43

When Sucharita had heard that she would be able to live close to Pareshbabu’s residence and always under his watchful care, she had felt deeply comforted. But when the furnishing of her new house was complete and the time for moving in drew near, something seemed to pull and tighten within her breast. It was not a matter of being near or far; rather, the complete and all-encompassing union between her life and the life of this household was now, after so many years, about to be severed — and today that severance felt to Sucharita like the death of some part of herself. The small place she had occupied in this family, whatever duties had been hers, even the bond she had shared with every servant in the house — all of it now began to agitate her heart with a restless, aching urgency.

Upon learning that Sucharita possessed some means of her own and was now about to set herself up independently on the strength of those means, Baradasundari declared, again and again, that this was all for the best — that she was at last relieved of the burden of responsibility she had borne so carefully for so long. Yet inwardly a kind of wounded pride had taken root in her regarding Sucharita; the fact that Sucharita could now stand apart from them and rely upon her own resources seemed almost like an offence on Sucharita’s part. It was by thinking of herself as having no recourse but them that Baradasundari had so often regarded Sucharita as a burden on the family and felt a certain compassion for herself — but now that the news came that this burden was about to be lightened, she felt not the slightest sense of relief. Knowing that Sucharita no longer had need of their shelter, that she could feel a pride born of self-sufficiency and need not submit to their authority, Baradasundari began to think of her as blameworthy even before the event. During these few days she maintained a pointed distance from Sucharita, and while she had previously called upon her in all manner of household tasks, she now ceased that entirely and instead began to show her an unnatural deference. In those final days, Sucharita, with a sorrowing heart, had sought to involve herself ever more in Baradasundari’s domestic affairs, had moved about close to her on various pretexts — but Baradasundari, as though fearing that some dishonour might be done to Sucharita, kept her at arm’s length with an air of exaggerated ceremony. That she whom Sucharita had called mother all these years, in whose care she had grown up, should maintain a heart turned against her even at the moment of parting — this pain was what cut Sucharita most deeply of all.

Labanya, Lalita, and Leela went about always at Sucharita’s side. They set off with great enthusiasm to decorate her new rooms, yet hidden within that enthusiasm were the unshed tears of an unspoken grief.

All these years Sucharita had, on various pretexts, performed countless small services for Pareshbabu — she had arranged flowers in the vase, straightened the books upon his table, aired the bedclothes in the sun with her own hands, reminded him daily when it was time for his bath. These habitual acts of service are of no particular significance to either party from day to day. Yet when the time comes to cease even such trivial duties and depart, these little services — which anyone might perform in another’s place, whose absence causes no one any particular harm — are precisely what begin to churn and disturb the hearts of both. Now, whenever Sucharita came to perform some minor task in Pareshbabu’s room, that act loomed large before him, and a deep sigh gathered in his chest. And when Sucharita thought that from tomorrow these same tasks would be carried out by another’s hands, her eyes would fill with trembling tears.

On the morning of the day they were to move to Sucharita’s new house after the midday meal, Pareshbabu came to his secluded room for prayer and found Sucharita seated quietly in one corner, having decorated the space before his meditation seat with flowers, waiting for him. Labanya, Leela, and the others had planned among themselves to join the prayer today as well, but Lalita had discouraged them from coming. Lalita knew that by joining Pareshbabu in his solitary worship, Sucharita had always shared in a particular measure of his joy and received his blessing — and feeling that this morning Sucharita had special need of gathering that blessing unto herself, Lalita had not allowed the solitude of that day’s prayer to be broken.

The prayer came to an end. Sucharita’s eyes were streaming with tears. Pareshbabu said, “My child, do not look back — press forward on the path ahead, and harbour no misgiving in your heart. Whatever may come, whatever may stand before you, resolve with joy to receive the good from it entirely by your own strength. Surrender yourself wholly to God and make Him your one and only refuge — then even through error, failure, and loss, you will find the way to gain. But if you divide yourself in two, giving part to God and part to other things, then all will become hard. May God so ordain that you have no further need of this small shelter of ours.”

When the two of them came out after the prayer, they found Haranbabu waiting in the sitting room. Sucharita, having resolved that morning to harbour no resentment against anyone, greeted Haranbabu calmly and with composure. Haranbabu straightened himself up stiffly in his chair and said in an exceedingly grave tone, “Sucharita, today you are retreating from the truth that has sheltered you all this time — today is a day of grief for us.”

Sucharita made no reply. But into the melody that had been gathering within her that morning, blending peace with tenderness into something like music, a discordant note now fell.

Pareshbabu said, “The Indweller of Hearts alone knows who is advancing and who retreating — we only trouble ourselves in vain by judging from the outside.”

Haranbabu said, “Then do you mean to say you have no anxiety at all? And that no cause for remorse has arisen for you?”

Pareshbabu replied, “Panu-babu, I do not give room in my mind to imaginary anxieties, and whether cause for remorse has arisen I shall know only when remorse itself is born.”

Haranbabu said, “And is the fact that your daughter Lalita came alone with Binoy-babu by steamboat — is that also imaginary?”

Sucharita’s face flushed red. Pareshbabu said, “Panu-babu, your mind has become agitated for whatever reason — and so to discuss this matter with you now would be to do you an injustice.”

