66

The words Sucharita had heard from Paresh made her heart intensely eager to tell them to Gora. The hand of time had fallen upon the very India towards which Gora had stretched his gaze and drawn his whole being in passionate love — that India was moving towards dissolution. Had Gora not considered this? For so long India had preserved herself by the strength of her inner ordering; her people had not needed to strive with any conscious effort. Was there still time to survive in such thoughtless ease? Could one today, as in the past, simply take shelter in the old arrangement and sit quietly at home?

Sucharita fell to thinking: ‘In all this, there is a work for me as well — what is that work?’ It was Gora’s duty at this moment to come before her and direct her, to show her the path. She said to herself: ‘If he were to rescue me from all my obstacles and my ignorance and place me in my rightful station, would not the worth of it outweigh all petty shame and reproach and blame?’ Sucharita’s mind rose up full of self-esteem. She asked — why had Gora not put her to the test, why had he not asked her to accomplish the impossible? Among all the men of Gora’s company, was there one who could so readily surrender everything he possessed, as Sucharita could? Had Gora seen no need for so passionate a capacity for self-sacrifice, so great a readiness for it? Was it nothing to leave it enclosed in idle shame, hemmed in and useless — no loss to the country at all? Sucharita rejected this contempt utterly and thrust it away from her. She said: ‘He cannot abandon me in this fashion — it is not possible. He must come to me; I must seek him out; he must cast aside all shame and hesitation — however great and powerful a man he may be, he has himself told me with his own lips that he has need of me. How could he forget those words today, through so trivial a quibble!’

Satish came running and stood at Sucharita’s side, saying, “Didi.”

Sucharita put her arm around his neck and said, “What is it, Baktiyar?”

Satish said, “Lalitadidi’s wedding is on Monday — for these few days I shall stay at Binoy Babu’s house. He has asked me to come.”

Sucharita said, “Have you told Auntie?”

Satish said, “I told Auntie, and she said crossly, ‘I know nothing of all this — go and tell your didi; whatever she thinks best, so it shall be.’ Didi, do not say no. My studies will not suffer the least bit there — I shall read every day, and Binoy Babu will explain my lessons.”

Sucharita said, “You will go to a house full of work and bustle and make everyone frantic.”

Satish said eagerly, “No, Didi, I shall not make anyone frantic.”

Sucharita said, “And will you take that little dog of yours along?”

Satish said, “Yes, he must come too — Binoy Babu has specifically said so. A separate printed invitation has come for him on red letter-paper — it says he must come with his household and partake of refreshments.”

Sucharita said, “And who constitutes the household?”

Satish replied quickly, “Why, Binoy Babu said — me, of course. He has also said to bring our accordion, Didi — give it to me. I shall not break it.”

Sucharita said, “I should positively rejoice if you did break it. So now it becomes clear — your friend has summoned you for the sole purpose of playing the accordion at his wedding? He intends to do without the hired musicians altogether?”

Satish leapt up in a state of great agitation and cried, “No, never! Binoy-babu has said he will make me his companion! What must a companion do, Didi?”

Sucharita said, “One must fast the whole day long.”

Satish entirely disbelieved this. Then Sucharita drew him firmly close to her side and said, “Now then, brother Baktiyar, tell me — what will you become when you grow up?”

The answer to this had long been ready in Satish’s mind. His class teacher stood as the ideal of irresistible authority and extraordinary learning in his eyes — he had already settled within himself that when he grew up he would become a schoolmaster.

Sucharita said to him, “There is much work to be done, brother. The two of us — brother and sister — shall do it together. What do you say, Satish? We must give our very lives to make this country great. Make it great, indeed! What can be greater than our country already is! It is our own souls that we must make great. Do you understand? Has it reached you?”

Satish was not one to readily admit that he had not understood something. He declared with conviction, “Yes.”

Sucharita said, “Do you know how vast is this country of ours, this nation of ours! How shall I ever make you comprehend it! This is a wondrous land. For thousands upon thousands of years Providence has been making ready to set this country upon the very pinnacle of the world — people have come from lands far and near to join in that great preparation; how many great souls have been born here, how many mighty wars have been waged, how many great utterances have gone forth from this very soil, how many great acts of austerity have been accomplished here, how many sides of religion this country has beheld, and how many resolutions of life’s deepest mysteries have been reached in this land! Such is our Bharatavarsha! Know it as something truly noble, brother — never, not even in a moment of forgetfulness, hold it in contempt. What I tell you today, one day you will come to understand fully — and I do not believe that even now you have grasped nothing of it. This one thing you must keep in your heart: you have been born in a very great country; with your whole heart you must revere this great country, and with your whole life you must serve it.”

Satish was silent for a little while, then said, “Didi, what will you do?”

Sucharita said, “I shall do this same work. Will you help me?”

Satish immediately puffed out his chest and said, “Yes, I will.”

