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

The Letter.
It was a mercy that my father, when he died, left behind him a well filled money bag, for otherwise I fail to see how I could have maintained myself in these days of expensive living. I cannot say that I was totally without training or without knowledge of any kind, but what I possessed could scarcely be called the gift of the Muses.
Even in the days of my childhood the crooked path always appealed to me far more strongly than the straight one. My conduct left much to be desired on the score of goodness and obedience. I never was content with the food which was offered me, as the model good boy in our Bengali primer always used to be. Though in one respect I certainly differed from the bad boy, held up to eternal obloquy in the very same book; for I never teased my mother to procure for me the good things which I hankered after; I was quite up to the task of procuring them for myself. Nor can I say that the commandment, "Thou shalt not steal," was very strictly observed by me.
My parents alone can account for the whim which led them to call such a child Sushil, "Well-behaved." And Dame Fate alone can tell why she chose me of all persons to be the hero of a romance, when there were so many well-educated and handsome young men who had read all the eastern and western romances to be had for the mere asking. I was ill-equipped for the part, a ne'er-do-well and a rascal.
Animesh on the contrary really had some accomplishments to his credit. Even before leaving our "Mess," he had already composed an astonishing number of verses, which unfortunately no one had listened to with patience, with the single exception of myself. He nearly went bald in his frantic efforts to make his hair curl, and he never ceased to wonder to the day of his death, why the Creator ​took it into his head to imprison his romantic soul in the flesh of a body which better befitted a Marwari cloth-merchant.
I cannot imagine what led me to make friends with such a fellow as Animesh. His own motive, I suppose, was gratitude. I listened to every verse he ever wrote. I was the only person who ever praised his singing; while his handwriting, which seemed to others nothing but black and white drawings of an army of ants on the march was at least legible to me. I have lost count of the number of his essays, stories, poems and letters which I copied out for him in his fat leather-bound books. As a boy I had taken great pains with my handwriting, though of course with no good intention. It was to imitate the handwritings of my fellow-students and teachers, and so well did I do it, that nobody ever found me out. It was a great weapon in my armoury; it served both offensive and defensive purposes. I could imitate voices too, and with the help of these two accomplishments, I had somehow struggled up to the college classes with the skin of my back still intact.
But I am forgetting that I am not a celebrity and should not be so ready to write an autobiography which no one would care to read. On the other hand I am sure that I shall find listeners if I tell a story. And these days, time hangs heavy on my hands, now that I have lost my only occupation, Animesh to wit. And I want to tell people how it happened.
That year our Puja vacation kept on being extended until it touched December. It was all due to the influenza epidemic. Now I returned to Calcutta in expectation of the College reopening and now I went back to Sealdah station with my bag in hand. After three or four times I tired of the sameness of the joke and resolved not to go back home again. The Mess was almost empty, for nearly all the boys were away home. The doors of the unoccupied rooms stood ajar, the cook and the servants came and ​went their own sweet will. Two or three times a day I would go to a neighbouring sweetmeat-vendors' to satisfy my hunger, in the evening I went for a walk, and for the rest of the livelong day did nothing but sleep on my dirty bed.
It was noon, and I was trying my utmost to sleep. A mosquito kept biting me on the neck with exemplary perseverance, but I felt too drowsy and lazy to raise my head and punish it. I only rolled my head from side to side in a vain effort to preserve peace at any cost. Suddenly there was a commotion on the stairs. Something heavy was bumping up and a voice was heard, "Really this is beyond all endurance!"
The voice convinced me that it could be none but Animesh. Calcutta had not its equal; it was unequivocably that of Animesh. I forgot the irritating mosquito and jumped up. In a few minutes my bosom friend stumbled into the room with a number of bags and bundles and shouted: "Thank God, you at least are here!"
Now you see, that was why I could never do without Animesh, good for nothing though he was. To be sure I was no better. But I was human. Did'nt I like to have at least one who I knew would always be glad to see me. I had a peculiar partiality for Animesh, knowing that I was of special importance to him; though to be honest, I must add that I sometimes found the weight of his love rather too much to bear. So now I welcomed him with extended fan in token of my great joy. After bathing in the cold water of the kitchen trough and stuffing himself plentifully with provisions brought from the sweetmeat-vendor he recovered his composure. Then I threw myself again upon my discarded bed and asked: "Now then, how did the rustic Muse inspire you?"
