# Tales of Bengal (Sita and Santa Chattopadhyay)/The Broken Lily

The Broken Lily.
The crowd was huge and the noise they made was as great. There was the large bedstead, and on it the sumptuous bedding. The air felt heavy with the fragrance of attar and gulab. All the official staff of the great Zemindar and all his servants and retainers followed behind. The two sons of the Zemindar walked barefoot to-day, perhaps for the first time in their lives. Money was being scattered liberally from time to time and the mob of ragged beggars swooped down upon it like vultures on their prey, uttering demoniac yells. And unceasingly resounded shouts of "Hari bol Hari bol." Large crowds had also collected on both sides of the road. It was just like a festive procession.
But that was just as it should be. It was the funeral procession of the wife of the great Zemindar, and there must not be any lack of pomp.
Yet you were born in the house of a poor father; the mother who took you in her loving arms had only shell bangles to grace herself and her dress was poor and simple. Childhood found you possessing nought but the love of parents, brothers and friends. On the day of your marriage you were adorned only with the beauty which you brought with you from the Creator. Then tell me, through what chance, what merit acquired in previous births, you came to have such a funeral, gaudy with the deep and dazzling colours of gold and silver? Would it have looked like this if your last moment had come to you in the simple village, in the poor man's house where you first saw the light of day? Perhaps one might have heard the heart-breaking wails of grief, and a cloud of sorrow might have enveloped the poor man's house in ​its dark embrace, or perhaps the joy and peace of some few souls might have turned into ashes at your funeral pyre, but would you have received so magnificent a send-off to your last home? Would there have been such a crowd of followers and would the people of the great capital have looked on you with wondering eyes? And this horrible uproar, which seems to tear down the very heavens, would there have been anything like this to herald your triumphal progress to the realms of death? Then surely you ought to be counted fortunate this day! You were the favourite Rani of the great Parbaticharan Roy, the head of the great Roy family! Then why should not the fire in my heart die out along with the fire which will soon consume your beauteous limbs? What is the tie which has bound the fate of a miserable wretch like myself to yours, a tie that cannot be disolved even in death? The fire still rages in my heart, for you, my queen, though you are no more. Is this not overweening temerity on the part of a poor school-master?
The procession advances on and on. I follow as one of the crowd. I have no right to walk with the members of your aristocrat husband's family.
Something happened and the procession stopped for a moment. A tramcar or some other vehicle in front had come to a standstill. For two minutes we all stood there. The crowd on both sides pushed their way to the bedstead to look their fill at you. Two young men, college students I thought from their appearance and the number of books in their hands, pushed right to the front and then started back as if in surprise. "Such beauty in death!" whispered one to the other, "What she must have been in life? I never thought to see such loveliness except in pictures. I wonder whose house she is leaving dark."
The other nudged him and whispered pointing to me, "Hush, perhaps that is her husband." They disappeared ​in the crowd. The tram car had started again and we advanced once more.
Her husband! The boys were evidently young, otherwise who could have thought of me as her husband? The wise people of the world would have laughed at them if they had heard. Just because my eyes are red, my hair ruffled and I run like one mad after her bedstead, you take me for her husband? You have not learnt yet that love has no right, can claim nothing at all, in this world. What is love compared to wealth and birth? Nothing, less than nothing. She is a queen and I am a poor schoolmaster.
We have arrived at Nimtolla. The funeral pyre was built up high of sandal wood. Her body was placed on it. Why such a smile now? Are you the exiled queen of Heaven, returning to your native land? Was it the curse of some angry sage that made you come to this earth of ours? Is it for that, that I never saw a smile on your lips while you were yet with us? And do you smile for the first time when Death welcomes you as his bride?
The fire was lit. Thousands of fiery serpents hissed out amidst the mass of her jet black dark hair. Their forked tongues darted to and fro like lightning. I covered my eyes and fled.
(2)
At the time, when after passing the Entrance Examination I was first admitted to a college, neither I myself nor anyone of my family ever thought that I should pass my life as a poor schoolmaster. Every one gave me the title of the "flower of the family." My mother never had a single golden ornament herself, but she believed firmly that her future daughter-in-law was sure to have diamond wristlets on her arms. Her dear Amar had won a scholarship at the first trial; so it was therefore as good as certain that he would be a judge at least? I wonder, to whose ​lot fell the judgeship that was to have been mine! As for the diamond wristlets, I saw them on the wrists of someone but she was not my wife. But nothing could shake the faith of my mother; to the last, she could not believe that fate could prove so unjust and niggardly to her wonderful son.
