70

After so many days of suffering and oppression, the comfort Sucharita found in these few days with Anandamoyi was unlike anything she had ever known before. Anandamoyi had drawn her so close in so natural a way that Sucharita could not even bring herself to remember that there had ever been a time when this woman was a stranger or a distant figure to her. Anandamoyi had somehow come to understand the whole of Sucharita’s heart, and without saying anything at all she seemed to be offering Sucharita a deep and abiding consolation. The word “mother” Sucharita had never before uttered with her whole heart in the way she did now. Even when there was no need, she would invent all manner of occasions simply to call out to Anandamoyi just to say “Ma” — and on those pretexts she would call to her. When all the work of Lalita’s wedding was done, as she lay down on the bed with a body worn out by exhaustion, only this one thought kept rising in her mind — how was she now to go away and leave Anandamoyi behind! She began to say to herself — Ma, Ma, Ma! — and as she murmured this, her heart swelled full and tears streamed from both her eyes. At that moment she suddenly became aware that Anandamoyi had lifted the mosquito net and entered the bed beside her. She gently stroked Sucharita’s back and said, “Were you calling me?”

It was only then that Sucharita became conscious that she had been saying “Ma, Ma.” She could make no reply; she buried her face in Anandamoyi’s lap and wept. Anandamoyi, without a word, slowly and gently stroked her back. That night she slept beside her.

No sooner had Binoy’s wedding been completed than Anandamoyi was unable to take her leave right away. She said, ‘Both of them are entirely inexperienced in housekeeping — how can I go without setting things in order for them a little?’

Sucharita said, “Then, Mother, I shall stay on with you for these few days as well.”

Lalita too said with enthusiasm, “Yes, Mother — let Suchi-didi also stay with us for a while.”

Satish, overhearing this counsel, came running and, throwing his arms around Sucharita’s neck and jumping up and down, cried, “Yes, Didi, I shall stay with you all too!”

Sucharita said, “But what about your studies, you rascal!”

Satish said, “Binoy-babu will teach me.”

Sucharita said, “Binoy-babu cannot play schoolmaster for you just now.”

From the next room Binoy called out, “Of course I can. I cannot quite see how I have become so utterly incapable overnight. Nor does it seem to me that I have forgotten in a single night all the reading and learning I acquired through many late hours of study.”

Anandamoyi said to Sucharita, “But will your aunt agree?”

Sucharita said, “I shall write her a letter.”

Anandamoyi said, “You need not write. I shall write myself.”

Anandamoyi knew that if Sucharita expressed a wish to stay, Harimohini would take offence. But if she herself made the request, Harimohini’s displeasure, if any, would fall upon her — and that was of no consequence.

Anandamoyi wrote in her letter that in order to set in order the new housekeeping of Lalita, she would need to remain at Binoy’s house for some time. If Sucharita were also permitted to stay with her during these days, it would be of great assistance.

Harimohini was not merely angered by Anandamoyi’s letter — a particular suspicion arose in her mind. She thought to herself: she had prevented the son from coming to the house, and now the mother was spreading her web of stratagems in order to ensnare Sucharita. She could see plainly that there was collusion between mother and son in this. She also recalled that from the very first she had not been favourably disposed toward Anandamoyi’s manner and ways.

Without further delay, the sooner she could bring Sucharita within the fold of the renowned Ray family and render her safe, the better. And how long could she go on keeping Kailas like this? The poor man — morning and night he had been drawing on his hookah until the walls of the house were likely to be blackened with soot.

The very day she received the letter, the following morning Harimohini herself arrived at Binoy’s lodgings, having come in a palanquin with an attendant. At that hour Sucharita, Lalita, and Anandamoyi had settled to the preparations for cooking in the downstairs room. In the upstairs room, the entire neighbourhood was being roused by the sound of Satish’s voice as he memorised English words with their spellings and their Bengali meanings. At home his voice had never been found to carry quite so powerfully, but here — in order to prove beyond all doubt that he was not neglecting his studies in the slightest — he found it necessary to deploy a good deal of unnecessary vigour in his throat.

