The Boat-wreck

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘I feel she has left home, we should look for her carefully.’

  Suddenly growing animated, Chakraborty said, ‘You’re right, it’s quite possible!’

  ‘The pilgrimage of Kashi is nearby. A close friend of ours lives there; it is possible that Kamala has found shelter there.’

  Reassured, Chakraborty said, ‘But Ramesh-babu has never told us about this person. Would we have left any stone unturned had he known?’

  ‘Then why don’t we both go to Kashi? You know this region well enough to make thorough enquiries.’

  Chakraborty agreed to this proposal with alacrity. Akshay knew that Hemnalini would not believe him easily. So he made Chakraborty accompany him as a witness with evidence.

  48

  Annada-babu and Hemnalini had rented a bungalow situated in a clearing in the cantonment outside the city.

  As soon as they had reached Kashi, they had heard that Nalinaksha’s mother Kshemankari’s minor cold and fever had turned into pneumonia. Her condition had become critical because of her refusal to stop her morning cold-water baths despite her fever.

  After a few days of indefatigable care from Hemnalini, Kshemankari recovered from her illness. But she was still extremely weak. Because of her insistence on following all her rituals over food, Hemnalini’s assistance with her diet was of no avail. Earlier she used to cook for herself, now it was Nalinaksha who had to cook for her. He alone was allowed to help her with her food. Rueing this, Kshemankari kept saying, ‘Why couldn’t I have died, the lord saved me only to harass all of you!’

  Kshemankari lived a spartan life, but she ensured that her surroundings were perfect and beautiful. Hemnalini had heard this from Nalinaksha. So she took great care to maintain everything neatly and kept the house in order. She even took great care with her own attire before visiting Kshemankari. Annada-babu would bring her flowers every day from the garden of their rented house, and Hemnalini would arrange them around Kshemankari’s sickbed.

  Nalinaksha had tried his best to engage a maid for his mother’s care, but she was not inclined to accept help from maids. There were servants for fetching water and other household chores, but she could not tolerate their performing any of her personal tasks. After the death of the maid who had brought her up as a child, Kshemankari had not allowed anyone to fan her or even touch her during her worst illnesses.

  She was very fond of beautiful children and beautiful faces. On her way back from her bath at the Dasaswamedh Ghat every morning, having sprinkled flowers and the holy water from the river on every Shivling on the way, she would sometimes bring a lovely local boy or girl home along with her. She had won over several of the children in the neighbourhood with toys, money and food; they would rampage all over her house whenever they wanted, which gave her much joy. She had another habit, which was to compulsively buy pretty knick-knacks. None of these were of any use to her; but she derived great pleasure from identifying those who would be happy to receive them and then sending them as presents. Sometimes, even her distant relatives would be astonished to get such gifts in the mail. All these redundant but lovely objects were stored in a black mahogany safe, along with a collection of silk clothes. Kshemankari had decided that all of these would belong to Nalin’s wife when she came home. She had conjured up a vision of an exquisitely beautiful little girl-bride for Nalin – who would brighten up their home, playing everywhere, while she dressed her up. Such pleasurable thoughts had occupied many of her leisure hours.

  She lived like an ascetic herself. After most of the day had passed in her ablutions, prayers and rituals, she ate just once – fruits, milk and sweets. But she did not approve of Nalinaksha’s insistence on adhering to strict rules. ‘Why should men put so much emphasis on rituals?’ she would say. She considered men nothing more than overgrown children; when they maintained no sense of proportion in their eating habits or behaviour, she considered it commensurate with her propensity for affectionate indulgence. She would say forgivingly, ‘How can you expect austerity from men?’ Of course, everyone had to follow the strictures of religion, but she had decided that rituals were not meant for men. She would have been quite happy had Nalinaksha turned out, like others of his gender, to be somewhat reckless and wilful, provided he took care not to enter her prayer-room or come into physical contact with her at inopportune moments.

  When Kshemankari recovered from her illness, she discovered that Hemnalini was following all sorts of rituals on Nalinaksha’s advice, while even the aged Annada-babu paid attention to all that Nalinaksha said with the respect and reverence due to a learned man.

  Kshemankari was vastly amused at this. One day, she called Hemnalini and told her, laughing, ‘I can see you will make Nalin even more obsessed with his rituals. Why do you pay attention to his eccentric ways? You should be dressing prettily and having a good time – is this any age for an ascetic existence? If you were to ask me, “Why do you follow the rituals then”, there’s some history behind it. My parents were very pious people. All of us brothers and sisters have grown up this way. If we were to give it up, we would have nothing to fall back on. But I know how you have been educated and brought up. All these rules you are following are forced, what use is that? I always maintain that each of us should preserve what we have been born with. Really, none of this matters to you, give it up. What do you have to do with eating only vegetarian food or immersing yourself in prayers and rituals? And when did Nalin turn into such an important teacher? What does he know of all this? Just the other day he lived as he pleased, flying into a rage whenever anyone mentioned the scriptures. He took to all these practices just to please me, and now I see he might well turn into a sage. I keep telling him, “You should live with the beliefs you had when you were younger. None of them are bad. It will please me.” Nalin only smiles. That’s how he is, he only listens without protesting, he doesn’t respond even when scolded.’

