Chapter Sixteen

Many had heard the Brahmachari's song. Amongst the rest, it came to the ears of Jibananda. The reader may bear in memory that Jibananda had been bidden to follow after Mahendra. Upon the way he had fallen in with a woman. Seven days had she been without food, and she lay by the roadside. To save her life, Jibananda had tarried the space of two dandas. Having succoured the wretched creature, and railing at her the while in language most uncouth (her offence being his own delay), he was now coming on. Then he beheld his master being led away by the Mussulmans — the master going forward singing his song.

Jibananda knew well all the signs of the Mahaprabhu Satyananda.

"By the gentle breeze, on the river's strand, In the woodland dwells the fair woman."

Was there yet another wretched woman lying famished by the river? So pondering, Jibananda bent his steps along the river-side. He had seen with his own eyes that the Brahmachari was being borne away by the Mussulmans. In such a pass, the rescue of the Brahmachari was surely his first duty. But Jibananda bethought himself: "This sign hath not that meaning. Obedience to his command is a greater thing than the safeguarding of his life — this lesson first of all have I learned from him. Therefore his commandment will I keep."

Jibananda went on along the river-side. Going thus, he came upon a spot beneath a tree by the river-bank, and there he beheld the dead body of a woman, and beside it a little maid-child yet living. The reader may bear in mind that Jibananda had never once set eyes upon Mahendra's wife and daughter. He thought within himself, it might well be that these were Mahendra's wife and daughter; for had he not seen Mahendra in his master's company? Howsoever it might be, the mother was dead, the child living. The first care must be to make the child secure — else would tiger or bear devour her. The thakur Bhabananda was somewhere hereabouts; he should perform the last rites for the woman. So pondering, Jibananda took the little maid up in his arms and went his way.

Bearing the child in his arms, Jibananda Gossain entered into the depths of that dense jungle. Passing through the jungle, he came into a small village. The name of this village was Bhairabipur, though the country folk called it Bharuipur. In Bharuipur dwelt a handful of humble people; no other village of any size lay near, and beyond the village began the jungle once more. On every side jungle — and in the midst a small village, but a village of singular beauty. There were grazing meadows clothed in soft turf, and gardens of mango, jack-fruit, jam and palm with their tender green foliage; and amid them stood deep, clear-watered tanks brimming with blue.

In the waters were herons, geese and waterhens; on the banks the cuckoo and the chakrabaka; a little way off the peacock lifted up his loud, shrill cry. In every dwelling, and in the courtyard, were cattle; within the houses stood the great paddy-bins, though in these days of famine they held no grain. Here a myna's cage hung from a thatch; there an alpana was traced upon a wall; in yonder courtyard was a little plot of pot-herbs. All were stricken with famine, lean, wasted and sore beset.

Yet had the folk of this village some semblance of comeliness about them — for in the jungle grew many kinds of food fit for man, and gathering thence the villagers had been able to preserve life and health.

In the midst of a great mango-grove stood a small house. On every side were walls of mud, and four small chambers stood about the yard. The good wife of the house had her cow, her she-goat, a peacock, a myna and a parrot. There had been a monkey also, but having no more food to give him, she had set him free. There was a husking-pedal, and a threshing-floor without, and a lemon-tree in the courtyard, and a few plants of mallika and juin — though this season they bore no flowers. On the verandahs of all the chambers stood spinning-wheels; but few were the folk of the household. Jibananda, the child in his arms, entered within that house.

No sooner was he within the house than Jibananda climbed up upon the verandah of one of the chambers, took up a spinning-wheel, and set it whirring with a "ghenor ghenor." That little maid had never in her life heard the sound of a wheel.

Moreover, ever since she had been parted from her mother she had been weeping; hearing the sound of the wheel, she took fright and broke out into a yet shriller wail. Then from within the chamber came forth a maiden of some seventeen or eighteen years. The maiden being come forth, she set the fingers of her right hand against her right cheek, bent her neck to one side, and stood gazing.

"What is this? Brother, why dost thou ply the spinning-wheel? Whence hast thou come by a girl-child? Brother, hast thou got thee a daughter — hast thou taken to thyself another wife?"

