belt which confined Meghnad's waist split with a loud snap. A great sensation followed. Some of the audience eagerly advised Meghnad to sit down on the stage, while others demanded that the curtain should be dropped. But our brave Meghnad was nothing daunted. He threw his bow down, and, holding up his trousers with his left hand, began to fight with a single arrow in his right.
What bravery! What splendid heroism! Many have seen fights, but who has ever seen anyone, without a bow and with a left hand hors de combat, fight with his right hand alone, using a single arrow, ruthless and indomitable? For thus indeed did Meghnad conquer his foe, who was forced to save his skin by headlong flight.
While I was lost in appreciation of this splendid performance and in admiration for the unusual mode of warfare, I felt the pressure of a finger on my back. Turning my head I saw it was Indra. 'Come, Srikanta,' he whispered, 'Didi wants to see you.' In an instant I sat bolt upright and asked, 'Where is she?'
'Come out of this: I'll tell you.' When I had gone out with him, he simply said, 'Come along with me,' and began to walk on.
When we reached the ghat, I saw that Indra's boat was ready; both of us got in in silence, and we started.
Once more we proceeded by the old water-way in the darkness, and then followed the jungle path till we came to Shahji's hut. By that time night was far spent.
Didi was sitting beside a kerosene lamp, Shahji's head lying on her lap. Near her feet was stretched a huge, dead cobra.
Briefly and in a low voice she told us what had happened. A reward had been offered that day for catching a snake in somebody's house. Shahji had caught the snake and had returned home just before dusk, drunk on the reward he had got. He had insisted, in spite of Didi's remonstrances, on playing for one of the snakes to dance. As he put the snake into the handi[1] he had placed his face near its mouth, intending to bid it an affectionate goodnight, and the brute had bitten him in the neck.
Didi wiped her eyes with the end of her sari. 'Srikanta,' she said, 'he understood at once that his hours were numbered. He trod on the head of the snake with his heel, crying, "Come, let us both die together!" and then flung himself on the ground with the snake stretched out beside him. There they both lay dead at my feet.' With the tenderest care she lifted the cloth that covered Shahji's face, and, touching his lips, already blue, with hers, she said with deep emotion, 'It is well, Indranath! I do not lay the slightest blame on God.'
We two stood speechless. No one who felt the heart-rending anguish, the baffled longing and prayer, that were expressed in that voice, could forget it again.
'You are only children,' she said after a pause, 'but I have no one except you two. So I ask you to do what you can for him before you go.'
She pointed to the jungle to the south of the hut. 'There is a small space, Indranath, over there. I have often thought that, if I were to die here, I should like to lie in that place. In the morning you will lay him there: he has suffered many sorrows in his life; now he will be at rest and find peace.'
'Didi, ought we to bury Shahji?' asked Indra.
'Of course, my dear,' she answered; 'he was a Musalman, you know.'
Indra put another question, 'Didi, are you too a Musalman?'
'Yes,' she said, 'of course I am a Musalman.'
I could see that the reply hurt Indra a little. He had not expected it. He had really loved Didi and had harboured a secret hope in his heart that she was one of ourselves, a Hindu. But I could not believe her: even after her own avowal I could not think that she was not a Hindu's daughter.
As soon as the night was over, Indra dug a grave in the place Didi had indicated and we three took Shahji's body there and buried it. It was a place just above the Ganges, formed by the breaking of the gravelly bank and well fitted for a grave. The river flowed past, some forty feet below, and overhead was a screen of branches and wild creepers, a fit place in which to conceal one's treasure. With heavy hearts we three sat side by side. A fourth person had lain down to sleep for ever, his silent heart so near our beating hearts, in the bosom of the earth. The sun had not yet arisen; below flowed the slow-moving Ganges, and its soft murmurs came wafted up to our ears: above us and on all sides the forest-birds sang their morning songs.
Suddenly Didi threw herself down on the grave and cried aloud in a broken voice, 'Mother Ganges, give me too a place at thy feet! I have no other place to call my own!' How true this was I did not understand so well then as I did two days later. Indra glanced at me, and then, going up to the sorrow-stricken woman, he took her head on his lap and said, in a voice of infinite grief, 'Didi, come to my home. My mother is alive, and she will take you to her heart and not keep you at a distance. You do not know how kind she is. Come to her: that is all I ask, Didi. You are a Hindu's daughter, Didi, and not a Musalman.'
Didi did not speak. For some time she lay as if unconscious.
