41

On that first night, having settled Binodini in the lodgings at Pataldanga and gone home to fetch her clothes and books, Mahendra left her alone amid the ceaseless, restless clamour of Calcutta's crowds. She sat thinking of her own condition. Her place in the world had never been broad enough; yet whenever one side grew too hot to bear, there had always been a little room to turn and lie on the other --- now her foothold had grown desperately narrow. The boat upon which she had set herself adrift was so unsteady that the slightest lean to left or right would plunge her into the water altogether.

She must hold the tiller with absolute stillness; the smallest error, the faintest wavering, would not be forgiven. What woman's heart would not tremble in such a pass? The little play, the necessary concealment, that are needed to keep another's heart wholly in one's power --- where was the space for such things in this confinement? She would have to live out her entire life face to face with Mahendra, with nothing between them. The difference was this: Mahendra had a shore to swim to; Binodini had none.

The clearer Binodini's understanding of her own helplessness became, the more steadily she gathered strength within herself. She must find a way; she could not go on like this. From the day she had offered Bihari her love, the dam of her patience had broken. The kiss she had raised to his lips and then withdrawn --- she had nowhere in the world to lay it down. Like an offering carried perpetually before a deity, she bore it within her night and day. Binodini's heart was constituted so that it could not, in any circumstance, utterly surrender --- despair was something she would not acknowledge.

Her mind said incessantly, with the full force of her being: "Bihari must accept this worship of mine." To this fierce love of Binodini's was now joined the desperate longing for self-preservation.

Without Bihari, she had no recourse. She knew Mahendra too well --- he could not be relied upon; one kept him by releasing him; hold him and he strained to be free. But the steady, trusted, safe dependence that a woman must have --- Bihari alone could give her that. She could not, now, afford to let Bihari go. On the day she left the village, Binodini had taken special care to instruct the post office near the station --- sending Mahendra ahead on that errand --- to forward all letters in her name to the new address.

She refused utterly to accept that Bihari would send no reply to her letter. She told herself: "I shall wait patiently seven days for an answer, and then we shall see." Having said this to herself, Binodini threw open the window in the dark and gazed absently out at Calcutta blazing with gas-lamps.

At this very hour of the evening, Bihari was somewhere within this city --- a few streets and lanes away, one could reach his door even now --- and then that little courtyard with the water-pump, those stairs, that well-appointed, tidy, softly lit and private room--- In the tranquil silence, Bihari sitting alone in a chair --- and perhaps near him that Brahmin boy, that round-faced, fair-complexioned, wide-eyed, guileless child, turning the pages of a picture-book to himself --- as she recalled each detail of the scene, tenderness and longing filled every part of Binodini until she trembled with pleasure.

She told herself that she could go there even now, and with that thought she picked up the desire and held it in her arms like a toy. Formerly she might have acted on such an impulse; but now there was much to consider. This was no longer a matter of gratifying a wish --- it was a matter of achieving an end. She said to herself: "Let me first see what answer Bihari sends; then I will decide which path to take." She no longer had the courage to approach him without understanding, and risk giving offence.

While she sat thus in thought, nine or ten o'clock struck, and Mahendra came in slowly. He had spent several days in sleeplessness and disorder, in a state of extreme agitation; now that he had succeeded in bringing Binodini to the lodgings, a sudden exhaustion and weariness had quite overwhelmed him. He no longer had the energy to fight the world or his own circumstances. The fatigue of his entire burdened future seemed to have descended upon him before its time. Standing before the closed door and raising his hand to knock, Mahendra was seized with acute shame.

Where now was that madness in which he had disregarded the whole world? Why did his entire body shrink and contract under the gaze of strangers passing in the street? Inside, the new servant had fallen asleep --- there was much trouble getting the door opened. Entering the darkness of this strange new lodging, Mahendra's spirits sank. Mahendra, his mother's cherished darling, had all his life been accustomed to comfort and luxury --- to punkah-bearers and costly sofas and chairs; the poverty of these new lodgings made itself painfully felt in the dusk of that evening.

