38

In Boradasundari’s absence, Paresh had given Harimohini shelter. He had given her a quiet room on the upper floor and made every arrangement to ensure that no impediment should arise to her observance of her customs and rituals.

When Boradasundari returned and saw this wholly unexpected presence amid her household arrangements, she was inflamed to the very marrow. She said to Paresh in a sharply pained voice, “This I cannot bear.”

Paresh said, “You can bear all of us — and yet you cannot endure this one widowed, friendless soul?”

Boradasundari knew that Paresh had not a grain of practical sense; that he never for a moment considered what might be convenient or inconvenient in domestic life — but would suddenly do some extraordinary thing or other. After that, however much one raged or scolded or wept, he remained perfectly still, like a figure carved of stone. Who could prevail against such a man? If one must live with a man against whom, when necessary, it is impossible even to quarrel — what woman could manage it!

Sucharita had been nearly the same age as Manorama. It began to seem to Harimohini that Sucharita’s appearance too was much like that of Manorama; and her nature had a resemblance as well. The same quietness, and yet the same firmness. There were moments when, catching a sudden glimpse of her from behind, Harimohini’s heart would give a start. On some evenings, when she was sitting alone in the dark, weeping silently, and Sucharita came close to her, she would close her eyes and gather her to her breast with both hands and say, “Ah, it seems to me I have found her again in my arms. She had not wished to go — I forced her to leave — can there be no end in this world, in any manner, to that punishment of mine? I have received what penalty was due — and now she has come; she has returned; smiling, she has returned just as before; here is my mother, here is my jewel, my treasure!” And so saying she would run her hands over all of Sucharita’s face, kiss her, and weep as though drowning; Sucharita’s eyes too would overflow with tears. She would put her arms around Harimohini’s neck and say, “Auntie, I too could not enjoy a mother’s care for very long; today that lost mother has returned to me. So many times in my days of sorrow, when I had no strength to call upon God, when the heart within me had grown dry and parched, I called to my mother. That mother has come today, hearing my call.”

Harimohini would say, “Do not speak so, do not speak so. When I hear what you say my joy is so great that it frightens me. O Lord, do not cast Your evil eye upon this, Lord! I tell myself I will form no more attachments — I wish to keep my heart hard as stone — but I cannot. I am very weak; have mercy on me, do not strike me again! Go away, my Radharani, go — leave me, leave my side. Do not cling to me, do not cling! O my Gopivallabh, my Jivannat, my Gopal, my Nilmani — what fresh calamity are you setting upon me now!”

Sucharita would say, “You cannot force me away, Mashi! I shall never leave you — I shall remain right here beside you, always.”

And saying so she would lay her head upon her aunt’s breast and fall silent, like a child.

Within the space of two days, so deep a bond had formed between Sucharita and her aunt that the brief span of time could not serve as its measure.

Borodasundari was irritated by this as well. “Look at the girl’s ways. As though we had never shown her any care or affection. I ask you — where was this aunt all this while! From her very childhood we raised her with such devotion, and now the moment she hears the word ‘mashi’ she is utterly beside herself. I have always said to the master — this Sucharita whom everyone makes such a fuss over, she is only good on the surface; there is no reaching her heart. All that we have done for her all these years has come to nothing.”

He knew that Pareshbabu would not appreciate Borodasundari’s grievances. More than that, he was under no doubt that if he displayed vexation toward Harimohini, he would lower himself in Paresh’s estimation. For that very reason his resentment grew all the sharper. Whatever Pareshbabu might say, Borodasundari set about enlarging her faction in order to prove that the majority of sensible persons shared her view. She opened up the subject of Harimohini before all and sundry in their community — prominent and obscure alike. Her complaints and accusations regarding Harimohini’s Hindu orthodoxy, her idol worship, and the pernicious example she set before the children of the household knew no end.

Not content with lodging complaints before others, Borodasundari began to create difficulties for Harimohini in every way she could. There was a cowherd-bearer whose duty it was to draw water for Harimohini’s cooking; this man she would, at precisely the right moment, dispatch to other tasks. If the matter was raised she would say, “Why, there is Ramdin, is there not?” Ramdin was of the Dosad caste; she knew full well that Harimohini would not use water drawn by his hand. If anyone pointed this out she would say, “If you wish to be so brahminical, why did you come to our Brahmo household at all? Such caste distinctions cannot be tolerated here. I shall not countenance this under any circumstances.” On such occasions her sense of duty became exceedingly fierce. She would declare that social laxity was steadily increasing within the Brahmo Samaj, and that was precisely why the Brahmo Samaj was failing to accomplish sufficient work. To the best of her ability she could not lend herself to such laxity. No — not under any condition. If any person misunderstood her for this, she would accept even that; if even her own kin turned against her, she would bow her head and endure it. She began reminding everyone of how the great men of the world — those who had accomplished noble deeds — had invariably been compelled to suffer slander and opposition.

No hardship could subdue Harimohini. It was as though she had taken a solemn vow to ascend to the farthest extremity of austere self-denial. The unbearable grief she carried within seemed to find its outward counterpart in an unceasing discipline of rigorous observance, by means of which she continually wrought suffering upon herself — as if to keep pace, in harmony, with the anguish inside. This was her sadhana: to embrace suffering of her own will, to take it as a kinsman, and thereby bring it under her mastery.

When Harimohini perceived that difficulties were arising over water, she gave up cooking altogether. She began subsisting on milk and fruit, offered first as oblation before her deity and then received as prasad. Sucharita was greatly pained by this. Her aunt explained it to her at length and said, “Dear child, this is greatly to my benefit. This is precisely what I needed. There is no hardship in it for me — it brings me joy.”

Sucharita said, “Mashi, if I refrain from eating or drinking at the hands of those of other castes, will you then allow me to serve you?”

Harimohini replied, “Why, child — you follow the path of the religion you profess; you need not take a different road on my account. I have you near me, I hold you to my heart, I see you each day — this is my happiness. Pareshbabu is your guru, like a father to you; the teachings he has given you, you must abide by them, and through them God will bless you.”

Harimohini bore all of Borodasundari’s persecutions as though she had perceived nothing of them. Whenever Pareshbabu came to her each day and enquired — how are you, are you suffering any inconvenience? — she would say, “I am quite content.”

But every moment of every day, the full weight of Borodasundari’s injustice ground Sucharita down. She was not the sort of girl to go making complaints; and particularly, to speak to Pareshbabu of Borodasundari’s conduct was something she could not bring herself to do under any circumstances. She endured everything in silence — she felt an acute reluctance even to express any resentment in the matter.

The consequence of all this was that Sucharita drew gradually and entirely to her aunt’s side. Despite her aunt’s repeated prohibitions, she began to follow her completely in all matters of eating and drinking. At last, seeing that Sucharita was suffering, Harimohini was compelled by circumstance to turn her attention once more to cooking and housekeeping. Sucharita said, “Mashi, I shall live exactly as you tell me to — but your water I shall draw myself; that I shall not give up under any condition.”

Harimohini said, “My child, think nothing of it — but that is the very water used in preparing my deity’s offerings.”

Sucharita said, “Mashi, does your deity also observe caste distinctions? Does sin attach to him too? Does he too maintain a social order?”

In the end, Harimohini was compelled to yield before Sucharita’s steadfast devotion. She accepted Sucharita’s service in its entirety. Satish too, following his elder sister’s example, took to insisting that he would eat only from his aunt’s cooking. In this way the three of them together formed a small household of their own in a corner of Pareshbabu’s home. Only Lalita remained as a bridge between the two households. Borodasundari would not allow any of her other daughters to draw near this side — but she did not have the power to forbid Lalita.