10

Sucharita had arranged the tea things and refreshments on a tray and sent them up with the servant, then came to the terrace and sat down — and at that very moment Gora came in behind the bearer. The sight of Gora’s great height, his white complexion, his bearing and his dress astonished everyone present.

On Gora’s forehead was the mark of Ganges clay; he wore a coarse dhuti with a ribbon-fastened kurta and a heavy shawl; on his feet were turned-up Cuttack slippers. He seemed to arrive like a living embodiment of rebellion against the present age. Even Binoy had never before seen him dressed quite like this.

Today the fire of defiance burned with particular intensity in Gora’s mind. And cause for it there had been.

A steamer company, taking passengers to Tribeni for the ritual bathing on the occasion of an eclipse, had set out the previous morning before dawn. At one station after another, large numbers of women pilgrims, accompanied by one or two male guardians, had been boarding the vessel. In the crush to secure a place, there had been tremendous jostling. With muddy feet on the slippery gangplank, passengers were tumbling into the river in exposed and helpless states; sailors were shoving some overboard; some had managed to climb up but were in anguish because their companions had not; occasional showers of rain came to drench them, and their allotted space on the vessel was filling with mud. On every face there was an expression of harried, anxious, pitiable urgency — they were powerless, and yet they were so lowly that they knew with certainty that no one, from the common sailors to the officers, would lift a finger to help them however they might plead, and so their efforts were shadowed by a desperate, cringing dread. In the midst of all this, Gora had been doing what he could to assist the passengers. Up on the first-class deck, an Englishman and a Bengali babu of the modern sort were leaning on the railing, chatting together with cheroots in their mouths and watching the scene as a spectacle. Whenever some particularly sudden misfortune befell one of the passengers below, the Englishman would burst out laughing, and the Bengali would join in.

After two or three stations had passed in this manner, Gora could bear it no longer. He went up to the first-class deck and in his voice of thunder said, “Shame on you both! Have you no shame?”

The Englishman surveyed Gora from head to foot with a hard stare. The Bengali replied, “Shame! It is for these beast-like ignoramuses of this country that one should feel shame.”

Gora’s face flushed crimson. He said, “There is a greater beast than the ignorant man — the man who has no heart.”

The Bengali said in anger, “This is not your place — this is first class.”

Gora said, “No — it is not my place to be here with you. My place is with those passengers down there. But I tell you this —

do not compel me to come up to your class again.”

With that, Gora strode briskly back down below. From that moment the Englishman settled into his armchair, draped both legs over the armrests, and gave himself over to his novel. His fellow traveller, the Bengali, attempted to resume conversation with him once or twice, but it never quite took hold again. To demonstrate that he was not of the common herd of countrymen, the babu called the khansama and inquired whether any chicken dish might be had. The khansama replied, “No, there is only bread, butter and tea.”

Hearing this, the Bengali said aloud in English, so that the Englishman might hear, “The arrangements on board for creature comforts are altogether abominable.”

The Englishman made no reply. His newspaper blew off the table and fell to the floor. The babu got up from his chair and picked it up, but received no word of thanks.

At Chandannagar, when it was time to disembark, the Englishman came suddenly to Gora, raised his hat slightly and said, “I am ashamed of my conduct — I hope you will forgive me.” And with that he departed in haste.

But that a Western-educated Bengali could look upon the suffering of common people and call an Englishman over to share his laughter and feed his sense of superiority — the rage of it continued to scorch Gora. That the common people of his country had so utterly placed themselves at the mercy of every form of humiliation and ill treatment, that they could be degraded like animals and would submit to it, and that everyone would find this natural and fitting — the thought that beneath all this lay a deep and pervasive ignorance blanketing the whole land seemed to tear at his chest. But what stung him most of all was that the educated man refused to feel this enduring humiliation and degradation as his own — that he could separate himself from it with ruthless detachment and feel nothing but complacent pride. And so today, in deliberate and total contempt for all the book-learned, imitative reforms of the educated classes, Gora had pressed the mark of Ganges clay upon his forehead, bought and put on a pair of strange, outlandish Cuttack slippers, and come to this Brahmo household with his chest thrown out.

Binoy understood at once — Gora’s dress today was a battle dress. Thinking that there was no knowing what Gora might do, a kind of fear, a kind of unease, and a sense of opposition stirred in Binoy’s mind.

When Baradasundari had been talking with Binoy, Satish, left to himself, had been passing the time in a corner of the terrace spinning a tin top. At the sight of Gora his spinning stopped; he moved slowly to Binoy’s side and stood staring fixedly at Gora, then whispered into Binoy’s ear, “Is this your friend?”

Binoy said, “Yes.”

