Chapter 2

For a long time, negotiations had been underway for Shekhar’s marriage into an affluent family of Shyambazar. That afternoon, the prospective bride’s party had come to see the groom and wished to fix an auspicious date in the coming month of Magh before leaving. But Shekhar’s mother would not consent. She sent word through a maidservant: only when her son had seen the girl himself and approved of her would she agree to the match.

Nabin Roy had eyes for money alone. Displeased by his wife’s troublesome insistence, he said, “What nonsense is this! The girl has already been seen. Let the agreement be finalized first; we can always consult the almanac for a suitable date for the blessing later.”

Even so, his wife remained firm and would not allow the final word to be given. Perturbed and out of sorts, Nabin Roy took his afternoon meal late that day and retired to the outer parlour for his post-prandial nap.

Shekharnath was a man of somewhat refined and fastidious tastes. The room he occupied on the second floor was elegantly furnished. Five or six days later, one late afternoon, as he stood before the large looking-glass in his room dressing to go and inspect the prospective bride, Lalita stepped inside. She gazed at him in silence for a moment before asking, “Going to see your bride, are you?”

Shekhar turned around and said, “Ah, there you are! Come, dress me up nicely, won’t you, so the bride takes a liking to me?”

Lalita smiled. “I haven’t the time now, Shekhar-da—I’ve come to fetch some money,” she said, retrieving a key from beneath his pillow. Opening a drawer, she counted out a few rupees, tied them into the end of her sari, and added, almost as if talking to herself, “I take money whenever I need it, but how will it ever be repaid?”

Shekhar carefully brushed up one side of his hair, turned around, and said, “Repaid? Isn’t it being repaid already?”

Lalita did not understand and stood looking at him.

Shekhar said, “Why do you stare like that? Didn’t you understand?”

Lalita shook her head and said, “No.”

“Grow up a little more, then you will,” said Shekhar, slipping into his shoes and stepping out.

That night, Shekhar was lying quietly on a couch when his mother entered the room. He sat up hastily. Sitting down on a chair, his mother asked, “Well, what was the girl like?”

Shekhar looked at his mother’s face, smiled, and said, “Nice.”

Shekhar’s mother was named Bhuvaneshwari. She was nearly fifty years old, but her form possessed such exquisite grace that no one would have judged her to be more than thirty-five or thirty-six. And within that beautiful exterior beat a maternal heart even younger and tenderer still. She was a village woman by birth, born and raised in the countryside, yet she had never seemed out of place for a single day in the city. Just as she had effortlessly assimilated the lively bustle and customs of urban life, so too had she preserved intact the quiet serenity and sweetness of her native soil.

How immense a source of pride this mother was to Shekhar, even she did not know. The Almighty had blessed Shekhar with many gifts—uncommon health, handsome looks, wealth, and intellect—yet he considered the fortune of being born this woman’s son to be God’s greatest blessing of all.

His mother said, “You just say ‘nice’ and fall silent!”

Shekhar smiled again, lowered his head, and said, “I only answered what you asked.”

His mother laughed too. “How is that an answer? What is her complexion like—fair? Who does she resemble? Someone like our Lalita?”

Shekhar raised his head and said, “Lalita is dark, Ma—she is fairer than her.”

“And her features?”

“Not bad either.”

“Shall I tell your father then?”

This time Shekhar remained silent.

His mother looked at her son’s face for a moment, then suddenly asked, “Tell me, how educated is the girl?”

Shekhar replied, “I didn’t ask about that, Ma!”

Astonished, his mother said, “You didn’t ask! The very thing you young people consider most essential nowadays—you didn't bother to find that out?”

Shekhar laughed and said, “No, Ma, it didn’t even cross my mind.”

Hearing her son’s words, she looked at his face in deep amazement for a moment, then broke into a smile and said, “Ah, so I see you have no intention of marrying there!”

Shekhar was about to say something, but stopped short upon seeing Lalita enter the room. Lalita came up slowly and stood behind Bhuvaneshwari. Drawing her forward with her left arm, Bhuvaneshwari asked, “What is it, child?”

Lalita whispered, “Nothing, Ma.”

