# Stories of Bengalee Life/The Foundling/Chapter 3

III
We are now at Nobogram, on the bank of the Bhagirathi, surrounded by trees. It is early dawn. The birds have not yet begun their morning song. Wearing a tattered quilt around his person and a turban round his head, Sitanath walked very ​slowly towards his home. The rain of the previous night, dripping from the boughs of the trees, soaked his clothing.
Gradually he reached the entrance gate. It was shut. On each side of it was a brick-built seat much broken from long neglect. On either side grew flowering shrubs now a mass of bloom.
Sitanath in a thin hoarse voice called out—"Nitai!" After the third call an answer was obtained from within—"Coming"—and Nitai rushing forward opened the gate. A glance at his master rendered him speechless with surprise. In one week's time Sitanath's appearance had become so greatly changed. No umbrella, no walking stick, no bag, and where had he got that tattered quilt from? Nitai could not make it out at all. He was of the weaver caste. A serving lad in his apprenticeship, he received no wages, only food and protection. Sitanath asked—"How are things going on, Nitai? Is the family well?"
"Quite well. But where is your stick, Sir, and your umbrella?"
The old man cast a piteous look upon Nitai, who said—"You have come back without them I think?"
Weeping, the aged man replied—"Yes, Nitai, they are gone."
​Nitai had long cast a covetous eye upon that bamboo walking stick. He had long designed carrying it off upon some convenient opportunity and hiding it in his home. So now he was a bit troubled about it. He was sure some servant fellow at Motiganj had taken it, but had he also taken the umbrella? It was such a ragged old thing that had Nitai's master offered it to him as a gift, it is doubtful if he would have taken it. If the fellow had taken it, it must have been with the idea of loosening the staff from its mounts and cutting it up into arrows, for as an umbrella it was of no service at all.
Sitanath went to his own room and sat down. Nitai lit a match, prepared the hookah and placed it in his master's hand. But Sitanath set it down on the tarnished brass stand. Never before had he shown such distaste for the tobacco plant. Casting down his eyes and shaking his head with a deep sigh, he said—"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ruin has come upon me." At this sight Nitai took himself out of the way. The eldest son's wife was at that moment scouring the verandah. To her Nitai described his master's condition. She said, "Rouse up the Bara Babu."
The eldest son's name was Srinibash. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he went to Sitanath's room. At his father's appearance he exclaimed in ​astonishment—"What is this? Why are your looks so changed, Sir? Has some misfortune occurred?"
The old man, swaying his head up and down, said in piteous tones—"Ha, ha, ha, ha, destruction has come upon me."
"What has happened? Would they not give the jewels?"
"They gave them, they gave them, but I am ruined."
Srinibash looked eagerly at his father in the hope that he would say something more, but nothing came from the old man's lips, save the same indistinct mutterings.
At length Srinibash said—"Well, what happened? Are they lost?"
The old man answered as before. This time Srinibash, annoyed, said—"What has happened? Will you not speak plainly?"
"They are gone, I tell you. They are lost."
"But in what way? Were they stolen?"
" No."
"Taken by dacoits?"
"No."
"Then."
This time Sitanath got out with much difficulty the words—"Bhudhar Chatterji of Chandbari has taken them."
​The son said angrily—"Who is he? How can he have taken the jewel case? Did he seize upon it? Have you come quietly away without seeking the aid of the police?"
"Did I not go to the police? I went to the police, but the Daroga of that thana is the husband of Bhudhar Chatterji's sister."
"Let him be her husband or her father. If you made a charge, he must write it in his diary and have a search made."
"He enter it in his diary? On the contrary he threatened me with jail for making a false charge."
In the same mess-house with Srinibash, in his student days, there had been a pupil studying law. From his talk Srinibash had learned something of legal matters. For a shilling he had bought a copy of "Mukhtear's Guide," and whenever there was a law-suit in the village, Srinibash usually advised one party or the other. He now said gravely to his father—"Tell me plainly what happened from first to last; let me see if I cannot find some remedy."
Then the old man began his narrative. I give the essence of it omitting the sighs, the tears, the useless whinings with which he dragged the tale through an hour of time.
Before dusk he had set out on his return journey, the boat being towed from the shore. ​Suddenly the tow-rope breaking, the boat drifted rapidly away in the opposite direction. Coming forcibly in contact with an immense cargo boat at Chandbari ghat, the smaller boat was wrecked. The jewel box was fastened to Sitanath's back with his upper-garment. Bhudhar Chatterji rescued the senseless old man from the water and had him carried to his house. He restored him to life by medical aid but did not return him the jewel box.
Knitting his brows Srinibash asked—"Did he himself confess to having the jewels?"
"Not at first. When I came to my senses I asked—where is the box that was fastened to my back? He answered—We have found no box. Then I screamed out—All my property is gone; you have killed a Brahman. And with that I swooned away again. When I revived, I saw that a doctor had come from somewhere. He said—Don't be anxious, your box is all right. He enquired all about me, felt my pulse, gave me medicine and went away saying—You have nothing to fear; in three days you will be able to get about."
Srinibash said eagerly—"Then I will summon the doctor as a witness to the court. I will get those jewels from Bhudhur Chatterji. I will haul him up by the ears."
​"That is hopeless—useless. Did I not go to the doctor? He said he knew nothing about any jewels. Only to pacify me he had said they were all right. What would you gain by summoning him? He would only say the same in court."
"Then how do you know Bhudhar Chatterji took them?"
"After that Bhudar Chatterji said so himself."
