41

The struggle that had risen for Sucharita — at once with her own inner self and with the world without — had filled her with fear. The feeling she bore in her heart toward Gora, which had been gathering strength unbeknown to her all this while, and which since Gora’s imprisonment had shown itself to her in full clarity and with irresistible force, she did not know what to do with; she could not foresee its consequences; she could speak of it to no one, and sat constrained before her own self. Not even the quiet, private moment in which she might sit alone and come to some reckoning with this hidden ache was available to her — Haran-babu, at her very door, was on the verge of rousing the entire community; there were even signs that the drum of the printed page might soon begin to beat. Over and above all this, the problem of her aunt had grown to such a pass that if some resolution were not reached very soon, another day could not be endured. Sucharita had understood: a turning point in her life had arrived; the days of moving along familiar roads with habitual ease and without care were gone.

In this her hour of crisis, her one and only support was Paresh-babu. She had not sought counsel from him, nor advice; there were many things she could not lay before Paresh-babu, and there were other things unworthy of disclosure to him out of an inner shame. It was simply Paresh-babu’s life, the mere nearness of Paresh-babu, that seemed to draw her silently — to some paternal embrace, some maternal bosom.

In the winter evenings Paresh-babu no longer went to the garden. On the western side of the house, in a small room, he would spread a mat before the open doorway and settle into prayer; the light of sunset would fall upon his serene face with its crown of white hair. At that hour Sucharita would come and sit quietly beside him with noiseless steps. She would immerse her restless, aching mind, as it were, in the depths of Paresh’s prayer. Of late, upon concluding his devotions, Paresh would often find this daughter of his, this pupil of his, sitting motionless beside him; and then, seeing her enveloped in an ineffable spiritual sweetness, he would silently bless her with his whole heart.

Because he had made union with the Infinite the sole aim of his life, Paresh’s mind was ever turned toward what was best and most true. For this reason the world could never press too heavily upon him. Having thus gained a freedom within himself, he could not coerce others in any way regarding their opinions or conduct. Trust in the Good and patience toward the world came to him with the utmost naturalness. He possessed these in such measure that those of a sectarian bent found fault with him; but he could receive censure in such a manner that it might wound him, yet it would not remain lodged within him. He kept repeating inwardly, again and again, this single thought: ‘I will take nothing from the hands of any other; I will receive all things from His hand alone.’

For the touch of this deep and silent peace that pervaded Paresh’s life, Sucharita of late came often to him on one pretext or another. At this inexperienced age, when her warring heart and warring world had thrown her utterly into confusion, she had again and again thought only this: ‘If I could but place both his feet upon my head and lie prostrate on the ground for a little while, my mind would fill with peace.’

Thus Sucharita was thinking to herself — she would rouse all the strength of her mind, and with steadfast patience hold every blow at bay; in the end all opposition would defeat itself. But it did not fall out so; she was compelled to set forth upon an unfamiliar road.

When Baradasundari saw that it was impossible to shake Sucharita by anger or by reproach, and that there was no hope of finding Paresh as an ally either, her fury against Harimohini became exceedingly violent. Harimohini’s very presence within her house had begun to torment her at every turn.

On that day she had invited Binoy to the annual memorial prayer held in observance of her father’s death anniversary. The prayer was to take place in the evening; before that, she was busy decorating the gathering room, and Sucharita and the other girls were assisting her.

At that moment her eye fell on Binoy going up the side staircase toward Harimohini’s quarters above. When the mind is heavy-laden, even a small event grows large. Binoy’s going upstairs became in an instant so unbearable to her that she left off decorating the room and went immediately to where Harimohini was. She found Binoy sitting on a mat and conversing with Harimohini in the easy, intimate manner of a relation.

Baradasundari burst out, “Look here — you may stay in our home for as long as you please, and I shall look after you well. But I tell you: that idol of yours cannot be kept here.”

Harimohini had lived all her life in a village. Her notion of the Brahmos was that they were a variety of Christians, and that there was therefore something to consider about any association with them. But that they too might feel hesitation in regard to her — this she had been coming to understand more and more over the past few days. Perplexed, she had been anxiously wondering what was to be done, and now, hearing Baradasundari’s words, she understood that there was no more time for deliberation — one way or another a decision had to be reached. At first she thought of taking lodgings somewhere in Calcutta, where she could see Sucharita and Satish from time to time. But her meagre resources would not cover the expenses of Calcutta.

