Chapter 10

Believing it to be impossible, Shekhar had given up all hope of Lalita. For the first few days he lived in constant dread—terrified that she might suddenly appear, that she might disclose everything, that he might be called to give an account of himself before everyone. But no one demanded an explanation, nor was there any sign that a single word had leaked out; indeed, no one from that house so much as crossed over to this one. Standing on the open terrace in front of Shekhar’s room, one could command a full view of Lalita’s roof; but fearful of running into her, he would not even step onto his own terrace. When a whole month passed without incident, however, he let out a sigh of relief and thought to himself: after all, a woman has her sense of shame; such matters she could never bring herself to reveal. He had heard it said that a woman’s heart might burst before her lips would part, and he believed it, quietly commending the Almighty’s wisdom for bestowing such weakness upon their kind. And yet, why was there no peace? Why, from the very moment he realised he had nothing more to fear, did an unfamiliar anguish begin to fill his entire chest? Why, time and again, did the innermost depths of his heart tremble so with despair, pain, and dread? So then Lalita would say nothing at all—she would remain silent right up to the moment she was handed over to another. Why, then, even at the thought that she was already married, that she had gone off to make a home with her husband, did a fire ignite so fiercely within him and without?

In the past, whenever he did not go out for an evening walk, he used to pace back and forth on the open roof before his room; today he resumed doing so, but not once did he catch sight of anyone from the neighboring house on their roof. Only on a single day did Annakali come out for some task or other, but the moment her eyes met his, she lowered them and vanished before Shekhar could even decide whether to call out to her. Shekhar understood in his heart that the wall they had erected to block the passage meant that even little Kali was aware of what had transpired.

Another month went by.

One day, Bhubaneswari casually asked, "Have you seen Lalita lately, Shekhar?"

Shekhar shook his head and said, "No. Why?"

His mother said, "After nearly two months, I saw her on the roof yesterday and called out to her—the girl seems transformed into someone else entirely. So thin, her face so drawn, looking as though she has aged years. And so grave—who could ever guess she is only fourteen?" Tears welled up in her eyes. Wiping them away with her hand, she continued in a thick voice, "The sari she was wearing was dirty, with a patch stitched near the anchal. I asked her, 'Don't you have any saris, my child?' She said she did, but I couldn't bring myself to believe her. She never wears the clothes her uncle buys; I am the one who always gives them to her, and I haven't given her anything for six or seven months either." She could say no more, and began dabbing at her eyes with the end of her sari—she truly loved Lalita as her own daughter.

Shekhar remained seated in silence, staring off in another direction.

After a long silence, she spoke again: "Except for me, she could never bring herself to ask anyone for anything. Even if she felt hungry at an odd hour, she could never say it aloud at home—it was always me. She would wander about near me, and the moment I looked at her face, I knew. That is what weighs on my mind, Shekhar—she goes about with her face pinched and dry, and no one understands her, no one even asks. It isn't just that she calls me Mother; she loves me like a mother too."

Shekhar could not summon the courage to turn his eyes toward his mother's face. Still gazing where he had been looking, he said, "Well then, Ma, why don't you call her over and ask her what she needs?"

"Why would she accept anything now? Your father went so far as to wall off the passage between the houses. With what face could I even go to give her anything? Out of sheer distress, my brother-in-law may have committed a mistake without realizing, but instead of acting like kin and hushing it up with some penance or other, we cut them off completely as strangers. And I must say, it was your father's endless pressure that drove him to abandon his caste in the first place. Constant nagging, constant demands—driven by sheer disgust, a person can do anything. In fact, I would say my brother-in-law has done the right thing. That boy Girin is far closer to him than we are, and if Lalita is married to him, I tell you, the girl will be happy. I hear it's to take place next month."

Shekhar suddenly turned his head and asked, "Is it really taking place next month?"

"So I hear."

Shekhar asked nothing more.

His mother was quiet for a while before adding, "I heard from Lalita that her uncle's health hasn't been good lately either. And small wonder. He has no peace of mind himself, and on top of that there is constant weeping in the house—there isn't a moment's respite over there."

Shekhar had been listening silently, and silent he remained.

A little while later, after his mother had left, he came over to the bed and lay down—his thoughts consumed by Lalita.

The lane was not wide enough for two carriages to pass each other comfortably; unless one pulled up close to the side, another could not pass. About ten days later, the carriage bringing Shekhar back from the office was forced to halt in front of Gurucharan’s house, blocked by another vehicle. Shekhar got down, made inquiries, and learned that a doctor had arrived.

He had heard from his mother a few days earlier that Gurucharan was unwell. Remembering this, he did not go straight home, but went directly to Gurucharan’s bedchamber. And indeed it was so. Gurucharan lay lifelessly upon the bed; on one side sat Lalita and Girin with solemn, pale faces, while in front of them, seated on a chair, the doctor was examining the patient.

Gurucharan motioned in a faint voice for him to sit; Lalita pulled the end of her sari further over her head and turned her face away.

