Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Read online

  On the ghats of the occasional higher-class villages, women of good families brightened the shore. Older women chatted; middle-aged women were worshipping Shiva; young women, veiled, were bathing; and boys and girls were shouting, spreading mud, collecting flowers for their puja, swimming, splashing everyone with water, and sometimes running off with the clay Shiva that stood in front of some housewife sitting with eyes closed, absorbed in meditation. Brahmins, like harmless good men, were chanting hymns to the Ganga in their minds, offering puja, sometimes gazing stealthily at some young woman submerged up to her neck. In the sky, white clouds flew past, heated by the sun; under them, black dots of birds were flying; a kite sat in a coconut tree looking around in all directions like a king’s chief minister to see on whom, and how, he could swoop to kill. The cranes were the small people, wandering about, stirring up mud. Waterfowl were the jokers, diving and plunging. Other birds were light-weight people, merely flying about. Market boats were chugging along—they needed to. Ferry boats moved majestically—for others’ needs. Goods boats were not moving at all—they depended on their owners’ whims.

  For the first four days, Nagendra watched as he went. On the fifth day, clouds covered the sky, the river’s water turned black, the tops of the trees looked brownish, cranes flew in the lap of the clouds, and the river became stuporous. Nagendra ordered the boatmen: ‘Moor the boat to the bank.’ Helmsman Rahamat Molla was at his prayers and did not answer. Rahamat had not always followed the profession of a boatman—his maternal grandfather’s cousin had been the daughter of a boatman and taken in by that he had chosen the profession of a boatman, finding, fortunately, that it fulfilled all his desires. Rahamat had a ready tongue—once his prayers were finished he turned towards the Babu and said, ‘No need to worry, sir, stay calm.’ The reason for such courage on the part of Rahamat Molla was this, that the bank was very close and the boat reached it almost immediately. Then the boatmen disembarked and made fast the hawsers.

  Perhaps there was some dispute between the Almighty and Rahamat Molla—the storm arrived with considerable speed. First the wind arrived. After it had wrestled for a while with the foliage of the trees, it called to its brother, the rain. The two brothers started a drunken revelry. Brother rain flew about riding on brother wind’s shoulders. The two brothers seized and bent the heads of the trees, broke branches, tore creepers, destroyed flowers, sent the river water flying, and made all kinds of mischief. One brother went flying off with Rahamat Molla’s topi, the other brother turned his beard into a fountain. The oarsmen sat wrapped in the sails. The Babu closed all the shutters. The servants set themselves to save the boat’s equipment.

  Nagendra found himself in a knotty problem. If he disembarked from the boat, the boatmen would think him a coward—if he did not disembark, he would be forsworn to Suryamukhi. Some will ask, ‘What is wrong with that?’ I do not know, but Nagendra considered it wrong. At this point, Rahamat Molla himself said: ‘Sir, the hawsers are old, I do not know what might happen, the storm has got much worse, you had better get off the boat.’ So Nagendra disembarked.

  Without shelter one could not stand upright easily on the river bank in the wind and rain. A kind of twilight had fallen and the storm had not abated; so, judging that it was necessary to go in search of shelter, Nagendra set off in the direction of the village. The village was some distance away from the river bank; Nagendra went on foot along a muddy path. The rain stopped; the wind, too, abated somewhat, but the sky was full of clouds; so it was probable that there would be further wind and rain during the night. Nagendra went on: he did not turn back.

  Because of the heavy clouds, darkness was extreme as soon as night fell. Village, house, path, river—nothing could be seen. Only the tree branches, adorned with thousands of fireflies, shone like artificial trees inlaid with diamonds. From time to time, pale lightning flashed among the white and black clouds whose roaring had diminished—women’s anger does not subside all at once. Only the frogs were making merry, rejoicing in the freshly gathered water. Crickets could be heard, if one listened for them, like Ravana’s funeral pyre, endlessly sounding, but if one did not pay attention to them they were unnoticeable. There was also the sound of drops of water falling from the treetops; the sound of droplets of water dislodged from leaves falling on to the rainwater standing under the trees; the sound of jackals’ feet moving through the standing pools of water on the paths; occasionally, the sound of birds perched in the trees shaking their wings to dislodge the water from them. From time to time, there was a howl from the nearly-subsided wind, together with the sound of the falling of multiple droplets of water dislodged from the leaves of the trees. In due course, Nagendra saw a light in the distance. Moving over the water-drenched earth, soaked by the water falling from the trees, controlling his fear of the jackals under the trees, Nagendra toiled on towards the light. Slowly, he drew near. He saw that the light issued from an old brick dwelling. The door was not bolted. Leaving his servant outside, Nagendra entered the house. He saw that it was in a terrible condition.

