Twelve

Munshiji returned from the court at five o'clock and, coming inside, dropped down upon the bedstead. An aged body, and on top of that no food the whole day. His mouth had gone dry. Nirmala understood — today the day had been spent in vain. Nirmala asked, "Did you get nothing today?"

"The whole day passed in running about," said Munshiji, "but nothing came to hand."

"What happened in the criminal case?" asked Nirmala.

"My client was sentenced," said Munshiji.

"And in the Pandit's suit?"

"A decree was passed against the Pandit."

"But you used to say the claim would be dismissed."

"I did say so, and I still say the claim ought to have been dismissed — but who is to rack his brains so much over it?"

"And in the Sir suit?"

"In that too there was a defeat."

"So today you rose having seen the face of some unlucky wretch."

Munshiji could now do no work at all. For one thing, hardly any cases came to him; and those that did come were spoiled. But he kept hiding his failures from Nirmala. On the day nothing came to hand, he would borrow two or four rupees from someone and give them to Nirmala; he had by now taken something or other from nearly all his friends. Today even that contrivance had failed.

In an anxious voice Nirmala said, "If this is the state of the income, God alone is the master; and on top of that the state of the boy is such that it is hard to send him to the market. He wants everything to be done by Bhungi. He went for ghee and came back at eleven o'clock. I told him over and over, till I gave up, to bring firewood as well, but he simply would not listen."

"Then the food was not cooked?" said Munshiji.

"It is by talk such as this that you lose your suits," said Nirmala. "Has anyone ever cooked food without fuel, that I should have cooked it?"

"So he went off without eating anything?"

"What else was there in the house that I could have given him to eat?"

Munshiji asked timidly, "Did you not give him a few paise?"

Nirmala knitted her brows and said, "Do paise grow in the house, then?"

Munshiji gave no answer. For a little while he waited, in hope that perhaps something would be given him for refreshment; but when Nirmala did not even send for water, the poor man went away in disappointment. Picturing Siyaram's suffering, his mind grew restless. If the firewood had just once been sent for by Bhungi, what such loss would there have been? Of what use is a thrift that leaves the people of the house hungry? He opened his little box and began to fumble through it, in case two or four annas might be found. He took out all the papers within it, looked through every compartment, thrust his hand below and searched, but found nothing. If paise did not grow in Nirmala's box, then in this little box of his perhaps not even their flowers blossomed; but call it chance — as he was shaking out the papers, a four-anna piece fell out. Munshiji leaped up for joy. He had earned great sums before this, but the delight that came to him now on finding this four-anna coin he had never felt before. Holding the four-anna piece in his hand, he came before Siyaram's room and called. He got no answer. Then he went into the room and looked. There was no trace of Siyaram anywhere — had he not yet returned from school? The moment this question rose in his mind, Munshiji went inside and asked Bhungi. He learned that he had come back from school.

Munshiji asked, "Has he drunk any water?"

Bhungi gave no answer. Wrinkling her nose and turning her face away, she walked off.

Munshiji came slowly, slowly back and sat down in his room. Today, for the first time, anger rose in him against Nirmala; but in a single moment the stroke of that anger began to fall upon himself. Lying on the floor of that dark room, he began to reproach himself for having grown so indifferent towards his son. He was worn out with the day's toil. In a little while sleep overtook him.

Bhungi came and called, "Babuji, the kitchen is ready."

Munshiji woke with a start and sat up. A lamp was burning in the room. He asked, "What o'clock is it, Bhungi? I had fallen asleep."

Bhungi said, "The cantonment bell has struck nine, and I did not know it."

"Has Siya Babu come?" asked Munshiji.

"If he has come, will he not be in the house?" said Bhungi.

Munshiji asked angrily, "I am asking — has he come or not? And you go on giving who knows what sort of answers. Has he come or not?"

"I have not seen him," said Bhungi. "How can I tell a lie?"

Munshiji lay down again and said, "Let him come, then I will go."

For half an hour Munshiji lay with his eyes fixed on the door; then he rose, came outside, and walked about two furlongs to the right. Then he turned back, came to the door, and asked, "Has Siya Babu come?"

