74

Gora said to himself: “No. The penance is not tomorrow. Today my penance has already begun. A fire far greater than tomorrow’s has been kindled today. The Ordainer of my life has caused so powerful a desire to stir within me precisely because at the commencement of my new life I must offer a very great oblation. Otherwise why has so strange a thing come to pass? In what a different world I had been living! There was no worldly likelihood of my meeting these people. And such a meeting between natures so contrary to each other does not commonly occur on earth. Moreover, that so unconquerable a desire could arise even in the heart of one so detached as myself — no one could have imagined it. This very desire was needed by me this very day. Until now, all I have given to my country I have given with the utmost ease; never has there been any sacrifice that cost me pain. I could never understand why people feel the slightest reluctance to renounce anything for their country’s sake. But a great sacrifice does not ask for such easy giving. It is suffering that is needed. Only by the severing of the umbilical cord can my new life be born. Tomorrow morning, before the congregation of people, my outward penance will take place. And it is on this very eve of that penance that the Ordainer of my destiny has come and knocked at my door. If the innermost penance within my inner being does not take place, how shall I receive purification tomorrow! Only by offering completely to my God this day the gift that is the most difficult gift I can make — only thus shall I be fully purified, stripped of all, made destitute — only then shall I become a Brahmin.”

The moment Gora appeared before Harimohini she exclaimed, “My child, come with me just once. If you go, if you speak but a single word, everything will be settled.”

Gora said, “Why should I go? What connection have I with her? None whatsoever.”

Harimohini said, “She reveres you as a deity — she accepts you as her teacher.”

A bolt of lightning-heated thunder passed from one side of Gora’s heart to the other. Gora said, “I see no necessity for my going. There is no longer any prospect of my meeting her.”

Harimohini said, delighted, “To be sure — that is quite right. It is not proper for a grown girl and a young man to be meeting freely. But, my child, you cannot be excused without doing me this one service today. After this, whenever I call upon you, you may say no.”

Gora shook his head repeatedly. No more — by no means. It was finished. His offering to his God had been made. He would not let any mark remain upon his purity. He would not go to meet her.

When Harimohini realised from Gora’s manner that it would not be possible to move him, she said, “If you truly cannot go, then do this one thing, my child — write her a letter.”

Gora shook his head. That could not be. No letters.

Harimohini said, “Very well then — write me just a line or two. You know all the scriptures; I have come to you for a ruling.”

Gora asked, “A ruling on what?”

Harimohini said, “Whether it is not the highest duty of a girl born in a Hindu household to marry at the proper age and fulfil the duties of domestic life.”

Gora was silent for a moment, then said, “Look, please do not draw me into all these matters. I am no scholar fit to pronounce rulings.”

Harimohini then said, with some sharpness, “Then tell me plainly what it is you wish in your heart. You were the one who wound the snare at the beginning — and now when it comes to untangling it you say ‘do not draw me in’. What is the meaning of this? The truth of the matter is that you have no wish for her mind to be made clear.”

At any other time Gora would have blazed up in fury. He could not have borne even such a true accusation. But today his penance had begun; he did not grow angry. He looked inward and found that Harimohini was speaking the truth. He had steeled himself to sever the great bond with Sucharita; yet there was one slender thread which, as if pretending not to see it, he wished to retain. He had not yet been able to relinquish his connection with Sucharita fully and completely.

But the miserliness had to be done away with. To give with one hand while holding fast with the other would not do.

He then drew out a sheet of paper and wrote in a firm hand, in large letters —

“Marriage is the path of a woman’s spiritual striving; the duties of the household are her chief dharma. This marriage is not for the fulfilment of desire, but for the accomplishment of what is good. Whether household life bring happiness or sorrow, it is a woman’s vow to embrace that life wholeheartedly, to remain chaste, virtuous, and pure, and to make dharma itself visible and living within the home.”

Harimohini said, “If you had written just a word or two about our Kailas as well, that would have been good, my child!”

Gora said, “No — I do not know him. I cannot write about him.”

Harimohini folded the paper carefully, tucked it into the knot of her sari, and returned home. Sucharita was still at Lalita’s house with Anandamayi. Fearing that a discussion there would not be convenient, and that hearing contrary words from Lalita and Anandamayi might create doubt in Sucharita’s mind, Harimohini sent word to Sucharita that she should come to her the following noon and eat with her. There was a matter of particular importance to be discussed, and she could depart again by the afternoon.

The following noon Sucharita came with a hardened heart. She knew that her aunt would bring up the matter of this marriage again in some form or other. She had resolved that today she would give her so firm an answer as to put an end to the matter once and for all.