  2

  The Lamp Goes Out

  THE HOUSE WAS NOT AT ALL A COMMON ONE. BUT NOW THERE WAS NO SIGN in it of wealth. The rooms were all dilapidated, dirty, and devoid of any signs of human habitation. It was inhabited by ants, mice and various kinds of insects and worms. Light burned only in one small room. Nagendra entered that room. He saw that there were in the room only a few articles fit for human use, and even these suggested poverty. One or two pots—a broken stove—several metal utensils—that was all. The walls were discoloured, there were sooty cobwebs in the corners; and everywhere cockroaches, spiders, lizards and rats wandered about. An old man was lying on torn bedding. He seemed to be at death’s door. His eyes were dim, his breath sharp, his lips trembled. By the bedside, on a brick fallen from the house, stood an earthenware lamp, in need of oil; so too was the lamp of life supine on the bed. Beside the bed was yet another lamp—a beautiful, fair and graceful girl, as if full of tender light.

  Whether because of the dullness of the lamp’s light or because the two people were deeply engrossed in their situation, neither saw Nagendra when he came in. Nagendra, standing at the door, listened to all the words that came from the old man in the sorrow of his dying moments. These two people, young and old, were without help in this populous world. Once they had had riches, kinspeople, manservants and maidservants, resources, and all the luxuries of life—everything. But together with the favours of fickle Lakshmi, everything had gradually been lost. Under the oppression of this newly-arrived poverty, the children’s faces grew paler day by day like lotuses parched with cold; the mother was the first to go to her pyre by the river. All the other stars went out together with that moon. The scion of the house, the jewel of his mother’s eye, the hope of his father’s declining years, he too lay on his pyre before his father’s eyes. No one was left, save the old man and one beautiful daughter, who came to live in this lonely, dilapidated house surrounded by the forest. They were each other’s sole support. Kundanandini passed the age to be married but her father suffered from the blindness of his sixty years; there was now only one knot remaining of the bonds of his family; while the old man lived he could not give her up to another. ‘Let a little more time pass—if I give Kunda away where shall I live? How shall I live?’ Thus the old man used to think if the subject of her marriage came to his mind. It did not occur to him to ask where Kunda would be left when the call came for him. And now, all at once, Death’s messenger had come and was standing by his bedside. He was going. Where would Kundanandini stand tomorrow?

  The deep, inexorable suffering of the dying man was manifest in his words. Tears fell ceaselessly from eyes soon to be closed. And by his head, like a stone image, the thirteen-year-old girl watched with fixed gaze the death-shadowed face of her father. Oblivious of herself, oblivious of where she would go tomorrow, she looked only at the face of him who was about to depart. Gradually, the old man’s speech became less clear. The breath
caught in his throat, his eyes dimmed; the suffering spirit obtained release from suffering. In that private room, by the dim lamp, Kundanandini remained sitting alone, holding her father’s dead body in her arms. The night was veiled in thick darkness; outside, drops of rain were still falling, one could hear their sound on the tree leaves; from time to time, the wind howled—all these sounds came through the door of the dilapidated house. Within the house was the lamp’s unsteady, thin, nearly extinguished light, which alternately flickered on the corpse’s face or left it in darkness. There were not many minutes worth of oil left in the lamp. And then, with one last flare of brightness, the lamp went out.

  Then Nagendra, with soundless steps, withdrew from the house.

