11

That day Haran had been particularly eager to defeat Gora in argument and plant his flag of victory before Sucharita, and in the beginning Sucharita too had hoped for as much. But by a strange stroke of fate, precisely the opposite came to pass. In matters of religious belief and social opinion, there was no accord between Gora and Sucharita. Yet love for one’s country, sorrow for one’s people, were natural to her. Though she had not habitually discussed affairs of the nation, when that afternoon Gora had suddenly thundered against the slander of his countrymen, a sympathetic echo had rung through the whole of Sucharita’s being. No one had ever spoken of the country in her presence with such force and such unshakeable conviction. As a rule, when our people speak of their nation and their race, they display a certain air of patronage; they do not believe in it with any depth or truth; and therefore, however poetically they may speak of the country on occasion, they have no real faith in it. But Gora, piercing through all the suffering, degradation, and weakness of his land, could see as if before his very eyes some great and noble truth abiding within it — and thus, without denying a single aspect of the country’s poverty, he had established toward it a vigorous and robust reverence. His faith in the latent power of the nation was so unwavering that whoever came near him, whoever heard the unflinching words of his patriotism, would find themselves compelled to yield. Before Gora’s indestructible devotion, Haran’s contemptuous argument struck Sucharita at every moment like an affront. From time to time she had been unable to hold herself back, and had given voice, with an overflowing heart, to her protest.

And then, when Haran — in Gora and Binoy’s absence — had, out of petty jealousy, cast upon them the aspersion of discourtesy, Sucharita had again been compelled to stand on their side against this unjust smallness.

And yet Sucharita’s inward rebellion against Gora had not been altogether stilled. A certain aggressive, insolent Hinduism about him continued to wound her. She could see in a way that within this Hinduism there was an element of antagonism — it was not natural and serene, it was not content within its own devotion and belief, it was ever poised in a fierce readiness to strike at others.

That evening, through all speech and all activity — while eating, while telling Lila a bedtime story — a pain of something unnameable kept pressing upon the depths of Sucharita’s mind and would not leave her, however hard she tried to drive it away. One can remove a thorn only if one knows where it lies. To discover the thorn lodged in her mind, Sucharita sat alone that night on the terrace of the porte-cochere.

She tried to wipe away the causeless heat within her with the cool darkness of the night, but to no avail. She felt like weeping for the nameless burden upon her breast, but the tears would not come.

That she should have been suffering all this while merely because some unknown young man had appeared with a tilak on his forehead, or because she had failed to humiliate him in argument — nothing could have been more absurd or ridiculous. She dismissed this explanation from her mind as altogether impossible. Then the real reason came to her, and having come, filled her with a deep sense of shame. For three or four hours that afternoon Sucharita had sat in the very presence of that young man and had even joined in the debate from time to time on his behalf — yet he had seemed not to remark her at all; and when taking his leave he had not so much as seen her with his eyes. That this utter disregard had wounded her deeply, there could be no doubt. In those who have some habit of mixing with women outside their family there grows a certain self-consciousness — the kind of self-conscious diffidence discernible in Binoy’s conduct — and within that diffidence there is a bashful humility. In Gora’s conduct there was not the faintest trace of it. Why had his severe and overwhelming indifference become so impossible to bear or to brush aside with contempt today? The thought that she had joined in the debate without restraint even before such complete disregard — she felt as though she would die of her own forwardness. When Haran’s unreasonable argument had once provoked her to great agitation, Gora had looked at her face; in that glance there was not the least shyness — but what was in that glance was also difficult to fathom. Had he been thinking at that moment — what a shameless creature this woman is, or — how she does not lack for conceit, coming uninvited to join in a men’s argument? If that is what he had thought, what does it matter? It does not matter at all — yet Sucharita felt a grievous pain. She tried with all her might to forget the whole of it, to wipe it away, but could not do so by any means. She felt angry with Gora — she wished with her whole mind to despise him as an arrogant young man steeped in superstition, but even so, before the memory of that vast, thundering man’s fearless gaze, Sucharita felt herself grow inwardly very small — she could in no way hold her own dignity upright.

It had become natural for Sucharita to be noticed and cherished by all. She did not consciously crave this attention, yet why had Gora’s disregard become so intolerable to her today? After much reflection Sucharita finally concluded that it was because she had particularly wished to make Gora yield, and that his unwavering inattentiveness had therefore struck her so deeply in the heart.

In this manner, tearing and pulling at her own mind, the night grew on. The lamps had been put out and everyone in the house had gone to sleep. The sound of the outer gate being shut could be heard — it was clear the bearer, having finished cooking and eating, was now preparing to lie down. Just then Lalita came to the terrace in her night clothes. Without saying a word to Sucharita, she walked past her and stood at one corner of the terrace, holding the railing and gazing out. Sucharita smiled to herself, understanding that Lalita was sulking. She had entirely forgotten that this evening she was to have slept with Lalita. But to say “I forgot” does not absolve one of guilt in Lalita’s judgment — for to have been able to forget is itself the gravest offence. She was not the kind of girl to remind one of a promise in time. She had lain rigid in bed all this while, her resentment growing sharper with every passing moment. At last, when it had become utterly unbearable, she had left her bed and come simply to make known in silence that she was still awake.