When Sucharita had finished eating, Harimohini said, “Yesterday at dusk I went to your teacher’s house.”

Sucharita’s heart shrank with unease. Had her aunt again brought up something about her and come away having humiliated her?

Harimohini said, “Do not be afraid, Radhararani — I did not go there to quarrel with him. I was alone, and I thought I would go to him and hear some good words. In the course of conversation your name came up. I found that he too held the same view. He does not think it good for a woman to remain unmarried for too long. He says that according to scripture it is a transgression. That may do in a foreigner’s household, but not in a Hindu home. I told him openly about our Kailas as well. I found him a man of wisdom.”

Sucharita was dying inwardly with shame and pain. Harimohini said, “You accept him as your teacher, do you not? Then his word must be honoured.”

Sucharita remained silent. Harimohini said, “I told him — my child, you come yourself and make her understand, for she will not listen to us. He said: ‘No — it would no longer be proper for me to meet her; it goes against the norms of our Hindu society.’ I asked — then what is to be done? Thereupon he wrote it out for me in his own hand. Here, look at this.”

Saying this, Harimohini slowly unwound the paper from the knot of her sari, opened its folds, and spread it before Sucharita.

Sucharita read it. Her breath seemed to stop. She sat rigid as a wooden doll.

There was nothing in the writing that was new or incongruous. Nor was there any fundamental disagreement between the words and Sucharita’s own views. But the pain that came to her from so many directions arose from the meaning of this particular writing being sent to her, specifically, through Harimohini’s hands. Why this directive from Gora today? Of course, Sucharita’s time too would come — she would one day have to marry — but what reason had Gora to be in such haste on that account? Was his work with her now entirely done? Had she caused any harm to his duties, placed any obstacle in the path of his life? Was there no longer anything for Gora to give her, or for her to hope for from him? She had not thought of it in this way. She was still watching the road in expectation. Sucharita strove with all her strength to fight against this unbearable anguish rising within her, but she found not the slightest consolation anywhere in her heart.

Harimohini gave Sucharita a long while to reflect. She even took her customary brief afternoon nap. Waking, she came to Sucharita’s room and found her sitting in the same place, in the same silence, as before.

She said, “Radhu, why are you thinking so much, tell me? What is there so very much to think about in all this? Has Gaurimohan Babu written anything that is not right?”

Sucharita said in a calm voice, “No — what he has written is correct.”

Harimohini exclaimed, greatly reassured, “Then what use is there in delay, my dear?”

Sucharita said, “No, I do not wish to delay — I will go to Father’s once.”

Harimohini said, “Listen, Radhu — your father will never wish for you to be married in a Hindu household, but your teacher —”

Sucharita said impatiently, “Aunt, why do you keep returning to that same point again and again? I am not going to Father to speak to him about any marriage. I shall simply go to be with him for a while.”

Paresh’s presence was indeed the abiding solace of Sucharita’s soul.

Going to Paresh’s house, Sucharita found him occupied in packing clothes into a wooden trunk.

Sucharita asked, “Father, what is this!”

Paresh smiled a little and said, “My child, I am going to take a journey in the hills of Shimla — I shall set out on tomorrow morning’s train.”

Within that brief smile of Paresh’s lay concealed the history of a great upheaval — and this did not remain hidden from Sucharita. At home his wife and daughters, and outside his circle of friends, allowed him not a single moment of peaceful respite. If he did not go away for some days and stay elsewhere, there would be nothing but a vortex endlessly spinning around him at the centre of the household. He had resolved to travel abroad the very next day, yet not one of his own people had come to pack his belongings — he had to do it himself. This sight struck Sucharita’s heart with a deep pang. She stopped Paresh, emptied his trunk completely, and then, with careful attention, began folding the clothes and arranging them inside with a deft hand, placing his daily books in such a way that they would not be jostled or harmed. As she packed the trunk in this manner, Sucharita asked softly, “Father, will you be going alone?”

Sensing a trace of sorrow in Sucharita’s question, Paresh replied, “That causes me no hardship at all, Radhe!”

Sucharita said, “No, Father — I shall go with you.”

Paresh looked steadily at Sucharita’s face. She said, “Father, I shall give you no trouble at all.”

Paresh said, “Why do you say such a thing? When have you ever given me trouble, my child?”

Sucharita said, “It will not go well with me if I am not near you, Father. There is much I cannot understand. Without you to guide me I shall find no shore. Father, you tell me to rely upon my own understanding — but I do not possess that understanding, and within myself I feel no such strength. Take me with you, Father!”

Saying this, she turned her back to Paresh and bent low over the trunk, busying herself with the clothes. Tears fell from her eyes, drop by drop.