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Binodini's mother Harimati came to Rajlakshmi, Mahendra's mother, and sat herself down in supplication. The two women were daughters of the same village; in childhood they had played together. Rajlakshmi pressed Mahendra: "Mahin, my dear, you must come to the rescue of this poor girl. I hear she is very beautiful, and she has been educated by a memsahib as well --- she should suit the tastes of young men like yourself these days." Mahendra replied, "Ma, there are plenty of young men of the present day besides myself."

"Mahin, that is your failing," said Rajlakshmi.

"One cannot even broach the subject of marriage with you."

"Ma," said Mahendra, "leave that subject aside and the world still offers no shortage of topics for conversation. It is therefore not a mortal failing." Mahendra had lost his father in infancy.

His manner towards his mother was unlike that of ordinary young men. He was now nearly twenty-two, had passed his M.A. and was beginning his medical studies, yet his daily commerce with his mother --- his small quarrels and reconciliations, his caresses and whims --- showed no sign of abating. Like a young kangaroo that, though born, still remains enfolded in its mother's pouch, it had become his habit to remain wrapped within the outer shelter of her care. Without his mother's assistance, neither his meals, his movements, his comforts, nor his rest could be properly managed.

When his mother pressed him particularly hard this time on Binodini's behalf, Mahendra said, "Very well, let me at least go and see the girl." On the day appointed for the viewing, he said, "What is the good of seeing her? I am agreeing to marry in order to make you happy --- any further judgment is meaningless." There was a faint warmth of irritation in the words, but his mother thought: at the moment of shubhadrishti, when his eyes met the girl's and his own preference was certain to accord with hers, the sharp note in Mahendra's voice would soften.

Rajlakshmi fixed the wedding date with a tranquil mind. But as the day drew nearer, Mahendra grew increasingly agitated --- until, a day or two before, he declared: "No, Ma, I simply cannot go through with it." From childhood Mahendra had been indulged by gods and men in every possible way, and as a consequence his will was ungoverned, headstrong.

He could not bear the pressure of another's wishes upon him. It was precisely because his own promise and the entreaties of others had reduced him to a state of absolute obligation that his senseless aversion to the marriage proposal grew more and more intense, until, as the moment arrived, he turned against it entirely. Mahendra's closest friend was Bihari; he called Mahendra "Dada" and Mahendra's mother "Ma." His mother regarded him as a kind of necessary beast of burden tethered, like a dinghy, to Mahendra's steamboat --- and, on that understanding, felt a certain affection for him.

Rajlakshmi said to him: "My dear boy, this business can only be done by you. Otherwise this poor girl---" Bihari folded his hands and said, "Ma, that I cannot do. The sweetmeat that your Mahendra dislikes and sets aside --- I have eaten many such sweetmeats at your insistence. But in the matter of a girl, that will not do." Rajlakshmi thought to herself: "Bihari marry! He has given himself wholly to Mahin; it never enters his head to bring a wife home." Reflecting thus, her tenderness towards Bihari, laced with a touch of pity, increased a little further.

Binodini's father had not been a man of particular wealth, yet he had spared no effort or care in educating his only daughter, engaging a missionary memsahib to teach her reading, writing, and various handicrafts. The age for his daughter's marriage came and went, and still he paid it no heed. After his death, her widowed mother was beside herself searching for a suitable match. There was no money, and the girl was no longer young. At this juncture, Rajlakshmi arranged the marriage of the said daughter Binodini to a young man who was a collateral nephew of hers from Barasat, her native village.

Before long, the daughter was widowed. Mahendra laughed and said, "Thank God I did not marry her --- had she become my wife and then been widowed, I could not have survived it for a single moment." Some three years later, mother and son were in conversation one day.

"Dear boy, people are speaking ill of me."

"Why, Ma? What harm have you done to anyone?"

"They say I will not arrange your marriage because I fear that once a wife comes into the house, my son will grow distant from me." Mahendra said, "That fear is entirely reasonable. If I were a mother, I could not bring myself to give my son in marriage with any peace of heart. I would bow my head and accept the censure of the world." His mother laughed and called out, "Listen --- just listen to what the boy is saying!" Mahendra said, "A wife, once she comes, simply plants herself beside the son and takes possession. And then where does the mother --- the mother who loved him through so much hardship --- quietly retreat to? Even if you find that tolerable, I do not." Rajlakshmi, inwardly aglow, turned to address her recently-arrived widowed sister-in-law: "Listen, Mejobou, listen to what Mahin says. He does not wish to marry for fear that a wife might displace his mother. Did you ever hear anything so preposterous?"

"Basha, this is going too far," said Kaki.

"The right conduct is what suits the time. Now is the moment to leave off clinging to your mother's sari and set up house with a wife --- to see a grown man behave like a small child is a thing one cannot but find embarrassing." These words did not sit especially sweetly with Rajlakshmi, and the few things she said in response may have been candid enough, but they were hardly honey-coated.

"If my son loves his mother more than other men's sons love theirs," she said, "why should that embarrass you, Mejobou? If you had a son of your own, you would understand what a son means." Rajlakshmi privately concluded that a woman without a son was envying a woman blessed with one.

Mejobou said, "It was you yourself who raised the subject of marriage --- that is what brought it up. Otherwise, what business is it of mine?" Rajlakshmi said, "If my son chooses not to bring home a wife, why should it pierce your heart like a thorn? Very well then --- if I have managed to raise a son and keep him all this while, I can still look after him now; no one else's help is needed." Mejobou shed a few tears and departed in silence.

Mahendra was stung to the quick, and returned early from college to go at once to his aunt's room. He knew perfectly well that what Kaki had said to him contained nothing beyond affection. He also knew that Kaki had a niece --- an orphan, without father or mother --- and that this childless widow, in her longing, wished to see her sister's daughter settled close by through a marriage to Mahendra, so that she might keep the girl near her always. Though he himself was disinclined to marry, this secret wish of Kaki's had always struck him as entirely natural, and as pitiable in the most tender of ways.

When Mahendra entered her room, the afternoon was already far gone. Kaki Annapurna was sitting with her head resting against the latticed bars of the window, her face dried and dejected. In the next room the rice lay covered, untouched. Mahendra's eyes would fill at the slightest cause. At the sight of Kaki, they glistened. He came close and called out gently, "Kakima." Annapurna tried to smile.

"Come, Mahin. Sit down," she said.

"I am very hungry," said Mahendra.

"I want some of your prasad." Annapurna understood the stratagem; she held back the tears that were rising to the surface, and ate herself before serving Mahendra.

Mahendra's heart was soft with compassion at that moment. Wishing to console his aunt, he said on a sudden impulse after the meal, "Kaki, that niece of yours --- the one you mentioned --- will you not let me see her once?" No sooner had the words left him than he was seized with alarm.

Annapurna laughed.

"So your mind has turned to marriage after all, has it, Mahin?" Mahendra said quickly, "No, not for me, Kaki --- it is Bihari I have in mind. I have persuaded him to agree. You fix the day for the viewing."

"Ah, could she be so fortunate," said Annapurna.

"Can she really be destined to have a young man like Bihari?" As Mahendra came out of his aunt's room and neared the door, he ran into his mother.

Rajlakshmi asked, "What is it, Mahendra? What were you two discussing all this while?"

"No discussion at all," said Mahendra.

"I came to fetch some paan."

"Your paan is all prepared in my room," said his mother.

Mahendra gave no answer and walked away. Rajlakshmi entered the room and, seeing at once that Annapurna's eyes were swollen from weeping, conjured up a great many explanations in her mind. With a sharp hiss she burst out: "What is this, Mejothakrun --- were you setting my son against me?" Without waiting for an answer, she swept out at a rapid pace.