A voice came from within, "Not yet."

Munshiji then walked off to the left, going as far as the corner of the lane. Siyaram was nowhere to be seen. From there he came home again, and standing at the door asked, "Has Siya Babu come?"

The answer came from within, "No."

The cantonment bell began to strike ten.

Munshiji set off at a great pace towards the Company Bagh. He thought, perhaps he has gone there to stroll and has fallen asleep lying on the grass. Reaching the garden, he looked at every bench, walked round on every side; many men lay sleeping on the grass, but there was no sign of Siyaram. He called out loudly, naming Siyaram, but no voice came from anywhere.

The thought came to him that perhaps there was a show at the school. The school was something over a mile away. He set off towards the school, but turned back from halfway. The market had closed. There could be no show at the school so late at night. Even now hope was rising in him that Siyaram would have returned. Coming to the door he called, "Has Siya Babu come?" The doors were shut. No voice came. He called again, loudly. Bhungi opened the door and said, "He has not come yet." Munshiji softly called Bhungi over to him and said in a piteous voice, "You know all the doings of the house — tell me, what happened today?"

"Babuji, I will not lie," said Bhungi. "The mistress will turn me out, and what then? Another's child is not kept in this way. The moment there was any work, off he was sent to the market. The whole day was spent running to the market. Today he did not go to bring firewood, so the hearth was not even lit. Speak of it, and she sulks. When you yourself do not see to things, who else will? Come, take your meal; the lady has been sitting waiting for so long."

"Tell her I will not eat at this hour," said Munshiji.

Munshiji went again into his room and drew a long breath. These words, full of pain, broke from his lips: "O God, is the punishment not yet complete? Wilt Thou snatch from this blind man's hand the very staff he leans upon?"

Nirmala came and said, "Siyaram has not come even yet today. I kept saying I would cook the food, eat it, but who knows when he rose and walked off! Who knows where he is roaming. He will not listen to a word. How long am I to keep watching the road for him! Do come and eat; I shall set the food aside and keep it for him."

Munshiji looked at Nirmala with hard eyes and said, "What o'clock might it be now?"

"How should I know — about ten o'clock, perhaps," said Nirmala.

"No," said Munshiji. "It is twelve o'clock."

"It has struck twelve?" said Nirmala. "He never made it so late before. Then how long will you keep watching the road for him! He had eaten nothing at noon either. I have never seen such a roaming boy."

"It is troubling you, is it?" said Munshiji.

"Only look — it is so far into the night, and not a thought of home," said Nirmala.

"Perhaps this is his last mischief," said Munshiji.

"What words you let fall from your mouth!" said Nirmala. "Where will he go? He must be lying at some friend's house."

"Perhaps it is so," said Munshiji. "God grant it be so."

"When he comes in the morning, just give him a sharp reproof," said Nirmala.

"I will reprove him very well indeed," said Munshiji.

"Come, eat; it has grown very late," said Nirmala.

"I will reprove him in the morning and then eat," said Munshiji. "If he does not come back — where will you find such an honest servant?"

Nirmala said sharply, "So I drove him away, did I?"

"No, who says so?" said Munshiji. "Why should you drive him away? He did your work — his evil days must have come upon him."

Nirmala said nothing further. There was fear of the quarrel spreading. She came inside. She did not even tell him to come to bed. After a little while Bhungi shut the doors from within as well.

Could sleep come to Munshiji? Of the three boys only one had been left. If he too slipped from his hand, then what was there in life but darkness? Not even a name-bearer would remain. Alas! What jewels had slipped from his hands? Was it any wonder that streams of tears ran from Munshiji's eyes? In that all-pervading remorse, in that thick darkness of self-reproach, one faint line of hope was sustaining him. The moment that line vanished — who can say what would befall him? Who can imagine that anguish of his?

Several times Munshiji's eyes closed, but each time he started up, deceived by what he thought was the sound of Siyaram's footsteps.

