52

Mahendra had not slept the whole night. Towards morning, his exhausted body finally succumbed. He woke at eight or nine o'clock and sat up quickly. Some incomplete anguish from the night before had been flowing on, it seemed, beneath the surface of his sleep. The moment consciousness returned, he felt its pain. Within a few minutes the events of the previous night rose clearly before his mind. In that morning's sunlight, with the fatigue of unsatisfied sleep still upon him, the whole world and his life within it seemed utterly without savour.

The wretchedness of having abandoned his domestic life, the profound remorse of having forsaken his duty, and all the unrest of this wayward existence --- for what was Mahendra bearing all of this? In the bleak daylight of this passionless morning, it seemed to Mahendra that he did not love Binodini. He looked out at the road, where the whole wakeful world was hurrying busily to its work. To prostrate himself daily, in full view of everyone, before a woman who scorned him --- to chain his useless life to her feet --- the folly of it was now perfectly clear to Mahendra.

Every passion, once spent, leaves a weariness behind; the tired heart wishes for a while to push away the very object that had been its obsession. In the ebb of that fever all the hidden sediment rises to the surface, and what had been enchantment turns to disgust. What he was humiliating himself for, Mahendra could not fathom this morning.

"I am in every way superior to Binodini," he said to himself, "and yet I accept every manner of baseness and indignity, chasing after her day and night like a contemptible beggar --- what devil has put this extraordinary madness into my head?" Binodini today was to Mahendra simply a woman --- nothing more; and all the radiance drawn from the beauty of the whole world, from all its poetry and story and legend, which had gathered about her --- that radiance vanished now like a mirage, and what remained was merely an ordinary woman, with no extraordinary quality whatever.

A fierce desire seized Mahendra to cut himself free from this accursed cycle of enchantment and return home. The peace, the love, the tender warmth that had once been his seemed to him now the most precious ambrosia he had ever known. Bihari's lifelong, unswerving friendship seemed of immeasurable worth.

"That which is genuinely deep and lasting," Mahendra said to himself, "we fail to recognise its value precisely because we may immerse ourselves in it completely, without effort and without resistance. But that which is merely a restless deception, which gives no satisfaction even in its attainment --- this we pursue breathlessly, as though in a race, and so mistake it for the thing most supremely to be desired."

"Today I will return home," Mahendra resolved.

"I will make arrangements for Binodini to stay wherever she wishes, and then I shall be free." The very act of uttering those words --- "I shall be free" --- with firmness brought a joy to his heart; the burden of incessant irresolution that he had carried for so long began to lift.

For all this time, what in one moment had seemed utterly repugnant he was compelled in the next moment to carry out; he could not firmly say either yes or no; the command that rose within him, he had continually stifled with force and turned in another direction. But now, as soon as he said with vigour, "I will be free," his storm-tossed heart found shelter and came forward to embrace him.

Mahendra rose from his bed at once, washed his face, and went to see Binodini. He found her door shut. He knocked and asked, "Are you asleep?"

"No," said Binodini.

"Go away now."

"I have something particular to say to you," said Mahendra.

"I shall not stay long."

"I cannot bear any more talk," said Binodini.

"Go away --- do not disturb me. Let me be alone." At any other time such a rebuff would have inflamed Mahendra's passion still further.

But today he felt only a profound revulsion.

"I have brought myself so low before this mere woman," he thought, "that she has now acquired the right to dismiss me at any hour with such contemptuous ease. That right is not hers by nature --- I myself gave it to her, and so unjustly swelled her pride." After this humiliation, Mahendra tried to recover a sense of his own worth.

"I will prevail," he told himself.

"I will sever this bond and walk away." After his midday meal, Mahendra went to the bank to withdraw money.

Intending to buy something fine for Asha and his mother, he wandered through the shops of Allahabad. Again, there came a knock at Binodini's door. At first, irritated, she made no answer; then the knocking continued repeatedly, and Binodini flung the door open in burning anger, saying, "Why do you keep coming to disturb me?" But before the words were out, she saw that it was Bihari who stood there.

Bihari looked quickly into the room to see whether Mahendra was there. He saw scattered across the floor the dried-out petals and broken garlands of flowers. His heart recoiled in an instant with great force. When he had been far away, certain doubts about the manner of Binodini's life had not been wholly absent from his mind --- but his imagination, weaving its own designs, had veiled those doubts and set in their place a bright, beguiling image. As he had entered the garden, his heart had been beating fast --- fearful lest a sudden blow fall upon the image his imagination had fashioned.

