21

Sarbajaya heard the news at the ghat, from the women of the neighborhood.

For some days now, a rift had been growing between Niren and Annada Ray—and especially with his son, Gokul. Apparently, a furious quarrel had broken out yesterday afternoon, with a great deal of shouting. The upshot was that Niren had packed his belongings and left that very night. Harimati, the wife of Annada Ray’s neighbor, Jajneswar Dighri, was saying, “I don’t know what’s true and what’s not, but we’ve been hearing all sorts of things for days—though for my part, I don’t believe a word of it. The bou isn’t like that. Then again, I heard that Niren secretly gave her money, that the wife sent the money somewhere, and that a receipt in Niren’s handwriting came back and fell into Gokul’s hands, and all that. But oh well, what’s the use of listening to other people’s scandals? I heard Niren said, ‘Can all of you gang up and torment one person and see no fault in it? Think what you will, but let Bou-thakrun just give the word, and I will carry her away this very instant, holding her on my head as I would my own lost mother. After that, you can do whatever you please.’ Then there was a huge uproar for a while—and before evening, he’d hailed a cart from the milkmen’s quarter, loaded his things, and was gone.”

Sarbajaya’s spirits sank when she heard the news. In the meantime, she had prevailed upon her husband to write to Niren’s father about a marriage proposal. She had even invited Niren to their house two more times—she had taken an immense liking to the boy. Harihar had tried to reason with her many times, saying that Niren’s father was a wealthy man—would he really consent to his son marrying into their family? But Sarbajaya had not given up hope; from somewhere deep in her heart, she had found a store of courage—a sense that this union was not some impossible dream, that it was destined to be. Though Harihar himself was not convinced, he had, at his wife’s insistence, prodded Annada Ray about it several times. But now, this great calamity had struck.

One day, in the meantime, Durga met Gokul’s wife on the path. The young woman whispered many things to Durga—the story of why Niren had gone away. As she spoke, her eyes welled up and tears streamed down her face.

“My days will just pass like this, being kicked and beaten with brooms—I have no one, Dugga—and my brother, is he even human? There’s nowhere I can go for even two days of peace—”

Durga’s heart filled with sympathy, and at the same time, a fierce protest against the slandering of her Khurima, along with words of solace for her sorrow, swirled indistinctly in her mind, forming a tangled knot. Unable to arrange her thoughts into words, she said only, “That Sakhi-thakurma, you know what she’s like! Let her talk. What can she do? Don’t cry, Khurima, my dear. I’ll come to see you every day—”

When she heard, Sarbajaya asked in an eager tone, “Did the bouma say anything, Durga? … Was there any talk of Niren?”

Durga said in a shy voice, “Why don’t you just ask at the ghat tomorrow? I don’t know.”

Apu asked once, “What did you hear from Khurima? Won’t the master-moshay be coming anymore?”

Durga snapped at him, “How should I know? Go on!”

The path, filled with shadows in the slanting afternoon sun, had a way of making one’s heart ache. For her, it was for her brother. This happened to her often; if he was not at home for too long, or if she hadn’t seen him, her mind would conjure up countless imaginary sorrows for him, and a strange feeling would stir within her.

Her little brother, like a golden doll with his milk-and-alta complexion, wearing a single piece of cloth, dirty and half-torn, playing begun-bichi by himself in front of their door, tossing cowrie shells. He would ask her for a paisa to buy this or that, and she couldn’t give it to him—and it pained her heart deeply.

A few days later. At Bhuvan Mukherjee’s house, Ranu’s sister’s wedding was over, but the visiting kith and kin had not all left yet. There were many children, too. Durga had become quite friendly with a little girl named Tuni. Her father had also been visiting. This afternoon, he had left for his place of work, leaving his wife and daughter here for a few days. About an hour later, Sej-thakrun, who was busy with some task in another room, heard Tuni’s mother’s voice. Coming out onto the veranda, Sej-thakrun said, “What is it, Hasi? What’s wrong?” Tuni’s mother was frantically rummaging through the bedding, peering under pillows, flipping over the mattress; she said, “Just a little while ago I left my gold sindur box right here, beside the bed. The baby started crying in his cradle, and my husband arrived from home—I forgot to pick it up again. Now it’s gone, I can’t find it anywhere!”

Sej-thakrun said, “Oh my, what’s this? You didn’t take it with you by mistake, did you?”

“No, Didima, I left it right here. I remember it clearly, right here.”

Everyone searched all around for some time, but there was no sign of the little box. Upon questioning, Sej-thakrun learned that at first, the children of the house had been on the veranda; then, when they were called for a meal, they had all gone to eat. The only outsider present at that time was Durga. Sej-thakrun’s younger daughter, Tepi, whispered, “The moment we went to eat, I saw Dugga-di slipping out the back gate. She’s only just now come back.”

Sej-thakrun conferred in a whisper, then said to Durga in a harsh tone, “Give back the box, Dugga. Tell me where you’ve put it. Bring it out right now, I’m telling you—”

Durga’s face had shrunk and gone pale. At Sej-thakrun’s menacing air, her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. She mumbled something indistinctly, but it could not be understood.