  3

  Coming Events Cast Their Shadow Before

  IT WAS MIDNIGHT. INSIDE THE DILAPIDATED HOUSE WERE KUNDANANDINI and the body of her father. Kunda called, ‘Father!’ No one answered. Once she thought, ‘Father is sleeping’, then again she thought, ‘He must be dead’—but Kunda could not bring herself to say this word. At last, Kunda could neither call nor think any more. In the darkness, fan in hand, she began to stir the air where her living father had been lying, where now his dead body lay. She finally decided that he was asleep; for, if he had died, what would her situation be? Drowsiness, from her daily vigil and present trouble, came upon the girl. Kunda had stayed awake day and night to tend her father. Sleep overcoming her, Kundanandini, fan in hand, resting her head on an arm more delicate and beautiful than a lotus stalk, went to sleep on the cold, hard floor of the room.

  Then Kundanandini had a dream. She saw the night become full of radiant moonlight. The sky was bright blue, and it seemed as if that glowing blue sphere of the sky was the manifestation of a great moon-halo. Its radiance, too, was very bright, yet soothing to the eyes. But within this beautiful great lunar aureole there was no moon; instead, Kunda saw within it a strange, light-filled, heavenly form. Then the moon-halo, with its bright form, seemed to leave the sky and slowly, gradually descend. Eventually the halo, glowing with a thousand cool rays, was above Kundanandini’s head. Kunda saw that the beautiful light-filled form within the aureole, with diadem, bracelets and ornaments, had the form of a woman. Her lovely face was filled with compassion; a tender smile trembled on her lips. Kunda, with fear and joy, saw that this compassionate one bore the form of her long-dead mother. The bright figure, with tender face, lifted Kunda from the earth and took her on her lap. And motherless Kunda, with the word ‘Mother’ on her lips after so long a time, felt as if all her dreams were fulfilled. Then the figure in the moon-halo kissed Kunda and said, ‘Child! You have had much sorrow. Leave the world and come with me.’ To this Kunda replied, ‘Where should I go?’ Kunda’s mother, pointing to the radiant, bright firmament, said, ‘To that realm.’ Kunda, looking at the unknown realm of stars as if from beyond fair, timeless, endless seas, said, ‘I cannot go so far; I have no strength.’ At these words, a slight frown of displeasure appeared on her mother’s compassion-bright yet serious face, and in a soft, deep voice she said, ‘Child, do what you will. But it would be better to come with me. In time to come, gazing towards the sky, you will long to go there. I will show myself to you once more. When, stricken to the ground in mental agony, you think of me and weep to come to me, then I will appear to you again, and then: come with me. Now, look at the sky’s edge where my finger points. I will show you the figures of two people. These two people will be the causes of your weal and woe in this world. If you can, when you see them, reject them like poisonous snakes. Whatever paths they take, you must not take those paths.’

  Then the radiant one pointed with her finger towards the horizon. Kunda, following, saw, drawn on the background of the sky, the figure of a god-like man. He had a fine, noble, tranquil brow; a candid, compassionate look; his swan-like long neck was slightly curved; and, seeing in him all the indications of a great man, nobody would believe that he could be a source of misgiving. Then that image gradually faded like a bubble from the background of the sky. Kunda’s mother said to her, ‘Do not be charmed by the sight of that divinely beautiful form. Even though he is noble-minded, he is the cause of your misfortune. Therefore, renounce him as a poisonous snake.’ Then the radiant one, saying again, ‘Look at this,’ pointed to the horizon; and Kunda saw a second figure delineated on the blue background of the sky. But this time it was not the figure of a man. Kunda saw there a bright, dark-complexioned young girl, with eyes like lotus-petals. Kunda felt no fear at the sight of her, either. Her mother said, ‘This is a demon in the form of a dark-skinned woman. If you see her, flee.’

  As she said this, the sky suddenly became dark, the great moon-halo vanished from the sky, and, with it, disappearing within it, the burning figure vanished, too. Kunda woke up.

  4

  ‘That is the One’

  NAGENDRA WENT INTO THE VILLAGE. HE LEARNED THAT THE VILLAGE’S NAME was Jhumjhumpur. At his request and with his help, some of the villagers came and started to prepare for the cremation of the dead. A neighbouring woman stayed with Kundanandini. When Kunda saw her father being taken away to be cremated, she believed at last that he was dead, and began to weep ceaselessly.