Standing at the door of Binodini's bedchamber, he received precisely that blow. From a distance, Bihari had sometimes believed that in the sanctification of his love he could effortlessly wash away all the stain of Binodini's life. Seeing her at close quarters, he found this was not easily done --- where was the tender pang of compassion? Instead, a wave of revulsion rose within him and overwhelmed him. He thought Binodini very soiled. In a moment Bihari turned away and called out, "Mahendra! Mahendra!" Stricken by this contempt, Binodini said quietly, "Mahendra is not here. He has gone into town." As Bihari turned to leave, Binodini said, "Bihari-Thakurpo --- I hold your feet --- you must sit down with me for a moment." Bihari had made up his mind to hear no plea whatsoever, to remove himself at once from this scene of repugnance --- but the moment he heard the note of anguished entreaty in Binodini's voice, his feet seemed for an instant unable to move.

"If you turn away from me now and go like this," said Binodini, "I swear by you yourself --- I will die." Bihari turned back and stood before her.

"Binodini," he said, "why do you try to entangle me in your life? What have I done to you? I have never stood in your path --- I have never interfered in your happiness or sorrow." Binodini said, "How much of me you have taken possession of --- I told you this once, and you did not believe me. Yet even now, facing your displeasure, I tell you the same thing again. You gave me no time to tell you properly, no time to tell you with the modesty it required. You pushed me away --- and yet I hold your feet and tell you, I ---" Bihari stopped her.

"Say no more of that --- do not bring it to your lips. I cannot believe it."

"Common people cannot believe it," said Binodini, "but you will. That is why I ask you to sit down with me for a moment."

"Believe it or not," said Bihari, "what does it signify? Your life will go on as it is going."

"I know it signifies nothing to you," said Binodini.

"Such is my fate, that I have no means of standing by your side in a manner worthy of your honour --- I must always remain far from you. But there is this one claim which my heart cannot let go: that wherever I am, you will think of me with a little kindness. I know that you had once begun to feel the smallest measure of respect for me --- that little is my one treasure. I shall keep it. That is why you must hear all that I have to say. I fold my hands and ask you, Thakurpo --- sit with me just a little while."

"Very well, let us go," said Bihari, moving to take her somewhere else.

"Thakurpo," said Binodini, "you are not thinking what you are thinking. No shadow of dishonour has touched this room. You once slept in this room --- I set it apart for you. Those flowers are dried and scattered now --- they were laid as an offering for you. It is in this room that you must sit." Hearing this, a tremor of feeling passed through Bihari.

He entered the room. Binodini gestured with both hands towards the bed. Bihari sat down upon it; Binodini sat on the floor at his feet. When Bihari started to rise, Binodini said, "Thakurpo, please sit. By your leave --- do not get up. I am not worthy even to sit at your feet --- you grant me that place only out of compassion. Even from afar, I shall hold on to that privilege." She fell silent for a little while.

Then, starting suddenly, she said, "Have you eaten, Thakurpo?"

"I ate at the station before I came," said Bihari.

"Why did you return the letter I wrote from the village," said Binodini, "without opening it, without sending any reply --- sending it back through Mahendra's hand?"

"I never received any such letter," said Bihari.

"Did you meet Mahendra in Calcutta this time?" said Binodini.

"I met him the day after leaving you in the village," said Bihari.

"After that I set off to travel in the west, and never met him again."

"On another occasion before that, did you read a letter of mine and return it without reply?" said Binodini.

"No," said Bihari.

"Nothing of the kind ever happened." Binodini sat still, as though turned to stone.

Then she drew a long breath and said, "I understand it all now. Let me tell you everything. If you believe me, I shall count it my good fortune; if you do not, I shall not blame you --- it is difficult to believe me." Bihari's heart had softened by now.

He could not, on any account, dishonour the reverence of this Binodini who bowed so humbly before him. He said, "Bouthaan, you need not say anything at all. Without hearing a word I believe you. I cannot despise you. Say no more." Hearing this, tears began to fall from Binodini's eyes; she raised the dust of his feet to her head.