The doctor was a local man and knew Shekhar. Having examined the patient and prescribed medication, he stepped outside with Shekhar to sit down. As Girin followed them out to pay the fee and see the doctor off, the doctor gave him a stern warning that the disease had not yet advanced too far, and that a change of air was absolutely essential at this stage.

Once the doctor had departed, both men returned to stand inside Gurucharan's room.

Lalita beckoned Girin to one side and began speaking to him in whispered tones; Shekhar sat motionless on the chair before them, his eyes fixed on Gurucharan. The old man had already turned his face away toward the wall and was unaware of Shekhar’s return.

After sitting silently for a while, Shekhar rose and left. Lalita and Girin were still speaking in quiet whispers; no one asked him to sit, no one asked him to stay, nor did anyone utter a single word to address him.

Today he returned with the absolute certainty that Lalita had released him forever from his heavy burden—now he could breathe a sigh of relief without fear; there was no longer any cause for dread, Lalita would entangle him no more! As he changed his clothes upon returning to his room, it struck him a thousand times that he had seen with his own eyes how Girin was the true friend of that household, their pillar of hope, and Lalita's sanctuary for the future. He himself was nobody; even in such a moment of crisis, Lalita did not look to him for a single word of counsel.

With a sudden groan—"Oh!"—he sank down, burying his face upon a cushioned arm-chair. Seeing him, Lalita had drawn her sari over her head and averted her face as though he were an utter stranger—completely unknown to her! And yet right before his very eyes, she had called Girin aside for endless consultations! Yet under this very man's guardianship, she had once refused to even allow him to take her to the theatre!

He tried once more to reason that perhaps she had acted out of modesty, remembering their secret bond; but how could even that be possible? If so, after everything that had occurred, would she not have tried, by some subtlety or device over all this time, to ask him at least a single question?

Suddenly his mother's voice echoed outside the room—she was calling out, "Where are you? Haven't you washed your hands and face yet? Twilight is falling!"

Shekhar started up in haste and hurriedly went downstairs, keeping his head averted so that his mother’s eyes might not fall upon his face.

Over these past days, countless thoughts taking innumerable forms had drifted ceaselessly through his mind, save for a single truth he never paused to consider: where the fault truly lay. Not a single word of hope had he spoken to her to this day, nor had he ever given her the opportunity to speak to him. On the contrary, he had remained stiff and frozen with fear, terrified lest the matter be exposed or lest she lay some claim upon him. And yet, he sat in judgment by heaping every scrap of blame solely upon Lalita’s head, consuming himself in his own jealousy, anger, wounded pride, and sense of humiliation. Perhaps it is thus that all men in this world judge, and thus that they burn.

Seven days passed as he smoldered thus, and tonight after dusk he sat in the quiet room, tending that same inner flame, when a sound at the door made his heart leap into his mouth! Holding Kali by the hand, Lalita entered the room and sat composedly upon the carpet on the floor. Kali said, "Shekhar-da, the two of us have come to pay our respects to you—we are leaving tomorrow."

Shekhar could not speak; he merely stared.

Kali said, "We have committed many faults and offenses at your feet, Shekhar-da; please forget them all."

Shekhar understood that not a single word of this was Kali's own; she was merely reciting what she had been tutored to say. He asked, "Where are you going tomorrow?"

"Upcountry. We are all taking Father to Monghyr—Girin-babu has a house there. Even if Father recovers, we won't be returning; the doctor said this climate will not suit Father."

Shekhar asked, "How is he now?"

"A little better," Kali said, and producing several pairs of saris from under her anchal, she showed them to him and added, "Jethaima bought these for us."

Lalita had remained silent all this while; she now rose, placed a key on the table, and said, "This key to the cabinet was with me all this time." With a faint, fleeting smile, she added, "But there is no money left in it now—it has all been spent."

Shekhar remained silent.

Kali said, "Come, Sej-di, it's getting late."

Before Lalita could say anything, Shekhar suddenly spoke up in flustered haste: "Kali, fetch me a couple of paans from downstairs, won't you, little sister?"

Lalita clasped Kali's hand and said, "You stay seated, Kali, I'll get them," and swiftly went downstairs. A little later she returned with the paans and handed them to Kali, who stepped forward and gave them to Shekhar.

With the paans in his hand, Shekhar sat motionless.

"We are going then, Shekhar-da," Kali said, coming close to his feet to bow deeply in pranam. Lalita bowed low, touching her forehead to the ground right where she stood, and then both of them slowly walked out.

Shekhar remained seated, stunned and dazed, his face pale and wan, left alone with his self-interest and pride. She had come, said what she had to say, and taken her leave forever; yet Shekhar had said nothing at all. As though he had had nothing to say, the entire time had slipped away. Lalita had brought Kali along by design, because she did not want any uncomfortable subject to be raised—this too he realized in his heart. After that, a numbness spread through his entire body, his head began to swim, and he got up and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes.