2

Mahendra had more or less forgotten the matter of the viewing, but Annapurna had not. She wrote to the girl's guardian uncle at his house in Shyambazar and fixed a day for the visit. On hearing that the date had been set, Mahendra said, "Why have you done this in such haste, Kaki? Bihari has not even been spoken to yet."

"How can that be, Mahin?" said Annapurna.

"If we do not go now, what will they think of us?" Mahendra summoned Bihari and told him the whole story.

"Come along," he said, "if she does not suit you, no one can force you."

"That I cannot promise," said Bihari.

"Going to see Kaki's niece and then saying she does not please me --- those words could not pass my lips."

"So much the better," said Mahendra.

"But Mahin-da, you have not dealt fairly," said Bihari.

"To keep yourself light and lay such a burden on another man's shoulders was not right. It will now be extremely difficult for me to disappoint Kaki." Mahendra, somewhat ashamed and somewhat irritated, said, "Then what do you propose to do?"

"Since you gave her hope by using my name," said Bihari, "I will marry the girl --- there is no need to go through the pretence of a viewing." Bihari revered Annapurna as one reveres a goddess.

At last Annapurna summoned Bihari herself and said, "How can it be otherwise, dear boy? You cannot marry without seeing her. If she does not please you, you need not consent --- this I swear." On the appointed day, Mahendra returned from college and said to his mother, "Get out my silk kurta and the Dhaka dhoti."

"Where are you off to?" said his mother.

"I have my reasons, Ma --- give them to me and I will explain later," said Mahendra.

Mahendra could not resist putting himself in some order. Even when it was for someone else's benefit, the mere occasion of going to see a girl was enough for youth to straighten its hair a little, and pour a splash of scent onto the shawl. The two friends set out to see the girl. The girl's paternal uncle was Anukulbabu of Shyambazar --- a man who had raised his three-storeyed house with its garden above the heads of the neighbourhood by the force of his own earnings. After his poor brother's death, he had brought the orphaned niece into his own home.

Her maternal aunt Annapurna had said, "Let her stay with me," which would have saved some expense, but Anukul would not hear of it for fear of diminishing the family's standing.

Indeed, he never sent the girl to visit her aunt even for a social call --- such was his severity in matters of their dignity. The time came to think of the girl's marriage, but in these modern times the old Sanskrit adage --- that fortune follows intent --- does not quite hold in the matter of finding a husband for a daughter. Intent alone will not serve; one must have money as well. Yet whenever the question of the bride-price arose, Anukul would say, "I have daughters of my own; how much more can one man shoulder?" And in this manner the days drifted by --- until Mahendra arrived in all his finery, perfumed and attended by his friend, to enter the scene.

It was the end of a Chaitra afternoon, the sun declining towards the west. On the south-facing veranda of the upper storey, glazed Chinese tiles lined the floor; at its edge, silver salvers of fruit, sweets, and refreshments had been laid for the two guests, and silver tumblers brimming with iced water sparkled with a fine mist of condensation. Mahendra and Bihari sat eating, a little awkward and self-conscious. In the garden below, the gardener was watering the plants from a can, and the mild fragrance of wet earth, borne on the southerly Chaitra breeze, was setting the white pleated scented end of Mahendra's shawl fluttering irrepressibly.

From the chinks of doors and windows all around came the faintest hints --- a suppressed laugh, a whispered word, the faint jingle of a bangle, as though half-heard. When the refreshments were done, Anukulbabu looked towards the inner rooms and called out, "Chuni, bring the paan, will you?" A moment later, a back door opened with a shy reluctance, and a young girl appeared --- she seemed to have gathered all the modesty in the world about her person as she came --- and stood before Anukulbabu with the paan-box in her hands.

"No need to be shy, dear," he said.

"Place the box there, before them." The girl bent forward and, with trembling hands, set the paan-box on the floor beside the guests' seats.

The glow of the setting sun, entering from the western end of the veranda, fell upon her bashful face and lit it. In that brief moment, Mahendra took in the sorrowful, trembling countenance of the girl. As she was about to withdraw, Anukulbabu said, "Wait a moment, Chuni. Bihari Babu --- this child is the daughter of my younger brother Apurba. He has gone from us; now there is no one left for her but me." He drew a long breath.

Mahendra's heart was struck with pity. He looked once more at the orphaned girl. No one would state her age precisely. Her relatives said, "Twelve or thirteen, perhaps" --- by which they almost certainly meant fourteen or fifteen.

But having grown up as a ward on another's charity, a certain timid, shrinking quality had kept her dawning womanhood restrained and subdued within itself. With a heart already softened, Mahendra asked, "What is your name?" Anukulbabu said encouragingly, "Tell him, dear --- say your name." The girl, with the habitual obedience of one long accustomed to commands, lowered her eyes and said, "My name is Ashalata." Asha!

To Mahendra the name sounded poignant beyond measure, and the voice --- how gentle it was. Asha without a home in the world --- Hope, orphaned. When the two friends came out onto the street and dismissed their carriage, Mahendra said, "Bihari, do not let this girl go." Bihari, without answering him directly, said, "Seeing the girl brings her aunt to mind; she will likely be just such a Lakshmi."

"The burden I have placed on your shoulders," said Mahendra, "does not perhaps feel quite so heavy now."

"No," said Bihari, "I think I shall manage it."

"What is the use of all this trouble?" said Mahendra.

"Let me take the burden off your shoulders and carry it myself. What do you say?" Bihari looked at him with gravity.

"Do you mean it, Mahin-da? Tell me now, and be definite. Kaki will be far happier if you marry --- she will be able to keep the girl close to her always."

"Have you lost your senses?" said Mahendra.

"If it were going to happen it would have happened long before now." Bihari raised no further objection and went on his way; Mahendra abandoned the direct route, took the long way round, and arrived home very slowly and very late.

His mother was occupied with frying luchis; his aunt had not yet returned from the girl's house. Mahendra went alone to the empty rooftop, spread out a mat, and lay down. Above the clustered rooftops of Calcutta, the half-moon of the seventh lunar night was silently scattering its strange and enchanting light. When his mother came up to call him for supper, Mahendra said languidly, "I am perfectly well here --- I cannot bring myself to come down."

"Shall I bring your food up here?" said his mother.

"No, I will not eat tonight --- I have already eaten," said Mahendra.

"Where did you go to eat?" his mother asked.

"It is a long story --- I will tell you later," said Mahendra.

At this unprecedented behaviour from her son, his proud and wounded mother was about to withdraw without a word. Then, in an instant, Mahendra mastered himself and said in a tone of remorse, "Ma, bring my food up here, after all."

"If you are not hungry, what is the use?" said his mother.

After a brief exchange of wounded dignities between mother and son, Mahendra was duly made to sit down to his meal again.