Chapter 8

Three months later, Gurucharan entered Nabinchandra Roy’s room one day with a crestfallen face. No sooner had he moved to take a seat upon the faras than Nabinchandra cried out in prohibition, “No, no, no, not there—go sit over on that wooden stool! I cannot be taking an unseasonable bath again at this hour. Tell me, have you gone and lost your caste, man?”

Gurucharan sank onto a stool at a distance and remained sitting with his head bowed low.

Four days earlier, he had formally taken initiation and joined the Brahmo Samaj. Today, the news, embellished in all manner of vivid colours, had reached the ears of the orthodox Hindu Nabinchandra. Sparks of fury seemed to leap from Nabinchandra’s eyes, yet Gurucharan sat in silent head-bowed submission. Ever since he had taken this step without consulting a soul, there had been no end to the weeping and strife in his household.

Nabinchandra bellowed again, “Speak up, man—is it true or not?”

Lifting eyes heavy with tears, Gurucharan replied softly, “Yes, Dada, it is true.”

“Why did you do such a thing? Your salary is a mere sixty rupees, and you—” choked with rage, Nabinchandra could not get another word out.

Wiping his eyes and clearing his choked throat, Gurucharan said, “I was out of my mind, Dada. Driven mad by distress, I could not decide whether to put a rope around my neck or become a Brahmo. In the end, I thought it better to turn Brahmo than to commit suicide—so a Brahmo I became.”

Wiping his eyes continuously, Gurucharan walked out.

Nabinchandra shouted after him, “Well done! Being unable to put a rope round your own neck, you have hung a noose round the neck of your caste! Very well, go then, and do not show your blackened face before us again. Go stay with those who have become your ministers now—go marry your daughters into the homes of cobblers and sweepers!” Having thus dismissed him, he turned his face away.

In his fury and injured pride, Nabinchandra was at first at a complete loss for what to do. Gurucharan had slipped entirely out of his grasp, with no prospect of ever being brought back into his grip. Writhing in fruitless malice and finding no immediate scheme to teach him a lesson, he called for masons that very day, blocked off the passage between their adjoining rooftops, and erected a towering wall.

Sitting far away in exile, Bhuvaneshwari broke into tears upon hearing this news from Shekhar. “Shekhar, who gave him such an ill-advised mind?”

Shekhar had guessed with certainty who had influenced his thinking. Without bringing it up, he said, “But Mother, in a couple of days you yourselves would have ostracised him. How he was to marry off so many daughters, I simply cannot comprehend.”

Chapter 8

Three months later, Gurucharan entered Nabinchandra Roy’s room one day with a crestfallen face. No sooner had he moved to take a seat upon the faras than Nabinchandra cried out in prohibition, “No, no, no, not there—go sit over on that wooden stool! I cannot be taking an unseasonable bath again at this hour. Tell me, have you gone and lost your caste, man?”

Gurucharan sank onto a stool at a distance and remained sitting with his head bowed low.

Four days earlier, he had formally taken initiation and joined the Brahmo Samaj. Today, the news, embellished in all manner of vivid colours, had reached the ears of the orthodox Hindu Nabinchandra. Sparks of fury seemed to leap from Nabinchandra’s eyes, yet Gurucharan sat in silent head-bowed submission. Ever since he had taken this step without consulting a soul, there had been no end to the weeping and strife in his household.

Nabinchandra bellowed again, “Speak up, man—is it true or not?”

Lifting eyes heavy with tears, Gurucharan replied softly, “Yes, Dada, it is true.”

“Why did you do such a thing? Your salary is a mere sixty rupees, and you—” choked with rage, Nabinchandra could not get another word out.

Wiping his eyes and clearing his choked throat, Gurucharan said, “I was out of my mind, Dada. Driven mad by distress, I could not decide whether to put a rope around my neck or become a Brahmo. In the end, I thought it better to turn Brahmo than to commit suicide—so a Brahmo I became.”

Wiping his eyes continuously, Gurucharan walked out.