Lalita used to call her Mashima, but Bhuvaneshwari had forbidden it, saying, “I am not your aunt, Lalita, I am your mother.” Ever since then, she had addressed her as Ma. Drawing her even closer to her breast, Bhuvaneshwari said affectionately, “Nothing? Then did you just come to catch a glimpse of me?”

Lalita remained silent.

Shekhar remarked, “She came to catch a glimpse—when will she cook?”

His mother asked, “Why should she cook?”

Surprised, Shekhar asked, “Then who will cook for them, Ma? Her uncle said the other day that Lalita would be doing all the cooking and household chores.”

His mother laughed. “Her uncle says whatever comes to his mouth! She isn’t married yet; who would eat food cooked by her hand? I’ve sent our Brahmin cook-woman; she will cook for them. Our eldest daughter-in-law is taking care of our cooking, and nowadays I take my noon meal at their house myself.”

Shekhar understood that his mother had taken the heavy burden of this impoverished family upon herself.

He breathed a sigh of satisfaction and lapsed into silence.

About a month later, one evening after dark, Shekhar was reclining on the couch in his room, absorbed in an English novel. He was deeply engrossed when Lalita entered, took the key from under his pillow, and opened the drawer with a deliberate rustle and clatter. Without raising his eyes from the book, Shekhar asked, “What is it?”

Lalita said, “I am taking some money.”

“Mm,” Shekhar muttered, reading on. Tying the money into the end of her sari, Lalita stood up. She had dressed up carefully today, hoping Shekhar would look at her. She said, “I took ten rupees, Shekhar-da.”

Shekhar said, “Very well,” but did not look up. Having no choice, she fidgeted with one thing and another, lingering unnecessarily, but to no avail. Finally, she stepped out slowly. But leaving would not do; she had to turn around and stand at the doorway again. Tonight they were going to watch a play at the theatre.

She knew she could go nowhere without Shekhar’s permission. No one had ever told her this, nor had any questioning as to why or wherefore ever crossed her mind. But the innate intuition common to every living creature had taught her that others might do as they pleased and go where they wished, but she could not. She was not free, and her uncle and aunt’s permission alone was not enough for her. Standing behind the shadow of the door, she said softly, “We are going to the theatre, you see.”

Her quiet voice did not reach Shekhar’s ears; he gave no reply.

Lalita then raised her voice a little higher and said, “Everyone is waiting for me.”

This time Shekhar heard. Setting the book aside, he asked, “What is the matter?”

Lalita said with a touch of annoyance, “So you hear me at last! We are going to the theatre.”

Shekhar asked, “Who is ‘we’?”

“Me, Annakali, Charubala, and her uncle.”

“And who is this uncle?”

Lalita said, “His name is Girin-babu. He arrived five or six days ago from his home in Monghyr to study for his B.A. here—he is a very nice person—”

“Bravo—name, residence, occupation—a grand acquaintance you’ve struck up, I see! Is that why I haven’t seen so much as a hair of your head for the past four or five days? Playing cards, were you, I suppose?”

Lalita was suddenly frightened by Shekhar’s tone. It had never occurred to her that such a question could even arise. She remained silent.

Shekhar said, “You’ve been playing cards a great deal these past few days, haven't you?”

Lalita swallowed hard and murmured softly, “Charu asked me to.”

“Charu asked you? What did she say?” Shekhar raised his head, glanced at her once, and said, “Dressed up and fully ready to go, I see—fine, off you go.”

He breathed a sigh of satisfaction and lapsed into silence.

About a month later, one evening after dark, Shekhar was reclining on the couch in his room, absorbed in an English novel. He was deeply engrossed when Lalita entered, took the key from under his pillow, and opened the drawer with a deliberate rustle and clatter. Without raising his eyes from the book, Shekhar asked, “What is it?”

Lalita said, “I am taking some money.”

“Mm,” Shekhar muttered, reading on. Tying the money into the end of her sari, Lalita stood up. She had dressed up carefully today, hoping Shekhar would look at her. She said, “I took ten rupees, Shekhar-da.”

Shekhar said, “Very well,” but did not look up. Having no choice, she fidgeted with one thing and another, lingering unnecessarily, but to no avail. Finally, she stepped out slowly. But leaving would not do; she had to turn around and stand at the doorway again. Tonight they were going to watch a play at the theatre.

