# Krishnakanta's Will (Chatterjee, Roy)/Part 2/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV.
Bhramar's eyes were for ever closed upon this world. Gobindalal's mind was torn with grief. Poignant as his sorrow was he bore it calmly—a hurricane within, a deep tranquillity outside. With the help of his relations, to perform the last rites, he carried the remains of his wife to the place of cremation. And by the time all was over it was near day-break when with the rest he entered the water to bathe.
On his return home he sought his chamber where a ghastly vacancy stared him in the face on every side. He avoided company, and kept indoors to brood over his sorrow in solitude.
The day drew to a close, and night came on. He sat on where he was, reflecting upon the past and the present till after many weary waking hours sleep stole over his senses, and he forgot his sorrow and slept.
It was soon morning. The sun rose again, and the birds chirped among the trees; and he awoke to find the dull monotonous sky of daily life, and she gone for ever.
Gobindalal had loved two persons—Bhramar and Rohini. His love for the former lay in his heart, and she was his true and devoted wife. The latter he loved for her looks. His love for her lay in his eyes, and therefore it was bound to be shortlived. His senses had been caught by her beauty, although his heart was elsewhere. When he left his wife he knew that he was doing her a great wrong, but he was so mad after Rohini that he was determined to have her at any cost. The moment he was disenchanted his eyes opened. Then he was filled with remorse. Then he fully realised the difference between these two kinds of love. The one pure and unselfish, the other impure and selfish. The one love, the other desire. The one heaven, and the other hell. His behaviour to his wife broke her heart and finally laid her on a ​bed of sickness which she never left again. When she died he felt that he had murdered her with his own hands just as he had murdered Rohini, and great was the agony of the remorse he experienced. Away from his wife he had never for a moment been able to forget her. She had filled his heart as completely when he had been touring, as when he had been leading a voluptuous life at Prosadpur. She was within ever and always, and Rohini—without.
The sun was high in the sky, getting gradually brighter and stronger. Gobindalal went downstairs and strolled out more mechanically than otherwise to where was once a beautiful little garden overlooked by one of his chamber windows. It had been enclosed by a hedge; but the fence was nearly all gone, and not a trace could be seen of the once lovely garden his own hands had reared.
Out of there he went straight to his favourite garden on the embankment of the Baruni tank. Almost ever since he left home it had been quite forgotten, so that it was everywhere overgrown with weeds, nettles, thorn-bushes and other useless plants. Most of the marble figures stood without heads or limbs, and one or two actually lay prostrate upon the ground. But Gobindalal was quite indifferent about all this. The one thought that completely occupied his mind was the thought of his dead wife whom, his conscience told him, he had killed by his cruel and reckless behaviour.
There were now many bathers in the tank; and a few young lads were noisily gay as they made an attempt at swimming, dashing and spattering water. Gobindalal, however, took no notice of anything. He went and sat down at the foot of a broken marble figure near by and was soon lost in his own thoughts.
There he remained till it was noon. He felt not the scorching sun overhead, so swallowed up was he in the thought of his wife whom he had lost. Suddenly arose the thought of Rohini in his mind, and he shuddered at the recollection of the horrid deed he had done. Then his thoughts were divided between Bhramar and Rohini. At one time he thought of Rohini, at another he thought of Bhramar. This continued for a long while till he fancied he saw his wife's vision before him. It faded away, and in its place there rose up the beautiful apparition of Rohini. He mused and mused away till in every tree near about he imagined he saw a likeness of Bhramar—of Rohini. If there was a rustling of the leaves he thought it was Rohini speaking in a whisper. If the birds warbled among the trees he fancied she was singing. The loud talk of the bathers in the tank sometimes sounded in his ear like the voice of Bhramar, at others like the voice of Rohini. If anything stirred among the bushes near it seemed as if Rohini flitted past him. The noise of the wind murmuring among the leaves appeared to him like the sobs and sighs of Bhramar. In fact he was so deeply under the spell of his own imagination that he fancied he heard them in every sound and saw them in everything around.