He must furnish the place --- the entire management of this new, half-formed household would fall upon him. Mahendra had never given a thought to comfort, his own or anyone else's; from today, the smallest details of a newly assembled, imperfect domestic life would all be his to carry. On the staircase, a kerosene lamp sputtered and smoked with insufficient flame --- it must be replaced with a proper lamp. The passage along the verandah to the stairs was damp with the overflow from the water-pipe --- a mason must be called to repair it with foreign-made tiles.

The two rooms giving onto the street, which had been held by the shoemakers, were still in their hands --- he would have to fight the landlord over them. All these things must be done by himself, and no one else --- the thought came to him in a flash and piled further weight upon his exhaustion. Mahendra stood for some moments at the foot of the stairs and composed himself, deliberately stirring his love for Binodini into wakefulness. He reasoned with himself: the woman he had desired, forgetting the whole world for so long, was his at last; today there was no barrier between them --- today should be a day of joy for Mahendra.

But the very absence of any barrier --- that was the greatest barrier of all; today, Mahendra was his own obstacle. Binodini, having seen Mahendra from the window, rose from her reverie, lit the lamp in the room, and took up a piece of needlework, bending her head over it with close attention --- the needlework was her shield; behind it she had, as it were, a refuge. Mahendra came in and said, "Binod, you must be having a great many inconveniences here." Binodini, without looking up from her work, replied, "None whatsoever."

"I shall have all the furniture brought round in two or three days," said Mahendra.

"You will have to put up with a little hardship until then."

"No," said Binodini, "that can on no account be permitted. Do not bring a single additional piece --- what is here is far more than I require."

"Am I, wretched creature that I am, also among the 'far more than required'?" said Mahendra.

"One ought not to think oneself quite so 'much'," said Binodini.

"A little humility is a seemly thing." In the lamp-lit solitude, the sight of Binodini sitting absorbed in her work, her head bent, possessed and self-contained --- in a moment the old enchantment stole over Mahendra's mind again.

Had they been at home, he would have flung himself at her feet --- but this was not home, and so he could not. Today Binodini was helpless, wholly within his power; it would be the rankest cowardice not to restrain himself now.

"Why have you brought your books and clothes here?" said Binodini.

"Because I count those among my necessities," said Mahendra.

"They are not of the 'far too much' party."

"I know," said Binodini, "but why bring them here?"

"You are quite right," said Mahendra.

"Nothing necessary has any place here. Binod, you may fling the books and all into the street for all I care --- I shall not object in the least. Only do not fling me with them." And on this pretext Mahendra moved a little closer and deposited the cloth-wrapped bundle of books at Binodini's feet.

Binodini, without raising her head, continued her sewing with a grave face and said, "Thakurpo, you cannot stay here." Mahendra, struck in the face of his just-awakened eagerness, grew agitated, and said in a broken voice, "Why, Binod, why do you wish to keep me at a distance? I have given up everything for you --- and is this all I receive?"

"I will not allow you to give up everything for my sake," said Binodini.

"That is no longer in your hands," cried Mahendra.

"The whole of my world has slipped away from around me on every side --- only you remain, Binod! Binod --- Binod---" As he spoke, Mahendra sank down and in a transport of feeling clasped Binodini's feet with both hands and pressed them violently, kissing them again and again.

Binodini withdrew her feet and rose to her feet.

"Mahendra," she said, "have you forgotten your promise?" With a supreme effort, Mahendra mastered himself.

"I remember," he said.

"I swore that whatever you wished should be done, that I would never act contrary to your will. I shall keep that oath. Tell me what is to be done."

"You will go home and stay there," said Binodini.

"Am I then the one object of your aversion, Binod?" said Mahendra.

