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

  Outside the establishment were the stables, the elephant stalls, the kennels, the cowsheds, the aviary, and so on.

  Kundanandini, looking with amazed eyes upon Nagendra’s immense wealth, entered the inner buildings in a palanquin. She was brought to Suryamukhi, and touched her feet. Suryamukhi blessed her.

  Perceiving Nagendra’s similarity to the image of the man she had seen in her dream, Kundanandini had started to feel sure that his wife would have the appearance of the image of the woman she had seen after that; but the sight of Suryamukhi put that suspicion to flight. Kunda saw that Suryamukhi was not dark-skinned like the woman she had seen against the sky. Suryamukhi’s complexion was that of liquid gold, like the full moon. Her eyes were beautiful, indeed, but not the kind of eyes that Kunda had seen in her dream. Suryamukhi’s eyes were long, sheltered by brows almost meeting her hair, between gracefully-curved lashes, with wide, dark pupils, circular and a little expanded, bright but slow moving. The eyes of the dark-skinned woman in the dream did not have such heavenly charm. Neither was Suryamukhi’s figure like hers. The woman in the dream was short; Suryamukhi was rather tall, and swayed with the beauty of a creeper moved by the breeze. The woman in the dream was beautiful, but Suryamukhi was a hundred times more beautiful. And the woman in the dream was probably not more than twenty—Suryamukhi was nearly twenty-six. Seeing no similarity between Suryamukhi and the image of that woman, Kunda became easy in her mind.

  Having greeted Kunda cordially, Suryamukhi called her servants and gave them orders. And to the foremost among them she said, ‘I am going to arrange a marriage between this Kunda and Taracharan. So you will treat her as my brother’s wife.’

  The maidservant acquiesced. She took Kunda with her to another room. All this time, Kunda had been gazing at her. As she looked, her flesh prickled, and she became bathed in perspiration. The form of the woman which, in her dream, following her mother’s pointing finger, she had seen against the sky, was that of this lotus-petal-eyed, dark-skinned maidservant!

  Kunda, beside herself with fear, in a faint, uneven voice asked, ‘Who are you?’

  The maidservant said, ‘My name is Hira.’

  8

  A Reason for Great Anger on the Part of the Gentle Reader

  HERE THE GENTLE READER WILL BE VERY DISPLEASED. IT IS THE CUSTOM IN romances for the wedding to come at the end; I have put Kundanandini’s wedding at the beginning. Another time-honoured custom is that the man whom the heroine marries should be extremely handsome, adorned with all the virtues, and a great hero; and should be head-over-heels in love with the heroine. Poor Taracharan was none of these things—as far as beauty goes, he was copper-coloured and snub-nosed; his heroism was displayed only in the boys’ room of the schoolhouse—and I cannot say how far from being in love with Kundanandini he was, only that she was to him something like a tame monkey.

  However that may be, after Kundanandini was taken to Nagendra’s home, she was married to Taracharan. Taracharan took his beautiful wife home. But in doing so he fell into difficulties. The gentle reader will remember that essays by Taracharan on the education of women and the breaking of the seclusion of women would often be read in the salon of Devendra Babu himself. Taracharan always used to say boastfully during discussions, ‘If my time ever comes I will offer the first example of these reforms. If I marry, I will present my wife to everyone.’ Now he was married—the fame of Kundanandini’s beauty had spread to the men’s quarters. Everyone, referring to his favourite theme, said, ‘Where is your promise?’ Devendra said, ‘What is this, then, are you, too, of the old fold? Why do you not let us talk with your wife?’ Taracharan was very ashamed. He could not escape the torment of Devendra’s requests and comments. He consented to arrange a meeting between Devendra and Kundanandini. But he was terrified that Suryamukhi would hear of it and be angry. In such crises, the year’s end came and went. After that, in order to avoid more crises, he sent Kunda to Nagendra’s house, on the pretext of having repairs made to his own house. The house was repaired. Kunda returned. Then one day, Devendra himself arrived very quietly at Taracharan’s place. And he started to mock Taracharan for his boastful lies. Then, having no option, Taracharan had Kundanandini dressed up and brought out to converse with Devendra. What did Kundanandini say to Devendra? After standing there veiled for some moments, she fled weeping. But Devendra, seeing the great beauty of her newly-adolescent movements, was enchanted. He never forgot this beauty.

