18

After the ill-fated day of the picnic, Mahendra was eager to recapture Binodini's full attention. But on the very next day Rajlakshmi came down with influenza. The illness was not serious, but her discomfort and weakness were real enough. Binodini gave herself entirely to nursing her, by day and by night.

"Working like this night and day," said Mahendra, "you will fall ill yourself in the end. Let me engage a nurse for Mother."

"Don't be anxious, Mahinada," said Bihari.

"She is looking after her --- let her do it. Who else could do it as she does?" Mahendra began to frequent the sick-room.

To Binodini, who was always busy, there was something intolerable about a person who did nothing useful yet was perpetually in the way at the busiest times. She said with some irritation, two or three times, "What good do you do sitting here, Mahin-babu? Go away --- don't miss college for nothing." That Mahendra followed her about gave Binodini a certain pride and pleasure --- but such abject craving, hovering with a greedy heart even by a sick mother's bedside --- this she could not endure; it filled her with contempt.

When any responsibility fell upon Binodini she thought of nothing else. As long as feeding the sick and tending to the patient and managing the household were needed, no one ever found Binodini inattentive --- she had no tolerance either for any irrelevant concern during those hours. Bihari came at intervals to enquire after Rajlakshmi. The moment he entered a room he grasped what was needed --- he could see at once where something was lacking --- and in a moment he had set it right and gone again.

Binodini sensed that Bihari regarded her nursing with genuine respect, and so his arrival always felt to her like a particular reward. Mahendra forced himself by sheer self-reproach into a strict routine of attending college. His temper had grown very rough; and now, what a change had come over everything. Meals were not ready on time, the groom was always absent, the holes in his socks kept advancing. These domestic disorders no longer amused Mahendra as they once had. In those few weeks he had discovered what it meant to have whatever one needed, whenever one needed it, ready and orderly at hand.

Now, in the absence of that ease, and faced with Asha's untrained helplessness, Mahendra could find no more merriment in the situation.

"Chuni, how many times have I told you --- before I bathe, have my shirt with its buttons sewn on and ready, and lay out my coat and trousers properly --- and yet it never once happens. After my bath I spend two hours sewing on buttons and searching for clothes." Asha, ashamed and contrite, went pale and said softly, "I had told the bearer."

"Told the bearer! What is wrong with doing it yourself? Can one count on you for a single thing!" This fell upon Asha like a thunderbolt.

She had never received such a rebuke. The thought never came to her that she might have answered: You yourself prevented me from ever learning housework. It had not occurred to her that household skill is something that must be acquired by constant practice and experience. She believed: It is my own natural incapacity and stupidity that prevents me from doing anything properly. When Mahendra, forgetting himself, had compared her unfavourably with Binodini and scolded her for it, she had received it with humility and without rancour.

Asha would wander sometimes about the corridors near her sick mother-in-law's room --- would come and stand at the doorway, awkward with self-consciousness. She wished to make herself useful, she wished to show that she could do something --- yet no one wanted her help. She did not know how to enter into the work of the household, how to carve out a place for herself in the running of things. Hampered by the very consciousness of her own incompetence, she circled on the outside of everything.

A certain pain had been growing in her heart day by day, but she could not clearly name her obscure distress, could not make distinct sense of her vague foreboding. She felt that everything around her was being ruined by her presence --- yet how it had all been built up, how it was being destroyed, and how it might be repaired --- none of this she knew. All she could do, from time to time, was long to weep aloud and cry: I am utterly unfit, wholly incapable --- there is no one more foolish than I.

In the old days, Asha and Mahendra would pass long hours together in some quiet corner of the house --- sometimes speaking, sometimes not --- in a complete and sufficient happiness. But now, with Binodini away, Mahendra sitting alone with Asha found that words did not come easily to him --- and yet to sit in silence without saying anything felt awkward and constrained. Mahendra asked the bearer, "Whose letter is that?"

"Bihari-babu's."

"Who gave it?"

"Bahu-thakurani" --- meaning Binodini.

"Let me see," he said, and took the letter.

The impulse arose to tear it open and read it. He turned it over several times in his hands, then flung it back to the bearer. Had he opened it he would have found it said: Pishima will on no account take her sago and barley-water --- may she have a little lentil-broth today? Regarding all matters of medicine and diet, Binodini never asked Mahendra a single question --- she relied entirely on Bihari. Mahendra walked on the verandah for a while, then went into the room and found that the cord of a picture hanging on the wall had nearly frayed through, so that the picture hung crookedly.

He scolded Asha sharply: "Nothing catches your eye --- this is how everything in the house goes to ruin." A bunch of flowers that Binodini had gathered at the Dumdum gardens and arranged in the brass vase was still standing there, the flowers now quite dry; on other days Mahendra would not have noticed them at all --- today they caught his eye.