Animesh wore a profundly mysterious look as he said, "No, I had business of another sort." He began to smile and look wise.
​Animesh and business! "May I not hear what the business was?" I asked.
"I am thinking of writing a book about the re-marriage of Hindu widows, in a simple style. The language and style of Vidyasagar is too stiff for the common people, and they all avoid reading his book."
I had to sit up. I should not have been more astonished had my torn quilt suddenly turned into an airship and flown away with me. At my evident bewilderment Animesh exuded self-satisfaction through every pore of his flabby body. After sitting silent for a minute or two, he said: "All right, we shall talk about it this evening. Now I am off to Maniktollah, I have some business in that quarter."
He went. As soon as his steps had died away, I jumped up and taking hold of his torn canvass bag I emptied it on my bed. I could have opened a cheapjack's stall with the things that fell out in a shower from that bag. There were books, papers, manuscripts, soiled linen, combs, brushes and I know not what else. I pushed aside the clothing and began to hunt amongst the papers. After long and arduous search I found what I sought, and put back his things in the bag. Then I returned to my interrupted sleep. I know that according to copy-book maxims, I did wrong in investigating the contents of his bag, but I am afraid the sense of sin did not prevent me at the moment from having a good sound sleep.
Animesh had changed. He was always busy. He came in and went out at his pleasure and I ceased to be of the least importance to him; one could have thought I had never copied out his poems, never listened to his songs nor even discovered for him a hundred ways of reducing his excessive fat. Though I had never written a book about the re-marriage of Hindu widows, still this much I knew, that authors do not generally choose gilt-edged and ​decorated note paper on which to write their books. I felt an increasing desire to know where these manuscripts went and how the fortunate recipient succeeded in deciphering them. At last I could restrain myself no longer and asked Animesh outright: "Don't you want your manuscripts copied?"
Animesh turned his naturally round face almost into a circle in his excess of gravity as he replied: "Do not disturb me now, with your nonsense. You break the chain of my thoughts." I wanted to break his head for him. Chain of thoughts indeed! But just at that moment the servant entered with a telegram for me.
I opened it and found that my mother was seriously ill. I had to hurry off almost at once. Animesh was beside himself with joy. He hunted up the time-table and found out which would be the best train. I said nothing to him, but to myself I said: "Let me just return after seeing my mother out of danger. And then if I don't clear your head of all chains of thoughts about the re-marriage of Hindu widows, I will know that I have justified the name of Sushil which my fond parents gave me."
I reached home and found that though the fever had left my mother, she was still too weak to be left alone. The doctor strongly advised a thorough change of air, otherwise he would not answer for the consequences. And meanwhile Animesh would go on writing his book.
I am afraid I felt rather annoyed with mother. Could not she have fixed upon some other time to be ill? But her pale, thin face silently pleaded with me, and, angry as I was, I could not leave her and go off to Calcutta to look after Animesh. I packed the boxes and tied the bundles, grumbling profusely all the while, and started with her for a change of climate.
It matters not the least where we went. In our great hurry we could not wait to choose a suitable house. ​A relative of ours had a house, which fortunately fell vacant just at that juncture, and we gladly accepted his offer.
The house was very much in want of repairs. The shutters and blinds were for the most part broken and the roof leaked in so many places that the walls of the rooms looked like striped linen on account of the constant dripping of the rain water. Dirt, filth and spider's webs abounded. On the other hand the house had some good points too. As it was very large, we easily found one or two habitable rooms. We were only three in number, I, my mother, and my parentless nephew Raju. So we did not need much room. The second good point was that the house was surrounded by a large garden, which was totally uncared for and had a rank growth of weeds, grass and flowers, and I am sure had Animesh been there, he could have compared it with a neglected and forlorn damsel and composed verses about it. The third advantage was that we were fortunate in our neighbours. There were three or four families of the milkmen caste settled just beyond the boundary line of the garden. So we got an abundant supply of milk and butter. A maid-servant, too, was procured from the same locality and she was a great help to mother. Single-handed she did all the work of the household, besides performing the onerous task of telling ghost-stories to Raju. So mother could enjoy her much needed rest.
