33

This was the first time in Sarbajaya’s life she had lived in another’s house, utterly dependent, like a thief. For better or worse, she had always been the sole mistress of her own home. Queen of a poor household, yes—but there, her word had been no less law than that of the mistress and daughters-in-law of this great house. Here, it was as if she were always on edge, always trying to please, always having to watch another’s face to know which way to walk, never to put a foot wrong. The lowest of the low, and lower still! It was becoming unbearable. She worked until she was ready to drop—but there was no value in her labour here. Toil with all your might—no one would so much as mention your name. When they deigned to give, they would toss it to you with disdainful pride—not as if paying you what your labour was worth, but as charity. You had to accept it on your knees.

This was gradually becoming intolerable. But what could she do? Where was the opportunity to leave? Who would give her shelter? Where would she stand?

Would it be like this for the rest of her life? As long as she lived? Like that Brahman auntie?

The wedding festivities were not yet over; tonight was the feast for the women, and from early evening, the carriages of the invited ladies began to arrive at the back gate. Past the main inner door, the wide marble staircase leading up to the second-floor veranda of the women’s quarters was carpeted in a blue floral pattern. Gaslights illuminated the entire veranda and staircase, and a large gas chandelier burned at the top of the stairs. The two daughters-in-law and the girls of the house were welcoming everyone and sending them upstairs. The invited ladies, some smiling discreetly, some rippling with laughter, some demure, some brisk, some with a uniquely beautiful grace of movement, ascended the stairs.

Apu had been standing for a long time by a pillar on the lower veranda, watching. He had never seen such a scene in his life; he had fallen asleep on the wedding night and missed most of it. What he liked best was watching Sujata, a girl of this house. She would come down the carpeted marble stairs, look at one of the guests, and say with a smile, ‘Well, Moni-di, look at you! Arriving at eight o’clock? Didn’t the Bhabhi from Bakulbagan come?’ The beautiful, newly welcomed guest laughed and said, ‘The carriage has been ready and waiting since six, my dear… you know how it is to get out of the house, not everything was ready… you know how it is.’

Sujata, whose fair, rounded, flawless arms emerged from the sleeves of her expensive, sleeveless China-crepe blouse the colour of a kanchan flower, wrapped her arms around the guest from behind in an affectionate embrace, rested her face on her right shoulder, and they went up the stairs together. As they walked, she continued, ‘Ma was saying that the Bhabhi from Bakulbagan is going to Calcutta next month. Ma went on Wednesday—is it all settled?’

The Mejo Bou-rani, the middle daughter-in-law, appeared on the upper landing. A little older, perhaps over thirty, she was exquisitely beautiful. Her attire was simple; the end of her wide, red-bordered silk sari, the colour of a pale champa flower, was pinned to her hair with a diamond clip. The fine gold chain around her neck glittered in the light of the large chandelier on the stairs. Her features were lovely, her manner a little slow, grave—even at this age, the glow of her milk-and-alta complexion was breathtaking. The recent death of a beloved brother had cast a faint shadow of sorrow, lending a restrained grace to the beauty of her mature face.

As she was climbing the stairs, Moni-di saw the Mejo Bou-rani before her and stopped. ‘How is Mejo-boudi feeling these days? Look at me, I’ve been meaning to come… They all arrived from Etwah yesterday, and I was up so late with them…’

Apu had never imagined a person could be so beautiful. This was the first time he had seen her, for she had not been here for some time; she had just returned from her father’s house a few days ago after her brother’s death. He stared at her, his eyes wide with rapt wonder. The lights, the gathering of beautiful women all around, the soft, intoxicating scent of expensive perfumes, the ripples of music and laughter like the strumming of a vina—it all went to his head. If only this could go on all day!

The Mejo Bou-rani had for some time been observing an unfamiliar boy standing in the corner of the staircase. She did not know everyone—her own father was also a very wealthy man, and she often stayed at his house. Descending two steps, she called out in a soft voice, ‘Khoka, come up. Why are you just standing there? Where are you from?’

Apu had been watching another group of arrivals, his face turned away. He looked back suddenly, surprised to see that the Mejo Bou-rani was speaking to him—he could hardly believe it. Then, as a world of shame descended upon him, he was debating whether to go upstairs or run away, when the Mejo Bou-rani herself came down. She came close and said, ‘Where are you from, Khoka?’

With great difficulty and effort, the words emerged from Apu’s mouth. ‘I—I—my mother—she lives in this house.’ At once, he was terrified that she, hearing that he, the son of some cook, was standing here, would call someone over and say, ‘Throw him out by the scruff of his neck!’

But the Mejo Bou-rani did nothing of the sort. She said with a surprised look, ‘Your mother lives in this house? Who is she? What does she do? How long have you been here?’

In broken, jumbled words, Apu gave her his story.

The Mejo Bou-rani must have heard about them since her arrival. She said, ‘Oh, you’re the ones who came from Kashi, are you? What’s your name?’ Looking into his beautiful, innocent eyes, she must have felt a stirring of pity. She said, ‘Come on, come stand upstairs. Why are you down here? Come upstairs.’