  A few days after this, there was a ceremony at Devendra’s house. A girl came from his house with an invitation for Kunda. But Suryamukhi came to hear of this and forbade her to go. So she did not go.

  After this, Devendra came once again to Taracharan’s house to speak again with Kunda. Suryamukhi heard people talking of this, too. She rebuked Taracharan so severely that from then on communications between Devendra and Kundanandini were closed.

  In this way, three years passed after the marriage. Then Kundanandini became a widow. Taracharan died of typhoid. Suryamukhi took Kunda to live with her. She sold the house which she had given to Taracharan, and gave the money to Kunda.

  The gentle reader will indeed have been very displeased, but now the tale has commenced. Now the seed of the poison tree has been planted.

  9

  Haridasi the Vaishnavi

  SOME TIME PASSED WITH THE WIDOWED KUNDANANDINI LIVING IN Nagendra’s home. One day, after midday, all the women of the household were sitting in the old inner building. By the mercy of God, there were many of them, and there was easily obtainable village women’s work to suit the preference of each of them, in which they were engaged. There was everyone from young girls not yet out of childhood to grey-haired old women. Some were dressing their hair, some were dressing others’ hair; some were having their heads looked at, some were looking at others’ heads, and with little cries were killing lice; some were having white hairs culled, some with rice stalks in hand were culling them. A young beauty was making a coloured patchwork bedcover for her son; someone else was suckling her son. Another beauty was plaiting her hair into a braid; someone else was thrashing her son who, with mouth wide open, was drowning three villages with the noise of his wailing that ranged over the seven notes of the scale. A lovely woman was weaving a carpet; others were examining the spread-out palms of their hands. An expert painter, preparing for someone’s wedding, was covering a low wooden seat with designs in rice-pigment; a scholarly appreciator of good books was reading Dasharath’s Panchalis.5 An old woman was gratifying her listeners by upbraiding her son; a young humorist was describing to her intimates, in a low voice, the amorous frolics of her husband, and expressing her pain at his absence. Some were gossiping about the mistress of the house, some about the agent, some about their neighbours; very many were praising themselves. Someone who had been gently reprimanded that morning for her foolishness by Suryamukhi was advancing many examples of her cleverness; someone in whose cooking the amount of salt was hardly ever correct was giving a long speech about her culinary skills. A woman whose husband was the most utterly stupid of all in the village was astonishing her companions with songs of praise of his wonderful scholarship. A woman whose children were dark-skinned and lumpish was bragging about their excellence. Suryamukhi was not present at this gathering. She was a little proud, and usually did not sit with these groups; moreover, her presence would have hindered the enjoyment of all the others. Everyone feared her; in her presence no one could speak freely. But Kundanandini used to be there; and she was present on this occasion. At his mother’s request, she was teaching a boy the letters of the Bengali alphabet. Kunda had told her student to look at the sweetmeat held in the hand of another boy; consequently, he was making a particular effort to learn.

  At this point, a Vaishnavi entered the circle of that gathering of women and, with the words ‘Victory to Radha’,6 stood there.

  Every day, guests were served in Nagendra’s thakur bari, and rice was distributed every Sunday; but apart from that, no Vaishn
avi beggar was allowed into the inner apartments. So, hearing ‘Victory to Radha’ within the inner apartments, a woman of the house said, ‘What are you doing inside, woman? Go to the worship building.’ But as she spoke, she turned her head and saw the Vaishnavi, and did not finish her speech. Instead she said, ‘O mother! What sort of Vaishnavi is this!’

  Everyone was astonished to see that the Vaishnavi was a young woman, and looked it. Even in that circle of many beautiful women, no one except Kundanandini was more beautiful than she. Her glowing lips, as beautiful as bimba fruit, her well-formed nose, her wide, lotus-like eyes, her eyebrows like drawn lines, her smooth forehead, her arms like lotus-stalks and her complexion like a garland of champak flowers—all these were rare beauties in women. Yet if there had been some judge of beauty present, they would have said that there was a fault in the Vaishnavi’s beauty. Her movements, her gait and deportment were all masculine.

  There was the Vaishnava streak of mud on the Vaishnavi’s nose, her hair was parted on her head, she wore a Simla dhoti and held a tambourine in her hand. There were brass bangles on her arms, and above these, thin bangles with wavy designs.

  An elder among the women said, ‘Well, then, who are you?’