Sucharita rose slowly from her chair and came to Lalita, put her arms around her neck and said, “Lalita, darling sister, do not be angry with me, dear.”

Lalita freed her hand from Sucharita’s and said, “No, why should I be angry? Sit down, won’t you.”

Sucharita took her hand and drew her along, saying, “Come, dear, let us go to bed.”

Lalita made no reply and stood in silence. At last Sucharita pulled her firmly and led her off to the bedroom.

Lalita said in a choked voice, “Why did you take so long? Do you know it has struck eleven? I lay there counting every stroke of the clock. And now of course you will fall straight asleep.”

Sucharita drew Lalita close to her breast and said, “I have done wrong today, dear sister.”

The moment she admitted her fault, Lalita’s anger melted entirely away. She softened at once and said, “Whom were you sitting there thinking of all this while, Didi? Panubabü?”

Sucharita tapped her with a finger and said, “Oh, go away!”

Lalita could not bear Panubabü. So much so that, unlike her other sisters, she could not even tease Sucharita about him. The thought that Panubabü wished to marry Sucharita made her angry.

After a brief silence Lalita raised a new subject: “Tell me, Didi — Binoy Babü is rather a fine man, is he not?”

I cannot say that the question contained no intention of testing Sucharita’s feelings.

Sucharita said, “Yes, Binoy Babü is quite good — a very decent person, indeed.”

The note Lalita had hoped to hear had not quite sounded. So she tried again: “But whatever you may say, Didi, I did not take to Gaurmohon Babü at all. What a reddish, rough complexion, that hard wooden look about him, as though he considers nobody in the world worthy of his notice. What impression did he make on you?”

Sucharita said, “Far too aggressively Hindu.”

Lalita said, “No, no — our uncle-in-law is very Hindu too, but that is quite a different sort of thing. This is more like — I cannot quite say what it is like.”

Sucharita laughed and said, “What indeed!” — and then, calling to mind the image of Gora with the tilak-mark on that high, pale forehead, she felt a surge of irritation. The cause of that irritation was this: that through the tilak Gora had written in large letters upon his brow that he was separate from such as they. Had Sucharita been able to grind that fierce pride of distinction into dust, the burning within her would have been assuaged.

The conversation ended, and by and by both fell asleep. When Sucharita woke and found it two o’clock at night, she could hear the rain falling heavily outside; now and again a flash of lightning pierced through the curtain of their mosquito net; the lamp that had stood in the corner of the room had gone out. In that nighttime stillness, in the darkness, amid the unceasing sound of rain, a pain began to make itself felt within Sucharita. She turned from side to side and tried long and hard to sleep — looking at Lalita beside her, sunk in deep slumber, she felt a pang of envy, yet sleep would not come. Restless and vexed, she left her bed and came out. She stood at the open door and gazed toward the terrace before her — now and again a gust of wind drove the rain against her face. Again and again, in close detail, all the events of that evening rose before her mind. The image of Gora’s animated face on the carriage-porch, lit by the dying sunset, rose clear as a picture in her memory, and then all the words of the debate, which she had heard and let pass from her attention, came back to her whole and in order, interwoven with the sound of Gora’s deep, powerful voice. The words rang in her ears: “Those whom you call uneducated, I count myself of their number; what you call superstition is my belief. Until you love this country and can stand on common ground with its people, I will not endure from your lips a single syllable of criticism against the country.” In response to this Panubabü had said, “But how then shall the country be reformed?” Gora had thundered back, “Reform! Reform is a matter for a much later day. Greater than reform is love, is reverence. Let us first become one — then reform will come of itself from within. You wish, by standing apart, to break the country into fragments — you say the country is full of superstition, and therefore we, the refined and enlightened, shall keep ourselves separate. I say this: I will not make myself superior to anyone and separate myself from anyone on that account — that is my greatest aspiration above all others — and once we are united, which customs will remain and which will pass away, my country itself knows, and the Providence that governs the country knows.” Panubabü had said, “There are customs and beliefs which prevent the country from becoming one.” Gora had replied, “If you think that you must first uproot those customs and beliefs one by one, and only then will the country become one, then you are trying to cross the ocean by bailing it dry first. Set aside your contempt and pride, become humble, love with a full heart, and make yourself, deep within, the common property of all; and before that love a thousand faults and imperfections will readily yield. In every country and in every society there are faults and imperfections, but so long as the people of a country remain united through love of their own kind, they are able to neutralize the poison and go forward. The cause of decay is there in the very air. But while we are alive we overcome it; it is only when we are dead that we rot. I tell you, if you come to reform us, we will not endure it — whether you are Brahmo reformers or missionaries.” Panubabü had said, “Why will you not endure it?” Gora had answered, “There is a reason we will not. One can bear correction from a father or mother, but correction from a watchman carries more insult than improvement; to endure such correction is to have one’s humanity destroyed. First become a kinsman, and then become a reformer — otherwise your well-meant words will do us harm.” In this manner, word by word, all the conversation rose up again complete in Sucharita’s mind, and all the while an unnameable pain continued to press upon her. Exhausted at last, Sucharita returned to the bed and, pressing the palm of her hand over her eyes, tried to thrust away every thought and fall asleep; but her head rang and hummed, and all that discourse kept moving through her mind, breaking apart and coming together again without cease.