"Admitted having taken them, yet did not give them up! He is a funny fellow! What was his purpose in admitting it? It would have been more to his interest to deny it."
"There is a motive,—he has a motive. He said—Marry your youngest son with my daughter. If you do that, you will get all the jewels as dowry. I am poor and my daughter gets no husband. Your jewels will return to your house, and as a reward I shall be discharged of my obligation to get my daughter married."
To this Srinibash replied—"If that is the way of it, I see there will be difficulties." And he sat biting the ends of his moustach as he pondered.
Sitanath's youngest son was named Sriman Annada Charan. He was a youth who had failed to pass the F. A. Examination. He rather affected English customs. Morning and evening he took tea and biscuits. Among the young men of the ​village he was esteemed a learned man. His face was handsome and set off by fine hair. After the death of his wife he published a book of fragmentary poems entitled "Sorrowful Tears of a Broken Heart." Whenever the subject of marriage had been introduced, he had replied to it with great contempt. He was honoured amongst his friends as a faithful lover of his departed wife. There was no hope of its being possible to reconcile him to the proposed marriage. This is why Srinibash anticipated difficulties.
The old man replied—"Do all you can to persuade him into this marriage. Otherwise at my age I shall not be able to bear the loss of these jewels. I shall die of it. Tell him if he does not consent, he will be guilty of the sin of parricide."
Annada's four brothers seized hold of him and kept him in their midst. The whole day they plied him with persuasions, arguments, entreaty, anger, but nothing moved him. His relatives flattered his more intimate friends into using their influence in the same direction. The different arguments against a second marriage advanced by Annada, his friends discussed and demolished one by one as occasion served. And when, leaving aside the practical view of it, he referred to sentiment, they heaped up countless instances of desolate widowers contracting a second marriage. ​Such a one became a Sannyasi for the death of his wife and leaving home wandered in the forests and jungles and on mountain heights with his blanket and lota on his shoulder, yet ere a year elapsed he returned home and married a second time. Another after losing his wife produced a volume of poetry which was highly eulogised by all the great men of his time from Bankim Babu downwards,—but he married not only once more but even a third time. In this battle Annada was at length obliged to own himself defeated—but he did not consent to marry.
Meanwhile the time was running close. Bhudhar Chatterji had granted ten days only. The 20th Sawan would be the last day. Three days were gone, only a week remained.
As the son still refused, the father announced that he would himself marry the girl. "I cannot give up Rs. 2,000 worth of jewels, whatever may befall me in consequence"—said he.
This news getting abroad in the village produced a burst of ridicule. People said that the loss of the jewels and the upsetting of the boat was all fiction, that the sight of a beautiful young girl had turned the old man's head and upset his reason. One said—"Who would have expected this from the old man! His looks are quite deceptive." Another suggested that a copy of ​Dinabandhu Mitra's play "An Old Man's Craze for Marriage" should be bought by subscription and presented to him. One with a turn for verse-making, urged by many, composed some amusing songs on the subject.
One or two of the graver folks came to Sitanath and addressed him, saying—"Mukerji Mahashoi, we hear you intend to marry, but what if they decline to give you the girl? You are somewhat advanced in years, you know, and it is just likely they may not consent."
Sitanath replied—"I knew beforehand that the wayward boy might refuse to marry. But they said if the son refuse, I shall have the ornaments by marrying her myself. The girl is much too grown already and because of their poverty does not get married. So lest they should lose caste, they will not stop to consider if the bridegroom be young or old."
Whatever amusement the village folk might derive from all this, the family on hearing this announcement felt as though a thunderbolt had fallen on their heads. The four sons and their four wives became distracted. Each and all assailed the old man in their various ways.
Sitanath said—"Observe! I have no desire to marry. Do you somehow contrive to bring round Annada and I will solemnise his marriage and bring home the golden bride.
​Annada, poor wretch, had enjoyed a little respite,—but after this the persecutions began afresh with twofold zeal. At length Annada, with face and eyes inflamed, said angrily—"If you all continue to plague me in this way, I will take myself off from home."
The eldest son's wife retorted—"I have seen much in the course of my life, brother-in-law, and if I live I shall see more. You are making a tremendous fuss now—but we shall see how it will end."
24th Sawan. There were but five days left to the wedding. Sitanath took money and went to Calcutta. He had said as he went that he would buy there the necessary things and proceed thence to the wedding.
When the old man was gone, a fresh commotion arose in the house. Small and great all turned sword in hand upon Annada. The mother had been dead about ten years. The sons, the daughters and the grand children made a large family. Sitanath did not marry again, nor had people advised that he should do so. So for these ten years the eldest son's wife had been mistress of the house—and now, suddenly, for a raw girl to be brought in to snatch the sceptre of government from her hand! The thought was torture. She came weeping to Annada and said—"Anu brother, there is still ​time—do you now marry this girl, else the golden family will be wrecked."
Suddenly Annada said—"See! Bou Didi I have thought of a plan. I hear those people are very poor and that is why the girl does not get married. Do you, amongst yourselves, collect a thousand rupees and let me have them. I will give them to Bhudhar Chatterji and say to him—'You are a Brahman with a daughter to marry. I have brought you a little assistance. Find a suitor to your mind and give him your daughter, and give me back my ornaments.' He may consent. He is not a bad man, his conduct shews that. He might easily have denied having the jewels, you see."
The proposal was discussed in family council. Every one said—"It is not a bad idea. It won't hurt to try it."
It gave them life. Collecting the silver in the house and borrowing a little, they made up the sum. The same evening Annada took boat for Chandbari.