39

The village erupted. The elders gathered on the veranda of the Chandi-temple and pronounced: "This is not to be tolerated. What happened in Calcutta one might be able to overlook --- but to write letter upon letter summoning Mahendra here and then to conduct herself with such brazen immodesty before everyone --- a fallen woman of this kind cannot be allowed to remain in the village." Binodini had been certain that today she would receive a reply to her letter to Bihari.

No reply came. She began to say to herself: what claim does Bihari have over me? Why did I submit to his authority? Why did I let him see that whatever he decreed I would accept without question? Whatever service was necessary to protect Asha --- only that, and no more, was his concern with me? I have no claims of my own, no dues, not even two lines of a letter --- am I so worthless, so thoroughly contemptible? Then the venom of jealousy filled her breast and she said: I could endure this suffering for the sake of someone else --- but not for Asha, never for Asha.

This destitution, this exile, this public scandal, this contempt, this entire inventory of an unsatisfied life --- all of it, simply and solely, for Asha's sake. What a swindle I accepted. Why did I leave the task of my own ruin unfinished? Fool that I am. Why did I fall in love with Bihari? Binodini was sitting in her room, rigid as a carved figure, when her great-aunt-in-law returned from her son-in-law's house and said at once: "You wretch, what is this I'm hearing?"

"Everything you are hearing is true," said Binodini.

"Then what was the point of bringing this disgrace to the village --- why did you come here at all?" Binodini sat silent in stifled anguish.

The old woman said: "My child, you cannot stay here, I tell you plainly. My fate has been hard enough --- I have seen everyone die and decay around me and somehow gone on living, but even I cannot endure this. Shame upon you --- you have brought our heads low. You must go, and at once."

"I will go at once," said Binodini.

At that moment Mahendra arrived --- unbathed, unfed, his hair dishevelled, his eyes red from a sleepless night, his mouth parched. He had spent the night at the railway waiting-room, resolved to return at first light and make a second attempt to take Binodini away. But Binodini's look of revulsion the previous day had given rise in him to various misgivings. As the morning advanced and the hour of the train drew near, he left the waiting-room, put all doubt from his mind by main force, took a carriage and arrived at her door.

When a man abandons shame and commits himself to brazen recklessness, a certain defiant energy is born; in the sweep of this energy Mahendra felt a wild, disordered exhilaration --- his torpor and indecision fell away. The curious villagers barely existed for him, mere lifeless puppets of dust in his burning gaze. Without a glance to either side, he came directly to Binodini and said: "Binod --- I am not the sort of coward who would leave you to face public censure alone. You must leave this place with me, no matter what. After that, if you wish to abandon me, abandon me freely --- I will not stand in your way at all. I take your hand and swear: whatever you wish shall be done --- if you show me mercy I shall live; if you do not, I shall remove myself from your path. I have done many things in my life to forfeit trust, but do not mistrust me today. We are standing at the brink of destruction; this is not the moment for pretence." With perfect composure and a face that betrayed nothing, Binodini said: "Take me with you. Is your carriage here?"

"It is," said Mahendra.

Binodini's great-aunt-in-law came out of the house and said: "Mahendra, you do not know me, but I am not a stranger to you. Your mother Rajlakshmi was born in this village; in the village reckoning I am her maternal uncle's wife. Let me ask you: what kind of conduct is this? You have a wife at home, a mother --- and you go about like this, in this senseless frenzy? What will you say for yourself in decent society?" In the state of feverish enchantment he had been inhabiting, that struck home.

He had a mother, he had a wife, and there was such a thing as decent society. These simple facts seemed to announce themselves afresh. That he should have to hear such words at the doorstep of an unknown house in this remote and unfamiliar village --- once upon a time it would have been beyond his wildest nightmare; that he, standing in the middle of a village in broad daylight, should be seen leading a respectable widow out of her home onto the public road --- this too was a chapter now written into the history of his life.

Yet still he had a mother and a wife and decent society. When Mahendra stood there silent and could not answer, the old woman said: "If you are going, go now --- this instant. Do not stand on the veranda of my house. Not one more moment." And the old woman went inside and bolted the door from within.

Binodini, unbathed, unfed, her clothes crumpled, climbed into the carriage with empty hands. When Mahendra made to follow, Binodini said: "No --- the station is not far. You walk."

"Then the whole village will see me," said Mahendra.

"Have you any shame left?" said Binodini.

She closed the carriage door and told the driver: "To the station."

"Is the Babu not coming?" the driver asked.

Mahendra hesitated a moment and did not dare to follow. The carriage went off. Mahendra left the village road and took a footpath through the fields, his head bowed, making his way towards the station. By that hour the village wives had finished their baths and their midday meal. Only the most industrious housewives, those who had found their leisure late, were still making their way, towel and oil-pot in hand, to the secluded bathing ghat by the pond, cool with the shade of mango trees in bloom.