The words that had been gathering in Sucharita’s heart, filling it to the brim, had no one in the house to whom they could be spoken. And so, finding this little brother of hers beside her, all her feeling overflowed in a rush. What she said, and how she said it, was not the sort of thing one would say to a child — yet Sucharita felt no hesitation. In that ardent, exalted state of her mind, she had come to understand this truth: that what one has genuinely grasped, if expressed in its fullness, will be understood in one measure or another by young and old alike according to their capacity; but if one tries to scale it down and simplify it to suit another’s understanding, then truth itself is distorted in the very act.

Satish’s imagination was aroused; he said, “When I grow up and have lots and lots of money, then —”

Sucharita said, “No, no, no — do not speak of money, Baktiyar! We two have no need of money! The work we shall do requires devotion — it requires the giving of one’s very life.”

At that moment Anandamayi entered the room. The blood danced within Sucharita’s breast — she bowed in reverence to Anandamayi. The act of bowing did not come naturally to Satish; he performed it somehow, with an air of sheepish awkwardness.

Anandamayi drew Satish close and kissed him on the crown of his head, then said to Sucharita, “I have come to consult you a little, my dear — there is no one else I can turn to but you. Binoy was saying, ‘The wedding shall take place at my lodgings.’ I told him, that will not do at all — ‘Have you become some great nawab, that our girl should go of her own accord to your house to be married! That will not happen.’ I have found a lodging — it will not be far from this house of yours. I have just come from there. Speak to Pareshbabu and bring him around to it.”

Sucharita said, “Baba will agree.”

Anandamayi said, “And then, dear, you too must go there. Why, the wedding is on Monday! We must spend these few days there and arrange everything properly. There is not much time. I could manage it all by myself, but if you are not present it will be a great hardship for Binoy. He cannot bring himself to ask you directly — indeed, he has not even mentioned your name to me — and that is precisely why I understand that it is a deep pain within him. You must not keep yourself at a distance, my dear! Lalita too will feel it keenly.”

Sucharita said, with some surprise, “Ma, will you be able to participate in this wedding?”

Anandamayi said, “What are you saying, Sucharita! Participate, you say! Am I an outsider, that I should merely participate! This is Binoy’s wedding. I am the one who must see to everything. But I have told Binoy plainly: ‘In this wedding I am not on your side — I am on the bride’s side.’ It is to my house that he is coming to wed Lalita.”

Though Lalita’s mother still lived, she had forsaken her daughter at the very hour of her auspicious ceremony — and Anandamayi’s heart was filled with compassion at that thought. It was for this reason that she was striving with single-minded resolve to ensure that this marriage should bear no trace of neglect or dishonour. She would take the place of Lalita’s mother, dress Lalita with her own hands, and make arrangements for the reception of the bridegroom; she would see to it that the two or three guests who might come should be received and entertained without the slightest shortcoming; and she would so adorn and arrange this new lodging-house that Lalita might feel it to be a true dwelling-place — such was her determination.

Sucharita said, “Will there not be some trouble because of your being here?”

Recalling the commotion that Mahim had stirred up at home, Anandamayi said, “There may well be — but what of it! Some trouble or other is always there; if one bears it quietly, it passes away again after a time.”

Sucharita knew that Gora had taken no part in this marriage. She was curious to learn whether Gora had made any attempt to dissuade Anandamayi from attending. She could not bring herself to ask it outright, and Anandamayi did not utter so much as the syllable of Gora’s name.

Harimohini had received word of the visitor. Having unhurriedly finished her work, she came into the room and said, “Sister, are you well? You have quite disappeared from sight — you take no news at all.”

Without answering that reproach, Anandamayi said, “I have come to take your niece away.”

And with that she explained her purpose. Harimohini was silent for some moments, her expression displeased; then she said, “I, for one, cannot be part of this.”

Anandamayi said, “No, sister — I do not ask you to go. Do not worry yourself about Sucharita; I shall be with her throughout.”

Harimohini said, “Then let me speak plainly. Radharani is telling people that she is a Hindu. Her inclinations have now turned toward Hindu ways. Well then, if she wishes to move in Hindu society, she will have to be careful. There will be quite enough talk as it is — I can deflect that — but for some time to come she needs to conduct herself with prudence. The first thing people ask is why, at her age, she has remained unmarried. That can be suppressed and managed somehow, and suitable proposals are not impossible with a little effort — but if she goes back to her old ways, how many sides am I to guard all at once, tell me. You are a daughter of a Hindu household; you understand these things better than anyone — how can you even suggest such a thing? If you had a daughter of your own, could you have sent her to this wedding? You would have had to think about how her marriage was to be arranged.”

Anandamayi turned in astonishment to look at Sucharita’s face; it had grown scarlet, burning with a fierce heat. Anandamayi said, “I do not wish to force anyone. If Sucharita objects, then I —”

Harimohini broke in, “I simply cannot make any sense of what the two of you are about. Was it not your own son who accepted her into the Hindu fold? Why should you suddenly fall from the sky as though you know nothing of it?”