When Baradasundari had come and gone like a sudden storm, Binoy sat with bowed head in silence.

After sitting quietly for some time, Harimohini spoke: “I shall go on a pilgrimage — can any of you take me there, my child?”

Binoy said, “I most certainly can. But the arrangements will take two or three days — until then, come, Mashi, you will stay with my mother.”

Harimohini said, “My dear, I am a very great burden — a burden beyond all bearing. I do not know what load Providence has placed upon my brow, but no one can carry me. Even in my husband’s house, when they could no longer endure my weight, I ought to have understood. But the heart is foolish, my child — it keeps wandering about, seeking to fill the emptiness within, and my wretched fate follows close behind. Let it be now, let it be. There is no use going to anyone else’s house. I shall take refuge at the lotus feet of Him who bears the burden of the entire world. I can bear no more.”

Saying this, she wiped her eyes again and again.

Binoy said, “That will not do, Mashi! No one can be compared to my mother. She who has been able to surrender the entire burden of her own life to God feels no weariness in bearing the burdens of others. Just like my mother — and just like Pareshbabu, whom you have seen here. I will not hear of it. First let me take you on a visit to my place of pilgrimage, and after that I shall come to see yours.”

Harimohini said, “But then, one ought to send word to them first —”

Binoy said, “Once we arrive, Mother will receive the news — and that will be the most reliable news of all.”

Harimohini said, “Then tomorrow morning —”

Binoy said, “Why wait? We may as well go this very evening.”

At dusk, Sucharita came and said, “Binoybabu, Mother has sent word asking for you. It is time for the prayer service.”

Binoy said, “I have something to speak about with Mashi. I shall not be able to come today.”

The truth was that today Binoy could not bring himself, in any fashion, to accept Baradasundari’s invitation to the prayer service. Everything seemed to him a mere performance, a vexation.

Harimohini became agitated and said, “No, no, Binoy my dear, go — do go. Our talk can wait until later. Let your obligations here be seen to first, and then come back to me.”

Sucharita said, “It would be well if you came.”

Binoy understood that if he did not go to the gathering, the rift that had already begun to open within this family would be widened somewhat further. For this reason he went to the place of worship — yet even so, no complete satisfaction was gained from it.

After the prayer service there was the evening meal. Binoy said, “I have no appetite today.”

Baradasundari said, “Hunger is not to be blamed. You have already dined upstairs, have you not.”

Binoy laughed and said, “Yes, this is what becomes of the greedy man — tempted by what is immediately before him, he squanders what awaits him in the future.” Saying this, Binoy prepared to take his leave.

Baradasundari asked, “Going upstairs, I take it?”

Binoy answered only with a brief “Yes” and went out. Near the door stood Sucharita. He said to her softly, “Didi, please go to Mashi once — there is something important to be said.”

Lalita had been engaged in attending to the guests. At one point, when she came near Haranbabu, he said, unprompted, “Binoybabu is not here, you know — he has gone upstairs.”

Upon hearing this, Lalita stopped where she was, raised her eyes to his face, and said without the slightest embarrassment, “I know. He will not leave without seeing me. Once I have finished my duties here, I shall go upstairs presently.”

Having failed to discomfit Lalita in the slightest, Haran’s inwardly smouldering resentment grew all the greater. That Binoy had said something suddenly to Sucharita as he left, and that Sucharita had followed him shortly thereafter — this too had not escaped Haranbabu’s notice. Today he had sought occasion after occasion to draw Sucharita into conversation and had been frustrated each time; on two or three occasions Sucharita had evaded his perfectly plain summons in such a manner that Haranbabu had felt himself humiliated before those gathered in the room. His mind was not at ease because of it.

When Sucharita went upstairs, she found Harimohini seated with her belongings all packed, as though she were on the point of departing somewhere at any moment. Sucharita asked, “Mashi, what is the meaning of this?”