Like a thief, Apu followed the Bou-rani upstairs and stood clinging to a corner.

Upstairs, a large party of women had gathered. The entire veranda was carpeted. Along the edges were rose bushes and areca palms in large glass pots. In a corner stood the large drawing-room organ. After a good deal of coaxing, a girl went to the small padded stool by the organ, and after lightly touching the keys a few times, she paused, smiled, and began to sing a song. The girl was not particularly pretty, her complexion middling, but she had a beautiful singing voice. After her, another girl sang; this one was not so good-looking either. The Mejo Bou-rani’s daughter, Lila, recited a humorous poem, nodding her head as she did, which made everyone laugh heartily. A very pretty girl, as lovely as her mother. And what a sweet laugh!

Apu was thinking, why hadn’t his mother come up just once to see all this? Where was she, stuck in some kitchen, probably still working? Where else would his mother ever get to see such things?

While the women’s party was in full swing, a commotion broke out downstairs. Girish Sarkar’s voice could be heard very clearly.

Sadu, the maid, came upstairs laughing. ‘The scoundrel! Look at this business… hee hee… says it was in his hookah… hee hee…’

Two or three of the invited ladies asked, ‘What happened? What is it?’

‘That temporary cook, came from who-knows-where… went to fry luchis… frying them in the courtyard of the Sarkars’ dining room… says he was just going outside for a moment… with it in his hookah… hee hee… stealing it, packed inside… over half a seer… the gomasta-moshai caught him… Ramnihar Singh is giving him such a beating… grabbing him by his topknot—’

Sarbajaya had not had a moment to breathe since morning.

The task of frying nearly two maunds of fish had fallen to her alone—she had been at it in the fish-room since eight o’clock. Hearing the shouting, she came out of the room and saw, in the middle of a courtyard full of people, a thin, dark-complexioned Brahman boy of about twenty-five or thirty, dressed in dirty clothes, being rained on with fists and slaps by two or three men. The man was a temporary cook, hired from outside just for the day’s work—he had apparently been stealing ghee by carrying it away inside his hookah. The hookah had been knocked aside, and the ghee had spilled out onto one side of the courtyard. The blows had loosened his dhoti. The man was desperately trying to explain himself, attempting to convince the frenzied crowd that finding ghee inside a hookah was a perfectly normal and everyday occurrence, and that there was nothing in it to be suspicious or surprised about.

Before he could finish, Shambhunath Singh, the darwan, gave him such a shove that he cried out ‘Baba re!’ in a muffled voice, spun around towards a corner of the veranda, and fell, his head hitting the corner of a pillar with a loud thud, probably drawing blood.

Sarbajaya asked Khemi, the maid, ‘What happened, Khemi-masi? Oh, why are they hitting him like that? A Brahman’s son…’

Khemi said, ‘And why shouldn’t they! They’ll grind his bones to dust… Has the real beating even started? They’ll hand him over to the police. A fox in the tiger’s den—’

Khemi’s words died in her mouth.

She stood transfixed, her eyes on the staircase leading upstairs. Sarbajaya looked and saw an old woman of sixty-five or seventy descending the stairs, the mistress of the house beside her, and behind them the two daughters-in-law and the girls of the house, Aruna and Sujata. The entire contingent of maids and servants stood in a line on the veranda below the stairs, completely still, peering over one another’s shoulders to get a look. Sarbajaya whispered to Khemi, ‘Who is it, Khemi-masi?’ Khemi hissed something—some Rani-ma from somewhere—Sarbajaya couldn’t hear properly.

But it occurred to her that she had seen someone with that very face somewhere before. The mistress told someone to go and see if her palanquin had arrived at the back gate. The old woman had brought two or three of her own maids, who were following behind. There was an exchange of various farewell courtesies, many humble smiles were spread, and suddenly the servants of the house prostrated themselves on the ground, as if melting into the earth for a moment. Sarbajaya thought to herself, ‘They are so rich; if they are showing her such deference, then she must be someone important…!’ The old woman’s massive palanquin, carried by sixteen bearers, had been waiting at the back gate all this time, and she now entered it. Her own guards took up positions in front and behind. After seeing her off, the mistress and the other women went back upstairs.

Masima came into the roti-making room and said in a low voice, ‘Money, my dear, did you see the respect money commands? She has a huge zamindari of her own, donated two lakh rupees to some college in Bengal-desh. It’s money that gets respect. And here I am… I’m their own kin… does anyone care?’

But Sarbajaya’s mind was elsewhere. It had just come back to her. A woman of much the same appearance and the same age—that was her old sister-in-law, Indir Thakrun. Her tattered sari tied in a knot, eating her amra-bhate-bhat from a broken stone bowl, the countless insults over a worthless nona fruit, no one caring for her, no one respecting her, being driven from the house at midday, and that pitiful death on the road…

Sarbajaya’s tears would not be held back.

Whether the anguish of a human heart reaches beyond the grave, Sarbajaya did not know, but today, she wanted to atone for the transgressions of her youth by asking for forgiveness, again and again, in her heart.