As soon as it was morning Munshiji set out again to search for Siyaram. He was ashamed to ask anyone. With what face could he ask? He had no hope of sympathy from anyone. Without saying so openly, all would say in their hearts, "As you did, so suffer!" The whole day he kept circling the school grounds, the markets, the gardens. How he found the strength for this, having gone without food for two days, only he himself can know.

At twelve o'clock at night Munshiji returned home. A lantern was burning at the door. Nirmala stood at the door. The moment she saw him she said, "He did not even tell us — who knows when he set off. Has any trace been found?"

Munshiji, gazing at her with eyes of fire, said, "Get out of my sight, or it will go ill with you. I am not in my senses. This is your doing. It is because of you alone that I am in this state today. Six years ago, was this the state of this house? You ruined the home I had built up; you laid waste the garden that flourished and bloomed. Only a stump has been left. Only when you have wiped out even the mark of it will you be satisfied. I did not bring you into this house to bring about my own destruction. I wished to make a happy life happier still. This is the penance for that. The boys who were once handed about as carefully as paan — those, while I yet lived, you treated as menials, and I, seeing it all with my own eyes, sat by like a blind man. Go — send me a little arsenic. There — only this much was left wanting; let that too be made complete."

Nirmala said, weeping, "I am wretched indeed — only when you say so shall I know it? Who knows why God gave me birth at all? But how have you decided that Siyaram will never come back?"

Munshiji said, turning towards his room, "Do not vex yourself. Go and make merry. Your heart's desire has been fulfilled."

Nirmala wept the whole night through. Such a stain! She had not had the courage to open her mouth even when she had seen Jiyaram carrying off the jewellery. Why? Only because people would think she was casting a false charge to nurse a grudge against the boy. Today, for her silence then, she was being declared the guilty one. Had she stopped Jiyaram at that very moment, and had Jiyaram, out of shame, fled away somewhere, would the blame not have been laid upon her head?

What ill treatment had she shown Siyaram, after all? It was only with the thought of saving a little that she used to have Siyaram fetch the purchases. Did she wish to save in order to have jewellery made for herself? When the income had come to such a pass, what other means of putting anything by had she but keeping a watch on every paisa? The lives of the young hold no surety at all — what reliance can there be on the lives of the old? Before whom would she stretch out her hand for the little girl's marriage? The burden of the child did not rest on her alone. It was only for her husband's ease that she was trying to gather a little. Why only the husband's? Siyaram, after all, would become master of the house after his father. Would the burden of marrying his sister not fall upon his head? All Nirmala's scrimping and contriving was being done only to deliver her husband and her son from straits. The little girl's marriage, in these circumstances, was nothing but a crisis. Yet for that too only ill fame had been written into her fate.

Noon came, but today too the hearth was not lit. Eating, too, is a business of life; but no one had a thought to spare for it. Munshiji lay outside, lifeless as it were, and Nirmala was within. The little girl went sometimes inside, sometimes out. There was no one to speak to her. Again and again she went and stood at the door of Siyaram's room and called, "Brother, brother," but no "brother" answered.

In the evening Munshiji came and said to Nirmala, "Have you any money?"

Nirmala asked with a start, "What will you do with it?"

"Answer what I am asking," said Munshiji.

"Do you not know?" said Nirmala. "It is you who are the giver."

"Have you any money or not? If you have, give it to me; if you have not, give me a plain answer."

Even now Nirmala did not give a plain answer. She said, "If there is any, it will be in the house. I have not sent it off anywhere."

Munshiji went outside. He knew that Nirmala had money — and indeed she had. Nirmala did not even say that she had none, or that she would not give it; but from her words it was plain that she did not wish to give.

At nine o'clock at night Munshiji came and said to Rukmini, "Sister, I am going out for a while. Have Bhungi tie up my bedding, and have some clothes put in the trunk and shut it."

Rukmini was cooking. She said, "The daughter-in-law is in her room — why do you not tell her? Where do you mean to go?"

"I am telling you," said Munshiji. "Had I needed to tell the daughter-in-law, why should I tell you? Why are you cooking the food today?"

"Who else is to cook it?" said Rukmini. "The daughter-in-law has a headache. After all, where are you going at this hour? Do not go in the morning, rather."