"If that is how it is, why did you draw me to you? What need had you to hunt down one who was no quarry for your pleasure? Tell me truly --- did I come to you of my own will, or did you deliberately ensnare me? That you should make such sport of me --- and this, too, I must endure? Yet I will keep my oath --- I will go back to the very house where I have stamped my own place into ruin." Binodini sat down on the floor and resumed her needlework in silence.

Mahendra stared fixedly at her face for a moment, then burst out: "Cruel, Binod --- you are cruel! How wretched a man I am, to have loved you!" Binodini made a mistake in her sewing, held the work up to the light, and began with great care to unpick it.

Mahendra felt an urge to seize that stony heart of hers in his fist and crush it with all his strength. This silent mercilessness, this unshakeable disregard --- he wanted to smash it, to overwhelm it by sheer force. Mahendra went out of the room, then turned and came back.

"If I am not here," he said, "who will protect you alone in this place?"

"Have no fear on that account," said Binodini.

"Pisima dismissed Khemi from service; she came to me today and took up work here. We two women shall bolt the door and be perfectly comfortable." The angrier Mahendra grew inwardly, the more violently his desire for Binodini intensified.

He wanted to seize that immovable figure with all his force, crush her against his chest, grind her between his hands. To escape that terrible urge, Mahendra ran out of the house into the street. Walking through the streets, Mahendra resolved to repay Binodini's indifference with indifference. In the very situation where Mahendra was her sole support in all the world, she had rejected him --- silently, fearlessly, with such unwavering clarity --- had any man ever suffered so great a humiliation?

Mahendra's pride was ground to dust, yet would not die; it merely writhed and bled. He told himself: "Am I really so worthless? How could she dare treat me with such contempt? Besides me, who does she have in the world now?" Thinking thus, a name suddenly struck him --- Bihari.

For one instant, every drop of blood in his veins seemed to stand still. It was on Bihari that Binodini relied --- I am merely her instrument, her step, a place to plant her foot, a thing to kick aside with every step. That is the confidence that makes her so contemptuous of me! Mahendra began to suspect that Binodini and Bihari had been corresponding, and that Binodini had received some encouragement from him. Mahendra turned and walked towards Bihari's house. When he knocked at the door, the night was already far advanced.

After much knocking, a servant opened the door from within and said, "Babu is not at home." Mahendra started.

"While I have been wandering the streets like a fool," he thought, "Bihari has taken the opportunity to go to Binodini. That is why she dismissed me so pitilessly tonight --- and I trotted off obediently, like a driven ass." Mahendra asked the old familiar servant: "Bhaju, when did Babu go out?"

"Some four or five days ago now," said Bhaju.

"He has gone west, somewhere, for a change of air." Mahendra breathed again at this.

He thought: "I shall lie down now and sleep in peace --- I cannot wander about all night any longer." With that, he went upstairs, lay down on the couch in Bihari's room, and fell instantly asleep.

On the very day after Mahendra had come and disturbed him, Bihari had set off westwards --- with no fixed destination in mind. He had reasoned that if he remained, some clash with his old friend must one day grow so ugly that he would spend the rest of his life in remorse for it. The next morning Mahendra woke at eleven. His eyes fell at once on the occasional table before him. There, held down by a stone paperweight, lay a letter in Binodini's hand addressed to Bihari. He snatched it up --- the letter was still sealed.

It had been waiting in the empty house for Bihari's return. With trembling hands, Mahendra tore it open and read it. This was the letter Binodini had written to Bihari from the village --- the letter to which she had received no reply. Every word of the letter stung Mahendra like a bite. From childhood, Bihari had always stood in Mahendra's shadow. Whatever love and affection the world had to bestow, only the dry, faded remnants had fallen to Bihari's share. Now Mahendra himself was the suppliant and Bihari the one who turned away --- yet Binodini had thrust Mahendra aside and chosen this unromantic Bihari.