An old tottering house, a pond and a number of poor relations, these were the sole inheritance of my father from his. To be allowed to live in our house and to eat our food never made these relations the least bit grateful to us, for they too had inherited these rights from their predecessors. We also never dreamt of expecting gratitude from them. My father worked hard and earned some money, my mother worked harder to make two ends meet within our limited means. The rest were content to eat and look on. My parents could not afford my college expenses at Calcutta. But mother would not hear of her son doing without the training which befitted a future judge. So with a happy smile on her face she took out her bits of ornaments and handed them over to me. With these as my only means of support I ventured forth in quest of education. At that time I had hoped that I should be able to return these ornaments to my mother one day and with interest on them. But my mother has now no need of them. And I console myself with the thought that if she had worn them, I would certainly have returned them to her.
The first part of my youth was spent in the damp rooms of a three-storied house, which stood in a narrow lane. Some of my fellow-boarders had the power of money behind them. They would and did take their pleasures in pleasant places, but those who came like me from poor homes, could afford to have very few recreations except speaking in disparaging terms about their more fortunate companions and expressing their valuable opinion about every earthly thing. It is easy for the rich to forget ​their village homes when once they taste the pleasures of the capital. But for me, who had to spend most of his time shut up in a stuffy little hole of a room, with a book propped up in front of me, it was not so easy. I constantly hankered after the free and easy life of my poor home. So though I passed a number of years in Calcutta, still in many respects I remained provincial to the last. My mind could seldom fix itself upon its immediate surroundings.
So passed a few years. At last one day I started for Howrah station, tired and hot, with a small bag containing all my worldly wealth. I had finished my examination. I got into a train. My mother's ornaments had carried me up to this, but now my pockets were absolutely empty. I thought of entering into service if I could pass and I hoped to study privately for the M.A. All the while I sat in the train I constantly went on trying to calculate how many marks I could possibly secure. If I could pass well, then perhaps I should secure a scholarship.
I reached my village in the evening. There was only a field between the railway station and my home. It was already too dark to see so far, but I saw my home clearly in my mind's eye. By this time, my mother would be bowing down before the sacred Tulsi plant with the lighted lamp in her hand. Her hair had escaped through her veil and was streaming on the ground. My little brother and sister would have begun to tease and coax grandmother into telling them a story. The thatched roof of the kitchen could be seen dimly reflected against the dark evening sky. Perhaps my aunt would be pacing to and fro on the verandah, as she could not stay in the hot kitchen, and my second brother Probodh would already have sat down for his evening study.
Everyone ran out to welcome me. My mother always smiled whenever she saw me but this time her joy was even greater. The family seemed to be unusually excited about something, and I soon perceived that the secret was a ​happy one. In the joyless and monotonous existence of a poor Bengali villager there could only happen two or three events of sufficient importance to cause genuine excitement. So I had not to wait long before learning what was the matter, for my younger brothers and sisters were only too eager to tell me. There was a talk about my marriage and a bride had been chosen. She was a poor man's daughter, but she was reputed to be the most beautiful girl in the whole countryside. My mother was willing enough to accept her with no other dowry then her beauty. As her son was sure to be judge some day, she did not want to give him a rich and ugly bride. Everything had been almost settled. There remained only a formal visit to see the bride and to inform my father.
It would seem strange to many that the last-mentioned detail been omitted. But there was a reason. My father used to be absent from home on business for the greater part of the year. My mother could not write, so the duty of keeping him informed about our household affairs devolved upon Probodh. But in this matter mother had no faith in Probodh. She thought that he was too young to impart the information in the right way. He would only serve to enrage my father at her lack of wisdom, and he would come and upset all her arrangements. So she waited patiently for him to come home, when she would be able to tell him everything herself; and she expected him to give in to her views. From the fact that everybody expected my father to be angry, it might be conjectured that he possessed far more worldly wisdom than my simple mother and that he had not such faith in my future judgeship.
