# Stories of Bengalee Life/A Pseudonym/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII
Satish had not yet asked for the hand of Nirmala from her parents. When he should do so, it was pretty certain he would be accepted as a husband for her. It was my firm belief that Dr. Sen was as anxious to become his father-in-law as Satish was to become Dr. Sen's son-in-law. ​This had become clear to me during these few days. But this affair of Gouri Kanta caused me much uneasiness. I could not understand this close friendship. The affair showed itself thus to me: Satish and Nirmala married. Nirmala strongly devoted to Bengali literature; Satish furious at its very name. Meanwhile, Gouri Kanta Ray, a brilliant writer, had chosen Nirmala of all the women in the world, to be his literary confidante. And Nirmala was strongly attracted by him. This was like an unknown seed—Who could tell what kind of tree might not grow out of it?
I would not suffer this to come about. I would clear my friend's married life from thorns. The temple for the worship of Gouri Kanta that Nirmala had consecreted in her mind, I would reduce to ashes by thunderbolts of criticism. I would show that there were writers among the new men even more brilliant than Gouri Kanta. I would expose Gouri Kanta's errors in language and in granmar. Going through ancient and modern Western literature, I would show the same ideas as those expressed by Gouri Kanta. Side by side I would print extracts proclaiming him a thief in the face of the world, and thus by constant reiteration, I would give birth to the conviction in Nirmala's mind that her god was nothing better than a clay idol stuffed with straw. ​I had sacrificed everything for The Light of Bengal. My Critical Mace was the dread of every writer, great and small. Now, by the aid of this mace I would accomplish an act of friendship. Once a doubt arose whether this would not be a breach of my editorial duties, but aided by my inclination, I easily succeeded in putting my conscience to sleep.
Thus resolving, I wrote a terribly sharp review of "Nandarani," pulling it to pieces, and sent it to Calcutta to appear in the October number of my journal.
In due time the order proofs arrived. Upon them, in various places, I sharpened the sting of criticism. On that afternoon Satish came in. Seeing "Nandarani" on my table, he took it up. I said hastily—don't touch it, it is only a Bengali book."
"You have been so occupied with this wretched book lately that you have not been to see us for a week. Whenever I come here I find you at work on this book; so I have come to carry it off."
"I have been reviewing the work. You can take it away now, as I have finished."
"The review is finished?"
"Yes; I despatched the order proofs by post some minutes ago." Seeing Satish concerning ​himself with Bengali literature, I asked myself, "What can have happened?"
Satish, looking at me, began to smile.
"What is it?"—I asked.
I am going to tell you a secret about myself. I have only been waiting to do so until that review should appear in your paper."
Supremely astonished, I said—"A review of Nandarani! What connexion is there between that and any secret about yourself?"
“A very close connexion. I am Gouri Kanta Ray."
It was as if I had fallen from the skies.
“You!!!"
"Yes—I—don't you see? Sati means Gouri, and ish means Kanta."
I repeated "You!" and while speaking I rang the bell to call a servant. When he came, I bade him bring a telegraph form. Satish told me that when he was in England he used to sit in the British Museum reading all the good Bengali works with great attention. Then he studied and practised original composition. He was waiting to tell me this until a review of his first long novel should appear in The Light of Bengal, lest, knowing it beforehand, I should be biassed by friendship in reviewing the work.
​The servant brought the telegraph form. I telegraphed to the manager that I had dispatched the order proof by post, but that it was not to be printed. In place of it I told him to put in another article.
THE END