Mahendra had received a letter or two from Binodini himself, but beside this letter to Bihari, those were utterly artificial --- empty deceits to keep a fool occupied. Mahendra recalled Binodini's anxiety in sending him to the village post office to arrange for the forwarding of her letters, and now he understood why. With every fibre of her being, Binodini was watching and waiting for Bihari's reply. In the old way, even in the master's absence, Bhaju the bearer had tea and food brought from the bazaar for Mahendra.

Mahendra forgot to bathe. Like a traveller hurrying over burning sand, he skimmed his eyes again and again over the scorching lines of Binodini's letter. He resolved that he would never again go near Binodini. But then it occurred to him that in a day or two more, if no reply came, Binodini would come to Bihari's house herself --- she would find out the situation and be comforted. That prospect was insupportable. He put the letter in his pocket and presented himself at the Pataldanga lodgings a little before dusk.

Mahendra's wan and exhausted appearance moved Binodini to pity --- she understood that he had perhaps spent the previous night wandering in the streets without sleep.

"Did you not go home last night?" she asked.

"No," said Mahendra.

"Have you not eaten yet today, then?" said Binodini, suddenly alarmed.

And the solicitous Binodini at once rose to prepare food for him.

"No, no," said Mahendra.

"I have eaten already."

"Where?" asked Binodini.

"At Bihari's house," said Mahendra.

For an instant Binodini's face turned ashen. She was silent for a moment, composing herself, then asked quietly, "Is Bihari-Thakurpo keeping well?"

"Quite well," said Mahendra.

"Though Bihari has gone west." --- He said it in a manner suggesting that Bihari had departed only that very day.

Binodini's face drained of colour a second time. Mastering herself once more, she said, "I have never seen such a restless creature. He will have heard all our news, I suppose? Was Thakurpo very angry?"

"Would a man travel west in this insufferable heat for the pleasure of it otherwise?" said Mahendra.

"Did he say nothing about me?" asked Binodini.

"What should he say? Here --- take this. Bihari's letter." He placed the letter in Binodini's hand and watched her face with a sharp, searching gaze.

Binodini took the letter quickly and saw that it was open --- on the envelope, her own hand had written Bihari's name. She drew out the contents and found it was her own letter to him. She turned it over and over --- nowhere was there any reply in Bihari's writing. After a brief silence, Binodini asked Mahendra, "You have read this letter?" Mahendra, frightened by the expression on Binodini's face, blurted out a lie: "No." Binodini tore the letter into pieces, then tore those pieces smaller still, and flung them out of the window.

"I am going home," said Mahendra.

Binodini made no answer.

"I shall do as you have asked," said Mahendra.

"I will stay at home for seven days. Each morning on my way to college I will come here, see that all is in order, leave things in Khemi's charge, and go. I will not trouble you by seeking to see you." Whether Binodini heard any of this, who can say --- she made no reply.

She sat gazing out of the open window into the dark sky. Mahendra took his belongings and went out. For a long time Binodini sat in the empty room, stiff and numbed as one struck dumb; then, as though forcing herself back to consciousness by sheer will, she began to tear her own clothing and strike herself with savage force against her breast. Khemi, hearing the sound, came running and cried out in alarm, "Boutakrun, what are you doing!"

"Get out of here," Binodini roared, and drove Khemi from the room.

Then she slammed the door shut, clenched her fists, flung herself to the floor, and wept in a terrible voice, like an animal pierced by an arrow. In this way, having torn and exhausted herself, Binodini lay all night like one insensible under the open window. In the morning, as sunlight entered the room, she was suddenly seized with doubt --- what if Bihari had not gone at all, what if Mahendra had lied to deceive her? At once she called to Khemi and said, "Go now, this very moment --- go to Bihari-Thakurpo's house and find out the news." Khemi returned about an hour later and reported: "Bihari-babu's house has all the windows and doors shut. When I knocked, a servant called from inside: 'Babu is not at home --- he has gone west for a change of air.'" There was no longer any room for doubt in Binodini's mind.