It still wanted a few days before he was to return. But for all that we did not need to delay our visit to the bride's house. An auspicious day was fixed upon and I with my brother Probodh and two of my friends started ​for their village. Mother had some respect for our newfangled ideas about matrimony and so had no scruples in sending me.
We had been informed of two things; firstly that the girl's father was very poor, and secondly that she was very beautiful. Of the first we became quite sure as soon as we entered his house. The room into which we were ushered had for its furniture only two rough bedsteads of wood, covered with old shawls. The master of the house with two or three of his friends tried his best to make up for his poverty by his excessive politeness and humility. But she who would really compensate us for all our troubles, remained still behind the curtain. The old gentleman frequently absented himself; from that we guessed that the bride was still being dressed for the important ceremony.
To while away the time, we took some light refreshments. But I was already getting impatient. How long would this prelude last? Like every other young man of the time, I too held the opinion that it was not right to marry before being able to earn one's livelihood. But the report of the bride's beauty which had made me cast such theories to the four winds of heaven, still remained to be verified. No wonder I was impatient. My companions on the other hand were enjoying themselves immensely.
Suddenly I became aware of the advent of the womenfolk in the next room. Some faint tinkling of ornaments, the rustle of dresses and similar tell-tale sounds were heard. Just as the golden glow of the twilight had begun to draw a veil of enchantment over this old world of ours, the door opened and a young girl stepped into the room.
We had already had corroboration enough of our first information, I mean of her father's poverty; but the second was no less true. Perhaps she had borrowed some money ​for the occasion, but so easily had her natural grace risen above it that one failed to notice it. It was hard to believe that she had been born in this lowly cottage, yet at the same time I knew that she would not have looked quite so wonderful in a rich man's palace. It seemed to my entranced gaze that all the glimmering splendour of the twilight had suddenly taken shape before me and the evening star had come down from the sky to shine in the dark depths of her eyes.
I had heard that the girl was quite a child, about eleven or twelve, but on seeing her I understood that to be a falsehood, exacted from her parents by orthodox society.
One of my friends asked the girl, "What is your name?"
"Surama," she answered. Her voice told the others only her name, but to me it further revealed that the outward radiance of her face and form was matched by an inner radiance as great.
The girl was taken away. The father was told that his daughter had passed the trial successfully. As we returned by the village road, the light faded fast from the evening sky; but a golden twilight still reigned in my heart.
Mother was overjoyed, when she heard how pleased we were with the bride, and the girls of our house were all day listening to Probodh's description of her. But if they had come to me, I should have disappointed them. I could not for my life have told them in detail how large her eyes were, how fair her complexion, and how dark was her long and wavy hair. I carried within my heart a picture painted in the colours of light and gold, but I could not have described her in words.
The marriage had been practically settled, at least so I gathered from the increasing bustle that manifested itself ​in our home. My heart and imagination had steeped themselves in the colours of that ever memorable twilight and I remained in eager expectation of another dusky evening which was to complete the work of the first. I had forgotten even my anxiety about the examination results.
Suddenly and unexpectedly my father came home. Mother broke the news to him as gently as possible and waxed eloquent over the description of Surama's nameless graces, but she could not deceive my father. He appreciated the value of money far more than he did that of beauty and consequently did not like the match at all. There followed a period of storm and strife; and the joyous strain in my heart was suddenly drowned in an ignoble domestic squabble.
My mother at last resorted to tears. She had given her word to the bride's father, how then could she now withdraw? It would be scandalous. My father melted a little at the sight of her distress, but not enough to serve any useful purpose.
There now appeared on the scene my uncle Radharaman, my father's cousin. He undertook to pilot us all through the troubled waters. He reassured mother. "Now sister," he said, "do not make a fuss. I shall settle everything within five minutes. My brother is the most impractical of men, and it is just like him to upset everything." I do not know what he told my father, and it was only afterwards that I guessed.
At last the day arrived. Mother sent me off, face wreathed in smiles. Our house was crowded with friends and relations. They were all on the tiptoe of expectation to have a sight of this so much-talked-of bride. I felt as proud as a victorious general—as if the beauty of Surama were in some way to my own credit.
The two villages were not very far from each other, ​and when we arrived it was still daylight. During the entire length of our journey, my father and uncle Radharaman were busy holding a whispered consultation. I could indeed have easily caught their words, but somehow I could not fix my attention on anything at the time.