Jibananda set the child down in the lap of the young woman, and rose up to deal her a buffet, saying, "Thou monkey-wench, a daughter of mine, forsooth! Dost thou take me for some good-for-nothing? Is there milk in the house?"

Then said the young woman, "Milk there is, and to spare; wilt thou drink?"

Jibananda said, "Aye, I will drink."

Then the young woman ran in haste to set the milk to boil. The while Jibananda kept the wheel a-whirring with its "ghenor ghenor." The child, set in the lap of the young woman, wept no more.

What the little one thought I cannot say — belike, beholding the young woman fair as a full-blown flower, she took her for her mother. Belike, too, the heat of the oven once touched the child, and therefore she wept once. Hearing the cry, Jibananda called out, "Hi, Nimi! Thou ill-omened wretch! Thou she-monkey! Is the milk yet not boiled for thee?" Nimi answered, "It is done." So saying, she poured the milk into a bowl of stone and brought it to Jibananda.

Putting on a show of wrath, Jibananda said, "I have half a mind to pour this scalding milk over thy body — what art thou thinking of, that I should drink it?"

Nimi asked, "Who shall drink it then?"

Jibananda: Yonder little maid shall drink it, seest thou not? Give the milk to the little maid.

Then Nimi sat down cross-legged, and laying the child in her lap, took up a cockle-shell and set about feeding her with the milk. On a sudden a few drops of water fell from her eyes. A son had been born to her and had died — and this cockle-shell had been his. Nimi straightway wiped her eyes with her hand, and laughing the while asked Jibananda, "Tell me, brother, whose daughter is she?"

Jibananda said, "What is that to thee, thou ill-omened wretch?"

Nimi said, "Wilt thou give the child unto me?"

Jibananda said, "What wouldst thou do with a child?"

Nimi: I will give her milk, and bear her in my lap, and bring her up to be a woman — and saying this, again the wretched tears came, again Nimi wiped them with her hand, again she laughed.

Jibananda said, "What wilt thou do with her? Many sons and daughters shalt thou yet have of thine own."

Nimi: Be it so, be it so; for the present give me this little maid; afterward, an it please thee, take her back again.

Jibananda: Then take her, take her and be hanged. I will come and look in upon her from time to time. She is a kayasth's daughter. I am going now —

Nimi: What, brother — wilt not eat? It is grown late. By my head I beseech thee, eat a mouthful or two before thou goest.

Jibananda: Shall I devour thy head, and eat two mouthfuls as well? Two such feats I cannot compass, sister. Keep thy head, and give me two mouthfuls of rice.

Then Nimi, the child in her lap, bestirred herself to set out the rice.

Nimi laid out a wooden seat, sprinkled the place with water and wiped it clean, and brought rice white as mallika flowers, lentil soup of green pulse, a curry of wild figs from the jungle, broth of carp from the tank, and milk withal, and set them before Jibananda to eat. Sitting down to his meal, Jibananda said, "Sister Nimai, who saith there is famine in the land? Hath the famine, then, not come to your village?"

Nimi said, "Wherefore should the famine not come? A great famine is it, indeed; but we are only two souls; what is in the house we give somewhat to others, and what is left we eat. Did the rain not fall upon our village? Hast thou forgotten? Thou didst say, when thou wentest forth, that the rain falls in the forests. Some paddy was reaped in our village — but the rest sold theirs in the town. We have not sold ours."

Jibananda said, "And where is my brother-in-law?"

Nimi bent her head and said softly, "He hath gone forth somewhere with two or three seers of rice. Some one, it seems, was asking for rice."

Now in Jibananda's lot such a meal had not fallen for many a day. Jibananda wasted no further time in idle speech, but with sundry sounds — gup gup, top top, sop sop, and the like — made an end in a little while of rice and curry and all. Now Srimati Nimaimoni had cooked only for herself and her husband; her own share she had given to her brother, and seeing the stone dish quite empty, she was put to confusion, and brought her husband's portion and emptied it forth also. Jibananda, without so much as the lifting of an eyelid, dispatched the whole of it to that great pit which men call the belly. Then Nimaimoni said, "Brother, wilt eat aught else?"

