50

Arriving at the station, Binodini went straight to the intermediate-class ladies' carriage and settled herself inside.

"What are you doing?" said Mahendra.

"I am buying you a second-class ticket."

"No need," said Binodini.

"I shall be perfectly comfortable here." Mahendra was astonished.

By nature Binodini had always been fond of ease and elegance. In earlier days no sign of poverty had pleased her; she had thought of her own domestic want as a humiliation to be resented. Mahendra had understood that the boundless prosperity of his house, its luxuries, the prestige of being counted wealthy --- these had once drawn Binodini's heart powerfully towards them. She might have become, without any effort, the mistress of all that wealth and comfort and distinction, and the imagining of it had greatly inflamed her.

Now, when the hour had come for her to exercise dominion over Mahendra --- when, without even seeking it, she could bring all his riches under her own enjoyment --- why did she accept this wretched, demeaning poverty with such intolerable contempt, so stubbornly and proudly? She wished to restrict her dependence upon Mahendra as far as possible. From the reckless Mahendra who had uprooted her from her natural shelter for ever, she wanted nothing that might be reckoned as payment for her ruin.

While she had lived under Mahendra's roof, the austerities of widowhood had not greatly constrained her conduct; but now, after all this time, she had denied herself every form of pleasure. She ate but one meal a day, wore coarse cloth, and where had gone that unfailing, overflowing laughter and banter? She had become so still, so wrapped in herself, so immeasurably remote, so formidable, that Mahendra did not dare press even a simple word upon her. Mahendra, bewildered, restless, enraged, kept turning it over in his mind: "With such effort Binodini plucked me, a hard-won fruit from the highest branch --- and now, without even breathing my fragrance, why does she fling me to the ground?"

"Tell me where to take tickets for," said Mahendra.

"Westward, wherever you like," said Binodini.

"We shall get off wherever the train stops tomorrow morning." Such travel was not to Mahendra's taste.

Disruption of his comforts caused him real suffering. Without a good lodging in a large city, Mahendra was entirely helpless --- he was not a man who could arrange and manage things for himself. He boarded the train in a state of considerable ill-humour and apprehension. The whole time his one dread was that Binodini might alight somewhere without telling him. Thus Binodini wheeled about like a malevolent planet, dragging Mahendra along with her, giving him no rest anywhere. She had a gift for making herself at home with people in no time at all; within moments she would strike up a friendship with the women travelling in the same carriage.

Wherever she wished to go, she would gather all the information she needed; she put up at travellers' lodges and saw whatever was to be seen, roaming about with companions she had made along the way. Each day Mahendra felt his own superfluousness more keenly beside Binodini; beyond buying the tickets he served no purpose, and whatever time remained he and his own passions spent gnawing at each other. In the beginning he had followed her about for some time; but gradually this became unendurable, and Mahendra took to eating and then attempting to sleep, while Binodini wandered all day.

That Mahendra --- who had been so tenderly reared by his mother --- was capable of this kind of vagabond existence was something no one could have imagined. One day the two were waiting at Allahabad station for a train that was unexpectedly delayed. As other trains came and went, Binodini watched their passengers with close attention. Perhaps she harboured a hope that in wandering through the west she might suddenly encounter someone in the crowd. Or at least --- in these open roads, in this living commotion of strangers --- there was a peace that was absent from the stifling lanes of an empty house, where one crushed oneself daily into immobility.

Suddenly her eye fell upon a glass case in the station --- the post office box where letters for persons whose whereabouts were unknown were displayed. Among the letters arranged within it, she saw Bihari's name. The name Biharilal was not uncommon; there was no reason to suppose that the Bihari of this letter was her own particular Bihari. Yet upon reading the full name she had no doubt --- no other Bihari existed for her. She committed the address written on the letter to memory.

Mahendra was sitting on a bench with a grim, displeased expression; Binodini went to him and said, "I wish to stay in Allahabad for a while." Binodini was steering Mahendra entirely according to her own will, yet not feeding his hungry, unsatisfied heart so much as a crumb; his masculine pride was wounded a little more each day, and his heart was growing mutinous.

To rest in Allahabad for some time would have been a relief --- but even when her whim happened to suit him, to assent to her mere caprice was something his spirit suddenly, stubbornly refused. He said irritably, "Since we have come out, we shall go on. I cannot turn back."

"I am not going," said Binodini.

"Then stay alone," said Mahendra.

"I am leaving."

"Very well," said Binodini --- and without another word she beckoned a porter and walked out of the station.

Mahendra sat on the bench with a dark face, clutching his male authority about him. He remained still as long as Binodini was in sight. When she walked out without once looking back, he hastily piled his luggage on the porter's head and followed. Outside, he found that Binodini had already taken possession of a carriage. Without a word he loaded the baggage onto the roof and climbed up onto the driver's box. His pride would not permit him to enter the carriage and sit face to face with Binodini.

But the carriage was moving all the same. An hour passed; they left the buildings of the city behind and came out among ploughed fields. Mahendra was too proud to ask the driver where they were going, lest the man conclude that the woman inside was the mistress of the situation and had not even thought to consult this superfluous male. So Mahendra swallowed his injured pride and sat in silence on the driver's box. The carriage stopped at last in a carefully tended garden by the banks of the Yamuna, in a lonely spot.

Mahendra was astonished. Whose garden was this --- and how had Binodini come to know of it? The house was locked. After some calling out, an old caretaker emerged. He said that the owner was a wealthy man who did not live far off --- if they obtained his permission, he could let them stay in the house. Binodini glanced at Mahendra's face. Mahendra, charmed by the pleasant house and heartened by the prospect of staying somewhere at last, said to Binodini, "Then let us go to that gentleman --- you will wait outside in the carriage while I go in and settle the rent."

"I cannot travel any further," said Binodini.

"You go --- I shall rest here in the meanwhile. I see nothing to be afraid of." Mahendra drove off.

Binodini called the old Brahmin and asked after his children --- what they did, where they were employed, where his daughters had been married. Hearing of his wife's death, she said with genuine pity, "Poor soul --- what a hard time you have of it. To be left alone in this world at your age, with no one to look after you." Then, in the course of conversation, Binodini asked, "Was not Bihari-babu staying here?"

"Why yes, he was here for a while," said the old man.

"Does Maji know him?"

"He is a relation of ours," said Binodini.

From the details and description the old man gave, no doubt remained in her mind. She had him open the rooms and showed her which one Bihari had slept in, which had been his sitting room. Since his departure the rooms had been shut, and it seemed as though all the imperceptible presence of Bihari had accumulated there, undispersed by any breath of air. Binodini drew it in, filling her heart through every sense; she let the still air touch her on all sides. But where Bihari had gone, no one knew.

He might return --- nothing was certain. The old man promised to enquire of his master and bring word. Mahendra returned, having paid the rent in advance and obtained permission to stay.