Nobody had expected much pomp or ceremony in that poor house. Yet even what little they had expected they did not get. Only a few friends and relations of the bride were present. The place was poorly lighted by two or three torches and a torn, dusty shamiyana had been put up in the yard.
The welcome however was hearty and cordial enough. My father and uncle took their seats with very grave faces. The father of the bride went about with folded hands trying to propitiate his honoured guests.
I was taken into the inner apartment, which was full of women, and presented a truly festive appearance. We men require all sorts of arrangements to enable us to be merry, but merriment comes so naturally to women that they can be joyous under the most adverse circumstances.
When the bride was brought out among the men I looked at her, but could see little except her crimson silk dress. She was now to be made mine ceremonially in the presence of all, but already I looked upon her as mine, as the gift of a certain glowing twilight. She who had stolen into my heart in the silent evening was again being brought to me in the crowded and clamorous light.
As soon as she had been brought in, my father and uncle came forward and looked her up and down very intently. Then cried my uncle "Where are the ornaments of the bride. Let them be brought here and shown to all."
Surama's father stammered in reply, "These are all the ornaments I could afford. You see them on her person now."
​A sickly smile stole over my uncle's lips and he said, "Of course you are entitled to joke, our relationship guarantees that. But business first; bring out the jewels, let us have the ceremony over and then you may crack jokes to your heart's content."
The father folded his hands in abject humility and said, "I am unable to give more. Kindly accept these and spare a poor man."
The smile vanished from my uncle's face. "So you think to play your trickery off on us?" he shouted. "You are not content with securing such a bridegroom without paying a single pice in cash, but you must present him with a bride who has not an ounce of gold about her. Where is the watch and chain for the bridegroom? If you wish her well, produce the gifts and ornaments at once, or we shall take the bridegroom away."
The girl's father clasped my father's hands in his own and cried out piteously, "Save me sir, be kind, do not ruin a poor Brahmin, for I was told that this would be enough."
To this my father said nothing, but my uncle exclaimed, "Who told you that? We know nothing about it. As we are taking nothing in cash for the girl's dowry we thought at least you would deck her out in gold ornaments and give proper presents to the bridegroom. Do you think we cannot find another bride for our son?"
Suddenly a member of the bride's party cried out, "What an unmannerly set of boors they are? Trying to break off their promises at this eleventh hour in order to ruin the poor man!"
Whereupon a pandemonium ensued. "What! first you cheat us and then you add insults? Get up, get up, no gentleman should stay here a minute longer." Our party swept out of the house like a hurricane. Two men pulled me forcibly from my seat and dragged me out of the room. ​Two or three of the lights were overturned in the rush with a crash. Sounds of weeping came from the women's apartment and mingled with the wild shouts of the men. I had fasted the whole day and this on top of my fatigue and nervous strain surely bereft me of my senses. Still I turned to have a last look of Surama. She was sitting upright on her seat; the veil had fallen from her face and she stared at me with bewildered eyes. For a single moment our eyes met and then I found myself in the dark, outside the house.
Our carriages had been waiting at a little distance. Not knowing that they would be again required so soon, the drivers and attendants had dispersed in every direction. Everybody began to shout and swear, my father and uncle the loudest and worst of all. Only my brother Probodh remained sorrowfully silent. He too had seen Surama.
A few minutes served to bring back my scattered senses. What had I done? Why had I allowed them to use me as their tool in their brutal game? I seemed to see the sorrowful and bewildered eyes of Surama through the veil of night. They seemed to accuse me and the thought of it all goaded me into action.
While all the people of our party were busy abusing and shouting, I slipped off unseen. I soon forgot my father and uncle and their anger, and in a few minutes I reached Surama's house. The clamour had now died down and the wails of the women were no longer heard. As I approached the door, I saw two or three men coming out of the house. Their faces indicated the satisfaction of having enjoyed a good dinner. "All's well that ends well," said one. "To think of the luck of the girl. Instead of being tied to a poor clerk's son she secures the great Zemindar, Parbaticharan Roy. Such a to-do about a few ornaments, and now the girl will be loaded with diamonds and pearls."