At a little distance from ours there stood another tenantless house. Its condition, too, was something like that of our own, but as it had the good luck to have an up-country gardener, it was not quite so forlorn. In a few days there grew up a fast friendship between Raju and the old gardener. Raju must have inherited the capacity for forming absurd friendships from his uncle, otherwise he could never have discoverd much attractiveness in that greyheaded Gayadin.
​A month went by. Mother was fast losing her pale, thin looks and recovering her former healthy appearance, and I hoped that within a month I should be able to return to Calcutta after sending mother back to her village home. In the meantime, I whiled away the time with the help of the fish and milk of the country and with long walks. And I slept to my heart's content.
After enjoying my morning tea I was on the point of starting for a walk, when my mother said: "Do take Raju with you. The maid-servant has gone away early today on the usual excuse of a niece's marriage. The child will either roam about in the sun or break his limbs falling from a tree. I have grown too old to be able to look after such a boy."
I went in search of Raju. And after going over the whole house and garden, I found him perched on the branch of a guava tree. I captured him and started for my walk.
Raju's manner of walking was his own. He never took a straight course, but followed what in geometrical language would be called a diagonal line. So rather than let him walk in his own fashion, I took him by the hand and began to walk across a large field.
Something round and hard kept on hittling me on the leg. What on earth could it be? I looked down and found that some round objects were vainly trying to burst away out of Rajus coat pockets and were the cause of this bumping. "What is this, Raju?" I asked.
Raju answered shortly: "Guavas."
"What do you want with so many? Could'nt you have left some of them at home? Your pocket is nearly bursting."
Raju treated my suggestion and latter question with a supreme indifference and said: "I shall eat two myself and give three to Molly."
​Now who on earth was Molly and whence had she appeared on the scene? There were some Christian families living in the place and there might be Mollies among them. But they lived too far off to be accessible to Raju. So I had to ask again; "Who is Molly, Raju?"
Raju pointed out the house, which had stood so long tenantless by our own, and said; "She is their baby."
I looked at the house attentively, and now saw that unknown to me it had already found occupants. A number of sarees and other feminine garments, the names of which I did not know, were hanging in front, drying in the sun. A figure appeared at the gate, and it seemed to be that of a girl child. No sooner had Raju caught sight of her than he uttered a yell of delight; "There is Molly! I'll go and give her three whole guavas." With this he tore his hand free and darted like an arrow across the field.
I had strict injunctions not to let Raju out of my sight. So I followed him though not at the same pace. As I came close to the house, I found that I had suspected Molly unjustly. She belonged certainly to our orthodox society and proclaimed the fact in every item of her dress and ornaments. The other inhabitants also seemed to be of the same type.
Raju had become thoroughly engrossed in the joy of eating his guavas in the company of his little friend and refused to budge. I was standing there helplessly by when an old gentleman came out of the house. He stared at me for a minute or two, then came and bowed to me. "We have just arrived." he said, "Do you live here, sir?"
I told him in short the history of our coming and after a few minute's conversation, succeeded in getting hold of Raju and started back home. On the way I discovered from Raju that Molly had given him five pears, the day before yesterday, and that she had two elder sisters and three elder brothers, of whom the first was good and the second ​too. But the third always filched everything away from Molly. So she had to take shelter behind the pillar of the gate whenever she had anything extra good to eat. Children have no nonsense about them. If they want to go to some one, they simply do so. A guava, pear or anything serves as an excuse, because they understand naturally that the desire is the really important thing and the excuse is nothing but an excuse. It is a more difficult world for the grownups. If we went near one another or talked to one another on the simple plea that we wanted to go or talk we should be set down as fools by the wise ones of the world. They have learnt that the mere wish is nothing, and the lamest of excuses is of greater importance.
But for all that, the two families did come to know each other, though not so soon and not so simply as Raju and Molly. The old gentleman even invited me once to dine with him. Since coming to this district he had scarcely seen the face of a fellow Bengali, so mine had some attraction for him. In the course of conversation, he told me that his second daughter was suffering from a serious disease. The doctors had nearly given her up, but still the parents had brought her here, hoping against hope that a change of climate might do something for her.
I tried to reassure him, holding up my mother's case as a great certificate for the re-invigorating power of the climate of the place. I do not know whether he found any comfort in my remarks, for the topic of his daughter's illness was soon dropped.