Anandamoyi received Harimohini with every mark of courteous welcome. Paying no heed whatsoever to any of these civilities, Harimohini said at once, “I have come to take Radhrani away.”

Anandamoyi said, “Very well, you shall take her — do sit down for a moment first.”

Harimohini said, “No — my worship and devotions are all still undone, my daily rites are not yet completed — I cannot sit here now.”

Sucharita was engaged in cutting gourd, and had said nothing. Harimohini addressed herself directly to her: “Do you hear? The morning is advancing.”

Lalita and Anandamoyi sat in silence. Sucharita set down her work and rose; she said, “Come, Aunt.”

As Harimohini was about to make her way toward the palanquin, Sucharita took her by the hand and said, “Come — come into this room for a moment.”

Taking her inside, Sucharita said in a firm voice, “Since you have come to take me away, I shall not send you back before everyone like that — I am coming with you. But this very afternoon I shall return here again.”

Harimohini said with irritation, “What sort of talk is this! Then why not say so outright — that you intend to stay here for good and all.”

Sucharita said, “I cannot stay for ever. It is precisely because the time I have to spend in her company is limited that I will not leave her for a single moment of it.”

These words stung Harimohini to the core, but she judged it unwise to say anything further at that moment.

Sucharita came to Anandamayi and said with a smiling face, “Mother, let me go home for a little while.”

Anandamayi asked no questions and said, “Very well, go then, my child!”

Sucharita whispered into Lalita’s ear, “I shall come again this afternoon.”

Standing before the palanquin, Sucharita said, “Satish?”

Harimohini said, “Let Satish stay here.”

She reckoned that if Satish went home he might prove an obstacle, and so she regarded his remaining at a distance as an opportunity not to be squandered.

When the two of them had settled into the palanquin, Harimohini set about laying her groundwork. She said, “So Lalita’s marriage is done with. Well, it is a good thing — Pareshbabu is relieved of anxiety on account of one daughter at least!”

Having said this, she proceeded to elaborate upon what a tremendous burden an unmarried daughter in the house represents, and how unbearable an anxiety it is for those who have charge of her.

“What can I tell you — I have no other care in the world. Even while repeating the Lord’s name, that very thought comes and seizes my mind. I speak the truth: I can no longer give my heart to the worship of the deity as I once did. I say to myself, O Gopiballabh, having taken everything from me, into what new snare have you now entangled me!”

This was not merely worldly anxiety for Harimohini — it was an impediment upon her path to liberation. Yet even upon hearing of so grave a crisis, Sucharita remained silent, and Harimohini could not fathom what precisely was passing through the girl’s mind. She took the old fixed maxim that silence betokens consent as working in her own favour. It seemed to her that Sucharita’s heart was softening a little.

She intimated that for a woman like Sucharita, re-entry into Hindu society — so formidable an undertaking — had been rendered quite simple by her own efforts. An opportunity was now so close at hand that even at the dinner-table of the most distinguished Kulin families, no one would dare breathe a word against her.

The preamble had advanced thus far when the palanquin arrived at the house. The two alighted at the gate and entered; as Sucharita was going upstairs, she noticed in the room beside the entrance an unfamiliar man having oil vigorously kneaded into his body by a bearer with great slapping sounds. The man looked upon her without any embarrassment — indeed, he gazed at her with particular and undisguised curiosity.

Going upstairs, Harimohini informed Sucharita of her brother-in-law’s arrival. Connecting it with the preamble that had just been laid, Sucharita understood the significance of this event well enough. Harimohini endeavoured to impress upon her that a guest had arrived at the house, and that under such circumstances it would be improper for her to leave at midday.

Sucharita shook her head with great firmness and said, “No, Mausi, I must go.”

Harimohini said, “Very well then, stay today and go tomorrow.”

Sucharita said, “I shall bathe at once and go to eat at Father’s, and from there I shall go to Lalita’s house.”

Then Harimohini said plainly, “He has come to see you.”