​Another fanned himself with his scarf and said. "Of course her new bridegroom is rather old. Still what is age to a man? I think the old man fell in love with the girl as soon as he saw her, and I believe he created all that scene just for his own benefit. You know it was he who insulted the bridegroom's father. And they passed on out of hearing.
The attendants and the carriages had scarcely been collected together by the time I returned to our party. No one had missed me in the turmoil, and soon we reached home again.
I returned to Calcutta the very next day. My mother cried, but her tears could not stop me. As for the examination, I managed to pass but I did not secure a scholarship. I took service immediately, and gave up all thoughts of further study.
(3)
Soon afterwards my father died. For a time our family remained in their village house and somehow or other I managed to maintain them: working day and night. But it was too much for my own unaided efforts and I had moreover to provide for the education of my brothers. So the country-house was shut up. Mother and the younger children came to Calcutta to live with me. The poor relations found other places of refuge, as we could no longer keep them with us.
Our village home was old, no doubt, but it was a large one, and had no lack of air and light. But the house which we at last succeeded in renting in Calcutta, after wearing out the soles of our shoes in the effort, had nothing to recommend it at all. Still it was better than my lodgings. In her widowed state mother did not laugh so often as before. But still the light of her sweet face made this dingy house a home for me.
Heaven knows that Calcutta is thickly populated; ​but friends are hard to come by. Large palatial buildings reared their stately heads on every side of our humble home. We saw the chuprassis at the gate, heard the whirr of their masters' cars, and sometimes caught glimpses of the residents themselves, but to us they were like the animated pictures of the cinema. We could not think of them as living men and women.
Our house stood in a narrow lane. On the opposite side could be seen a large building of red brick with an adjoining garden. The main gate opened on to the high road, but there was a small back door for the servants which opened on our lane. My younger brother and sister soon struck up an intimacy with the gardeners and began to bring home flowers and fruits from the garden. I did not know to whom the house belonged, and the windows of the house which faced the lane were never opened.
One day when I returned from the school, I found Montu and Tara, my brother and sister, in tears. On enquiry I found that there was to be a great feast and much rejoicing in the large house over the way. Splendid arrangements had been made to entertain the guests, and there would be no lack of music and dancing. So Tara and Montu were determined to attend as uninvited guests and mother equally determined to prevent their going. I effected a compromise and sent them off with Probodh to visit the Zoo.
I could not afford to rest long after my return from school. I had to put on my outdoor clothes again and sally forth to my private tuitions.
As I came out into the lane, I found it all alive with the bustle of preparation. The green lawn flaunted a great Durbar tent and it was shining all over with electric lights, banishing the shades of evening from the entire neighbourhood. The garden had been despoiled of all its ​floral wealth, which was transformed into votive offerings for the young girls who were to form the dancing party. A crowd of waiters and servants moved to and fro making everything ready for the feast. I did not stop long to look at all this as three boys and a geometry lesson were awaiting me.
When I returned, the feast was in full swing. The sweet voice of women pierced the silence of the evening and the air was heavy with the fragrance of flowers. The lane was packed with sight-seers and I had to fight my way through them. Every now and again they would voice their appreciation of the music with all the strength of their lungs, though the guests who had been specially invited to listen paid scant attention to it: indeed many of them were already past the stage when they could appreciate anything at all.
As I could hardly move through the dense crowd, I had perforce to stop. The whole building was festooned with rows of light. All the doors and windows stood open and light streamed out of them into the outer darkness.
Suddenly my roving eyes were fixed in a bewildered stare. How was this! How came she to be here? How came this dull strange house to harbour the flame-like beauty which my heart knew so well? How had I remained ignorant so long of her near presence?
The beautiful creature, who stood by the window and looked as regal as the veritable queen of heaven, was none other than Surama. Though I had last seen her in her father's cottage and now she stood in a great mansion, though her body seemed to glitter with diamonds and rubies and the former soft expression had given place to the hardness of a statue of marble, yet I could not mistake her. Though her flashing eyes were no longer like pools of tenderness and innocence, yet I knew her still. For a minute she gazed down on the garden beneath, and her ​eyes were full of bitter hatred, then she moved away and the window closed with a bang. I asked one of the bystanders, "What is happening here?"