Where was that Harimohini who had always moved through Pareshbabu’s house like someone afraid of giving offence, who would cling with eager gratitude to anyone who showed her the slightest warmth? In her place stood this woman, fierce as a tigress, defending her claim; she was ever on edge with the suspicion that forces on every side were conspiring to wrest Sucharita away from her. She could no longer tell friend from foe, and for that reason there was no longer any ease in her spirit. Previously, finding the whole world empty around her, she had fled in desperate longing to the shelter of her deity — but even in that worship her mind could find no steadiness. She had once been utterly immersed in worldly life; when terrible grief had turned her heart against worldly things, she could not have imagined that any attachment to money, home, or kin would ever return to her — yet now, at the first slight healing of her heart’s wound, the world had come before her once more and begun to pull at her mind, all her hopes and longings had risen again with the hunger of many years’ starvation, and the impulse to turn back toward what she had once renounced had become so violent that even when she had been in the thick of worldly life it had never so agitated her. Seeing this extraordinary transformation — in Harimohini’s face and eyes, in her bearing and manner, in her words and conduct — all within the space of a few days, Anandamayi was utterly astonished, and felt a sharp pang of tenderness in her affectionate heart for Sucharita’s sake. Had she known that such a crisis lay concealed here, she would never have come to call for Sucharita. Now the question of how best to shield Sucharita from harm became a matter of serious perplexity for her.

When Harimohini made her remark with an eye toward Gora, Sucharita bowed her head and, without a word, rose from the room and went away.

Anandamayi said, “You need have no fear, sister! I did not know any of this before. Well then, I shall not press her further. And you too — say nothing more to her. She has grown up in a certain way of life; if you put too much pressure on her all at once, she will not be able to bear it.”

Harimohini said, “Do you think I do not understand such things, at my age! Say so openly in front of her — have I ever caused her the least suffering? She does as she pleases; I never breathe a word against it — I only pray that God may keep her safe, that is enough for me — a fate like mine, and the fear of what might befall her some day is enough to keep me from sleep.”

When Anandamayi came to take her leave, Sucharita emerged from her room and bowed before her. Anandamayi touched her with tender compassion and said, “I shall come again, dear — I shall bring you all the news. There will be no obstacle — by God’s blessing the auspicious ceremony will be accomplished.”

Sucharita said nothing.

The next morning, when Anandamayi and Lachhmiya had set off a veritable flood of water to dispel the dust of long years from that lodging-house, Sucharita arrived. Anandamayi hastily dropped her broom and drew her to her breast.

After that, a great bustle of washing, wiping, moving things about, and arranging them ensued. Pareshbabu had placed in Sucharita’s hands an adequate sum for expenses; with that treasury before them, the two together drew up lists again and again and then fell to revising them.

Before long, Paresh himself arrived, bringing Lalita with him. The house had become intolerable for Lalita. No one dared say anything to her face, but their silence struck at her with every step. At last, when friends and acquaintances began coming in crowds to the house to offer their condolences to Bardasundari, Paresh judged it best to remove Lalita from the place. When Lalita went to take leave of Bardasundari with a bow, the latter sat with her face turned away, and wept when Lalita was gone. Labanya and Leela had in their hearts a very great curiosity about Lalita’s wedding; had they been given any opportunity, they would not have delayed a moment before flying off to the wedding gathering. But when Lalita had departed, they composed their faces into expressions of the utmost gravity, mindful of the stern duties of a Brahmo household. At the doorway, Lalita caught a fleeting glimpse of Sudhir — but behind Sudhir stood several senior members of their community, and so no word could pass between them. Settling into the carriage, Lalita noticed that something wrapped in paper lay in one corner of the seat. She unwrapped it to find a German-silver flower vase, upon which was engraved in English the words, “God bless the happy couple,” and a card bearing only Sudhir’s initials in English. Lalita had steeled her heart that day and resolved she would not shed tears; but at the moment of departure from her father’s house, holding in her hands this single token of affection from their childhood friend, the tears poured from her eyes in a steady stream. Pareshbabu sat motionless with his eyes closed.

Anandamayi said, “Come, come, my dear, come” — and, taking Lalita by both hands, led her into the room, as though she had been waiting for her all along.

Pareshbabu called Sucharita to him and said, “Lalita has taken her final leave of my house.”

Paresh’s voice trembled.

Sucharita took Paresh’s hand and said, “She will lack for nothing in the way of love and care here, Baba!”

Just as Paresh was preparing to take his leave, Anandamayi came before him, drawing her shawl over her head, and greeted him with a deep bow. Paresh, with some fluster, returned the greeting with a bow of his own. Anandamayi said, “Do not keep any anxiety in your heart regarding Lalita. The one into whose hands you are giving her will never cause her a moment of sorrow — and God has at long last relieved me of one great want: I had no daughter, and now I have one. I had been looking down the road of hope for a long time, thinking that Binoy’s wife would ease my daughter-hunger; well, God has fulfilled my longing — late, as He does — and yet has given me such a daughter, and in such a wondrous manner, that I could never have imagined such a fortune even in my dreams.”

From the very beginning of the upheaval over Lalita’s marriage, this was the first moment in which Pareshbabu’s heart, amidst all the turmoil of the world, found a shore to rest upon and received true consolation.