  The Vaishnavi said, ‘My name is Haridasi Vaishnavi. Would the ladies like to hear a song?’

  From all around, from young and old, came the sound of, ‘We would like to, yes, we would like to.’ With tambourine in hand, the Vaishnavi came and sat near the women. The spot where she sat was where Kunda had been teaching the boy. Kunda was extremely fond of singing, and hearing that the Vaishnavi was going to sing, she came a little closer to her. Her student, seizing the opportunity, got up, and, snatching the sweetmeat from the hand of the boy who was eating it, ate it himself.

  The Vaishnavi asked, ‘What shall I sing?’ Her audience began to make various requests; some wanted ‘Govinda the Prince’—some ‘One of Gopal Ure’s songs’.7 The one who had been reading Dasharath’s Panchalis wanted something from that. One or two older ones ordered something about Krishna. In response to that, those of middle-age expressed their different opinions, saying, ‘The confidante’s story’ and ‘Estrangement’. Someone said, ‘The grazing ground’—a shameless young woman said, ‘Sing some amorous songs—if you don’t, I won’t listen.’ An inarticulate little girl, with the intention of instructing the Vaishnavi, sang, ‘Methingers, do dot, do dot, do dot go.’

  Having heard all the requests, the Vaishnavi shot a glance like a flash of lightning towards Kunda and said, ‘Well, then—you made no request.’ Kunda smiled a little, her face bashfully downcast, and made no reply. But then she whispered to one of her friends, ‘Why don’t you ask for a kirtan?’

  Then her friend said, ‘Kunda says to ask for a kirtan.’ Hearing this, the Vaishnavi started a kirtan. Kunda was very embarrassed at the Vaishnavi’s passing over the requests of all the others in favour of hers.

  First, Haridasi Vaishnavi stroked the tambourine once or twice gently with her fingers, as if in play. Then she started the tune with a humming deep in her throat like the humming of bees newly come in spring—as if a bashful girl was opening her mouth to express her first words of love to her husband. Then, suddenly, from that humble tambourine came forth a sound as deep as clouds rumbling, like the sound from the fingers of an instrumental virtuoso, and to that accompaniment, thrilling the flesh of the listeners, came the sound of a singing voice more beautiful than that of an apsara. The women listened with amazement and enchantment as the Vaishnavi’s incomparable voice rose towards the sky, building up a palace of sound. What would the ignorant women of the household understand of the structure of that song? If they had had the power, they would have understood that this was a song of a meticulously refined fusion of all the elements of rhythm and melody, not just a matter of a beautiful voice. Whoever the Vaishnavi might be, she was extraordinarily well-taught in musical theory and, at a young age, an expert.

  The Vaishnavi finished her song; her listeners asked her to sing again. Then Haridasi, looking with thirsty, wistful eyes towards Kundanandini’s face, started to sing another kirtan:

  Auspicious lotus-faced one—I want to see you,

  So I have come to this pasture.

  Give me a place, Radha, at your feet.

  You are honoured with a wealth of honour,

  So I have disguised myself as a stranger,

  Now speak, Radha, and let me live,

  Touching your feet I come home.

  I want to fill my eyes with the sight of you,

  So I play my flute from house to house.

  When Radha says: the flute plays,

  Then I am flooded with tears.

  If you do not want to come back,

  Then I will go to the Yamuna’s bank,

  I will break my flute and abandon my life;

  Now let your honour be broken.

  Radha has given Braja’s joy to the water,

  I gave myself to your feet,

  Now I bind your anklets round my neck,

  And enter the water of the Yamuna.

  When the song was finished, the Vaishnavi looked towards Kundanandini and said, ‘My mouth has become dry from singing. Give me a little water.’

  Kunda brought water in a pot. The Vaishnavi said, ‘I shall not touch your pot. Come and pour water into my hands. I am not a Vaishnavi by birth.’

  By this she made it understood that she had formerly been of some unclean caste and had now become a Vaishnavi. Hearing these words, Kunda went after her to the place where water was drawn. This was at such a distance from the other women that softly-spoken words could not be overheard. Kunda poured water into the Vaishnavi’s hands and the Vaishnavi washed her hands and face.

  As she did so, she spoke, her voice unheard by anyone else, ‘You are Kunda, are you not?’

  Kunda, astonished, asked, ‘Why?’