"It is the feast of the first rice of the grand child of Raja Parbati Charan Roy. So he has invited all his friends. Look there, that is the eldest son of the Raja."—I looked and saw. A man who was already nearing middle age. He had a fair complexion, was fat and his head was shining and bald. And to such a man stood Surama as a mother. "And which is the Raja?" I asked.
"The Raja? Good Heavens, do you expect to see him here? Don't you know that he has been struck down with paralysis for two years or more. He can't move a step."
The fire which I had seen in Surama's eyes now seemed to light my heart. I pushed my way through somehow and reached my house. But all through the night the noise of the feast and the loud shouts of the drunken guests struck upon my ears like the shrieks of the damned.
Before this I used to think the red mansion uninhabited. Now that my interest was awakened, I began to notice that one of the windows did indeed open every now and again. Sometimes a maid servant would stand there or a little child. She, for a sight of whom my eyes remained for ever fixed on that window, appeared there but once. She stood there gazing intently at our house; and I wondered whether she knew.
But what if she did? She was now a Rani and I a poor hard-worked schoolmaster. But though I tried my hardest, I never could forget that it was I who was responsible for her accursed queenhood.
The days passed on, since Time waits for neither queen nor beggars. My mother was busy seeking a suitable bride for Probodh, now that he was a Master of ​Arts. I did not object, as I was certain that uncle Radharaman would not be asked this time to be the master of ceremonies.
We heard of many girls, but could decide upon none. Some found favour with my mother but failed to satisfy my brother; others who were to his taste, were not to my mother's. One of our neighbours had an eligible daughter. She too was talked of. Her father was poor, but that would not have mattered had the girl been pretty. As she was plain, my mother did not like the match.
It was the middle of the hot month of Baisakh. My school had closed for the summer vacation, but my private pupils were still in the city and I had to attend to them every morning and evening. That day the noonday sky was like a fever and I had little inclination to go out of doors. Still it had to be done. The plain-looking daughter of our neighbour was to be married that very night. To carry out the auspicious ceremony the father had to raise money on his house. Evidently there were plenty, who unlike my mother, preferred wealth to beauty. As I crossed the lane, I saw that their dilapidated house was being decorated with wreaths of marigold and deodar leaves. A band of professional musicians were occupying the small verandah in front and they had struck up a merry tune, to which all the children of the neighbourhood listened with rapt attention. My brothers and sister in their best clothes had already arrived. I and Probodh had been invited too and thought of putting in an appearance later in the evening. As I was passing out of the lane I saw the back door of the red mansion open, and a maid-servant dressed in silk and carrying presents appeared, accompanied by a small child of the Zemindar family. They were going to honour the poor man's house, which the elders of course could not be expected to do. I was already late and hurried off.
​After I had finished my tuition I started homewards. The streets were already lighted, and instead of going home, I proceeded straight to the house of my neighbour.
But what was this? For a moment I thought that I had returned through the paths of dreamland to that ever memorable night of my life. There were the same brutal shouts from the bridegroom's party, the same abject entreaties from the bride's relations and the very same wails from the women's apartments. The next instant I remembered that such a scene was not after all of rare occurrence in Bengal.
The drama was nearing its last act as I approached. The bridegroom's party swept out of the house with loud shouts and soon disappeared. They had not been paid the promised price for the boy, and so this scene had resulted. The girl had fallen forward on her seat and lay there like one dead, but nobody could spare her attention. All were anxiously looking out for some sort of a bridegroom, to save the situation. If the girl was not married now, the family would become outcast for ever.
For a moment I did indeed think of offering myself. Perhaps so I might have expiated my sins. But my feet refused to advance. On the pretext of saving the girl, was I to make her life a curse and a burden to her? What had I to offer? And yet it was terrible to listen to the heart-rending wails of grief.
Suddenly a slim and dark youth stepped forward and stood before the bride's father. "Do not trouble yourself, sir," he said, "if you agree, I am ready to marry your daughter."
It seemed as if the magic wand of an enchanter suddenly transformed everything. It was like the dead coming back to life. I gazed at the young magician, and I wanted to clasp him to my heart. Brother mine, you made up on that instant for all that I had ever done and ​suffered for you. You lifted the load of guilt from my weary heart.
As soon as the ceremony was over, Probodh started for home with the bride, for he did not want mother to hear of it from any one else. I too followed.