Harimohini could make no reply, and burst into tears, and said, “Where is Satish? Please call him for me, dear!”

Sucharita turned her eyes to Binoy’s face, whereupon Binoy said, “Mashi’s presence in this house is an inconvenience to everyone, and so I am taking her to stay with my mother.”

Harimohini said, “And from there I intend to go on pilgrimage! It does not do well for a person like me to go on living this way in other people’s houses. Why should people endure me like this all their lives?”

Sucharita had herself been thinking this over for some days past. She had felt keenly that to remain in this house was a humiliation for her aunt, and therefore she could give no answer. She went quietly and sat beside her. Night had fallen. No lamp had been lit in the room. In the hazy autumn sky over Calcutta the stars were veiled in mist. Whose eyes overflowed with tears — that could not be seen in the darkness.

From the staircase came the sound of Satish calling loudly, “Mashima!” Harimohini rose hastily, saying, “What is it, dear, come in, come in.” Sucharita said, “Mashima, there can be no question of going anywhere tonight — all arrangements can be made tomorrow morning. How can you go without properly informing Father? That would be very wrong indeed.”

Binoy, stirred to indignation by Baradasundari’s humiliation of Harimohini, had not thought of this. He had resolved that Mashi ought not to remain in this house even one night longer — and, to dispel Baradasundari’s presumption that Harimohini endured everything here only for want of any other refuge, Binoy had not wished to delay for even a moment in taking her away. Hearing Sucharita’s words, Binoy suddenly remembered that the most important and primary connection within this house was not Harimohini’s with Baradasundari alone. It was not right to magnify the one who had given offence while forgetting the one who had opened his home with generosity and the warmth of a kinsman.

Binoy said at once, “That is perfectly true. It is quite impossible to go without telling Pareshbabu.”

Satish came in and said at once, “Mashima, did you know the Russians are coming to invade India? It will be tremendous fun.”

Binoy asked, “And whose side are you on?”

Satish said, “I am on the Russians’ side.”

Binoy said, “Then the Russians have nothing to worry about.”

As Satish thus set Mashima’s gathering alight with merriment, Sucharita quietly rose from her seat and went downstairs.

Sucharita knew that before retiring for the night, Pareshbabu would read a little from one of his favourite books. Many times on such evenings she had come and sat beside him, and at her request Pareshbabu had read aloud to her.

This evening too, in his quiet room, Pareshbabu had lit the lamp and was reading from Emerson. Sucharita drew a chair softly beside him and sat down. Pareshbabu put the book aside and looked at her face for a moment. Sucharita’s resolve faltered — she could not bring herself to raise any of the household matters. She said, “Father, read to me.”

Pareshbabu read and explained the passage to her. By the time the reading was finished it was past ten o’clock. Even then Sucharita was departing quietly without a word, lest she leave any shade of distress in Pareshbabu’s mind before he slept.

Pareshbabu called to her gently, “Radhe!”

She turned and came back. Pareshbabu said, “You had come to speak to me about your aunt?”

Learning that Pareshbabu had already discerned what lay in her heart, Sucharita exclaimed in surprise, “Yes, Father — but let it be for now; we can speak tomorrow morning.”

Pareshbabu said, “Sit down.”

When Sucharita had seated herself, he said, “I have been thinking about the discomfort your aunt suffers here. I could not have known beforehand that her faith and practice would give such deep offence to Labanya’s mother’s sensibilities. Now that I see she is being pained by it, keeping your aunt in this house will only cause her to feel constrained and diminished.”

Sucharita said, “My aunt has already prepared herself to leave from here.”

Pareshbabu said, “I knew that she would go. You two are her only kinspeople — I know you cannot let her go as though she were utterly alone and without support. That is why I have been thinking on this matter these past few days.”

Sucharita had not anticipated in the least that Pareshbabu had been aware of her aunt’s predicament and had given it thought. Out of fear lest he come to know of it and feel the pain of it, she had been treading with extreme caution all this while. Hearing Pareshbabu’s words now, she was astonished, and her eyes filled with tears.

Pareshbabu said, “I have arranged a house for your aunt.”

Sucharita said, “But she —”

Pareshbabu said, “Cannot pay the rent. Why should she? You will pay the rent.”

