46

Food had been prepared at home, with the expectation that Mahendra would return with news of Bihari. When much time passed and he did not come, the ailing Rajlakshmi grew anxious. Seeing the older woman worn out by a sleepless night and now further exhausted by worry over Mahendra, Asha made inquiries and learnt that Mahendra's carriage had returned. From the coachman she heard that Mahendra had gone from Bihari's house to the Pataldanga lodgings. On hearing this, Rajlakshmi turned to face the wall and lay in silence.

Asha sat motionless beside her pillow, like a figure in a painting, fanning her. On other days Rajlakshmi would tell her at the proper time to go and eat --- today she said nothing. When, despite his mother's grave illness of the night before, Mahendra had fled to Binodini the moment an opportunity offered, Rajlakshmi lost all desire to question, to make effort, to wish for anything in the world. She had understood, it was true, that Mahendra had made light of her sickness; as before, when illness had shown itself and then passed, so now too he had assumed this was another brief visitation and made himself easy on that account --- but this very absence of anxiety, this unconcern, was what struck Rajlakshmi most harshly.

Mahendra, intoxicated by his passion, refused to admit any anxiety or any duty into his mind, and so he had made his mother's pain and illness so light in his eyes --- for fear of finding himself chained to a sickbed, he had fled shamelessly to Binodini the moment he was free. Rajlakshmi felt not the slightest desire for recovery --- in her wounded pride she wished to prove that Mahendra's unconcern was not unfounded. At two in the afternoon, Asha said, "Mother, it is time for your medicine." Rajlakshmi made no answer and lay still.

When Asha rose to fetch the medicine, Rajlakshmi said, "No need for medicine, Bou-ma --- you go." Asha understood her mother-in-law's wounded feeling --- it was contagious, and as it set her own heart swinging with doubled force, Asha could no longer contain herself.

Swallowing her tears with difficulty, she began to weep with a suppressed and muffled sound. Rajlakshmi turned slowly towards her, and with a tender, sorrowful hand began to stroke her daughter-in-law's hand gently. She said, "Bou-ma, you are young --- there is still time for you to see happy days. Do not make any more effort on my account, my dear --- I have lived long enough. What more is needed?" Asha's weeping swelled still further; she pressed the end of her sari over her face.

Thus the joyless day passed slowly in the room of the sick. Even within their sorrow, within the pride of both these women, there was a hope --- that at any moment Mahendra would come. At every sound, a tremor ran through them both, which each could see in the other. Gradually the light of the declining afternoon became distinct; and in the shuttered inner rooms of that Calcutta house, the dusk had in it neither the brightness of light nor the cover of darkness --- it made grief heavier and despair tearless; it stripped away the strength of activity and hope, yet brought neither the calm of rest nor the peace of renunciation.

In that dry, unlovely evening of a sickroom, Asha rose silently, lit a small lamp, and brought it in.

"Bou-ma," said Rajlakshmi, "the light hurts --- put it outside." Asha put the lamp outside and came back and sat down.

When the dark grew denser and brought the infinite night of the outer world into that small room, Asha asked Rajlakshmi softly, "Mother, shall I send word to him?"

"No, Bou-ma," said Rajlakshmi with great firmness.

"I lay this upon you as a solemn charge --- do not send word to Mahendra." Asha sat in silence.

She had no strength left even to weep. The bearer called from the door: "A letter has come from Babu." For a moment Rajlakshmi thought: Mahendra has perhaps suddenly been taken ill himself, and cannot come, so he has sent a letter.

Anxious and repentant, she said, "Look and see, Bou-ma --- what has Mahin written?" Asha went out and read Mahendra's letter in the light of the lamp in the hall, her hands trembling.

Mahendra wrote that he had not been feeling well for some days and was going west for a change of air. There was nothing to worry about with regard to his mother's illness. He had spoken to the young Doctor Nabin, who would attend on her regularly. The letter also specified what was to be done at night if she had difficulty breathing or a headache; two tins of light, nourishing food were being sent with the letter from the dispensary. In a postscript, there was an earnest request that news of his mother be sent without fail, care of Giridhir's address.