Gora came up to the terrace and for a fraction of a moment glanced at Binoy’s face, then seemed not to notice him at all. He bowed to Paresh in greeting and without any self-consciousness pulled a chair some distance away from the table and sat down. He considered it a breach of propriety to take note of the fact that women were present somewhere in the vicinity.

Baradasundari was on the point of deciding to take her daughters away from this uncouth person when Paresh said to her, “His name is Gaurimohan — the son of my friend Krishnadayal.”

Gora then turned toward her and offered his salutation. Although Sucharita had already heard about Gora in the course of her conversation with Binoy, she had not understood that this visitor was the same man. At first glance she took an instant dislike to him.

Sucharita did not possess the temperament or tolerance to endure bigoted Hindu orthodoxy in a man with an English education.

Paresh asked Gora about the news of his old childhood friend Krishnadayal. Then, speaking of their student days together, he said, “In those days at college we two were quite the pair — great iconoclasts, both of us — nothing was sacred to us — eating at hotel restaurants was something we considered almost a duty. Many an evening we would sit at Gooldighee, eating kebabs from a Muslim vendor’s stall, and then talk until well past midnight about what manner of reform we would bring about in Hindu society.”

Baradasundari asked, “And what does he do now?”

Gora said, “He now observes Hindu custom and practice.”

Barada said, “Is he not ashamed?” — her whole body was burning with indignation.

Gora smiled a little and said, “Feeling ashamed is a mark of a weak nature. There are those who feel ashamed to acknowledge their own father.”

Barada. Was he not a Brahmo before?

Gora. I too was a Brahmo at one time.

Barada. Do you now believe in the worship of God with form?

Gora. I harbour no such superstition as would lead me to hold form in contempt without reason. Does form become lesser merely by being reviled? Who has ever been able to penetrate the mystery of form?

Pareshbabu said in a gentle voice, “But form is bounded by its own end.”

Gora said, “Without end, there can be no manifestation. The Infinite has taken refuge in the finite precisely in order to manifest Itself — otherwise, where is Its expression? That which has no expression has no completeness. Just as meaning dwells within words, so the Formless is made whole within form.”

Barada shook his head and said, “Are you saying that form is more complete than the Formless?”

Gora. Even if I were not to say so, it would make no difference whatsoever. Form in this world does not depend upon my saying so. If the Formless alone were the true completeness, form would find no place anywhere.

Sucharita felt a fierce desire that someone would utterly defeat and humiliate this insolent young man in argument. Seeing Binoy sit silently and listen to Gora’s words, she grew inwardly angry with him. Gora was speaking with such force that within Sucharita’s own mind a corresponding force began to stir, as though to compel that force to bow down.

At that moment, the bearer brought a kettle of hot water for tea. Sucharita rose and occupied herself with preparing it. Now and then Binoy glanced fleetingly toward Sucharita’s face. Although there was no great difference of opinion between Gora and Binoy on matters of worship, it began to pain Binoy that Gora had come uninvited into the midst of this Brahmo household and was expressing his contrary views with such complete ease. Comparing Gora’s combative conduct with the old Paresh’s collected and serene demeanour — a deep equanimity that lay beyond all argument and debate — Binoy’s heart filled with reverence. He said to himself: opinions are nothing — what is rarest of all is the fullness, the stillness, and the self-contentment within one’s innermost being. However much one might argue about what is true or false in a position, what is truly real is what has been attained. Paresh, from time to time amid all the talk, would close his eyes and sink inward into himself — this was his habit — and Binoy gazed steadily at that inward-turned, tranquil face. That Gora felt no reverence for this old man, that he made no effort to restrain his words on his account, struck Binoy as a grievous wound.

Sucharita prepared several cups of tea and looked toward Paresh’s face. She was of two minds as to whom she ought to invite to drink. Baradasundari, looking directly at Gora, burst out at once: “I don’t suppose you will take any of this?”

Gora said, “No.”

Barada. Why? Will your caste be defiled?

Gora said, “Yes.”

Barada. You observe caste!

Gora. Is caste something of my own making, that I should not observe it? When I accept society, I accept caste along with it.

Barada. Must one accept society in every matter?

Gora. Not to accept it is to break it.

Barada. And what harm is there in breaking it?

Gora. And what harm is there in sawing off the very branch upon which we all sit together?

Sucharita said inwardly, with great vexation, “Mother, what is the use of arguing in vain? He will not eat anything touched by us.”

Gora fixed his sharp gaze upon Sucharita’s face for a moment. Sucharita turned toward Binoy and asked with slight hesitation, “And you —”

Binoy had never drunk tea in his life. He had long since given up eating bread and biscuits made by Muslims — yet today he could not do otherwise. He raised his face with an effort and said, “Yes, of course I shall.” Then he glanced at Gora’s face. A faint hard smile appeared at the corner of Gora’s lips. The tea tasted bitter and disagreeable to Binoy, yet he did not stop drinking it.