The hours passed on to afternoon, but Gobindalal was there still at the foot of the statue, and as motionless as the statue itself. Then the afternoon lengthened towards evening, and the evening towards night, but he knew nothing of the hour. Since morning he had not tasted a morsel of food. His relations, having sought him in vain, concluded he had left for Calcutta.
Darkness now fell upon the quiet village and enveloped the garden and the tank. The stars shone out one by one in the black azure of the sky; everything was still. But Gobindalal saw nothing. He was in the midst of a waking nightmare in which only Bhramar and Rohini prevailed.
Suddenly in the midst of his deep meditation Gobindalal's heated and fevered brain conjured up before him a vivid figure of Rohini. He thought he heard her say aloud:
HERE—!
Gobindalal did not remember that Rohini was no more. He unconsciously asked the fancied vision—"Here, what, Rohini?"
And he heard Rohini's voice say again:
IN THIS TANK!
Gobindalal asked again, "Here, in this tank, what?"
Again Rohini's voice sounded:
I DROWNED MYSELF!
An inward voice, born of his own unsteady head, seemed to say, "Shall I drown myself?"
The answer from within came, "Yes; atone—die. Bhramar is looking for us. ​She will redeem us by her own virtue from the penalty of our sin."
In wonderment and dismay Gobindalal closed his eyes. A cold tremble came over him. Presently he felt so faint that he fell in a stupor off the foot of the marble figure where he had sat.
In a trance in which he was he saw before his mind's eye a resplendent form of Bhramar. It said, "Do not die. Why should you? You have lost me. But there is One dearer than myself. Live, love Him; you will be happy."
There Gobindalal lay all night in a half-dreamy, half-senseless state. Next morning his relations hearing of the plight in which he lay hastened to him, restored him to his senses and brought him home. Soon after this he fell very ill. He had a fever, and a fever of the worst kind, for it attacked both mind and body. Some days later he became delirious, and for a week after that, hung between life and death. He was treated with great care. After about three months he was well again. Then all expected he would continue to stay at home; but they were mistaken. He left the house one night without being noticed by any one, and was gone. But whither he was gone no one knew. **** Seven years elapsed, and Gobindalal was not heard of. The natural inference from this was that he was no longer amongst the living. His sister's son Sachikanta, of whom we had no occasion to speak before, came into his estate, having attained his majority.
Sachikanta had heard an account of the errors of his uncle's life, and of the sad consequences which resulted from them. He used pretty often to come out to the garden, which was once his uncle's favourite resort, but which now had the look of a desert. Often would the young man's eyes fill with tears whenever he mused over the mournful end of his uncle's life and the sufferings his good young wife had been through.
Months had gone by. Sachikanta reclaimed the garden. In it he planted varieties of flower trees, constructed spacious gravel walks and set up new marble figures in place of those that were either broken or deformed, so that it looked as beautiful again as in the old happy days of Gobindalal's life.
One day when Sachikanta was taking a stroll in his garden there came to him a man who was habited after the manner of an ascetic. He wore long matted hair on his head, and his beard almost kissed his breast. "Do you know me?" said he, suddenly appearing before him. "I am your uncle, Gobindalal Roy."
Sachikanta was struck dumb with astonishment. For a while he looked attentively at his uncle and knew him. Overjoyed to find he was alive he fell on his knees before him and kissed the dust of his feet. Gobindalal laid his hand on his head and blessed him. The young man insisted on his going home with him, but he refused. "I came just to see my native village after these many years. I must be off now," said he.
"We should be so happy if you would stay, sir, and look after your estate," said Sachikanta.
"No, my boy, I can no more have any pleasure in anything of this world. I am happy in the life I am leading. After such fearful storms as I have seen in my life I have come to a haven than which a better and safer one can never be. God is my haven. My life, as long as it is spared, I will devote to His service, He helping me. Farewell, my boy. May God prosper you."
When he had said that, he left him and walked away with hurried steps and was quickly gone. After this he was nevermore seen in Haridragram nor ever heard of again.
Translated by D. C. Roy. The end.