Jibananda said, "What hast thou besides?"

Nimaimoni said, "There is one ripe jack-fruit."

Nimai brought the ripe jack-fruit and set it before him — and without any great show of demur, Jibananda Goswami sent the jack-fruit also into that abode of destruction. Then Nimai said, laughing, "Brother, there is no more left."

The brother said, "Then so be it. I will come again another day and eat."

Perforce Nimai brought him water to rinse his hands and mouth. Pouring the water, Nimai said, "Brother, wilt thou grant me one thing?"

Jibananda: What is it?

Nimi: By my head I conjure thee.

Jibananda: Speak then, thou ill-omened wretch.

Nimi: Wilt thou grant it?

Jibananda: First tell me what it is.

Nimi: By my head — I fall at thy feet.

Jibananda: I will devour thy head — fall at my feet too, but what is it?

Jibananda said, "I have slain many men in my time, dost thou know it?"

At this Nimi was wroth, and said, "A great feat, truly! Thou wilt forsake thy wife, thou wilt slay men, and I am to fear thee! Thou art thy father's child, and I too am the child of that selfsame father — if the slaying of men be a thing to vaunt of, then slay me, and vaunt thereof."

Jibananda laughed and said, "Go, fetch her — go fetch hither whichever wretched sinful one thou wilt, fetch her; but mark thou, if ever thou speak thus to me again, whatever I do or do not, that brother-in-law of a brother-in-law I will have shaved bald, douse him with buttermilk, set him backwards upon an ass and run him out of the country."

Nimi said within herself, "Then I am saved." So saying, and laughing the while, Nimi went forth, and entered into a small leaf-thatched hut hard by. Within the hut, clad in a garment of a hundred knots, her hair unkempt, sat a woman plying the spinning-wheel. Nimai went and said, "Sister-in-law, quick, quick!" The bride said, "What is this haste of thine? Hath the master's brother-in-law smitten thee, that thou must have oil rubbed upon the bruise?"

Nimi: Something of that sort. Is there oil in the house?

The woman brought out the vessel of oil. Nimai snatched up handful upon handful of the oil from the vessel and rubbed it into the woman's hair. In haste she tied up a passable knot of hair, and then dealt her a buffet, saying, "Tell me where thy Dhakai sari is." Somewhat astonished, the woman said, "What ails thee, sister? Hast thou taken leave of thy senses?"

Nimai struck her with a thump upon the back, saying, "Bring out the sari."

To see the sport of it, the woman brought out the sari. To see the sport, I say, for through all her sorrows the spirit that delights in sport had not died within her heart. New was her youth; like a full-blown lotus was the beauty of her early years; though there was no oil, no adornment, no food, yet that radiant, unutterable beauty was made manifest even through that garment of a hundred knots. In her hue was the play of light and shade, in her eyes the sidelong glance, on her lip the smile, in her heart the steadfastness of patience.

There was no food — yet was her body full of grace; there was no adornment — yet was that beauty wholly revealed. As lightning in the cloud, as genius in the mind, as music in the sounds of the world, as joy in the heart of death, even so was there in that store of beauty something ineffable. Ineffable sweetness, ineffable nobleness, ineffable love, ineffable devotion. Laughing the while (and none beheld her laugh), laughing still, she brought forth the Dhakai sari. She said, "Now Nimi, what is to do?" Nimai said, "Thou shalt put it on." She said, "What if I do put it on?" Then Nimai twined her own delicate arms about the woman's delicate throat and said, "My brother is come; he hath bidden thee come to him." She said, "Hath he bidden me come! Wherefore then the Dhakai sari? Let us go as we are." Nimai gave her a slap upon the cheek — and she, laying her hand upon Nimai's shoulder, brought her forth out of the hut.

She said, "Come, in this rag will I go to look upon him." For nothing would she change her garment, so perforce Nimai consented.

Nimai brought her with her as far as the door of her own house, and within the door she ushered her, and made fast the door, and herself stood upon the threshold.