Molly's mother and eldest sister called on my mother once or twice, while Molly herself gradually became almost one of our family.
One day I had just finished my afternoon nap, when the postman brought in the letters. Molly was standing there, busy sharing a half-ripe guava with Raju. Suddenly she left it and flung herself upon the postman, crying, "Give, me a letter."
​"But I have no letters for you," said the postman.
"Give me one, I want to give one to my sister," cried Molly in a shrill voice.
The postman smiled and went off with his letter bag. Molly then snatched a letter from my hand and said, "Uncle, may I have this one?"
I recovered the letter in great haste and said, "What do you want with it?"
"I shall give it to my sister. She weeps everyday because she does not get any letters. Mother scolds her, my eldest sister scolds her; still she weeps and weeps."
Molly was letting out the family secrets in her innocence of heart. In order to divert her thoughts into another direction, I said, "But your sister would not like this letter. Her name is not written on it."
My reasons had no effect on Molly. She looked at me with eyes full of tears and said, "Why don't you write her name on it? Then it will be her letter, won't it?"
What a little pest! I said, "Molly, I don't know how to write your sister's name. And aren't you going home today? It is already getting dark and your mother will scold you if you stay out any longer."
The night had been unbearably cold and towards the morning I was clutching the blankets tightly about me and trying to make up for lost sleep, when all of a sudden I felt a small cold hand brush against my neck, and Molly's voice whispered, "Look here Uncle, here is a letter with my sister's name on it. Now please write her name on another letter and give it to me."
I never was in such a fix. And I never came across such a child! What was it to me whether her sister wept or not? I was just going to give her a piece of my mind, when a glance at the letter in her hand checked me. I sat up like a good-natured person and took the letter from her.
​It was written by Animesh, the friend of my heart. I could not be mistaken, it was the very same coloured envelope, the same decorated notepaper and the very same hand-writing, suggesting the marching of ants on paper that could be the work of none other. But I was at a loss to understand what connection there could possibly be between my gay young friend Animesh and this village girl Nirjharinee, dying slowly of an incurable disease. "Where did you get this, Molly?" I asked.
"How silly you are, uncle; don't I know that sister keeps her letters under her pillow? She takes them out every day, reads them and weeps. She has no new letter. Father gets new letters every day, my brother gets them, mother, too, gets them. Even I had one yesterday. But nobody writes to sister. I don't know how to write, otherwise I would have written letters every day, and given them to the postman to give to sister."
I have never been called sentimental or romantic by my worst enemies; yet this child's words touched my heart. They do not know yet how easy it is to wound in this world and how very difficult to heal. She thought in her child's innocence that a few scratches of a pen on paper would be enough to solace her dying sister. And she did not understand this terrible hardheartedness which refused to do so little for a suffering fellow-creature. She looked at me with eyes full of entreaty and said. "Do write it now uncle. Write just like that and it will be all right."
It was bound to be all wrong. Still to get rid of her, I said, "Very well Molly, go and play now." Molly ran off beaming with satisfaction and joy.
I hesitated with that letter in my hand. Should I open and read its contents or leave it untouched? My curiosity triumphed at last. I pulled out two sheets of closely written paper.
​The beautiful handwriting of my friend seemed to prick my eyes. And the language and the sentiments were no better. It was a wonder that anyone could weep for want of it. But perhaps Nirjharinee had the same reasons for liking Animesh that I had. Human beings cannot live without loving someone, and the Creator has not created too many lovable people. So the sight of love being wasted on mere lumps of clay is common enough.
The letter had much of love in it. Marriage too was mentioned, but something else I found which probably had escaped the notice of Nirjharinee. Animesh was eager to know whether the father of his lady-love was ready to spare her as much of his silver as of his affections. He did not, of course, put it as plainly as that. I understood that the old gentleman had no objection to give the girl-widow in marriage again, but he did not want to lose thereby either money or his social prestige. So the love of Animesh was visibly on the wane, and tears flowed unchecked from Nirjharinee's eyes.
I put the letter in my pocket, and went to have my morning tea. After I had finished, my mother said: "I want you to take me to Nitya Babu's house? I hear that the sick girl is worse, and I must go and see her once."