Haranbabu raised his head and said, “I do not speak from the impulse of agitation — I have sufficient sense of responsibility for what I say; you need have no concern on that account. What I am saying to you, I say not in a personal capacity but on behalf of the Brahmo Samaj — I say it because not to say it would be wrong. Had you not been wilfully blind, even from that single incident of Lalita coming alone with Binoy-babu, you would have understood that this family of yours is about to break free of the Brahmo Samaj’s moorings and drift away. This will not only give you cause for remorse — it also touches the honour of the Brahmo Samaj.”

Pareshbabu said, “To censure, one may do so from the outside — but to judge, one must enter within. Do not condemn a person solely on the basis of events.”

Haranbabu said, “Events do not happen of themselves — you have brought them about from within. You are drawing into the intimacy of your family people who wish to take your family far from your own community. And they have taken you far — surely you can see that?”

Pareshbabu said with a trace of irritation, “Your way of seeing things and mine do not agree.”

Haranbabu said, “They may not agree with yours. But I call Sucharita herself as my witness — let her say truthfully whether the relationship that has grown up between Lalita and Binoy is a merely external one. Has it not touched their innermost selves? No, Sucharita, you cannot go — you must answer this question. It is a serious matter.”

Sucharita said with cold firmness, “However serious the matter, you have no authority over it.”

Haranbabu said, “If I had no authority, I would not only have kept silent — I would not have given it thought. You may disregard society as you please, but so long as you remain within it, society is bound to pass judgement upon you.”

Lalita swept into the room like a storm and said, “If society has appointed you as its judge, then exile from such a society would be a far better fate for us.”

Haranbabu rose from his chair and said, “Lalita, I am glad you have come. The charges that concern you ought to be adjudicated in your presence.”

Sucharita’s face and eyes blazed with indignation. She said, “Haranbabu, go and convene your tribunal in your own house. That you might enter a gentleman’s home uninvited and insult them there — that authority we shall never, under any circumstances, concede to you. Come, Lalita!”

Lalita did not move a step. She said, “No, Didi, I shall not flee. I wish to hear everything Panu-babu has to say. Speak — say what you will say.”

Haranbabu was brought up short. Pareshbabu said, “My dear Lalita, today Sucharita is leaving our home — I cannot permit any disturbance to occur this morning. Haranbabu, whatever our offences may be, today you must forgive us.”

Haranbabu fell silent and sat stiffly grave. The more Sucharita rejected him, the more his determination to hold on to her grew. He was firmly convinced that through the force of his exceptional moral strength he would surely prevail. He had not yet abandoned his position — but the thought that once Sucharita moved to another house with her aunt, his power would meet resistance there troubled his mind greatly. It was for this reason that he had come today with his weapons sharpened to a fine edge. He had been prepared to settle the matter decisively before the morning was out, having set aside all hesitation. But that the other party too could set aside hesitation in this fashion — that Lalita and Sucharita would suddenly draw arms from their quiver and stand their ground — this he had not imagined. He had known that when he launched his burning moral shafts with great force, the other side’s heads would be bowed utterly low. That had not quite come to pass — and the occasion had slipped away. But Haranbabu would not admit defeat. He said to himself that truth must triumph — that is to say, Haranbabu must triumph. But triumph does not come of its own accord. One must fight. Haranbabu girded himself and entered the field of battle.

Sucharita said, “Aunt, today I shall eat with everyone together — you must not object to it.” Harimohini remained silent. She had settled in her mind that Sucharita had become wholly hers — and moreover, since Sucharita was about to set up her own household on the strength of her independent means, Harimohini would need to exercise no more caution; she could go about entirely in her own manner. And so when Sucharita now proposed to give up the dietary separation she had observed and eat together with all the others, Harimohini was displeased — and she said nothing.

Sucharita, perceiving her aunt’s state of mind, said, “I assure you, God will be pleased by this. My God, the Indweller of my heart, has bidden me eat with everyone together today. If I disobey Him, He will be angry. His anger I fear more than yours.”

So long as Harimohini had been suffering slights at Baradasundari’s hands, Sucharita had adopted her aunt’s customs in order to share in her humiliation — and now that the day had come for release from that humiliation, Harimohini had not quite understood that Sucharita would feel no hesitation in freeing herself from those same customs. Harimohini had not fully fathomed Sucharita, nor would it have been easy for her to do so.

Harimohini did not forbid Sucharita outright, but she was inwardly vexed. She began to think to herself: “Good Lord, I cannot imagine how anyone can be inclined to do such a thing. And born into a Brahmin household, at that!”

After sitting silent for a while, she said, “Let me say one thing, dear — do as you will, but do not drink water from the hands of that Bihari servant of yours.”

Sucharita replied, “But why, Aunt? It is that very Ramdin the Bihari who milks his own cow and brings you milk every day.”

Harimohini widened her eyes in astonishment and said, “You astound me — can milk and water be the same thing!”

Sucharita laughed and said, “Very well, Aunt, I shall not drink water touched by Ramdin today. But if you try to stop Satish, he will do precisely the opposite.”

Harimohini said, “Satish is a different matter altogether.”

Harimohini knew well that where men were concerned, lapses in rule and restraint must simply be pardoned.