37

The arrival of Sucharita’s aunt Harimohini brought a serious disturbance into the household of Paresh. Before narrating the circumstances in detail, what Harimohini had told Sucharita of her own life is set down briefly here below —

I was two years older than your mother. In our father’s house neither of us lacked for affection. For in those days only the two of us daughters had been born into the family — there was no other young child in the house. Our uncles spoiled us so that we scarcely had occasion to set foot upon the ground.

When I was eight years of age, I was married into the renowned Raychaudhuri family of Palsa. In rank as in wealth they were considerable. Yet happiness was not written in my fate. At the time of the wedding a quarrel had broken out between my father and my father-in-law over expenses. That offence on the part of my father’s household was not forgiven by my husband’s family for a very long time. Everyone used to say — we will get our son married again, and then see what becomes of that girl. Witnessing my misfortune, my father had vowed that he would never again give a daughter into a wealthy family. That is why he gave your mother in marriage into a poor man’s household. It was a household of many families; I was made to cook when I was barely eight or nine years of age. Some fifty or sixty people would eat. After serving everyone I would pass the day on rice alone some days, on rice and lentils on others. Some days I would eat at two in the afternoon, on other days only when the day had entirely gone. Immediately after eating I would have to put the evening’s cooking on the fire. It would be eleven or twelve at night before I could find time to eat again. There was no fixed place for me to sleep. In the inner quarters I would lie down with whichever woman it was convenient on any given day. Sometimes I had to sleep upon a low wooden stool.

The general contempt of the household toward me could not but have affected my husband’s mind as well. For a long time he kept me at a remove. Then, when I was seventeen, my daughter Manorama was born. That I had given birth to a daughter only increased the reproaches from my husband’s family. In the midst of all my disregard and humiliation, this daughter was my sole consolation and joy. Because her father and the others showed her so little love, she became all the more the object of my wholehearted devotion.

Three years later, when I had a son, my circumstances began to change. I was then deemed worthy of being regarded as the mistress of the household. My mother-in-law was already gone — my father-in-law also died two years after Manorama’s birth. After his death a dispute arose over property with my brothers-in-law. At length, having wasted much estate in litigation, we separated.

The time came for Manorama’s marriage. Fearing that they might take her far away, fearing that I might never see her again, I arranged her marriage in the village of Simule, five or six kos distant from Palsa. The boy was handsome as Kartik. His complexion and form were alike fine — and his family’s circumstances were comfortable enough.

As once I had known disregard and hardship, so, before my fortune broke, the Creator had granted me happiness for a season. In the end my husband had come to love and esteem me greatly; he would undertake no matter without consulting me. Why should such good fortune last for one such as I? Cholera took my son and my husband within four days of each other. That such suffering as one cannot even imagine without a shudder can yet be endured by a human being — it was to prove this that God kept me alive.

Gradually I came to know my son-in-law more fully. Who could have thought that within so fair a flower so black a serpent lay hidden? That he had fallen into bad company and acquired the habit of intoxication — this even my daughter never told me. Whenever he came, he would acquaint me with some need or want and beg money from me. As there was no one else in the world for whom I was saving, I actually liked it when my son-in-law would wheedle something out of me. Now and then my daughter would warn me, would reproach me saying — you are giving him money so freely and spoiling his habits; when money comes into his hands, there is no knowing how and where he squanders it. I used to think that Manorama was forbidding me to give money perhaps out of fear that it would bring disgrace upon her husband’s family if he took money from me in this manner.

Then the idea came to me, and I began secretly supplying my son-in-law with money for his habit, unknown to my daughter. When Manorama came to know of it, she came to me one day and wept, revealing the full extent of her husband’s disgrace. I could only beat my brow in despair. What grief can I speak of — it was one of my own brothers-in-law who, through wicked company and evil counsel, had corrupted my son-in-law’s mind.

When I ceased giving money and when my son-in-law suspected that it was my daughter who had prevented me, all restraint left him. He began to torment us so cruelly, he so publicly humiliated my daughter before the world, that to prevent it I again began secretly giving him money behind my daughter’s back. I knew that I was helping to send him to perdition, but when word reached me that he was inflicting unbearable suffering on Manorama, I could not remain calm by any means. Then came a day — that day is clear before my eyes still. It was toward the end of the month of Magh; that year the heat had come early, and we were remarking among ourselves that even now the trees in our back garden had become laden with mango blossoms. On that Magh afternoon a palanquin stopped at our door. I saw — Manorama came in smiling and bowed down before me. I said, what is it, Monu, what news have you? Manorama said with a smile, does one need news to visit one’s mother?