Nabinchandra shouted after him, “Well done! Being unable to put a rope round your own neck, you have hung a noose round the neck of your caste! Very well, go then, and do not show your blackened face before us again. Go stay with those who have become your ministers now—go marry your daughters into the homes of cobblers and sweepers!” Having thus dismissed him, he turned his face away.

In his fury and injured pride, Nabinchandra was at first at a complete loss for what to do. Gurucharan had slipped entirely out of his grasp, with no prospect of ever being brought back into his grip. Writhing in fruitless malice and finding no immediate scheme to teach him a lesson, he called for masons that very day, blocked off the passage between their adjoining rooftops, and erected a towering wall.

Sitting far away in exile, Bhuvaneshwari broke into tears upon hearing this news from Shekhar. “Shekhar, who gave him such an ill-advised mind?”

Shekhar had guessed with certainty who had influenced his thinking. Without bringing it up, he said, “But Mother, in a couple of days you yourselves would have ostracised him. How he was to marry off so many daughters, I simply cannot comprehend.”

Bhuvaneshwari shook her head and said, “Nothing remains permanently stalled, Shekhar. And if one had to give up caste for such reasons beforehand, half the world would have to do so. God, who sent those girls into this world, would have borne their burden himself.”

Shekhar remained silent. Wiping her eyes, Bhuvaneshwari said, “If I had brought my dear Lalita along with me, I would have had to find some way for her—and I would have done so. How was I to know that Gurucharan had sent her away with such a scheme in mind? I thought a real marriage match was truly being negotiated for her.”

Looking at his mother's face with a touch of embarrassment, Shekhar said, “Then why not do just that when we return home, Mother? She hasn't turned Brahmo—it's only her uncle who has, and he isn't even a blood relation of hers in any true sense. It is only because Lalita has no one that she is being raised in his home.”

Reflecting for a moment, Bhuvaneshwari said, “That is true, but your father is a man of a particular disposition; he will never agree. He might not even let us see or meet them.”

This fear weighed heavily on Shekhar's own mind as well. Saying nothing more, he walked away.

After this, he did not wish to stay away from home for another minute. For two or three days he wandered about with a troubled, moody face, until one evening he came and said, “I don't like it here anymore, Mother. Let us go home!”

Bhuvaneshwari agreed at once and said, “Let us do that, Shekhar; I don't feel at ease here either.”

Upon returning home, both mother and son saw that the passage on the roof had been sealed off by a newly raised wall. Without having to ask anyone, both understood that the master of the house had no intention of maintaining any relationship with Gurucharan, nor even speaking terms.

That night, while Shekhar was having his meal, his mother was present. After a few casual remarks, she said, “Talks are underway to marry Lalita to that Girin of theirs. I had realized as much earlier.”

Without lifting his eyes, Shekhar asked, “Who told you?”

“Her aunt. While your father was asleep in the afternoon, I went over myself to meet her. Ever since then she has been weeping until her face and eyes are swollen.” Remaining silent for a brief spell, she wiped her eyes with the end of her sari and said, “Destiny, Shekhar, sheer destiny. No one can erase what is written in fate—whom can I blame? At any rate, Girin is a fine boy, and well-off too; Lalita will not suffer.” Saying this, she fell silent.

In response, Shekhar uttered not a single word. Keeping his head lowered, he merely toyed with the food on his plate. A little later, when his mother got up and left, he too rose, washed his hands and face, and lay down on his bed.

The next day after dusk, he went out into the street to take a brief stroll. Just then, the daily tea gathering was underway in Gurucharan’s outer parlour, animated by lively laughter and conversation. The moment the clamour reached Shekhar’s ears, he paused and reflected briefly; then, stepping slowly into the house, he followed the sound and came to stand in Gurucharan’s parlour. Instantly, the chatter died down, and the expressions on their faces transformed as they looked at him.

No one except Lalita knew that Shekhar had returned. Today, Girindra and another gentleman were present; the latter stared at Shekhar with a bewildered expression, while Girin looked toward the wall with a grave face. Gurucharan, who had been shouting the loudest, turned completely pale. Sitting close beside him, Lalita was still brewing tea; she glanced up once and then bowed her head.

Stepping forward, Shekhar touched his head to the wooden couch in respectful greeting, sat down to one side, and said with a smile, “Why, what is this? Everything has gone completely quiet!”

