9

Upstairs on the carriage-porch terrace a white cloth had been spread over a table, with chairs arranged around it. Outside the railing, small pots of ornamental-leaved plants and flowering shrubs stood upon the cornice. From the terrace above one could see the rain-washed, leaf-glossy shimmer of the siris and krishnachura trees along the roadside.

The sun had not yet set; a wan afternoon light fell slantwise from the western sky and lay upon one end of the veranda.

The terrace was empty at first. Before long Satish appeared, bringing with him a small black-and-white dog named Khude. Satish proceeded to demonstrate every trick the dog knew for Binoy’s benefit. Khude raised one paw in salute, pressed his nose to the ground in a bow, and the moment a biscuit was held before him, sat back on his haunches and brought his two front paws together to beg. For all the fame thus acquired, it was Satish who appropriated the glory and felt the pride — Khude himself was quite indifferent to renown, considering the biscuit, in truth, a far more tangible reality than any applause.

From somewhere within the house came the intermittent sound of women’s rippling laughter and merry voices, and mingled with them a man’s voice as well. This overflow of mirth and merriment brought into Binoy’s heart, along with an indescribable sweetness, something that felt almost like an ache of longing. Never since he had grown to adulthood had he heard the joyful voices of women within a home ring out quite like this. This delight was welling up so close to him, and yet he was so far removed from it. Whatever Satish was saying into his ear, Binoy could not attend to it at all.

Pareshbabu’s wife came up to the terrace with her three daughters — and along with them came a young man, a distant relation of theirs.

Pareshbabu’s wife was named Baradasundari. She was not young, yet one could see at a glance that she had taken great pains with her dress. She had spent much of her life in the manner of a village woman and had then, at some point, become urgently preoccupied with keeping pace with the modern age at full stride — hence her silk sari rustled more than necessary and her high-heeled shoes clattered more than was seemly. She was perpetually and very carefully vigilant about what was Brahmo and what was not. It was for this reason that she had changed the name Radharani to Sucharita. A certain relation by marriage — a father-in-law of some degree — had returned after a long time from his place of work abroad and sent them a Jamai-shashthi gift. Pareshbabu was away on duty at the time. Baradasundari had sent the entire gift back. She regarded all such observances as superstition and idolatry. She looked upon the wearing of stockings on girls’ feet and the donning of hats when going out as though these too were articles of Brahmo religious doctrine. Having once observed a Brahmo family eating from mats spread upon the floor, she had expressed anxiety that the Brahmo Samaj appeared to be retreating in the direction of idol-worship.

Her eldest daughter was named Labanya. She was plump and cheerful, fond of company and conversation. Her face was round, her eyes large, her complexion a bright warm brown. In matters of dress she was naturally a little careless, though in this she was obliged to submit to her mother’s authority. High-heeled shoes were a discomfort to her, yet she had no choice but to wear them. In the evenings, when it was time to dress, her mother would with her own hands apply powder to Labanya’s face and colour to her cheeks. Because she was somewhat stout, Baradasundari had her blouses made very tight, so that when Labanya came out dressed and ready she looked as though she had been pressed and bound up like a jute sack.

The second daughter’s name was Lalita. She might be described as the opposite of her elder sister in almost every respect. She was taller than her didi, slender, a shade darker in complexion, spoke less, went her own way, and was capable, when she chose, of saying cutting things. Baradasundari was inwardly a little afraid of her and did not easily venture to provoke her.

The youngest was Lila, about ten years of age — stout and sturdy in the exercise of running about and making mischief. She and Satish were forever jostling and squabbling with each other. The question of ownership over the dog named Khude had to this day not been resolved between them. If Khude himself had been consulted, he would probably not have chosen either as his master; yet between the two he perhaps preferred Satish by a little — for the force of Lila’s affection was not easy for so small a creature to withstand, and the boy’s discipline was, comparatively speaking, the more bearable of the two.

The moment Baradasundari arrived, Binoy rose and bowed low to salute her. Pareshbabu began, “It was at this gentleman’s house that we, the other day —”

Barada said, “Oh! You were most kind — you have our sincerest thanks.”

At this Binoy grew so embarrassed that he could not manage a proper reply.

Binoy was also introduced to the young man who had come with the women. His name was Sudhir. He was reading for his B.A. at college. He was pleasant to look at — fair complexioned, spectacled, with the first faint trace of a moustache. His manner was extremely restless; he could not sit still for a moment, always eager to be doing something. He was forever teasing the girls, pestering them and keeping them in a perpetual stir. The girls, for their part, were forever scolding him — yet they could not do without Sudhir. To take them to the circus, to the Zoological Gardens, to buy them whatever they fancied — Sudhir was always ready. The easy, intimate familiarity with which Sudhir moved among the women struck Binoy as utterly new and astonishing. At first he inwardly disapproved of such behaviour, but that disapproval began to mingle, little by little, with something that felt very much like envy.

Baradasundari said, “I seem to have seen you once or twice at the Samaj.”

Binoy felt as though some offence of his had been detected. He replied with unnecessary embarrassment, “Yes, I go occasionally to hear Keshavbabu’s lectures.”

Baradasundari asked, “Are you still at college?”

Binoy said, “No, I am no longer at college.”

Barada asked, “How far did you get in your studies?”

Binoy said, “I have passed my M.A.”

Hearing this, Baradasundari’s opinion of this boyish-looking young man rose considerably. She sighed, turned toward Paresh and said, “If my Manu had lived, he would have come out with an M.A. by now as well.

Barada’s firstborn, Manoranjan, had died at the age of nine. Whenever she heard of any young man passing a great examination, obtaining a distinguished position, writing a notable book, or accomplishing something admirable, Barada would at once think that had Manu lived, precisely these things would have come to pass through him. Be that as it may, since he was gone, the active promotion of her three daughters’ accomplishments in society had become one of Baradasundari’s principal obligations. She made a point of informing Binoy that her daughters were studying very diligently, and the memsahib’s observations regarding their intelligence and merit were not kept from him either. When the Lieutenant Governor and his wife had come to the girls’ school to present prizes, Labanya had been singled out from all the girls in the school to present the bouquet, and something encouraging that the Governor’s wife had said to Labanya was duly related to Binoy as well.

At last Barada said to Labanya, “Run and fetch the piece of needlework for which you won the prize, my dear.”

A figure of a parrot worked in wool had become famous among the family’s circle of friends and acquaintances. Labanya had fashioned this object a good while back with the help of the memsahib, and her own contribution to the enterprise had not been very great — yet it was an established rule that every new acquaintance must be shown it. Paresh had objected at first, but finding it utterly futile, he no longer objected at all. Binoy had just widened his eyes in suitably astonished admiration of the artistry of the woollen parrot when a bearer came and placed a letter in Paresh’s hand.

Reading the letter, Paresh brightened and said, “Bring the gentleman up.”

Barada asked, “Who is it?”

Paresh said, “My childhood friend Krishnadayal has sent his son to make our acquaintance.”

Suddenly Binoy’s heart gave a great leap and his face went pale. The next instant he clenched his fist and sat up rather stiffly, as though bracing himself against an adversary. That Gora would look upon and judge this family with contempt — this thought, even before anything had happened, stirred in Binoy a restless, troubled agitation.