  In the morning, the neighbour returned to her own housework. She sent her daughter, Champa, to comfort Kundanandini. Champa was about Kunda’s age, and a friend. When she arrived, she set herself to comfort Kunda by talking to her of various things. But she saw that Kunda was not listening to anything she said; she was weeping and from time to time looking longingly towards the sky. Champa asked curiously, ‘What do you see, gazing a hundred times at the sky?’

  Then Kunda said, ‘Yesterday, my mother came from the sky. She called me, saying, “Come with me”. I was so foolish, I was afraid, and I didn’t go with my mother. Now I am wondering why I didn’t go. If she comes back again now I will go with her. That is why I keep looking towards the sky.’

  Champa said, ‘Oh! Do dead people come back?’ Then Kunda told her all about her dream. Champa, listening, was astonished and said, ‘Did you recognize the man and the woman whose forms you saw in the sky?’

  Kunda said, ‘No, I have never seen them before. Surely there can’t be a man as beautiful as that anywhere. I have never seen such beauty.’

  Meanwhile, Nagendra rose from his bed in the morning, and calling all the people of the village together, asked them, ‘What will become of the daughter of the dead man? Where will she live? What family does she have?’ To this everyone answered, ‘She has no place to stay; she has no one.’ Nagendra said, ‘Then let some from among you adopt her. Arrange a marriage for her, and I will pay the expense. And as long as she lives with you, I will give you some money each month to pay for her food and clothing.’

  If Nagendra had produced some money in cash, many would have agreed to his proposal. Then, once Nagendra had gone away, they would have sent Kunda away or made her a servant. But Nagendra was not so naive. Consequently, seeing no cash, no one came forward.

  Then, seeing Nagendra at a loss, someone said, ‘An aunt of hers has a house in Shyambazar. Binod Ghosh is her uncle-in-law. You are going to Kolkata: if you take her with you, you can leave her there; then this Kayastha girl will be looked after, and you will have done your duty.’

  Having no alternative, Nagendra accepted this idea. And he sent for Kunda in order to tell her of it. Champa set out, bringing Kunda with her.

  As they came, Kunda, seeing Nagendra from a distance, came suddenly to a standstill, and took not another step. With astonished eyes, as if mesmerized, she stood gazing at Nagendra.

  Champa said, ‘What is it? Why have you stopped?’

  Kunda pointed and said, ‘That is the one.’

  Champa said, ‘Who?’

  Kunda said, ‘The one my mother showed me in the night, in the sky.’

  Then Champa, too, stood there astonished and alarmed. Seeing the girls hesitating to move forward, Nagendra came to them and explained everything to Kunda. Kunda could give no answer;
she just kept gazing at Nagendra, her eyes wide with amazement.

  5

  Of Different Matters

  HAVING NO ALTERNATIVE, NAGENDRA TOOK KUNDA WITH HIM TO KOLKATA. The first thing he did was to search for her uncle-in-law, Binod Ghosh. He could find no one by the name of Binod Ghosh in Shyambazar. He found a Binod Das—but he denied any relationship. So Kunda remained as a burden on Nagendra’s shoulders.

  Nagendra had a sister. She was younger than him. Her name was Kamalamani. Her father-in-law’s house was in Kolkata. Her husband’s name was Shrishchandra Mitra. Shrish Babu was a commercial agent in the firm of Plander Faerlie. This was an important firm—Shrishchandra was very wealthy. He and Nagendra were on good terms. Nagendra took Kundanandini there. Calling Kamala, he told her all about Kunda.

  Kamala was eighteen years old. She resembled Nagendra in appearance. Brother and sister were both very good-looking. But Kamala was renowned for her learning as well as for her great beauty. Nagendra’s father had taken pains to educate Kamalamani and Suryamukhi, and had employed a governess by the name of Miss Temple for them. Kamala’s mother-in-law was still alive. But she was living in Shrishchandra’s ancestral home. It was Kamala who was the mistress of the house at Kolkata.