  The Vaishnavi said, ‘Have you ever seen your mother-in-law?’

  Kunda said, ‘No.’

  Kunda had heard that her mother-in-law, after her disgrace, had left the region.

  The Vaishnavi said, ‘Your mother-in-law has come here. She is at my house, she weeps to see you just once—Oh! No matter what she is, she is your mother-in-law. Having returned here she cannot show her dishonoured face to the mistress of your household—so why not come with me just once and let her see you?’

  Although Kunda was simple, she understood that to agree to meet her mother-in-law was improper. So she only shook her head in refusal at the Vaishnavi’s words.

  But the Vaishnavi did not give up—again and again she repeated her urgings. Then Kunda said, ‘I cannot go without the mistress’s permission.’

  Haridasi forbade this. She said, ‘Do not speak to the mistress. She would not let you go. Perhaps she would send for your mother-in-law. Then your mother-in-law would flee the region.’

  However much the Vaishnavi persisted, Kunda would not consent at all to going without Suryamukhi’s permission. Then, having no alternative, Haridasi said, ‘Very well, but mind you speak well to the mistress. I will come another day to fetch you, but see that you speak well; and weep a little, otherwise nothing will come of it.’

  Kunda did not agree with this, but she said neither yes nor no to the Vaishnavi. Then Haridasi, having finished washing her hands and face, went back to the others and asked for her payment. At this point, Suryamukhi arrived. The idle chatter stopped completely, and everyone, old and young, took up their work.

  Suryamukhi looked Haridasi over from head to foot and said, ‘Who are you, then?’ A maternal aunt of Nagendra’s said, ‘She is a Vaishnavi, she came to sing. She sings beautifully. I have never heard such beautiful songs, Mother. Do you want to hear one? Sing, then, sing, Haridasi! Sing a song of the goddess.’

  Suryamukhi was enchanted and delighted at the wonderful Sakta lyric Haridasi sang, and paid her before dismissing her.

  The Vaishnavi touched her feet, glanced once again at Kunda, and went away. Once
Suryamukhi was screened from her eyes, she played a khemta dance softly on her tambourine and went away singing in a soft voice:

  Come, O piece of the moon.

  I will give you flower-nectar to drink and gold to wear.

  I will give you a flask of attar

  I will give you a spray of rose-water

  And filling the box for you myself

  I will give you rolls of betel-leaf.8

  For a long time after the Vaishnavi had gone, the women talked of nothing else but her. At first, they began to praise her highly. Then, gradually, a few defects emerged. Viraj said, ‘That may be, but her nose was a bit flat.’ Then Bama said, ‘Her complexion was very pallid.’ Chandramukhi said, ‘Her hair was like ropes of jute.’ Champa said, ‘Her forehead was a bit high.’ Pramada said, ‘The woman’s chest was like those of the confidantes in a play; despicable to see.’ In this manner, the beautiful Vaishnavi was quickly found to be second to none in ugliness. Then Lalita said, ‘However she looked, the woman sang well.’ But there was no deliverance there. Chandramukhi said, ‘Perhaps, but the woman’s voice was rough.’ Muktakeshi said, ‘You are right—the woman roared like a bull.’ Ananga said, ‘The woman didn’t know her songs, she couldn’t sing one of Dasharath’s songs.’ Kanak said, ‘The woman had no sense of rhythm.’ In due course it was found that Haridasi Vaishnavi was not only second to none in ugliness—she was worse than anyone else at singing, too.

  10

  Babu

  LEAVING THE DATTA ESTABLISHMENT, HARIDASI VAISHNAVI WENT IN THE direction of the village of Devipur. In Devipur stood a flower-garden, surrounded by iron-railings. Here there were many kinds of flowering trees, and, in the middle, a lake beside which stood a house. Haridasi entered the garden. And, going into the house, she went to a private room and took off her clothes. Suddenly, that braided hair with its thick tresses fell from her head—it was only a wig. The two breasts dropped from her torso—they were made of cloth. The Vaishnavi took off and threw down the brass bangles and the thin ones with their wavy design, and washed off the tilak. Then, in appropriate clothing, the Vaishnavi’s female guise having disappeared, there stood an unusually beautiful young man. He was twenty-five years old, but as chance would have it there was no sign of hair on his face. His face and figure were those of a boy. His beauty was very great. This young man was Devendra Babu. He has already been briefly introduced.