I went with mother. I could not find Raju and took it for granted that he had preceded me to Molly's house. Mother entered into the inner apartments and I sat in one of the outer rooms and tried to converse with Nitya Babu on a variety of subjects. But he seemed too despondent and sad to care for conversation and so I took my leave as soon as I decently could. After two or three hours mother returned with Raju. And it was inevitable that with Raju should come Molly in her little coloured Sari. The gloom of her sorrow-stricken home was too much for her child's heart and she naturally took every opportunity to escape from it.
​In the afternoon I sat thinking in my room. I did not know what to do. First I thought of writing a strong letter to Animesh, giving my candid opinion of him. As he wrote books about the re-marriage of Hindu widows in simple language, he should have the courage to marry one. We others had not the courage, it was true, but we never wrote books about it. However, I gave up the idea on second thoughts. Animesh had such a thick skin that my arrows would hardly make the least impression upon him. But what to do? I could not rest without doing something. How would it do to give Nitya Babu some advice. Could not I tell him that sons and daughters were of equal importance in the scheme of life that they should be treated equally and an equal amount of money should be spent for both, etc., etc.
Just then Molly piped in my ears. "Have you written that letter? Do give it to me."
"Run along and play with Raju." I said. Letters are not written so easily as all that."
"When will you write it then? To-morrow or the day after. Sister is going to die; she told me so to-day." And with this Molly burst out into loud sobs.
I calmed Molly with great difficulty and sent her away. I thought, and thought, but could not solve the problem, and at last fell asleep, which gave me some respite.
When I woke, I found the whole family in confusion. Molly was the centre of the storm. She seemed like one possessed. She did not want to stay at our house, and she would not go home. She would not stand, neither would she sit or lie down. She scratched and bit Raju if he went near her, but her voice rose to an even higher pitch as soon as he tried to go away. Raju was standing there, bewildered at this display of feminine inconsistency, of which he had been hitherto ignorant. Mother was sitting on her bed looking helplessly at Molly.
I understood that Molly herself did not know where ​the machinery had gone wrong. I went to her and said, "Molly, if you don't stop crying, you will never get that letter, neither to-morrow, nor the day after."
Molly sat up and brushing away her tears with her small fists, took hold of my hand and came out for a walk. Raju felt immensely proud of his uncle's tactics and he was relieved, too, at the conclusion of Molly's heroic performance. So he took out two guavas from his coat pocket and generously presented one to each of us.
As we neared Molly's home, she cried out "There is sister, sitting in the garden." She broke away from me and began to run. I looked towards the garden and caught sight of something like a bundle of shawls and clothes, behind a clump of trees. I went nearer, with the intention of having a good look at Nirjharinee, myself unseen. As I was compelled to play a part in this drama of love and faithlessness, I had a right to know the other actors by sight.
When I had come close enough, I saw that there was very little to see except the bundle of shawls. Of her face two large eyes alone could be seen and her arms were so thin that one of mine would have made four of hers. So this was the heroine of Animesh's dreams.
Molly was leaning against her chair and chattering on for all she was worth. "Didi, your letter will come, it will come to-morrow. The postman will bring it in his bag. a very large one."
Nirjharinee was looking fixedly at her. After a time she asked. "How did you know, baby?"
Molly tossed her curly head and said, "Because I do know. I shall bring your letter to-morrow. Please Didi, don't die."
Nirjharinee remained silent, only a few drops of tears rolled down her emaciated face. Whence came these ​troublesome intruders into my life? I had never read a book of poems, and I do not remember ever having been famous for philanthropy and charity. Yet here was I fretting myself to sleeplessness for this dying girl, whom even the Creator could not save? She was no relation, nor was I charmed by hers looks. Still I stood there, I scarcely knew why.
We read in the Mahabharat that taking advantage of a single moment's impurity, Shani, the god of misfortune, entered the body of King Shribatsa and nearly marred his life. So, in a second, it was with me. The same god seemed to enter my mind, taking advantage of a single moment's weakness. I do not know otherwise why I should have roamed about the house like one possessed, day after day. At the same time I had to concoct plans for escaping Molly's importunities, and there at least I displayed considerable ingenuity.