She knew she could go nowhere without Shekhar’s permission. No one had ever told her this, nor had any questioning as to why or wherefore ever crossed her mind. But the innate intuition common to every living creature had taught her that others might do as they pleased and go where they wished, but she could not. She was not free, and her uncle and aunt’s permission alone was not enough for her. Standing behind the shadow of the door, she said softly, “We are going to the theatre, you see.”

Her quiet voice did not reach Shekhar’s ears; he gave no reply.

Lalita then raised her voice a little higher and said, “Everyone is waiting for me.”

This time Shekhar heard. Setting the book aside, he asked, “What is the matter?”

Lalita said with a touch of annoyance, “So you hear me at last! We are going to the theatre.”

Shekhar asked, “Who is ‘we’?”

“Me, Annakali, Charubala, and her uncle.”

“And who is this uncle?”

Lalita said, “His name is Girin-babu. He arrived five or six days ago from his home in Monghyr to study for his B.A. here—he is a very nice person—”

“Bravo—name, residence, occupation—a grand acquaintance you’ve struck up, I see! Is that why I haven’t seen so much as a hair of your head for the past four or five days? Playing cards, were you, I suppose?”

Lalita was suddenly frightened by Shekhar’s tone. It had never occurred to her that such a question could even arise. She remained silent.

Shekhar said, “You’ve been playing cards a great deal these past few days, haven't you?”

Lalita swallowed hard and murmured softly, “Charu asked me to.”

“Charu asked you? What did she say?” Shekhar raised his head, glanced at her once, and said, “Dressed up and fully ready to go, I see—fine, off you go.”

Lalita did not go; she stood there in silence.

Charubala next door was her own age and her close companion. They were Brahmos. Shekhar knew everyone in their household except for Girin. Five or six years ago, Girin had visited this area briefly. Since then he had been studying in Bankipore, had found no occasion to come to Calcutta, and had not come. That was why Shekhar did not know him. Seeing Lalita still standing there, he said, “Why stand there in vain? Go on.” With that, he raised the book before his face.

After remaining quiet for about five minutes, Lalita asked softly once more, “Shall I go?”

“I told you to go, Lalita.”

Seeing Shekhar’s manner, Lalita lost all desire to watch the play, yet she could hardly refrain from going either.

It had been agreed that she would pay half the expenses and Charu’s uncle would pay the other half.

She could plainly envision everyone at Charu’s house waiting for her anxiously, their impatience mounting with every passing moment, yet she could find no way out. She lacked the courage to go without his approval. After another two or three minutes of silence, she said, “Just for today—may I go?”

Shekhar threw his book aside and snapped at her, “Don’t annoy me, Lalita! Go if you want to—you are old enough to know right from wrong.”

Lalita started. Being scolded by Shekhar was nothing new to her; she was quite accustomed to it, but she had not heard such a tone from him in the past two or three years. On one hand, her friends were waiting and she was dressed and ready; on the other, coming to fetch the money had brought about this disaster. What was she to say to them now?

Until today, she had enjoyed complete freedom from Shekhar regarding her movements, and on the strength of that freedom she had dressed up and come to him. Now, not only was that freedom so harshly curtailed, but the humiliating reason behind it struck her for the first time in her thirteen years, making her shrink within herself in mortification. Her eyes filling with tears of hurt pride, she stood silently for another five minutes before wiping her eyes and walking away. Returning to her room, she had the maidservant fetch Annakali, placed the ten rupees in her hand, and said, “You go today, Kali. I am feeling very unwell; go tell my friend I won’t be able to come.”

Kali asked, “What is wrong, Sej-di?”

“I have a headache and feel nauseous—I am very sick,” she said, turning on her side in bed. After that, Charu came and pleaded, pressed her, and even got her aunt to intercede, but could not persuade her by any means. Annakali, with ten rupees in her hand, was fidgeting with eagerness to go. Fearing that all these complications might derail the trip, she pulled Charu aside, showed her the money, and said, “Sej-di is feeling unwell—never mind if she doesn't go, Charu-di! She gave me the money, look—let us go.” Charu realized that though Annakali was young in years, she was no less shrewd than anyone else. Acquiescing, she took her along and departed.