"By such putting off and putting off, three days have already gone by," said Munshiji. "Let me wander about here and there and see — perhaps some trace of Siyaram may be found. Some people say he was seen talking with a sadhu. Perhaps he has been lured away somewhere."

"Then how long before you return?" said Rukmini.

"I cannot say," said Munshiji. "It may take a week, it may take a month. What certainty is there?"

"What day is it today?" said Rukmini. "Have you asked some pandit or not?"

Munshiji sat down to eat. At this moment Nirmala felt great pity for him. All her anger was stilled. She herself did not speak, but waking the little girl and coaxing her, she said, "Look — where is your Babuji going? Go and ask him."

Peeping from the door, the little girl asked, "Babu, where are you doing?"

"I am going very far away, daughter," said Munshiji. "I am going to look for your brother." The little girl said, still standing where she was, "I'll go too."

"I am going very far away, child," said Munshiji. "I shall bring things for you. Why do you not come here?"

The little girl hid herself with a smile, and in a moment poked her head out from the door again and said, "I'll go too."

Munshiji said in the same tone, "I won't take you."

"Why won't you take me?" said the little girl.

"Because you do not come to me," said Munshiji.

The little girl came tripping along and sat down in her father's lap. For a little while Munshiji forgot his inner anguish in her childish play.

Having eaten, Munshiji went outside. Nirmala stood watching from the window. She wanted to say, "You are going in vain," but she could not say it. She kept thinking of taking out some money and giving it to him, but she could not give it.

In the end she could bear it no longer, and said to Rukmini, "Sister, do explain to him a little — where is he going! My tongue will be caught, but I cannot stay silent without speaking. Without any clue, where will he search? It will be useless distress."

Rukmini looked at her with eyes full of compassion and went off to her room.

Holding the little girl in her lap, Nirmala kept thinking that perhaps, before leaving, he would come to see the child or to meet her — but her hope was dashed. Munshiji took up his bedding and got into the tonga.

At that very moment Nirmala's heart began to wring within her. It seemed to her that she would not meet him again. In her distress she came to the door to stop Munshiji, but the tonga had already moved off.

The days began not to pass. A whole month went by, but Munshiji did not return. He sent no letter either. The anxiety that now stayed constantly with Nirmala was — what would happen if he did not come back? She did not worry over what he might be enduring, where he might be wandering forlorn, what his health might be. Her only anxiety was for herself, and, more than that, for the little girl. How would the household be carried on? How would God see the boat across? What would become of the little girl? Of the money she had put by through scrimping and contriving, something or other was being spent every day. Nirmala felt such a pang at drawing out a single paisa from it, as though someone were drawing the blood from her body. Fuming, she would curse Munshiji. If the girl cried for anything, she would flare up, calling her wretched and ill-omened. Not only that — Rukmini's presence in the house seemed to her as though she sat upon her neck. When the heart burns, the speech too turns fiery. Nirmala had been a woman of very sweet speech, but now she could be counted among the shrews. All day long bitter, cutting words came from her mouth. Who knows what had become of the gentleness of her words! Of sweetness in her feelings there was not even a name. Bhungi had been a servant in this house for many years. She was patient by nature, but even she could not endure this jabbering of all eight watches of the day. One day she too took the road home. So much so that even the little girl, whom she had loved more than her own life, became hateful to her in the very sight. At the least thing she would snap at her, and sometimes even strike her. Rukmini would take the weeping child into her lap and coax and fondle her quiet. For that orphan, this had now become the one shelter left.

If anything still seemed good to Nirmala now, it was talking with Sudha. She kept watching for chances to go there. She no longer wished to take the little girl with her. Earlier, when the child used to get everything to eat at her own home, she would go there and laugh and play. Now, going there, she would grow hungry. Nirmala would glare and glare at her, would clench her fists and threaten her, but the girl would not give up her chorus of hunger. So Nirmala would not take her along. Sitting beside Sudha, she felt that she was a human being. For that while she was set free from her anxieties. As a drunkard, in the intoxication of wine, forgets all his cares, so Nirmala, going to Sudha's house, forgot everything. Anyone who had seen her at her own home would have been astonished to see her here. That same shrewish, bitter-tongued woman became, on coming here, an image of mirth and sweetness. The natural impulses of her youth, finding their road barred at her own home, began here to frolic and play. When she came here she came decked out with parted hair and braid, with good clothes, and kept her tale of calamity within her heart as far as she could. She came here not to weep, but to laugh.

But perhaps even this happiness had not been written into her fate. Nirmala usually went to Sudha's house at noon or in the afternoon. One day she grew so weary that she went early in the morning. Sudha had gone to bathe in the river; the Doctor Sahib was dressing to go to the hospital. The maidservant was busy with her work. Nirmala went into her friend's room and sat down at her ease. She supposed Sudha must be at some task and would come presently. When two or four minutes had passed in sitting, she took down an album of pictures from the cupboard and, loosening her hair and lying down on the bed, began to look at the pictures. Meanwhile the Doctor Sahib had to come into Nirmala's room for some need. He was going about searching for his spectacles. He came in without hesitation. Nirmala was lying with her hair loose, facing the door. The moment she saw the Doctor Sahib she started up and sat, and, covering her head, got down from the bedstead and stood. The Doctor Sahib, turning back and standing near the bamboo screen, said, "Forgive me, Nirmala, I did not know you were here! I cannot find my spectacles in my own room; who knows where I took them off and put them. I thought perhaps they were here."

When Nirmala glanced at the shelf at the head of the bedstead, the spectacle-case came into view. She stepped forward and took the case down, and, with bowed head and gathered-in body, in shyness held out her hand towards the Doctor Sahib. The Doctor Sahib had seen Nirmala once or twice before, but feelings such as those of this moment had never come into his mind. The flame that he had pressed down within his heart for years now, finding the gust of a wind, leaped up ablaze. When he stretched out his hand to take the spectacles, his hand was trembling. Even when he had taken the spectacles he did not go out; he stood there as if lost. Frightened by this solitude, Nirmala asked, "Has Sudha gone somewhere?"

The Doctor Sahib answered with bowed head, "Yes, she has just gone to bathe."

Still the Doctor Sahib did not go out. He stood where he was. Nirmala asked again, "When will she be back?"

The Doctor Sahib said with bowed head, "She must be coming."

Still he did not come out. A fierce conflict was raging in his mind. It was not the bond of propriety, but the frail thread of timidity, that held his tongue. Nirmala said again, "She must have begun strolling about somewhere. I too am going now."

The frail thread of timidity also snapped. To an army in flight, on reaching the bank of a river, a strange strength comes. The Doctor Sahib raised his head, looked at Nirmala, and said in a voice steeped in passion, "No, Nirmala, she must be coming now. Do not go just yet. Every day you sit for Sudha's sake; today sit for my sake. Tell me, how long am I to burn in this fire? I tell you truly, Nirmala..."

Nirmala heard nothing more. It seemed to her as though the whole earth were spinning round. As though thousands of thunderbolts were striking upon her very life. She quickly snatched down the wrap hanging on the peg and, without letting a single word fall from her lips, went out of the room. The Doctor Sahib stood with a sheepish, half-weeping look on his face. He had not the courage to stop her or to say anything.

The moment Nirmala reached the door she saw Sudha getting down from the tonga. Nirmala gave Sudha no chance; she darted off like an arrow. For a moment Sudha stood in a state of bewilderment. What the matter was she could not at all understand. She grew alarmed. She went quickly inside to ask the maidservant what had happened. She would find out the guilty one, and if she learned that the maidservant or some other servant had said anything insulting to her, she would dismiss her on the spot. She hurried into her room. The instant she set foot inside, she saw the Doctor sitting with a long face on the bedstead. She asked, "Was Nirmala here?"

Scratching his head, the Doctor Sahib said, "Yes, she had come."

"Has some maidservant or other said something to her?" said Sudha. "She did not even speak to me; she darted off."

The light of the Doctor Sahib's face faded. He said, "No one here said anything at all to her."

"Someone has said something," said Sudha. "See — I am asking, God knows, if I get to the bottom of it I will turn her out on the spot."

The Doctor Sahib said falteringly, "I did not hear anyone say anything. She cannot have seen you."

"Indeed — not seen me!" said Sudha. "I got down from the tonga right in front of her. She even looked towards me, but said nothing. Had she come into this room?"

The Doctor Sahib's life was drying up within him. He said hesitantly, "Why should she not have come?"

"She must have gone away on seeing you sitting here," said Sudha. "There — some maidservant must have said something. They are low-caste, after all; none of them has the manners to speak to anyone. Hey, O Sundariya, just come here a moment!"

"Why do you call her?" said the Doctor. "She went straight from here towards the door. There was no word with the maidservants at all."

"Then it must be you who said something," said Sudha.

The Doctor Sahib's heart began to pound. He said, "What could I say, after all? Am I such a boor?"

"You saw her coming, and yet you sat on?" said Sudha.

"I was not even here," said the Doctor. "I kept searching for my spectacles in the sitting-room outside; when I did not find them there, I thought perhaps they were inside. When I came here I saw her sitting. I was about to go out when she herself asked, 'Do you need anything?' I said, 'Just see whether my spectacles are here.' The spectacles were on this shelf by the bed-head. She picked them up and gave them to me. That was the whole of it."

"So the moment you took the spectacles she flounced out angrily? Why?" said Sudha.

"She did not go off angrily," said the Doctor. "When she was about to go, I said, 'Sit down, she must be coming.' If she would not sit, what could I do?"

After some thought Sudha said, "I cannot make any sense of it. I shall just go to her. Let me see what the matter is."

"Then go later — what is the hurry?" said the Doctor. "The whole day lies before you."

Drawing on her wrap, Sudha said, "There is a turmoil churning in my stomach, and you say there is a hurry?"

Sudha set off with rapid steps towards Nirmala's house and reached it in five minutes. She saw that Nirmala was lying on the bedstead in her room, weeping, and the little girl was standing beside her — "Amma, why are you crying?"

Sudha took the girl up into her lap and said to Nirmala, "Sister, tell me truly, what is the matter? Has someone at my house said something to you? I have asked everyone; no one tells me anything."

Wiping away her tears, Nirmala said, "No one said anything, sister. Indeed, who there would say anything to me?"

"Then why did you not speak to me, and why did you begin to weep the moment you arrived?" said Sudha.

"I am weeping over my own fate, what else," said Nirmala.

"If you will not tell me like this, I will put you on oath," said Sudha.

"Do not put me on oath, sister," said Nirmala. "No one has said anything to me; on whom shall I fasten a falsehood?"

"Swear by me," said Sudha.

"You are insisting needlessly," said Nirmala.

"If you do not tell me, Nirmala, I shall conclude that you have not the least love for me," said Sudha. "There — it is all empty words. I keep nothing veiled from you in any matter, and you take me for a stranger. I had great trust in you. Now I have learned that no one belongs to anyone."

Sudha's eyes grew moist. She set the little girl down from her lap and walked towards the door. Nirmala rose, caught her hand, and said, weeping, "Sudha, I fall at your feet — do not ask. To hear it will give you pain, and perhaps I shall never be able to show you my face again. Were I not a wretched woman, why should I have seen this day at all? Now my only prayer to God is that He take me from this world. Even now there is such ruin upon me; who knows what is to come hereafter?"

The hint contained in these words could not stay hidden from the clever Sudha. She understood that the Doctor Sahib had made some improper advance. His hesitant, halting way of speaking, his evading her questions, that guilty, lustreless look of his — all came back to her. She trembled from head to foot, and without saying or hearing anything more, walked towards the door, filled with anger like a lioness. Nirmala tried to stop her, but could not. Before her eyes Sudha came out onto the road and set off towards her home. Then Nirmala sank down upon the ground there and began to weep aloud, sob upon sob.