"Until Binodini comes and throws them out, they will never be thrown out," he said --- and flung the vase with its dead flowers out through the door, so that it clattered and bounced down the stairs.

And as he argued within himself --- why can Asha not be what I need her to be, why does she not do as I wish, why does her natural lassitude and weakness prevent her from holding me firmly to the path of our married life, why does she always leave me at loose ends --- as he turned all this over in his mind, he suddenly saw that Asha's face had gone ashen white; she was clutching the bedpost; her lips were trembling. Then all at once she turned and went swiftly out through the side room.

Mahendra went slowly and picked up the flower-vase and brought it back. In the corner of the room was his reading table --- he sat down in his chair, rested his head in his hands upon that table, and remained so for a long time. After dusk a lamp was brought in, but Asha did not come. Mahendra paced rapidly back and forth on the roof terrace. Nine o'clock struck; the house, sparsely peopled at the best of times, grew as still as the middle of the night --- still Asha did not come.

Mahendra sent for her. Asha came with hesitant steps and stood at the doorway of the roof. Mahendra went to her and drew her to his breast --- and in a moment her grief burst upon her husband's chest; she could not hold it back, her tears would not cease, the sound of her weeping struggled to break free from her throat and could no longer be contained. Mahendra held her close and kissed her hair --- and the stars in the soundless sky gazed on in silence. That night, sitting on the bed, Mahendra said, "At college our night duties have grown very heavy --- I cannot manage conveniently from here. I have taken lodgings near the college, and shall stay there from today." Asha thought: Is he still angry?

Is he going away, vexed with me? Have I, by my own worthlessness, driven my husband from his home? I would have been better off dead. But there was no sign of anger in Mahendra's manner. For a long while without speaking he laid Asha's face against his chest, and over and over ran his fingers through her hair, loosening her knot of hair strand by strand. In the old loving days Mahendra used to undo Asha's arranged hair in just this way --- she would protest. Tonight she made no protest, but remained in a trembling, blissful silence.

Suddenly a teardrop fell upon her brow --- and Mahendra, lifting her face, called in a voice thick with tenderness, "Chuni." Asha did not answer in words; with both her soft hands she drew him close.

Mahendra said, "I have wronged you. Forgive me." Asha pressed her petal-soft palm against his lips and said, "No, no, do not say such things. You have done no wrong. All the fault is mine. Chide me like a servant if you will. Make me worthy of your feet." On the morning of departure, rising from the bed, Mahendra said, "Chuni, my jewel --- I shall carry you above all others in my heart, and no one shall ever displace you from there." Then Asha, steadying herself for every manner of sacrifice, made her single small claim upon her husband.

She said, "Will you write to me every day?"

"And will you write to me?" said Mahendra.

"What do I know of writing?" said Asha.

Mahendra pulled a lock of her hair at her ear and said, "You write better than Akshaykumar Datta --- what one calls charming prose."

"Oh, stop teasing me," said Asha.

Before leaving, Asha sat down to pack Mahendra's portmanteau as best she could with her own hands. His thick winter clothes were difficult to fold neatly and hard to press into the trunk --- between the two of them, by pushing and cramming and stuffing, they managed to pack into two trunks what would have fitted into one. And what was accidentally left over produced a considerable number of separate bundles. Asha was ashamed of this repeatedly, but in their scrambling and laughter and their mutual smiling accusations there was a return of the old happy days.

That this was the packing of a departure, Asha forgot for a little while. The coachman reminded Mahendra ten times that the carriage was ready; Mahendra paid no heed --- and at last said in exasperation, "Unharness the horses." Morning became afternoon, afternoon became evening.

Then, having warned each other to take care of their health and exacting repeated promises of regular letters, they parted with heavy hearts. Rajlakshmi had been sitting up for the past two days. In the evening, wrapped in a thick shawl, she was playing cards with Binodini. She felt perfectly well today. Mahendra entered the room without looking at Binodini at all, and said to his mother, "Ma, I have night duties piling up at college and it is inconvenient to manage from here --- I have taken rooms near the college and shall be staying there from today." Rajlakshmi, a little wounded in her pride, said, "Very well, go then. If your studies suffer, how are you to get on." Though her illness was over, the moment she heard Mahendra was going she immediately imagined herself very ill and weak; she said to Binodini, "Child, hand me that pillow." And leaning upon the pillow she lay back, while Binodini began gently to stroke her.

Mahendra laid his hand on his mother's forehead and felt her pulse. Rajlakshmi pulled her hand away and said, "As if a pulse can tell you much. You need not worry about me --- I am perfectly well." And with that she turned over with an air of great exhaustion.

Mahendra took his leave of Rajlakshmi with a bow, without a word of farewell to Binodini, and went.