Reading this letter, Asha was stunned --- a fierce contempt rose within her, overmastering her grief. How was she to read this cruel message to her mother-in-law? Rajlakshmi, increasingly anxious at Asha's delay, said, "Bou-ma, tell me quickly what Mahin has written." And with eagerness she sat up in bed.

Asha came in and read the entire letter aloud, slowly and steadily. Rajlakshmi asked, "What has Mahin written about his health? Read that part again." Asha read again: "'For some days I have not been feeling quite well, and so I---'"

"That will do, no need to read further," said Rajlakshmi.

"How should he feel well? The old mother won't die, but drags herself on and plagues everyone with her illness. Why did you go and tell Mahin about my sickness? He was at home, sitting quietly in a corner with his books, troubling no one --- and you have to bring up his mother's illness and drive him from the house again. If I had lain here and died quietly, whose loss would it have been? After all this suffering, is this the only bit of sense you can manage?" And she lay back down on the bed.

There was a rustling sound from outside. The bearer called: "The doctor has come." The doctor coughed and entered the room.

Asha hastily drew her veil down and went and stood behind the curtain of the bed. The doctor asked, "Tell me, what ails you?"

"What should ail me?" said Rajlakshmi sharply.

"Will you not let a person die? Shall I live for ever by taking your medicines?"

"We cannot make you immortal," said the doctor soothingly, "but as for relieving the suffering---"

"The best remedy for suffering," Rajlakshmi broke in, "was in the days when widows were burned --- now it is simply a slow binding-death. Go, Doctor, go --- do not trouble me any further. I wish to be alone."

"If I could just feel your pulse---" the doctor said nervously.

"I tell you, go," said Rajlakshmi with great irritation.

"My pulse is quite sound --- there is no early prospect of its stopping." The doctor had no choice; he went into the outer room and sent in for Asha.

When Asha came out, the young Doctor Nabin asked her for a full account of the illness. Having heard everything, he went back into the room with a grave expression and said, "Mahendra has left you expressly in my charge. If you will not allow me to treat you, he will be distressed." That Mahendra would be distressed --- this sounded, to Rajlakshmi, almost like mockery.

She said, "Do not worry too much about Mahin. Everyone must suffer in this world. This suffering will not afflict Mahendra excessively. Go now, Doctor --- let me sleep a little." The young doctor understood that pressing the patient further would do no good.

He came outside quietly and gave Asha what instructions he could. As Asha came in, Rajlakshmi said, "Go, child, rest a little. You have been at the bedside of a sick person all day. Send Haru's mother in --- she can sit in the next room." Asha knew Rajlakshmi well.

This was not affectionate solicitude --- it was a command; there was nothing to do but obey. She sent in Haru's mother and went into the darkness of her own room, where she lay down on the cold bare floor. Her body and spirit were exhausted and spent from the day's fasting and suffering. That day, at intervals, a wedding band had been playing in a neighbouring house. Now the shehnai struck up its melody once more. At each stroke of that music, the darkness of the night seemed to throb and beat against Asha again and again.

Every small detail of her own wedding night came back to her, living and sharp, filling the night sky above her with dream-pictures --- the lights, the noise, the crowd of that long-ago day; the garlands and sandal-paste, the new clothes, the smell of the bridal fire's smoke; the secret trembling of a new bride's frightened, ashamed, and joyful heart --- as all of this gathered round her and possessed her from every side, her pain felt the force of new blood and grew strong. Like a starving child in terrible famine who strikes at his mother demanding food, so the wakened memories of happiness struck against Asha's breast again and again with a weeping, clamouring blow, demanding their own nourishment.

She could lie there no longer. She folded her hands to pray --- and into the heart clouded over by her tears there rose the pure and gentle image of her aunt, that most holy woman. She had resolved never again to summon that woman away from her renunciation into the troubles of the world. But tonight she could see no way out in any direction; the dense darkness of suffering surrounded her tonight without a single crack. And so she lit the lamp in her room, placed a sheet of notepaper on her lap, and wiping her eyes again and again, began to write a letter: "To your most reverend feet --- Masima, today I have no one but you. Come once and draw this unhappy girl into your arms. Without that, I do not know how I shall live. What more can I write --- I do not know. A hundred thousand million prostrations at your feet. Your affectionate Chuni."