Stories of Bengalee Life/The Foundling/Chapter 1
THE FOUNDLING
I
IT was afternoon. The swollen Ganges of the month of Sawan was lapping the roots of the banian tree at the ghat of Motiganj. A decayed-looking boat was being moored there. Out of it stepped cautiously an aged lean-bodied Brahman. The boatman handed to him his bag, his umbrella and his stick. Taking them in one hand, with the other he extended a small silver coin, a quarter-rupee, as payment for the rowers. The boatman taking the coin, said—"Master, there are five of us, how will four annas suffice?"
"Do you mean to say that four annas is too little?"
"Huzoor, the whole will go in buying four seers of rice. Then there is the cooking pot, the wood and the salt to buy."
"There! take two more annas,"—and the Brahman, carefully and with many countings dealt eight pice into the boatman's hand. Even yet the boatman was not satisfied. He said—"Sir, five pice each after a hard day's labour is not enough. Make it the full eight annas."
After some further haggling the old man threw down four more pice. Then looking carefully all round he said in a low voice to the boatman—"If any one asks you what has brought you here, say—'Our Thakur has come hither to arrange a wedding.'" Then the old man ascended slowly to the road and made his way at the same pace to his destination. People entering the village shops, stood for a moment gazing curiously at the unknown figure, and then went about their business.
The old man was named Sitanath Mukerji. He lived at Nobogram. Sitting down early in the morning to write, one knows not what Fate has in store. No one in Nobogram ever uttered the old man's name until after breaking his fast. His character for miserliness was widely known.[1]
At Motigunj lived the father-in-law of SitaNath's son. Five years earlier the daughter of Hrishikesh Banerji had been married to Sriman Annada Charan, the youngest son of Sitanath Mukerji. After a time the daughter-in-law having reason to expect an infant was taken to her father's house. She gave birth to a daughter and left this world. This was now five or six months ago. Five years before, in gala dress and accompanied by a troop of musicians, Sitanath had conveyed the young bridegroom in a palanquin along this road. These memories gave his countenance a slightly saddened look.
It did not take long to reach Banerji's house. The reception-room was opened and Sitanath took a seat there. The marks of Basudhárâ made on the wall at the time of his son's wedding were visible. His son's father-in-law, Hrishi Kesh, had been at that period a very prosperous man. He had spent 3,000 Rupees on the marriage of his daughter. He was engaged in the grain exporting business. During the five years that had since elapsed, loss followed upon loss, until now he was not merely ruined but involved in debt. The marks on the wall of the reception-room, which had not once been white-washed since the wedding, though a common enough sight, indicated his embarrassed condition.
A servant lad mending the garden fence, cast sideway glances at Sitanath sitting in the reception-room. The latter ht sight of the caugboy and said—"Oh, you,—inform your master that Sitanath Mukerji of Nobogram has arrived."
The lad, not vouchsafing a word in reply to this injunction, looked silently at the new arrival. Gloomily he attached a piece of wood to the fence and made it firm with a piece of rope. Then with a sour face and sluggish steps he went to the inner apartments.
Without much delay, Hrishi Kesh, in coarse and not too fresh apparel came out to the visitor. Sitanath observed that his son's father-in-law was no longer the personable man of former days. His figure had deteriorated, his eyes were cavernous. The two men exchanged salutations and embraces and made the usual polite inquiries. The eyes of Hrishi Kesh were overflowing. Big drops fell upon his raiment. The servant, coming in, served tobacco. For a long time the two men smoked steadily on, speaking not a word.
At length Sitanath said—"Brother! what was to happen has happened and can never be recalled. Why indulge this vain grief? Let me see the little girl."
Hrishi Kesh arose and went indoors. Presently he returned followed by a nurse bearing in her arms an emaciated child in a chintz wrapper. It neither smiled nor wept, but kept its gaze fixed in one direction as though indifferent to everything.
The grandfather, in honour of its being his first sight of the child, produced a half rupee, but on second thoughts exchanged the smaller coin for a whole rupee. Never in his life had Mukerji Mahashoi been known to make an exchange in this direction, but now he had a particular reason for doing so. Offering the rupee he looked in his grand daughter's face. The nurse took the coin but as one dissatisfied, averted her face. The present of a rupee did not impress her favourably—she thought—"Mean creature!—A firstborn child and the mother dead too! Could he not have given gold!"
Gradually it became dark. Mukerji, washing his hands and feet, entered the house for the evening service. Scarcely had he seated himself on the prayer carpet when he heard the voice of his son's mother-in-law weeping and calling for her lost daughter. The bitter cry of the mother's heart seemed to make the twilight quiver. From the eyes of Hrishi Kesh also tears streamed abundantly. Sitanath remained cold and apathetic, saying only from time to time—"Ha! Narayan, what hast thou done?"
When the sobs of the mother ceased, Sitanath finished his devotions and then sat down to partake of a meal. But what was it that still troubled his inner thoughts? Of the purpose that had brought him such a distance by river he had not yet said a word. Since his arrival he had made many attempts to broach the subject but without success. At length he decided to let it rest for the night. "Let it be!"—he thought—"I shall speak of it tomorrow. I shall get through the night somehow."
After the meal a bed was prepared for him in the reception-room. Hrishi Kesh took leave for the night. The before mentioned serving lad slept at one side on a blanket.
A prey to evil thoughts, the Brahman could not sleep, but passed the night in harassing doubt as to whether the design that had brought him would or would not be accomplished. The serving lad's rest was interrupted by constant demands for the hookah.—When he was roused up for the fourth time to prepare it, he said—"There is no more tobacco left, Sir, it is all consumed." Seizing an opportunity when unobserved, he had thrust out the remnants of tobacco through the slits of the venetian shutters to escape further trouble.
- ↑ A superstition exists that if any one, before breaking his fast, should utter the name of a very miserly person, he may expect that Fate will deprive him of food for that day. So the author, writing of Sitanath before breakfast, says he knows not what is before him.—Translator.