Gurucharan offered a blessing in a faint voice, but what he said could not be clearly understood.

Understanding the state of his mind, Shekhar took the initiative to speak so as to give him time. He babbled on fluently about their return by yesterday morning’s train, the recovery of his mother’s illness, their stay up-country in the West, and various other bits of news, before finally looking toward the unfamiliar young man.

By now Gurucharan had somewhat collected himself. Introducing the youth, he said, “He is a friend of our Girin. They come from the same neighborhood, studied together—an exceptionally fine young man. He lives in Shyambazar, yet ever since he made my acquaintance, he comes by frequently to visit.”

Nodding his head, Shekhar said to himself, Yes, a very fine young man indeed. Sitting in silence for a while, he said, “Kaka, is all else well with you?”

Gurucharan did not answer; he remained with his head bowed. Just as Shekhar made a move to get up, Gurucharan suddenly spoke in a tearful voice, “Come visit once in a while, my son—do not abandon us completely. You have heard everything, haven't you?”

“Of course I have,” said Shekhar, and walked toward the inner quarters.

Immediately after, the sound of the mistress weeping arose from within. Outside, Gurucharan sat with a bowed head, wiping his tears with the end of his dhoti, while Girin, looking like a guilty party, stared out of the window in silence. Lalita had already risen and left earlier.

A short while later, as Shekhar stepped out of the kitchen, crossed the veranda, and was about to descend into the courtyard, he saw Lalita standing behind the shadow of a door. She bowed down to touch his feet in reverence, then rose and drew so close to his chest that she stood right beside him, looking up silently for a moment as if expecting something, before stepping back and whispering, “Why didn’t you answer my letter?”

“Why, I never received any letter—what had you written?”

Lalita said, “Many things. Let that be. You have heard everything, haven't you? Now tell me, what are your orders?”

Shekhar said in a tone of surprise, “My orders! What good will my orders do?”

Looking at his face in alarm, Lalita asked, “Why?”

“Indeed, Lalita. Whom am I to command?”

“Over me—whom else could you command?”

“Why should I command even you? And even if I did, why would you obey?” Shekhar’s voice was solemn, tinged with a faint sadness.

Now genuinely frightened at heart, Lalita stepped closer once more and said in a tear-choked voice, “Oh, stop it—I am in no mood for your jesting now. I beg of you at your feet, tell me what is to happen? I cannot sleep at night out of fear.”

“Fear of what?”

“That is rich! How could I not be afraid? You were not here, Mother was not here, and in the meantime Uncle went and did all these things—what if Mother refuses to accept me into the house now?”

Shekhar remained silent for a moment before saying, “That is true; Mother will not want to take you in. She has heard that your uncle took a large sum of money from someone else. Besides, you are Brahmos now, and we are Hindus.”

Just then, Annakali called out from the kitchen, “Sejdi, Mother is calling you!”

Lalita called back loudly, “I’m coming!” then lowered her voice and said, “Whatever Uncle may be, I am whatever you are. If Mother cannot cast you off, she will not cast me off either. And as for taking money from Girin-babu—I will return that money. After all, a debt must be repaid, whether sooner or later.”

Shekhar asked, “Where will you get so much money?”

Lifting her eyes to Shekhar’s face for a fleeting moment, Lalita stayed silent briefly before saying, “Don’t you know where women find money? I shall get it from that very same place.”

Though Shekhar had maintained a restrained tone until now, he had been smouldering within; at this, he spoke with caustic irony, “But your uncle has already sold you off!”

Lalita could not see the expression on Shekhar’s face in the dark, but she caught the change in his voice. She answered with firm resolve, “Those are all falsehoods. There is no finer man in this world than my uncle—do not mock him. You may not understand his suffering and hardship, but the whole world knows it.” She gulped once, hesitated briefly, and added, “Besides, he accepted money only after my marriage was settled; hence he has no right to sell me, nor has he sold me. That right belongs to you alone—though out of fear of repaying the money, you may very well sell me off if you wish!” Without waiting for a reply, she walked away with quick steps.