Sucharita stared at Pareshbabu’s face in bewilderment. Pareshbabu smiled and said, “Let her stay in your own house — no rent will be necessary.”

Sucharita was yet more astonished. Pareshbabu said, “Do you not know that you have two houses in Calcutta — one yours, one Satish’s? At the time of his death, your father entrusted me with a sum of money. I invested and grew it, and purchased two houses in Calcutta. All this while the rent was coming in, and that too was accumulating. The tenant of your house has in fact moved out not long ago — there will be no difficulty for your aunt in staying there.”

Sucharita said, “But will she be able to stay there all alone?”

Pareshbabu said, “With you two as her own people, why should she have to be alone?”

Sucharita said, “That very thing was what I had come to speak to you about today. Mashi has prepared to go, and I was thinking — how can I simply let her go alone? That is why I came to seek your counsel. Whatever you say, I shall do.”

Pareshbabu said, “Right by our residence there is this lane — two or three houses along, and you reach your house; it can be seen from this very verandah. If you live there you need not be utterly unprotected. I shall be able to look in on you.”

A great weight seemed to lift from Sucharita’s breast. She had found no end to the thought of how she could possibly go and leave Father. Yet it had also grown certain in her mind that she must go.

Sucharita sat quietly beside Pareshbabu, her heart brimming over with feeling. Pareshbabu too sat in silence, sinking deep within himself. Sucharita was his disciple, his daughter, his dear companion. She had become entwined with his very life — even with his worship of God. On those evenings when she would come noiselessly and join herself to his devotions, it seemed to him that his worship attained a peculiar fullness. Day by day, shaping Sucharita’s life with a benevolent and loving care, he had been giving his own life a particular perfection and completion. Never had anyone come and stood before him with such reverence, with such utter and gentle humility as Sucharita had; as a flower turns its whole being towards the sky, so had she turned herself towards him, her entire nature open and unfolded. When someone draws close with such wholehearted concentration, the capacity to give in a person grows of itself — the heart, like a cloud heavy-laden with water, bows down in the fullness of its own abundance. There is no blessing in human life that can equal the opportunity to give daily to a receptive spirit all that is truest and finest within oneself; that rare privilege Sucharita had given to Paresh. It was for this reason that his bond with her had grown so very deep. Now the time had come to sever the outward connection with that Sucharita — as one must ripen the fruit with the sap of one’s own life and then set it free from one’s side. For this reason he felt within his mind a pain — a hidden, intimate pain — which he was consecrating to the Indwelling God. Sucharita had gathered her provisions for the journey; now there had come a summons calling her towards new experience, through joy and sorrow, blow and counter-blow, along a broad and open road by the strength of her own being — and Paresh had been observing the signs of this summons for some time now. Inwardly he had been saying, “Child, set forth — it can never be that your entire life shall remain sheltered only by my understanding and my refuge. God is freeing you from me, drawing you onward through all that is varied and manifold to your ultimate fulfilment — may your life find its truest meaning in Him.” Saying this within himself, he had been silently lifting Sucharita — nurtured since childhood in his love — from his own side towards God, as one lifts a holy offering. Paresh bore no anger against Baradasundari; he had not permitted his mind to feel any sense of conflict or opposition towards his own household. He knew that when the waters of a new rainfall pour suddenly upon a narrow bank, a great turbulence arises — and the only remedy is to let them flow free into a wide and open space. He knew that within a short time, the various unforeseen gatherings that had come about around Sucharita in this small family had been chafing against the fixed customs of the house; rather than trying to hold her here, to set her free was what was needed — and only then would harmony be restored to nature and all grow calm. Knowing this, he had been making his quiet arrangements so that the peace and harmony might come about with ease.

As the two of them sat in silence for some while, the clock struck eleven. Then Pareshbabu rose, took Sucharita by the hand, and led her up to the flat roof above the covered porch. The mists of the early evening sky had cleared away, and the stars were now glittering in the clear and tranquil darkness. With Sucharita at his side, Paresh prayed in that still night — may all that is false in the world be stripped away, and may the fullness of Truth rise luminous and pure in the midst of our lives.