Later, when Didi had roused herself, we all three took a bath in the Ganges. Didi threw her iron bangle into the water, broke her bangles of lac, and obliterated with earth the vermilion mark in the parting of her hair.[2] As the sun rose, she went back to her hut, dressed in the garb of a widow.
She now told us for the first time that Shahji was her husband. Indra was slow to believe this. 'But are you not a Hindu, Didi?' he asked with doubt in his voice.
'Yes, I am a Brahmin's daughter,' said Didi. 'Shahji was also a Brahmin.'
Indra remained silent for a while and then said, 'Why did he lose his caste?'
'I cannot tell you just why,' she replied. 'But when he lost his caste, I too lost mine in consequence. A wife is but a partner in the husband's spiritual life. I have never done anything to lose my caste on my own account. I have never done anything forbidden.'
'I have noticed that, Didi,' said Indra, whose voice was now thick with eniotion, 'and that is why I have always wondered—pardon me, Didi, for this—how you were led into this manner of life. But now I won't be gainsaid, you must come to my home. Let us start now.'
Didi appeared to be considering something. After a long time she raised her head and said, 'I cannot go anywhere now, Indranath.'
'Why not, Didi?'
'He has left some debts. I cannot go elsewhere without paying them off.'
'I know that,' said Indra angrily. 'He has left some debts in grog-shops and ganja-shops. But what is that to you? Let me see who dares to ask you for payment! Come with me and let me just see who stands in your way!'
Didi smiled even in her grief. 'You foolish boy,' she said, 'who can stand in my way but my own conscience? Is not my husband's debt my own? How will you keep that creditor of mine, my conscience, at bay? Go home now. I shall pay off my debts after selling what little I have got. Come again to-morrow or the day after.'
Thus far I had not spoken: I now said, 'Didi, I have got four or five rupees more at my home; may I bring them?' Before I had finished speaking she stood up, and, drawing me to her like a little child, she kissed my forehead. 'No, my dear,' she said, 'I do not want them. I have not forgotten those five rupees you left with me the other day: I shall not forget your kindness till my dying day. I bless you, my child,' and tears came pouring down her cheeks.
At about eight o'clock we started homewards, and Didi came with us up to the lane. Holding Indra by the hand she said, 'Indranath, I have given my blessings to Srikanta, but I dare not bless you, for you are beyond the reach of blessings. But my heart has dedicated you, my brother, at the feet of God. May He make you His own.'
She had understood him. Disregarding her protests, Indra knelt down before her and put the dust of her feet on his head. 'Didi,' he said, on the verge of tears, 'I do not like to leave you alone here in the jungle. I feel that I shall never see you again.'
Didi made no reply. She turned away suddenly and wiped her eyes: then she went back towards her desolate hut. We stood looking at her as long as she was visible. But not once did she turn her head: when she disappeared out of sight her head was still bent down.
Three days later, as I was leaving school in the afternoon, I saw Indra standing near the gate. His face was wan and dim: he had no shoes on and he was dusty up to his knees. His appearance distressed me; he belonged to a wealthy family, and was usually rather fastidious about his appearance and clothes. I had never seen him like this before. He made a sign to me to come to the playground and when I met him there he said, 'Didi is gone, she has gone somewhere.' He did not even look at me. 'I have been searching for her since yesterday, but I have not been able to find her anywhere. She has left a letter for you; here it is', and he thrust a folded piece of yellow paper into my hand and left me quickly. Perhaps his heart was so overpowered with grief that it was impossible for him to stay near anyone or talk with anyone.
I sat down at once and, unfolding the piece of paper, began to read. Though at this distance of time I cannot remember everything that was written in it, I can remember most of it. Didi had written, 'Srikanta, I send you my blessings before I go. Not only to-day, but as long as I live, I shall always bless you two. But do not grieve for me. I know that Indra will search for me, but do ask him not to. I have no hope that you will now understand everything I am writing. But I write this in the hope that you will understand some day. I could have told you all about myself by word of mouth, and yet I have never been able to do so though I have attempted it several times. Unless I tell you to-day, my story will remain untold for ever. It is not merely a story about myself, it is about my husband as well. I cannot say how much I have sinned in this life, but I have no doubt that the sins of my past lives know no bounds. So, whenever I have attempted to tell my story I have thought that I ought not to add to my sins by speaking ill of my husband. He is now no more. Yet I do not think that speaking about him would be any less a sin. Still I cannot take leave of you unless I tell you the story of my sorrowful life.
