One

There were, it is true, a score of souls in Babu Udaybhanu Lal's household—some cousins on the mother's side, some on the father's, a nephew here, a sister's son there—but with them we have no concern. He was a successful lawyer, fortune smiled upon him, and to give shelter to the poorer members of one's family was, after all, only his duty. Our concern is solely with his two daughters, the elder named Nirmala and the younger Krishna. Only yesterday, as it were, the two of them had played together with their dolls. Nirmala was in her fifteenth year, Krishna in her tenth, yet there was no great difference in their natures. Both were lively, playful, and devoted heart and soul to outings and spectacles. Both would marry off their dolls with great pomp, and both were forever shirking work. Their mother would keep calling, but the two would stay hidden away on the upper floor, never knowing for what chore she might be summoning them. Both quarrelled with their brothers, scolded the servants, and at the first sound of music would come and stand at the doorway. But today, all at once, something has happened that has made the elder elder and the younger younger. Krishna is just the same, but Nirmala has grown very grave, fond of solitude, and bashful. For months now Babu Udaybhanu Lal had been negotiating Nirmala's marriage. Today his labour has borne fruit. The match has been settled with Bhuvan Mohan Sinha, the eldest son of Babu Bhalchandra Sinha. The bridegroom's father had said, "Give a dowry as it pleases you, or give none at all—I have no concern for it; but those who come in the wedding party must be received and entertained well, so that neither you nor I are made a laughing-stock before the world." Babu Udaybhanu Lal was a lawyer, true, but he did not know how to save. The dowry was a hard problem before him. So when the bridegroom's father himself declared that he cared nothing for a dowry, it was as though Udaybhanu's eyes had been opened. He had been afraid—who knew before how many people he would have to stretch out his hands?—and had already arranged things with two or three moneylenders. By his reckoning, even if he held his hand tight, the expense would not be less than twenty thousand. Receiving this assurance, he could not contain himself for joy.

The news of it had set the innocent girl in a corner with her face covered. A strange dread had entered her heart; through every pore an unknown fear coursed—who knew what would come of it. In her mind there were none of those longings which appear in young women as a sidelong glance in the eyes, a sweet smile on the lips, and a languor in the limbs. No—there were no desires there; there were only misgivings, anxieties, and timid imaginings. The full light of youth had not yet dawned upon her.

Krishna knew a little and did not know a little. She knew that her sister would receive fine ornaments, that music would play at the door, that guests would come, that there would be dancing—knowing this, she was glad. And she also knew that her sister would embrace everyone and weep, that she would be sent off with tears and lamentation, and that she herself would be left alone—knowing this, she was sorrowful. But she did not know why all this was being done, why Mother and Father were so eager to send her sister out of this house. Her sister had said nothing to anyone, had quarrelled with no one—would these people one day in the same way drive her out as well? Would she too sit weeping in a corner, and would no one take pity on her? And so she was afraid as well.

It was evening. Nirmala had gone up onto the roof and was sitting alone, gazing at the sky with thirsting eyes. Her heart longed for wings, so that she might fly away and be free of all these troubles. At this hour the two sisters would usually go off somewhere for a walk. If the carriage were not free, they would stroll about in the garden. So Krishna went looking for her, and when she found her nowhere, she came up to the roof, and the moment she saw her she laughed and said, "So you've come and hidden yourself up here, and I've been searching all over for you! Come, I've had the carriage made ready."

Nirmala said listlessly, "You go—I won't go."

Krishna said, "No, my dear Didi, do come today, please. Look, what a cool breeze is blowing."

Nirmala said, "I don't feel like it—you go on."

Krishna's eyes brimmed. In a trembling voice she said, "Why won't you come today? Why won't you speak to me? Why do you keep hiding here and there? My heart sinks, sitting all alone. If you won't go, I won't go either. I'll sit right here with you."

Nirmala said, "And when I'm gone, what will you do then? With whom will you play then, with whom will you go walking—tell me?"

Krishna said, "I'll go with you. I can't stay here all by myself."

Nirmala said with a smile, "Mother won't let you go."

Krishna said, "Then I won't let you go either. Why don't you tell Mother that you won't go?"

Nirmala said, "I am telling her—does anyone listen?"

Krishna said, "Why, isn't this your home?"

Nirmala said, "No—if it were my home, why would anyone drive me out by force?"

Krishna said, "Will I be driven out one day in the same way?"

Nirmala said, "And why not—do you think you'll be allowed to stay? We are girls; we have no home anywhere."

Krishna said, "Will Chandar be driven out too?"

Nirmala said, "Chandar is a boy—who will drive him out?"