My co-in-law was not an unkind person. She sent me word saying that my daughter-in-law was with child, and that it would be best for her to remain with her mother until the child was born. I thought this was truly the reason. But I did not know that her husband had already begun to beat her even in her condition, and that it was out of fear of some calamity that my co-in-law had sent her daughter-in-law to me. Monu and her mother-in-law together kept me so thoroughly deceived. When I tried to apply oil to my daughter’s body and bathe her with my own hands, Manorama would find one pretext or another to deflect me; the marks of blows upon her delicate limbs — these she would not reveal even to her own mother’s eyes.

My son-in-law would come from time to time and make a disturbance, insisting on taking Manorama home. Her remaining with me hampered his ability to demand money from her. By degrees he could no longer be restrained by that obstacle either. He began tormenting me for money even in Manorama’s presence. Manorama would insist, firmly — he must not be given money under any circumstances. But I had a very weak heart; fearing that the son-in-law might grow exceedingly resentful of my daughter, I could not refrain from giving him something.

One day Manorama said, Mother, I myself shall keep all your money and valuables. And so saying, she took possession of all my keys and boxes. When my son-in-law came and found he could no longer obtain money from me, and when he could by no means soften Manorama, he adopted a different tone — he would take his wife home. I used to say to Manorama, give him some money, dear, and be done with it — otherwise who knows what he might do. But my Manorama was gentle in one way and inflexible in another. She would say — no, money will not be given on any account. One day the son-in-law came in with bloodshot eyes and said: tomorrow afternoon I will send a palanquin. If you do not release my wife, it will go badly for you — I warn you.

When the palanquin arrived before evening the following day, I said to Manorama, there is no use delaying further, dear; I will send someone for you again next week.

Manorama said, let it be today, Mother — I do not feel like going today; tell them to come in another two days. I said, Mother, if we send the palanquin back, will my hot-headed son-in-law spare us? It cannot be helped, Monu — you go today.

Monu said, no, Mother, not today — her father-in-law had gone to Calcutta; he would return in the middle of Falgun; she would go then.

Still I said, no, it cannot be helped, dear.

Then Manorama went to make herself ready. I was occupied with the arrangements for feeding the servants from her husband’s house and the palanquin-bearers. That I might remain at her side a little before she departed, that I might on that day take particular care of her, dress her with my own hands, feed her with the dishes she loved and then bid her farewell — there was no leisure for any of this. Just before she stepped into the palanquin she bowed down before me, took the dust of my feet, and said, Mother, I am going then.

Did I know that she was truly going — going for good! She had not wished to go, and I had compelled her to leave — this grief has burned within my breast to this day, and has never been cooled.

That very night a miscarriage carried her away. By the time the news reached me, her last rites had already been completed in secret haste.

There is a grief for which there is nothing to be said and nothing to be done, whose depths cannot be fathomed by thought, whose end is not reached by weeping — you will not know what such grief is; there is no need to know it. My all was gone, yet my afflictions were not done. From the time of my husband’s and son’s deaths, my brothers-in-law had been coveting my estate. They knew that upon my death all the property would pass to them, yet they could not endure the waiting. One cannot blame anyone for this; truly it is an offence that a wretched creature like me should remain alive at all. Those who have all manner of needs in the world — how can they bear someone as needless as I, occupying their space without reason?

As long as Manorama was alive I was not deceived by anything my brothers-in-law said. I fought them to the best of my ability over my right to the estate. My resolve was that as long as I lived I would save money for Manorama and leave it to her. That I was trying to accumulate money for my daughter had become intolerable to my brothers-in-law — they felt I was stealing what was rightfully theirs. There was a man named Nilkanta, a faithful old servant of my husband’s, who was my sole ally. Whenever I attempted to reach some settlement by conceding a portion of what was due to me, he would not hear of it; he would say — we shall see who takes a single paisa of what is ours. It was in the midst of this battle over rights that my daughter died. The very next day my second brother-in-law came and counselled me on the virtue of renunciation. He said — Boudidi, given the circumstances God has brought you to, it is not proper for you to remain in the world any longer. For whatever days remain to you, go on pilgrimage and devote your mind to God — we shall make arrangements for your food and keep.

I sent for our guru. I said — Thakur, tell me how I am to be saved from this unbearable grief — wherever I rise or sit there is no comfort anywhere — I feel as though I am caught within a ring of fire; wherever I go, whichever way I turn, I cannot see even the smallest path of relief from my agony.