Nirmala lay on the bedstead the whole day. It seemed there was no life left in her body. She neither bathed nor rose to eat. In the evening a fever came upon her. All night her body burned like a griddle. The next day the fever did not break. Yes, it had eased somewhat. She lay on the bedstead, gazing with motionless eyes towards the door. On every side was emptiness — emptiness within, emptiness without; there was no anxiety, no memory, no sorrow; her brain had lost even the power of throbbing.

Suddenly Rukmini came and stood there with the little girl in her lap. Nirmala asked, "Did she cry a great deal?"

"No, she did not even sob," said Rukmini. "She lay quiet all night. Sudha had sent a little milk."

"Did the milkwoman not bring milk?" said Nirmala.

"She said, 'Pay the outstanding paise, then I will give it,'" said Rukmini. "How are you feeling now?"

"Nothing has happened to me," said Nirmala. "My body grew hot yesterday."

"The Doctor Sahib is in a bad way," said Rukmini.

Nirmala asked in alarm, "What — what has happened? He is well, is he not?"

"Well, indeed — they are making ready to carry away the corpse!" said Rukmini. "Some say he had taken poison, some say his heart had stopped beating. God alone knows what happened."

Nirmala drew a cold breath and said in a choked voice, "O God! What will become of Sudha! How will she live?"

Saying this she broke into weeping and went on sobbing for a long time. Then, with great difficulty, she rose and made ready to go to Sudha. Her feet trembled and trembled; she stood holding the wall, but her heart would not be still. Who knows what Sudha said to her husband on going back from here? I did not even say anything to her; who knows what she made of my words? Alas! Such a comely, kindly, such a gentle-natured being, and this his end! Had Nirmala known that this would be the dreadful outcome of her anger, she would have laughed off the matter even had she to swallow a draught of poison.

Thinking that it was because of her own hard-heartedness that the Doctor Sahib had come to this, Nirmala's heart began to break into pieces. Such anguish arose in her as though a spear were twisting in her heart. She set off for the Doctor Sahib's house.

The corpse had already been carried out. Outside, silence hung over everything. In the house the women were gathered. Sudha sat weeping on the ground. The moment she saw Nirmala she wailed aloud in weeping and came and clung to her bosom. For a long while the two went on weeping.

When the crowd of women thinned and there was solitude, Nirmala asked, "What is this that has happened, sister? What did you say?"

Sudha had answered this very question to her own mind many times over. The answer with which her mind had been quieted, that same answer she gave Nirmala. She said, "I could not have stayed silent either, sister; over a matter that calls for anger, anger does come."

"But I had not even said any such thing to you," said Nirmala.

"How could you have said it — you could not even speak it," said Sudha, "but he had told me himself what had passed. Upon that I said whatever came to my mouth. Once a thing has entered the mind, it ought to be reckoned as good as done. If the chance and the occasion are found, it will surely be carried through. No one can slip free by saying, 'I only meant it in jest.' To bring such a word to the tongue in solitude is itself to declare that the intention was evil. I never told you, sister, but I had seen him cast glances your way several times. At that time I too thought, perhaps I am being deceived. Now I have learned what the meaning of that watching and peering was! Had I seen more of the world, I would not have let you come to my house. At the very least, I would never have let his gaze fall upon you — but how was I to know that in men's mouths there is one thing and in their hearts another? What God willed has come to pass. With such good fortune I do not count widowhood a bad thing. The poor creature is far happier than the rich one whom his wealth becomes a serpent to run and bite. To fast is easy; to eat poisoned food is far harder than that."

At this very moment Doctor Sinha's younger brother and Krishna entered the house. An uproar of lamentation broke out in the house.

Another month passed. Sudha went away with her brother-in-law on the very third day. Now Nirmala was alone. Earlier she had been able to divert her mind by laughing and talking. Now weeping had become her one occupation. Her health grew worse day by day. The rent of the old house was high. A second house was taken at a lower rent; it stood in a cramped lane. Inside was one room and a small courtyard. No light came in, no air. A foul smell hung about. As for food, the state was such that, with money in hand, she sometimes still had to fast. Who was to go to the market? Then, having no man of her own, no boy, who was to take the trouble of cooking food every day? What need is there for women to eat every day? If one ate once, that gave a holiday for two days. Fresh halwa or chapatis would be made for the little girl. In such a state, why should her health not break down? Anxiety, grief, ill-fortune — if it were but one, one could speak of it. Here it was the assault of the three afflictions together. On top of that, Nirmala had taken a vow against taking medicine. What else could she do? Where in those few rupees was there room for medicine? Where there was no surety of food, what talk could there be of medicine? Day by day she went on wasting away.

One day Rukmini said, "Daughter-in-law, how long will you go on pining like this? Life itself is the whole world. Come, let me take you to be seen by some physician."

Nirmala said with weariness, "For one who must live only to weep, it is better to die."

"Death does not come for the asking," said Rukmini.

"Death comes unbidden; why should it not come when bidden?" said Nirmala. "It will take many days in coming, sister. Count as years the days I yet walk about."

"Do not make your heart so small, daughter-in-law," said Rukmini. "What happiness of the world have you yet seen?"

"If this is the happiness of the world, the happiness I have been seeing all these days, then I have had my fill of it," said Nirmala. "I tell you truly, sister, it is my attachment to this little girl that binds me; else I should long since have departed. Who knows what is written in this poor child's fate?"

Both women began to weep. From the time that Nirmala had taken to her bed, a spring of compassion had, as it were, opened in Rukmini's heart. Not a trace of malice remained. Whatever work she might be at, the moment she heard Nirmala's voice she would come running. For hours she would sit beside her, telling tales and scriptures. She would want to cook some dish that Nirmala would eat with relish. If she ever caught Nirmala laughing, she was overjoyed; and the little girl she kept like a garland about her neck. She slept the child's sleep, woke the child's waking. That little girl was now the support of her life.

After a little while Rukmini said, "Daughter-in-law, why do you despair so? If God wills, you will be well again in two or four days. Come with me to the physician today. He is a very worthy gentleman."

Nirmala said, "Didi, no medicine of any vaidya or hakim will do me good now. Do not trouble yourself over me. I leave the little girl in your lap. If she lives and grows, marry her into some good family. For her I could do nothing in all my life — I am guilty only of having given her birth. Keep her unwed if you will, or give her poison and put her to death; but do not fasten her upon an unworthy man — this much alone is my entreaty to you. I rendered you no service, and that grieves me deeply. From me, ill-starred creature that I am, no one has ever had any happiness. Whoever so much as fell within my shadow was utterly ruined. If ever Swamiji should come home, tell him to forgive the offences of this luckless woman."

Weeping, Rukmini said, "You have committed no offence, daughter-in-law. I say it before God — there is not the least ill-will toward you in my heart. Yes, I always practised deceit upon you, and the sorrow of that will stay with me till my dying breath."

Looking at her with anguished eyes, Nirmala said, "Didi, it is not a thing to be spoken of, and yet it will not be left unspoken. Swamiji always regarded me with the eyes of distrust; but never, even in my mind, did I slight him. What was to be had already come to pass. Why should I ruin the life hereafter by doing wrong? In some former birth I must have committed some sin, and for it this penance had to be done. Had I sown thorns in this life, what state would I then have come to?"

Nirmala's breath began to come and go with great speed; then she lay back upon the cot and looked at the child with such a gaze as was itself a vast commentary upon the whole sorrowful story of her life — where in speech was there power enough to hold so much?

For three days the stream of tears flowed without ceasing from Nirmala's eyes. She spoke to no one, looked at no one, heard nothing that anyone said. She only went on weeping. Who can fathom that anguish?

On the fourth day, at the hour of evening, that tale of calamity came to its end. At that very time, when the beasts and birds were returning each to its own nest, the life-bird of Nirmala too — wounded and tormented all day long by the hunters' aim, by the talons of the birds of prey, and by the fierce buffeting of the wind — flew away toward its own place of rest.

The people of the neighbourhood gathered. The body was carried out. The question arose — who would perform the cremation? While the people stood caught in this anxiety, all at once an old wayfarer, a small bundle dangling from his hand, came and stood there. It was Munshi Totaram.