Krishna said, "Then girls must be very bad?"

Nirmala said, "If they weren't bad, why would they be sent away from home?"

Krishna said, "Chandar is such a rascal, and nobody sends him away. We two don't even do any mischief."

All at once Chandar came stamping up onto the roof, and seeing Nirmala he said, "Ah, so here you're sitting! Oho! Now the music will play, Didi will become a bride, she'll ride in a palanquin—oho! Oho!"

Chandar's full name was Chandrabhanu Sinha. He was three years younger than Nirmala and two years older than Krishna.

Nirmala said, "Chandar, if you tease me I'll go straight away and tell Mother."

Chandar said, "Then why do you get cross? You'll hear the music too. O ho-ho! Now you'll become a bride. Say, Kishani, you'll listen to the music too, won't you? You've surely never heard music like that before."

Krishna said, "Will it be better even than a band?"

Chandar said, "Yes, yes, better than a band—a thousand times better, a hundred thousand times better. You think that just because you've heard one band, you know there's no music finer than that. The musicians will be wearing red, red uniforms and black, black caps. They'll look so handsome, what shall I tell you—and there will be fireworks too, rockets will fly up into the sky and burst among the stars, and red, yellow, green, blue stars will come showering down. It will be great fun."

Krishna said, "And what else, what else will there be, Chandan—tell me, my brother?"

Chandar said, "Come walking with me, and I'll tell you everything on the way. There will be such spectacles that your eyes will fly open at the sight. There will be fairies floating through the air—real fairies."

Krishna said, "All right, come along—but if you don't tell me, I'll thrash you."

Chandrabhanu and Krishna went off, but Nirmala was left sitting alone. Krishna's going away grieved her deeply at that moment. Krishna, whom she loved more than her own life, had today become so heartless—she had gone off and left her alone. It was nothing, really; but a grieving heart is like a sore eye, which is pained even by the wind. Nirmala sat there a long while, weeping. Brothers and sisters, father and mother—they would all forget me just like this, all eyes would be turned away, and then perhaps I would pine even to set eyes on them again.

In the garden the flowers were in bloom. A sweet fragrance drifted by. The cool, gentle breeze of Chaitra was blowing. The stars were scattered across the sky. Sunk in these sorrowful thoughts, Nirmala fell asleep, and the moment her eyes closed her mind began to wander in the land of dreams. What did she see but a river before her, heaving with waves, and herself standing on the bank, waiting for a boat. It was evening. Darkness, like some dreadful creature, came creeping on. She was sunk in deep anxiety—how would she cross this river, how would she ever reach the other side! She was weeping for fear that night might fall, for then how would she stay here all alone? Suddenly she saw a beautiful boat coming towards the landing. She leapt up with joy, and the moment the boat reached the bank, she stepped forward to climb aboard; but the moment she tried to set her foot on the gangplank, the boatman cried out, "There is no place here for you!" She entreated the boatman, fell at his feet, wept—but he kept on saying, "There is no place here for you." In an instant the boat cast off. She began to wail aloud and weep. How would she pass the whole night on the lonely bank of the river? Thinking this, she meant to leap into the water and seize that boat, when from somewhere a voice came—"Stop, stop, the river is deep, you will drown. That boat is not for you; I am coming—sit in my boat. I will carry you to the other side." Frightened, she looked this way and that—where had this voice come from? After a little while a small dinghy came into view. It had no sail, no oar, and no mast. Its bottom was split, its planks broken, the boat was full of water, and a man was bailing the water out of it. She said to him, "But this is broken—how will it carry me across?" The boatman said, "This is the very one sent for you—come and sit down!" For a moment she considered—should I get in, or not? In the end she resolved—I shall get in. Better to sit in the boat than to remain lying here alone. Better to drown in the river than to be swallowed into the belly of some dreadful creature. Who knows—the boat may yet reach the far shore. So thinking, she sat down in the boat with her life held in her own fist. For a time the boat went rocking on, but with every moment more water filled it. She too began to bail the water out with both hands, alongside the boatman. It came to this, that their hands grew weary, but the water only kept rising; at last the boat began to spin, and it seemed—now it sinks, now it sinks. Then she stretched out both hands for some unseen support, the boat went down, and her feet were swept from under her. She screamed aloud, and as she screamed her eyes opened. She saw her mother standing before her, gripping her shoulder and shaking her.