Nirjharinee, as I have said, was no beauty. And the fell disease to which she had fallen a victim was enough to scare away the most romantic imagination. Yet I could not rest without looking at her pale eager face and large anxious eyes at least six or seven times a day. And as I looked at her my uneasiness continually increased. Some one incessantly seemed to whisper in my ears: "You could do her good, but you are not doing it."
The post used to arrive at four or five in the evening. Formerly I waited at home for it; but now to escape Molly, I had taken to going out in the evening and returning late. I passed by Nitya Babu's house several times a day. My eyes remained fixed on a certain window of the house. Just at the time when the postman was seen advancing, Nirjharinee came and stood by the window, clutching the iron bars with her weak hands. I could see her heart clearly through her eyes. And I heard even more distinctly than with my ears, what her heart prayed for. Only a few ​days and nights remained, then the curtain would drop upon the neglected and insignificant drama of her life. But the days passed and still she stood with empty hands. She lived on in the hope that before the unopened bud was withered completely, the south wind would come just once to whisper in her ears, and would steal a whiff of fragrance from her heart. Then she would have fulfilled her life's mission. But the days passed and a traveller advanced along the way toward her. Not the messenger of light, whom she awaited and desired. It was the terrible god of death with his deadly wand.
One day I saw that as soon as Nirjharinee came and stood by the window, her mother pulled her back from it, saying something to her in a sharp tone. So this joy too was to be denied her. The sorrow of her perpetual and unavailing tryst was the only thing left to her, and now that was to be taken away. If I could have met Animesh then!
But I could not avoid Molly to the end. She captured me one day, suddenly in the midst of the road. She flung herself upon me like a mad creature and sobbed out: "You are bad, you are wicked. Why did you take her old letter, if you did not intend to give her a new one? I told her she would get her letter and she did not get it."
"Don't be in such a hurry, your sister is going to have her letter very soon now." Some how I got rid of her, and hurried off. I sat down in a field and thought and thought. Nirjharinee's eyes looked as if they were wells of laughter in her better days. But the laughter had been quenched in tears. Could no one give back laughter its lost kingdom? How would she look now, if she smiled? How would she appear, if the despair and conflict could be banished and the whole picture re-painted in colours of gladness?
Should I try? She was about to step into the realm ​of eternal night, should I show her for once just a streak of light? It might be nothing but a will-o'-the-wisp, but would it not suffice? She had such a very little way to travel?
So at last I wrote a letter to her. The writing was a counterfeit of Animesh's but the words were my own. I hardly know whether I loved her or not, but this much I will say, I wrote nothing that I did not feel. She was going to her bridal ceremony, where Death, the bridegroom, stood for her with open arms. Could I dare to stand as a rival to him? Still, I will say what I wrote was nothing but the truth, though it went in sorry disguise.
Thus it was that Molly's sister received her letter at last. I stood beyond the broken garden wall to watch. Her face looked wonderful that day. Laughter had come back to its own. I freely confess that I had cheated and sinned. But it was too late to turn myself into a saint. And heaven would have remained closed to me even had I never written the letter.
Three days after, she died. My mother went and took charge of the stricken family and arranged somehow for the funeral procession. There were a few Bengalis in the place and I collected them together after a great deal of trouble. As we started for the cremation ground, I could hear Molly's broken sobs. "Didi, don't go away. I shall bring you more letters!"
As we were about to lift the body on the pyre, something dropped down on the ground. I picked it up. It was the letter I had written. She was taking it with her to her new home. I flung it amidst the blazing pyre.
I remained there by the pyre until the fire died down. When I returned it was already dark.
After two or three months, I returned to Calcutta. Leaving my luggage for the moment, I went in search of ​Animesh. He had left the mess. I heard he was living with one of his uncles. Where had this uncle been so long, I wondered.
After a day or two, as I was on the point of starting for an evening walk, I suddenly came face to face with Animesh. "Hallo, it's a long time since I saw you!" he cried out in his hearty manner and grinned from ear to ear. He took a seat and then brought out a fat roll of a manuscript. "This will keep you busy for a long time," he said.
I took the roll, and without a word flung it deftly into the kitchen trough below.
Animesh was too bewildered to speak. Seeing that he was staring at me open-mouthed, I said, "Animesh you had better clear out of here with good grace, otherwise you will follow your manuscript."
He went and I never saw him again.