The guru took me into our prayer room and said — This Gopivallabh is your husband, your son, your daughter — everything. By serving Him, all that is empty in you shall be filled. I remained prostrate in the prayer room day and night. I endeavoured to give all my mind to the Lord — but if He Himself does not take it, how can I give it? He did not take it. I called Nilkanta and said — Niludada, I have decided to sign over my life interest to the brothers-in-law. They will give me a monthly allowance for food. Nilkanta said — that can never come to pass. You are a woman; do not concern yourself with such matters. I said — what further need have I of property? Nilkanta said — how can you say such a thing! Why should we give up what is ours? Do not do anything so foolish. Nilkanta could see nothing greater than what was rightfully owed. I found myself in a very difficult position. The business of property had come to feel like poison to me — yet in all the world that faithful Nilkanta was my one and only loyal soul; how could I cause him pain! He had preserved that one right of mine through so much suffering.

Nilkanta said — say what you will; what has been our right shall not be surrendered. Do nothing so mad.

Nilkanta could see nothing beyond what was rightfully due. I was in very great difficulty. The matter of property had become like poison to me — yet in all the world this one faithful Nilkanta was my sole support; how could I cause him pain! It was with so much hardship that he had preserved that one right of mine.

In the end, one day, without Nilkanta’s knowledge, I signed a document. I did not carefully examine what was written in it. I thought — why should I fear to put my signature to it? What do I wish to keep that would be unbearable if another were to cheat me out of it? All of it belongs to my father-in-law; his sons will have it — let them have it.

Once the document had been drawn up and registered, I called Nilkanta and said — Niludada, do not be angry; whatever I had, I have signed away in writing. I have no need of anything. Nilkanta grew agitated and cried out — What is it you have done! When he read the draft of the deed and saw that I had truly relinquished all my rights, there was no end to Nilkanta’s fury. Since his master’s death, preserving that one right of mine had been the sole purpose of his life. His every intelligence and all his strength had been ceaselessly engaged in this cause. Lawsuits over it, the endless trudging to lawyers’ offices, the searching out of legal provisions — in all this he had found his satisfaction; so much so that he had had no time even to look to the affairs of his own household. When that right was swept away at a single stroke of a foolish woman’s pen, it became impossible to calm Nilkanta.

He said — Very well; all connection between me and this place is finished. I am going. And so in the end Niludada parted from me in such anger — was this indeed my last written fate in the household of my husband’s family? I implored him earnestly and said — Brother, do not be angry with me. I have a little money saved; from that I am giving you five hundred rupees — on the day your son’s bride comes home, give her my blessings and have her ornaments made from this money. Nilkanta said — I have no further need of money. When everything that was my master’s is gone, those five hundred rupees will bring me no happiness. Let it be.

So saying, my husband’s last true friend left me and went away. I took refuge in the prayer room. My brothers-in-law said — go and live at a place of pilgrimage. I said — my father-in-law’s threshold is my place of pilgrimage; where my God resides, there is my refuge.

But that I should occupy even a part of the house became intolerable to them. By now they had already brought their own things into the house and settled who would use which room in what manner. At last they said — you may take your deity with you; we have no objection to that. When even then I hesitated, they said — how will you manage your food and keep here?

I said — why, the allowance you have fixed will be more than sufficient for me. They said — but there was never any talk of an allowance.

And so, taking my deity with me, exactly thirty-four years after the day of my marriage, I went out from my husband’s house. Seeking word of Niludada, I was told that he had already departed for Vrindavan before me.

I went to Kashi with pilgrims from the village. But in my sinful mind I found peace nowhere. Each day I call upon the Lord and say — Lord, make Yourself as real to me as my husband and my children once were! But He does not hear my prayer. My heart finds no solace; my whole body and mind continue to weep. Good God! How stubborn is the life of man.

I went to my husband’s house at eight years of age; after that, not once was I able to come to my father’s house. I had tried hard to be present at your mother’s wedding, but to no avail. Then through Father’s letters I received news of your births; I received news also of your mother’s death. That I should take you, motherless children, to my own breast — God had not until now granted such an opportunity.

Having wandered from one place of pilgrimage to another and found that attachment still filled the heart, that the longing of the breast to hold something dear had not yet died — then I began to seek you out. I had heard that your father had broken with religion and with society and stepped out alone. What could I do! Your mother was my own sister, born of one womb.

Having obtained your whereabouts from a gentleman in Kashi, I have come here. Pareshbabu, I am told, does not accept God or idol — yet that God has been gracious to him is plain from his very countenance. Being worshipped does not make God forget — I know that very well; I shall find out how Pareshbabu has won His favour. In any case, my child, I have not yet reached the time in my life when I can be alone — that I cannot manage — the day God grants His mercy He shall grant it, but without keeping you near me, close to my side, I cannot live.