Babu Udaybhanu Lal's house had become a marketplace. In the veranda the goldsmith's hammers were at work, and in the rooms the tailor's needles. In front, under the neem tree, the carpenter was making bedsteads. In the tiled outhouse a furnace had been dug for the confectioner. A separate house had been arranged for the guests. The plan was that each guest should have a bedstead, a chair, and a table of his own. Arrangements were being made to provide one bearer for every three guests. The wedding party was still a month away, but the preparations were under way already. The wedding guests must be entertained so well that no one would get a chance to wag his tongue. Let those people too remember that they had once gone to a wedding feast somewhere. The whole house was full of utensils. There were tea sets, breakfast plates, salvers, water-pots, tumblers. Men who used to lie all day on their cots smoking the hookah were now busy at their work with great diligence. Such a fine opportunity to prove their usefulness would not come their way again for many a day. Where one man was needed to go, five would run. Little work got done, much uproar was made. Over the smallest trifle there would be argument and counter-argument for hours, and in the end the lawyer himself would have to come and pronounce judgement. One would say, "This ghee is bad"; another would say, "If a better one than this can be found in the market, I'll crawl out between my own legs." A third would say, "Why, it gives off a foul smell." A fourth would say, "It's your own nose that's rotted—what do you know of what ghee is? Ever since you came here you've had ghee to eat, otherwise you'd never have set eyes on it!" At this the quarrel would mount, and the lawyer would have to settle the dispute.

It was nine o'clock at night. Udaybhanu Lal sat indoors, drawing up an estimate of the expenses. He drew up the estimate almost every day, but every day some change or addition had to be made to it. In front of him stood Kalyani, her brows knit. After a long while Babu Sahib raised his head and said, "It won't be less than ten thousand—indeed, it may rise still higher."

Kalyani said, "In ten days it has gone from five to ten thousand. In a month it may well reach a lakh."

Udaybhanu said, "What am I to do? Being made a laughing-stock before the world is not a pleasant thing either. If there's a single complaint, people will say, 'A great name and little to show for it.' And since he takes not a pie of dowry from me, it is my duty too to leave no shortcoming in the hospitality to the guests."

Kalyani said, "From the day Brahma created the world to this very day, no one has ever been able to keep wedding guests pleased. They always find some occasion or other to pick faults and slander. A man who cannot get even dry bread in his own house turns into a tyrant the moment he joins a wedding party. The oil is not perfumed; the soap is the penny-a-seer kind—wherever did they scrape it up from; the bearers don't do as they're told; the lanterns give off smoke; there are bedbugs in the chairs; the bedsteads are loose; the lodging for the party isn't airy. Thousands of such complaints keep going on. How far can you stop them? If they don't get this occasion, some other fault will be picked. 'Why, brother, this oil is fit only for harlots to use—we need plain oil.' 'The gentleman hasn't sent us soap, he's shown off his wealth—as though we'd never seen soap.' 'These aren't bearers, they're messengers of death—whenever you look, they're sitting on your head!' 'The lanterns they've sent are such that they dazzle the eyes—if one had to sit in this light for five or ten days, one's eyes would burst.' 'What sort of lodging is this—it's the fate of a wretch, with draughts blowing in from all four sides.' So I will say this again: simply give up all thought of the wedding guests' airs and tantrums."

Udaybhanu said, "Then what, after all, do you tell me to do?"

Kalyani said, "I am telling you—make a firm resolve that you will spend no more than five thousand. There is no cash in the house, so it all rests on borrowing; then why take on a debt so great that it cannot be repaid in a lifetime? After all, my other children exist too—something must be kept for them as well."

Udaybhanu said, "So today I am as good as dead?"

Kalyani said, "No one knows the matter of living and dying."

Kalyani said, "There is nothing in this to take offence at. One day everyone must die. No one has come here to be immortal. Closing one's eyes will not turn aside what is bound to come. Every day I see with my own eyes—a father passes away, and his children go about stumbling from lane to lane. Why should a man do such a thing at all?"

Udaybhanu said, burning with anger, "So now I am to understand that the days of my death have drawn near—is that your prophecy? I had never heard that wives grew weary of their wedded happiness; today I learn this novel thing. There must be some pleasure in widowhood too!"

Kalyani said, "Whatever anyone says to you about the world, you begin to spit venom. And why? Because you know that this one has nowhere to go, she is dependent on my very bread, and so on. The moment anything is said, you turn on me, as though I were the maidservant of the house, as though my only tie is one of food and clothing. The more I yield, the more you press me down. Let the freeloaders devour everything—no one is to open his mouth; let money be squandered on drink and feasting—no one is to stir a tongue. All these thorns are being sown for my children alone."

Udaybhanu Lal said, "So am I your slave?"

Kalyani said, "And am I your maidservant?"

Udaybhanu Lal said, "There must be other men who dance to women's bidding."