"If I do not tell you everything," she said, "I shall not be able to live. You must have a little patience and hear me --- I took your command to heart and obeyed it gladly. Even though you never wrote so much as a line, I was prepared to endure the mockery and censure of that village and live out my life there; in place of your affection, I would have accepted your authority --- but Providence turned against me even in this. The sin I had awakened would not let me settle even in exile. Mahendra came to the village, came to my very door, and shamed me before everyone. That village was no longer a place for me. A second time I sought your command and searched for you everywhere, and could not find you at all --- Mahendra took my open letter from your house and deceived me. I concluded that you had abandoned me utterly. After that I might have gone entirely to ruin --- but there is some quality in you that protects even from afar. Because I gave you a place in my heart, I have been kept pure. The day you drove me away and showed me the hard face of your true self --- that hard knowledge of you, like hard gold, like a hard jewel, has stayed within me and given me the highest worth. My God --- touching your feet I tell you --- that worth has not been destroyed." Bihari sat in silence.

Binodini too said nothing more. The afternoon light grew dimmer with each passing moment. At this point Mahendra came to the door of the room and started upon seeing Bihari. The indifference towards Binodini which had begun to form in him was now in danger of being dissolved by a sting of jealousy. Seeing Binodini seated still and silent at Bihari's feet, the pride of the rejected Mahendra recoiled. He had no further doubt that it was through letters between the two that this meeting had come about.

Bihari had been aloof until now --- if he came himself and surrendered, who would stop Binodini? Mahendra could abandon Binodini himself, but could not hand her over to another's keeping --- that much he understood upon seeing Bihari today. In futile spite, with a voice of sharp mockery, Mahendra said to Binodini, "So --- Mahendra makes his exit and Bihari makes his entrance upon the stage! The scene is beautiful --- I feel like applauding. But I trust this is the final act --- after this, nothing can improve upon it." Binodini's face flamed.

When she had been forced to take shelter with Mahendra, she had no answer to give to this insult --- she could only look towards Bihari with desperate eyes. Bihari rose from the bed. He stepped forward and said, "Mahendra --- do not insult Binodini like a coward. If your own sense of honour will not stop you, I have the authority to stop you."

"Authority already established so quickly?" Mahendra laughed.

"Let me give you a new name today --- Binod-Bihari." Seeing the insult mount further, Bihari grasped Mahendra's hand.

"Mahendra," he said, "I shall marry Binodini --- I give you notice of it. Now then --- speak with some restraint." Mahendra was struck speechless with astonishment; and Binodini started --- the blood in her breast surged in tumult.

"There is another thing I must tell you," said Bihari.

"Your mother lies on her deathbed --- there is no hope of her recovery. I am leaving on tonight's train. Binodini will return with me." Binodini started.

"Pisima is ill?" she asked.

"An illness from which she will not recover," said Bihari.

"No one can say what may happen, or when." Mahendra said nothing more and left the room.

Binodini then said to Bihari, "How could such a thing come from your lips? Is this some jest?"

"No," said Bihari.

"I spoke in earnest. I will marry you."

"To redeem this sinful woman?" said Binodini.

"No," said Bihari.

"Because I love you. Because I hold you in honour."

"This is my final reward," said Binodini.

"That you have acknowledged even this much is more than I ever wanted. Even if I were to receive it, it would not endure --- righteousness would never permit it."

"Why would it not?" said Bihari.

"Shame, shame --- I blush to think of it. I am a widow, I am a woman of ill repute --- I would bring disgrace upon you before all of society. This can never be. Shame, shame --- do not speak of it."

"Would you abandon me?" said Bihari.

"I have no right to abandon you," said Binodini.

"You perform much good quietly and without recognition --- give me some portion of that work as a charge, and in bearing it I will call myself your servant. But shame, shame --- that you should marry a widow! Your generosity may make anything possible --- but if I were to do this, and ruin you before society, I could never hold my head up again for as long as I lived."

"But Binodini," said Bihari, "I love you."

"In the name of that love," said Binodini, "I claim but one boldness today." And with these words she prostrated herself upon the ground and kissed his feet.

Sitting at his feet, she said, "I will practise austerity for the sake of finding you in the next life --- in this life I have no hope, no claim. I have given much sorrow and received much sorrow --- I have learned greatly. Had I forgotten that learning, I would have debased myself still further in debasing you. But because you stand high, I have been able to lift my head once more --- I will not bring this shelter to the ground." Bihari sat with a grave face and said nothing.

Binodini folded her hands and said, "Do not err in this --- if you marry me you will not be happy, and your honour will be lost --- and I, too, shall lose all that remains of my own. You have always been free of all attachments, always at peace. Remain so now as well --- let me serve your work from afar. Be glad, be happy."