Mother opened the door, then stood amazed and dumb. She understood at once what had happened, and her face hardened. Probodh hung his head and the poor bride was ready to sink down to the earth in her dismay and nervousness.
But how long could this go on? I felt I should suffocate. "Mother," I cried, "for my sake forgive them. If you don't, the curse which clings to my wretched life will never be removed. Your younger son has atoned today for the sin of your eldest and has brought him consolation. Should that make you grieve?"
Mother's eyes filled with tears, and Probodh now came and prostrated himself before her with his wife. The children of the house had hitherto stood dismayed and silent at the sight of their elders' attitude. Now, seeing the sky clear, they came running forward with joyous shouts of welcome to the bride. Next day the whole female population of the neighbourhood flocked to our house to see her. Their visits continued from morning to night. I was a loss what to do, the house was very small, and, in order to show sufficient respect for the purdah of the lady visitors, I had to spend the greater part of the day in the street.
But it was rather difficult to loaf about the crowded streets hour after hour, and as it was already dark, I thought that I could safely return home. Who would be coming to see the bride at such a time? It was not until I had set foot inside the street-door that I saw my mistake. ​Standing in front of me, was a figure clad in crimson Benares silk, and I could see the glitter of gold and jewels through the fine transparent cloth. Though she stood with her back to me, I knew who she was. But why had the queen condescended to honour the poor man's house?
Surama had not seen me. As she reached the door of Probodh's room, the servant girl who accompanied her, cried out, "Where is the mistress of the house? Our Rani-mother has come to see the bride."
Our only maid-servant hurried out and said: "Come in, mother, please come in. Our mistress has just gone to evening worship at the temple of Kalee. Please to come in and take a seat." My little sister Tara, too, came out to welcome the honoured guest. As soon as they entered the room, I hastily fled to mine, which was the very next one. I could not understand the meaning of Surama's presence.
Suddenly I heard Surama's voice, telling her own maid to leave the room. The maid went out and with her went our maid too. They went and sat in the kitchen, and began to gossip. Again Surama spoke. So bitter and wild was her voice that I started up in fear. "Take off your veil," she cried to the bride, "and let me see how beautiful you are. What gave you the right of entry into this house? Are you more beautiful than I? He abandoned me in scorn, and let me burn in hell-fire all my life, but you he carried home to love and worship. Why? In what respect are you my superior? Have you much money, have you got diamonds and pearls? Let me see them then, so that I may know why it is he prefers you."
Tara cried out in alarm, and I hurried out of my room into the next. The new bride was sitting huddled up in a corner of the bed, her face ashy pale with fear. Surama stood in front of her, her black eyes darting fire at the poor girl.
​As I stepped into the room, I called "Surama."
She started and turned round. Then she ran up to me and cried, "Then tell me yourself since your wife cannot speak. In what respect is she my superior? In beauty, in wealth, or in virtue?"
"Surama, you are mistaken," I said, "she, is not my wife; it is my brother Probodh has married her."
Surama uttered such a shriek that again I started; "She is not yours then?"
Her maid came running out of the kitchen, and she replaced the veil, which had slipped from Surama's head. She said apologetically, "Babu, please don't take offence. The Rani had been in better health these last few days, so I ventured to bring her. I did not expect her to become violent again. She kept on worrying me saying 'Bidhu, take me to see the new bride.' So I thought to humour her as she was quite calm and gentle and see how she has behaved!"
She took hold of Surama by the arm and drew her towards the door. I followed and asked her, "How long has your mistress been in this condition?"
"Oh, for two years or more. Ever since I came she has been like this. The Raja spends a fortune in doctors, but it is all to no purpose."
They passed out and I returned to my room. No, the load of guilt could not be put off, it was still on me. The age when one could make atonement for another's sin was no more. And how could I expiate my sin? Who could show me the way?
Days passed on. Eventually one day I heard loud voices in the red house and saw people running hither and thither in a hurry. Then people began to collect at the main gate. I went in the street and asked, "What is the matter?"
Surama, it was given out, had died of cholera the ​night before. It was a very sudden end. No doctors had been called in, and nobody informed. Now they were arranging for the funeral procession.
I stood there and waited. Our paths had lain far apart in life, but as she started on her last journey I went with her as a friend should—as far as I might—retiring only from the grim portals of death.