Kalyani said, "Then there must be women too who bear the kicks of men."

Udaybhanu Lal said, "I earn and bring it home—I may spend it as I please. No one has the right to speak."

Kalyani said, "Then look after your own house! From such a house, where my voice counts for nothing, I salute it from a distance. In this house your authority is no greater than mine—not by a barleycorn less. If you are king of your own mind, I am queen of mine. May your house bring you joy; as for me, there is no want of bread to fill the belly. They are your children—kill them or keep them alive. I shall neither see it with my eyes, nor feel the pain. Blind eyes, no pain!"

Udaybhanu said, "Do you imagine that if you do not manage it, my house will not be managed at all? I can manage ten such houses single-handed."

Kalyani said, "Who? If within a month from this day you are not laid in the dust, then say that someone foretold it!"

As she spoke these words Kalyani's face flushed crimson; she rose with a jerk and walked towards the doorway of the room. The lawyer was very good at splitting hairs in a lawsuit, but of the nature of women he had only the most rudimentary knowledge. This is the one branch of learning in which a man remains a raw beginner even into old age. Had he even now softened, and taken Kalyani by the hand and seated her, she would perhaps have stayed; but this much he could not do—instead, as she was leaving, he dealt her one more sting.

He said, "It will be the pride of your father's house, no doubt?"

Kalyani halted at the doorway, looked at her husband with red, red eyes, and said, flaring up, "The people of my father's house are not partners in my fate, nor am I so base as to go and fall upon their bread."

Udaybhanu said, "Then where are you going?"

Kalyani said, "Who are you to ask this? In God's creation there is room for countless beings—is there no room for me alone?"

So saying, Kalyani walked out of the room. Coming into the courtyard, she looked once towards the sky, as though calling the host of stars to witness with what cruelty she was being driven out of this house. It was eleven o'clock at night. Silence had fallen over the house. The cots of both her sons were kept in her room. She came into her room and saw that Chandrabhanu was asleep, but the youngest, Suryabhanu, had sat up on his cot. The moment he saw his mother he said, "Where had you gone, Amma?"

Kalyani spoke from where she stood, at a distance—"Nowhere, my child; I had gone to your father."

Surya said, "You went away, and I was afraid all alone. Why did you go away—tell me?"

Saying this, the child stretched out both arms to climb into her lap. Kalyani could now hold herself back no longer. With the nectar-flood of mother-love her scorched heart was overwhelmed. The tender plants of her heart, which had withered in the heat of anger, grew green again. Her eyes filled. She lifted the child into her lap and, pressing him to her breast, said, "Why didn't you call out, my child?"

Surya said, "I did call, but you wouldn't hear—say now, you'll never go away again?"

Kalyani said, "No, my dear, I shall not go away now."

Saying this, Kalyani took Suryabhanu and lay down on the cot. The moment he was clasped against his mother's heart, the child fell asleep without a care. In Kalyani's mind, resolve and counter-resolve began to contend. When she remembered her husband's words, she felt like flinging the house aside and going away; but when she looked at her children's faces, her heart melted with tenderness. To whom should I leave my children when I go? Who will bring up these darlings of mine, whose will they become? Who will feed them milk and halwa in the early morning, who will lose sleep for them, who will keep watch over their sleep? The poor things will be reduced to nothing. No, my dear ones, I will not leave you and go. For your sakes I shall bear everything. Disrespect, insult, bitter taunts, harsh words, scoldings and rebukes—all of it I shall bear for your sakes.

Kalyani lay down with the child; but Babu Sahib could not sleep. Words that wounded him he forgot only with great difficulty. Ugh, that temper! As though she alone were his wife. It is hard for a word to leave one's mouth. Now I am to live as her slave. She alone is to remain in the house, and all the rest, kin and stranger, are to be driven out. She burns with envy. She prays that I should somehow die, so that she may rest at her ease, alone. The heart's secret comes out of the mouth, however much one may hide it. For several days now I have been watching—she keeps making me listen to such bitter, cutting words. It will be the pride of her father's house, no doubt; but there no one will so much as ask after her. Now they all wait upon her hand and foot; but when she goes and the burden falls on her head, then she will learn the price of flour and lentils. She will go away weeping. Bravo to that pride! She fancies—it is I alone who keep this household going. Let me just go off somewhere for four days, and it will be plain—all her bragging will be ground into dust. Let me break her pride once and for all. Let me give her a taste of widowhood, too. I do not know how she finds the courage to start cursing me like this. It seems love has not so much as touched her—or she imagines that I am so attached to this house that, however much she may curse me, I will never breathe a word of leaving. That is the truth of it; but here is no creature clinging to the world! To hell with this house, where one has to deal with such beings as these. Is this a home, or a hell? When a man comes home worn and weary from outside, he finds rest in his house. Here, instead of rest, one has to listen to curses. Fasts are kept for my death. This is the end of twenty-five years of married life! Enough—let me just go. When I see that all her pride has been ground into the dust and her temper has cooled, then I shall come back. Four or five days will be enough. There—you too will remember that you once had to deal with somebody.