Sucharita’s face flushed crimson and she said, “What good can it do anyone to see me?”

Harimohini said, “Listen to that! In these times, how is such a matter to be arranged without seeing the girl first? That might have been possible in the old days. Your uncle had not set eyes on me before the auspicious gaze at our wedding.”

Having said this, she hastened to heap several more words upon this plain hint. She described at length how, when the eminent Ray family had come to see her at her father’s house before the marriage — bringing with them their ancient family retainer by the name of Anathbandhu, a senior maidservant called Thakurdasi, and two turbaned doorkeepers bearing staffs — how anxious her guardians had been on that day, and what a great bustle had overtaken their household in the effort to satisfy all those attendants of the Ray family with food and hospitality; and then she heaved a long sigh and said that the times had changed entirely.

Harimohini said, “There is really no trouble to speak of — he will simply come and look for five minutes.”

Sucharita said, “No.”

That ‘No’ was so forceful and unequivocal that Harimohini had to give ground a little. She said, “Very well, there is no need for it then. There is no necessity for seeing the girl, but Kailas is a young man of today, educated, and like yourselves he does not observe these things — he says, ‘I will see the bride with my own eyes.’ Well, you people go out before everyone anyway, so I told him, ‘You will see her — what more is there to say — I shall arrange a meeting one day.’ But if you feel shy, let it pass.”

Having said this, she expatiated upon the extraordinary extent of Kailas’s learning — how with a single stroke of his pen he had once brought the postmaster of his village to grief; how there was not a soul in the surrounding villages on all four sides who could take a single step in any lawsuit or petition without first consulting Kailas. And then as for his character and disposition, there was scarcely any need to say more. After his wife had died, he had refused absolutely to remarry; it was only under extreme pressure from all his kinsmen and relations that he had submitted, and solely out of obedience to the wishes of his elders. And had it cost Harimohini herself no small effort to bring him round to the present proposal? He would not so much as listen. Theirs was a family of great standing. They commanded enormous respect in society.

Sucharita refused in any manner whatsoever to diminish that honour. Not on any account. She paid not the slightest regard to her own advantage or dignity. Indeed, she seemed entirely undisturbed by the prospect that she might have no place in Hindu society at all. That it was no small honour for Sucharita to have Kailas — won over to marriage only after such great pains — offered to her, this the foolish girl could not comprehend in the least; on the contrary, she took it as a cause for humiliation. At the perversity of all things in this modern age, Harimohini was utterly at a loss.

Then, in the bitterness of her heart, she began again and again to direct pointed thrusts at Gora. However much Gora might boast of calling himself a Hindu, what was his standing in society? Who acknowledged him? If, lured by temptation, he were to marry some wealthy girl from a Brahmo household, by what power would he find deliverance from society’s discipline? Then he would have to spend every last rupee to silence the voices of all and sundry. And so forth and so on.

Sucharita said, “Mausi, why do you say such things? You know there is no foundation to any of it.”

Harimohini then declared that at her age it was beyond anyone’s power to hoodwink her with words. Her eyes and ears were wide open; she saw everything, heard everything, understood everything — she had merely been sitting in silent astonishment. She expressed her unswerving conviction that Gora, in consultation with his mother, was endeavouring to marry Sucharita, that the secret purpose behind such a marriage was not honourable, and that if she could not protect Sucharita with the help of the Ray family, that very outcome would come to pass in due time.

What had been tolerable to the patient-natured Sucharita became intolerable; she said, “The persons you are speaking of are those whom I revere, and the relationship I bear to them is something you will never understand aright — so I have no recourse but this: I am leaving here now. When you are composed and I can come and live with you alone in peace, I shall return.”

Harimohini said, “If your heart is not set on Gaurimohan, if it is settled that you will not marry him — then what wrong has this suitor done? You cannot remain unwed forever, can you?”

Sucharita said, “Why should I not! I shall not marry.”

Harimohini opened her eyes wide and said, “Until old age — like this—”

Sucharita said, “Yes, until death.”