'Srikanta, your poor Didi's name is Annada. I do not reveal my husband's name: you will understand why when you have read this letter to the end. My father was a rich man. He had no sons, only myself and one other daughter. My father married me to a poor man whom he kept at his house, and set out to educate and make a man of. He succeeded in educating him, but not in making a man of him. My elder sister had lost her husband and was living with us. My husband killed her and disappeared. You are too young to understand why he did this evil deed but you will understand some day. I cannot express what ignominy I suffered, what poignant shame. Still your Didi endured it all, though the pain, the fire of indignity, which my husband had kindled for me, has not yet abated after all these years. Seven years afterwards, I saw him again. He was playing to a snake before our house in the garb in which you have seen him. Nobody else could recognize him, but I did: he could not deceive my eyes. He said that he braved the danger of recognition for my sake alone. But that was a lie. Yet one dark night when all were asleep, I opened a back-door and actually left my father's house to follow my husband all through life. Everyone heard and everyone believed that Annada had run away to a life of ignominy and shame. I shall have to bear the burden of this shame throughout my life. But there is no help for it. While my father was alive I could not go back and tell my story. I knew him; he would never have forgiven the murderer of his child. Though my fear for my husband no longer exists, how can I go and tell him my story now? Who would believe me after all these years? So I have no place in my father's home. Besides I am a Mahomedan.
'I have discharged my husband's debts. I have sold two gold ear-rings which I kept hidden from him. I have not spent the five rupees you gave me. I have left them with the grocer whose shop stands on the main road at the crossing. He will give them to you if you ask him for them. My dear brother, do not reproach me for this. I am returning your rupees, it is true, but I am taking with me your beautiful young heart. And I ask of you one thing, dear Srikanta, before I go. Do not distress yourself by thinking about me. Know that wherever I may be, I shall be well, for after so much suffering and sorrow new sufferings do not hurt me. Your Didi has truly become insensible to all pain. I cannot find words for blessing you, my two young brothers; I will say only this, if God hears the prayers of an honest woman, your friendship will ever remain to you both an inviolable treasure.
'Your sister,
With this paltry sum as her only support, the helpless and lonely woman had started out on her wanderings!
Lest the two boys who had loved her so dearly should make futile attempts to help her, she had not let them know when she started on her journey. It grieved me that she had declined to take my five rupees. What pleasure and pride I had taken in the thought that my money had been useful to her! Now all that pride and pleasure vanished in a moment. In my wounded pride I could not help giving way to tears, to conceal which I had to leave the old grocer quickly. 'She has taken help from Indra again and again,' I said to myself, 'but from me she will take nothing: she has returned the only thing that I could give her.'
As I grew older my resentment faded, and I came to wonder how it was that I thought myself worthy of giving her anything. She was a burning flame reducing to ashes everything that was consigned to her, and that was why, perhaps, she thought it best to return my paltry gift. As for Indra, he was surely made of different stuff, and had the right to give where I had none. Besides, Didi had taken his money for the sake of one who at the time I made my offer needed gifts no longer.
Since Didi left us I have wandered in many places but I have never again seen or heard of her. Nevertheless I still carry in my heart the image of her lovely face with its sweet, sad smile. Whenever I think of her and bow down my head to her blessed memory, I cannot help saying, 'What strange judgment is thine, O God! I can see that in this land, famous for ideal wives, sufferings heighten the glory of wifely constancy and love. I can also see how the sorrows of all such wives become transmuted into the eternal halo which makes their memory a constant inspiration and ideal of duty to the women of this country. But why didst Thou ordain such an ironical destiny for my Didi? Why should she, who had been faithful to her husband till his death, have her pure brow branded with the taint of infidelity? Why should she be banished from all society? What did she not sacrifice—her caste, her faith, society, honour, her all? She whose seat is as high as that of Sita or Savitri,—what did her parents and relatives, her friends and foes, think her to be to the end of their lives? A faithless wife and an abandoned woman! What hast Thou gained in this, O God, and what has the world gained?'
If I could only have known who her family and friends were! No matter how far away they lived I would have gone, had I known where to find them, and would have said, 'This was the Annada you know! Such was the imperishable story of her suffering life! If you can remember her whom you have regarded as a sinful woman and take her name once every morning, it will redeem you from many of your sins.'[3]
- ↑ Round, earthen pot.
- ↑ According to Hindu custom, bangles are a sign that their wearer is not a widow, and an iron bangle and the vermilion mark are signs that their wearer is a married woman.
- ↑ A Hindu believes that the repetition of the name of a holy person has the effect of purification and the power of lessening the burden of one's sins.