Thinking thus, Babu Sahib rose, threw a silk wrapper round his neck, took some money, drew out his card and placed it in the pocket of his other kurta, picked up his stick, and slipped quietly out. All the servants were sound asleep. The dog, catching the sound, started up and went along with him.

But who knew that this whole drama was being staged at the hands of Fate? That pitiless director of the playhouse of life, seated in some unfathomable, hidden place, was working out his intricate, cruel game. Who knew that the make-believe was about to become real, that the play was about to take on the form of truth?

Night had vanquished day and established her empire. Her demon army had spread terror over Nature. Good impulses lay hiding their faces, while evil impulses strutted about, swaggering in the pride of victory. In the forest, wild beasts roamed in search of prey, and in the cities human demons prowled through the lanes.

Babu Udaybhanu Lal was hurrying on towards the Ganga. He had resolved to leave his kurta on the bank of the ghat and go off to Mirzapur for five days. Seeing his clothes, people would be convinced that he had drowned; the card was in the kurta pocket—there could be no difficulty in tracing his identity. In a trice the news would be all over the city. By the time it struck eight, the whole city would be gathered at my door—then let me see what Her Ladyship does.

Thinking thus, Babu Sahib went on through the lanes; suddenly he caught the sound of another man coming behind him. He supposed it must be someone. He went on ahead, but into whichever lane he turned, that man would turn the same way. Then Babu Sahib grew apprehensive that the man was following him. He had the feeling that the fellow's intentions were not honest. He at once drew out his pocket lantern and looked at the man by its light. A burly fellow was coming along with a club resting on his shoulder. The moment Babu Sahib saw him, he started. This was a notorious ruffian of the city. Three years before, a charge of robbery had been brought against him. Udaybhanu had argued that case on the government's side and had got the ruffian sentenced to three years. Ever since, the man had been thirsting for his blood. He had been released only the day before. Today, by chance, the gentleman appeared alone at night, and the ruffian thought this was a good opportunity to settle his score with him. Such a chance would perhaps never come again. He at once fell in behind him and was lying in wait to strike, when Babu Sahib lit his pocket lantern. The ruffian halted a little and said, "Why, Babuji, do you recognize me? I am Matai."

Babu Sahib said sternly, "Why are you coming along behind me?"

Matai said, "Why—is anyone forbidden to walk along a road? Does this lane belong to your father?"

Babu Sahib had wrestled in his youth, and even now he was a sturdy, well-built man. Nor was he faint of heart. Steadying his stick, he said, "Your appetite is not satisfied yet, it seems. This time you'll go for seven years."

Matai said, "I may go for seven years, or for fourteen, but I will not let you off alive. Yes—if you fall at my feet and swear that you will never again get anyone sentenced, then I will let you go. Say—do you accept?"

Udaybhanu said, "Has your hour of doom not come, then?"

Matai said, "It is not my hour of doom that has come, it is yours. Say—do you swear? One!"

Udaybhanu said, "Will you get out of the way, or shall I call a policeman?"

Matai said, "Two!"

Udaybhanu said, roaring, "Get out of my path, you king of fools!"

Matai said, "Three!"

The instant the word "Three" left Matai's mouth, a club-blow fell on Babu Sahib's head with such weight that he fell senseless to the ground. All that escaped his lips was—"Alas! He has killed me!"

Matai came close and saw that the head had split open and a stream of blood was flowing. There was no trace of a pulse anywhere. He understood that it was all over. He unfastened the gold watch from the wrist, took the gold buttons from the kurta, drew the ring off the finger, and went his way, as though nothing at all had happened. Yes—he showed this much mercy: he dragged the corpse off the path and laid it to one side. Alas, poor man—with what thoughts had he set out, and what had befallen him! Life, is there anything in the world more insubstantial than you? Is it not as fleeting as that lamp which a single gust of wind puts out? You see a bubble of water; yet even a bubble takes a little while to break—life has not even that much substance. What surety is there in a breath? And upon this very mortality we build such vast mansions of desire! We do not know whether the breath going down will come up again, yet we think of things so far ahead, as though we were immortal.