Tuni’s mother had not said a word until now—she was a little taken aback to see everyone gang up on a girl from a respectable family, branding her a thief. Moreover, she had been seeing Durga here for several days and had taken a liking to her pretty face—was it possible she would steal? She said, “It probably wasn’t her, Sej-di—why would she—”

Sej-thakrun said, “You just keep quiet. What do you know about her? Whether she’s taken it or not, I know perfectly well—”

One of the women said, “Well, if you took it, bring it out. Or just say where it is—and the trouble’s over. Give it back, my dear, why tell lies—”

Durga seemed to have gone numb—her legs were trembling uncontrollably—she leaned against the wall for support and said, “But I don’t know, Kakima—I didn’t—”

Sej-thakrun said, “And I’m supposed to believe that? She definitely took it—I can tell from the look on her face. Alright, I’m asking you nicely, where have you put it? Give back the thing, and I won’t say another word—all I want is my property back.”

The first female relative remarked, “I’ve never heard of a girl from a decent family stealing. Is her house in this neighborhood?”

Sej-thakrun said, “So, you won’t listen to reason! You’ll see what happens, you will. You thought you could make off with something from my house and get away with it—what did you take me for? Today, I’ll show you—”

Then she seized Durga’s arm and, dragging her violently, pulled her into the very center of the veranda. “Durga,” she said, “tell me, now, where have you put it? … You won’t talk? … No, you don’t know anything, you’re just a baby—you don’t know a thing—Quick, tell me, or I’ll smash your teeth to powder right now! Speak up, quick! I’m telling you, speak up!”

Tuni’s mother was coming forward to grab her hand, but one of the relatives said, “Wait, can’t you see she’s the one who took it? A beating is the only cure for a thief. If she gives it back now, it’ll all be over—why make a fuss—”

Durga’s head was reeling. She looked around helplessly and, with great difficulty, managed to utter with a dry, tangled tongue, “But I don’t know, Kakima, they all left, so I also—” As she spoke, she kept her eyes fixed on Sej-thakrun, stiff with terror, and tried to shrink back toward the wall.

After this, they all tried to reason with her for a while longer. Her answer was the same—she did not know.

“A hardened thief,” someone said.

Tepi said, “The mangoes in the garden don’t stand a chance of hitting the ground, Kakima—”

It was perhaps this last remark that touched a raw nerve in Sej-thakrun. She suddenly let out a screeching, hawk-like cry, “So that’s it, you wretched, shameless spawn of thieves! You won’t give it back? We’ll see whether you give it back or not!” Without finishing her sentence, she lunged at Durga and, grabbing her by the head, began to bash it violently against the wall. “Tell me where you put it—tell me now—tell me, quick—tell me—”

Tuni’s mother rushed over and grabbed Sej-thakrun’s hands. “What are you doing, what are you doing, Sej-di! Let my box go—why are you hitting her like that? Let her go—that’s enough, let go, for shame!” Seeing her mother, Tuni began to cry. The first relative said, “Oh! She’s bleeding…”

No one had noticed that blood was streaming from Durga’s nose. A patch of her clothing had turned crimson.

Tuni’s mother said, “Quick, Tepi, bring some water—look in the bucket on the porch ledge—”

Hearing the shouting and commotion, the women from the blacksmiths’ house next door came to see what the matter was. Ranu’s mother had not been there—after her midday meal, she had been sitting and chatting at the blacksmiths’—she came over as well.

From the force of the blows, there was a ringing in Durga’s head. She looked around at the crowd in a daze, seeing something, but what, it was not clear.

When the water was brought, Ranu’s mother splashed it on her face and eyes and helped her to sit up. Her head was spinning; she sat down, bewildered. Ranu’s mother said, “How can you beat a child like that, Sej-di? … The poor, frail girl—shame on you—”

“You people still don’t know her. A beating is the only cure for a thief, I’m telling you—and do you think this beating is the end of it? Do you think I’ll let her go if it’s not found? Let Hari Ray hang me from the gallows for it afterwards—”

Ranu’s mother said, “That’s enough. Let her recover a little now, Sej-di—after the scene you’ve made—”

Tuni’s mother said, “Oh my, if I’d known it would come to this, who would have mentioned the box? … I don’t want my box—let her go, Sej-di.”

It is hard to say whether Sej-thakrun would have let go so easily, but public opinion was beginning to turn against her. … And so, she was compelled to release her prisoner.

Ranu’s mother took her by the arm, opened the other door, and led her out into the back courtyard. “It was a truly auspicious moment you chose to leave the house today, wasn’t it!” she said. “Go on now, go slowly—Tepi, open the back gate properly.”

Durga walked out through the back gate in a daze, while the women and all who were present stood and watched.

One of them said, “And still she didn’t confess—can you believe that?”

Another said, “But not a single tear fell from her eyes—”

Ranu’s mother said, “How could tears fall? They have all dried up in terror. Are there any tears left in her eyes? To beat a child like that, Sej-di!”