Baradasundari said to herself, “Ah, this boy Binoy is a very fine young man.”

She then turned her face entirely away from Gora and devoted her attention to Binoy. Seeing this, Paresh quietly drew his chair over to Gora and began speaking with him softly.

Just then a roasted-peanut seller passed along the street calling out his hot wares, and Lila clapped her hands and cried, “Sudhirda, call the peanut man!”

No sooner had she spoken than Satish, hanging over the terrace railing, began to call out to the peanut seller.

Meanwhile, another gentleman arrived. Everyone greeted him as Panubabu, though his real name was Haranchandra Nag. Within their circle he enjoyed a particular reputation for learning and intelligence. Though no one on either side had said so openly, there floated in the air a certain possibility that he and Sucharita would be married. That Panubabu’s heart had been drawn toward Sucharita, no one doubted, and this was a matter on which the young women never ceased to tease Sucharita.

Panubabu taught at a school. Baradasundari, knowing him to be no more than a schoolmaster, did not hold him in high regard. She gave the impression that it was just as well that Panubabu had never dared to show any attachment to one of her daughters. Her future sons-in-law were bound by the exceedingly difficult vow of aiming at a Deputy Collectorship.

No sooner had Sucharita pushed a cup of tea toward Haran than Labanya, from across the room, looked at her face and suppressed a little smile. That small smile did not escape Binoy’s notice. Within a very brief time his eye had grown considerably keener and more watchful in one or two respects — acuity of observation had not been his reputation before.

The fact that Haran and Sudhir had been acquainted with the young women of this household for many years, and were so interwoven with this family’s history as to have become subjects of private signals among the women — this began to ring in Binoy’s heart as an injustice of Providence.

Meanwhile, at Haran’s arrival Sucharita’s spirits seemed to revive with a touch of hope. For her burning sense of grievance to be satisfied, Gora’s arrogance would have to be humbled somehow by someone. At other times she had often been irritated by Haran’s argumentativeness; but today, at the sight of this champion of debate, she supplied him cheerfully with tea and bread.

Paresh said, “Panubabu, this gentleman is our —”

Haran said, “I know him very well indeed. He was at one time a very enthusiastic member of our Brahmo Samaj.”

Having said this, Haran made no attempt whatsoever to engage Gora in conversation, and turned his mind instead to the cup of tea.

At that time only two or three Bengalis had passed the Civil Service examination and come to this country. Sudhir raised the subject of the reception given for one of them. Haran said, “However many Bengalis may pass examinations, nothing will ever come of Bengalis.”

That no Bengali magistrate or judge could ever manage the charge of a district — this Haran set himself to demonstrate by expounding at length upon the various faults and weaknesses of the Bengali character.

Gora’s face reddened before their very eyes. Suppressing his lion’s roar as best he could, he said, “If this is truly your opinion, then what shame makes you sit comfortably at this table calmly chewing your bread?”

Haran looked up in astonishment and said, “What would you have me do?”

Gora. Either wipe away the stain upon the Bengali character, or go and hang yourself. Is it so easy a thing to say that our people will never accomplish anything? Did the bread not stick in your throat?

Haran. Should I not speak the truth?

Gora. Do not take offence — but if you truly believed this to be the truth, you could not have said it with such ease and such complacency. You said it because you know it to be false. Haranbabu, falsehood is a sin; false slander is a greater sin; and few sins are greater than the false slander of one’s own people.

Haran grew agitated with fury. Gora said, “Are you alone greater than all your countrymen? You shall be angry — and we must endure everything on behalf of our forefathers!”

After this it became still harder for Haran to concede defeat. He raised his pitch and resumed his denunciation of Bengalis. Referring to various customs of Bengali society, he declared, “With all this in place, there is no hope for Bengalis.”

Gora said, “What you call evil custom, you say only because you have memorised some English books — you yourself know nothing about the matter.

When you are able to hold all of England’s evil customs in precisely the same contempt, then you may speak on this subject.”

Paresh tried to bring the exchange to a close, but the enraged Haran would not desist. The sun set; from within the clouds a strange crimson radiance suffused the whole sky with beauty; above the clamour of all the debate a melody began to sound within the depths of Binoy’s being. Paresh, wishing to turn his mind to his evening devotions, rose from the terrace and went to seat himself upon a raised platform built at the foot of a great champak tree at the edge of the garden.

Just as Baradasundari’s mind had turned against Gora, so too was Haran not among her favourites. When the quarrel between the two became altogether unbearable to her, she called to Binoy and said, “Come, Binoybabu, let us go indoors.”

Accepting Baradasundari’s affectionate partiality, Binoy had no choice but to leave the terrace and go inside. Barada called her daughters to come with her. Satish, having sized up the direction of the argument, had earlier gathered a small supply of peanuts and slipped away with the little dog.

Baradasundari proceeded to acquaint Binoy with the accomplishments of her daughters. She said to Labanya, “Bring your notebook and show it to Binoybabu, won’t you?”

It had become Labanya’s habit to show this notebook to new acquaintances of the house. Indeed, she would inwardly await the occasion. Today the outbreak of argument had left her disappointed.

Binoy opened the notebook and saw that it contained English poems by the poets Moore and Longfellow, copied out in a hand that displayed care and neatness. The titles of the poems and their opening letters were written in Roman style.

At the sight of this writing Binoy felt genuine astonishment. In those days, for a young woman to be able to copy Moore’s verses into a notebook was no small achievement. Seeing that Binoy’s mind was suitably impressed, Baradasundari addressed her second daughter: “Lalita, my dear, that poem of yours —”

Lalita stiffened and said, “No, Mother, I cannot. I do not remember it well enough.” And she went and stood near a window in the distance, gazing out at the street.

Baradasundari explained to Binoy that Lalita had it all in her memory, but was very reserved and reluctant to display her learning. She then related two or three incidents in evidence of Lalita’s extraordinary intelligence and ability, and said that Lalita had been like this since childhood — even when she felt like weeping, she would not let her tears fall. She discussed the resemblance between Lalita and her father in this regard.

Now it was Lila’s turn. No sooner had she been invited than she burst into a prolonged peal of laughter, and then, like a mechanical barrel-organ playing without comprehension, rattled off “Twinkle twinkle little star” in a single breath.

Knowing that the time had come to display musical accomplishment, Lalita slipped out of the room.

On the outer terrace the argument had by now grown wild and unrestrained. Haran, his reason overcome by rage, was on the verge of abandoning argument altogether and resorting to abuse. Ashamed and irritated by Haran’s intemperate conduct, Sucharita had taken Gora’s side. This was in no way consoling or calming for Haran.

Darkness and the clouds of Shravan gathered thickly across the sky; a street vendor passed along the road crying garlands of bel flowers. Among the clusters of leaves on the krishnachura tree in front, fireflies began to glow. A dense shadow fell across the surface of the pond behind the neighbouring house.

Having concluded his evening devotions, Paresh came up to the terrace. At the sight of him, both Gora and Haran fell abashed and fell silent. Gora rose to his feet and said, “The night has grown late — I shall take my leave now.”

Binoy too took his leave from the room and came up to the terrace. Paresh said to Gora, “Listen — come here whenever you wish. Krishnadayal was like a brother to me. Though our opinions have since diverged, we no longer meet, and correspondence has ceased between us, the friendship of childhood mingles with the blood. Through the bond of Krishnadayal, your connection to me is very close. May God grant you His blessings.”

Paresh’s gentle, affectionate voice seemed to soothe the heat of all the afternoon’s argument within Gora. When he had first arrived, Gora had shown Paresh very little regard. Now, on taking his leave, he prostrated himself before him with genuine reverence. Gora offered Sucharita no word of farewell whatsoever. He considered it a discourtesy to acknowledge by any act that she stood before him. Binoy bowed humbly before Paresh, then turned toward Sucharita and saluted her, and then, in some embarrassment, hurried out after Gora.

Haran, to avoid the scene of leave-taking, went indoors and began turning the pages of a book of Brahma-sangita that lay upon the table.

The moment Binoy and Gora had gone, Haran came quickly onto the terrace and said to Paresh, “Look here — I do not think it proper to introduce the young women of the house to just anyone.”

Sucharita, who had been seething inwardly, could not restrain herself; she said, “If Father had observed that rule, you yourself could never have become acquainted with us.”

Haran said, “It is better for social intercourse to remain confined within one’s own community.”

Paresh smiled and said, “You wish to enlarge the domestic inner chamber just a little and make it a social inner chamber. But I believe it is proper for young women to mix with men of various views; otherwise their minds are forcibly kept diminished. I see no cause for fear or shame in it.”

Haran. I do not say that young women should not mix with those of different opinions, but these gentlemen do not know the proper manner of conducting themselves with women.

Paresh. No, no, what are you saying. What you call a want of courtesy is merely a kind of constraint — one that does not disappear without mixing with women.

Sucharita said with a proud air, “Let me tell you, Panubabu — in today’s argument it was the conduct of those from our own community that made me ashamed.”

Just then Lila came running in, crying “Didi! Didi!” and taking Sucharita by the hand, pulled her away into the room.