  These discussions would take place while doing Hemnalini’s hair after five in the evening. Kshemankari did not approve of Hem’s way of doing it. She would say, ‘You probably think I’m old-fashioned, that I have no idea of today’s styles. But you do not know as many ways to do one’s hair as I do, my dear. I had discovered a very nice Englishwoman who used to teach me embroidery, she used to teach me different hairstyles too. After she left I had to bathe again and change my clothes. I can’t help it. As for rituals, I do not know whether they are good or bad, but I cannot keep myself from observing them. Please do not mind that I am so careful about contact with you. It’s just habit. When the system changed at Nalin’s house, when the Hindu ways were dispensed with, I tolerated a great deal without protesting. All I said was, do what you think best – but I am an ignorant woman, I cannot give up my ways.’

  As she spoke, Kshemankari quickly wiped away a teardrop with the end of her sari.

  Kshemankari used to enjoy undoing Hemnalini’s hairdo every day and plaiting her long hair in different ways. On some occasions, she had even taken out saris of her choice from her mahogany safe and dressed Hemnalini in them. She loved dressing people up according to her tastes. Hemnalini would bring her embroidery to show Kshemankari every day; Kshemankari began to teach her new patterns. All this was her usual evening activity. Her enthusiasm for reading magazines and storybooks was not insubstantial either. Hemnalini had given her all the books and magazines at her disposal. She was astonished at the way Kshemankari discussed some of the articles and books; Hemnalini had no idea that such intelligent analysis was possible without the knowledge of English. Nalinaksha’s mother’s statements, along with her rituals and practices, made her seem like an extraordinary woman to Hemnalini. Kshemankari was not as Hemnalini had imagined her to be – everything about her was a surprise.

  49

  Kshemankari’s fever returned. This time the illness was mild. In the morning, Nalinaksha said while touching her feet, ‘You’ll have to follow the rules of the sickbed for some time, Ma.
A weak body cannot withstand your frugal ways.’

  Kshemankari said, ‘And while I live by sickbed rules, you will continue to live by ascetic rules. You cannot go on this way, Nalin. I am ordering you, you must get married now.’

  Nalinaksha remained sitting in silence. Kshemankari said, ‘Look, this body won’t take me much further. I can die happily if I see you settled. Earlier, I used to imagine a little girl coming into my family as your bride, someone whom I would teach and train myself, moulding her into a woman after my heart. But now God has given me good sense during my illness. One cannot have too much faith in one’s own lifespan, who knows how long I’ll live, or when I might go. If I were to leave you with the responsibility for a little girl, that would mean more trouble for you. It would be better for you to marry someone of your age. During my illness, these thoughts wouldn’t let me sleep. I know only too well that I still have to perform this last task, to accomplish which I must live, or else there will be no peace for me.’

  ‘How will I find a bride who will blend with us?’ Nalinaksha asked.

  Kshemankari said, ‘I will find her for you, you don’t have to worry.’

  Kshemankari had not yet emerged in Annada-babu’s presence. When, following his daily routine, Annada-babu arrived at Nalinaksha’s residence shortly before sunset that day, Kshemankari sent for him. She told him, ‘Your daughter is a wonderful girl, I am very fond of her. You know my Nalin, no one can find fault with him – he is a renowned doctor, too. Will you find another match as good for your daughter?’

  Annada-babu said quickly, ‘I did not even dare to hope. What could be more fortunate than to have Nalinaksha marry my daughter? But will he…’

  Kshemankari said, ‘Nalin will not object. He is not like today’s young men, he obeys me. And there is no need to plead with him anyway. Who would not like your daughter? But I want to do this quickly. I don’t trust my state of health.’

  Annada-babu went home cheerfully that evening. Calling Hemnalini the same night, he said, ‘I’m growing old, Ma, and I haven’t been well either. I shall not be happy till I see you settled. Your mother isn’t alive, your entire responsibility is mine to bear.’

  Hemnalini stared at her father anxiously.

  Annada-babu continued, ‘I have received such a splendid proposal for you, Ma, that I can barely contain my joy. I am only afraid of one obstacle. Nalinaksha’s mother herself sent for me today to propose her son’s marriage with you.’

  Reddening, Hemnalini said with great diffidence, ‘The things you say, Baba. No, this is absolutely impossible.’

  Hemnalini had never suspected the possibility of marrying Nalinaksha. An uneasy embarrassment and uncertainty swept over her.

  ‘Why is it impossible?’ asked Annada-babu.

  Hemnalini said, ‘Nalinaksha-babu! How can that ever be!’

  While this could not exactly be termed a reason, it was far more effective than one.

  Too embarrassed to remain in her father’s company, Hemnalini went to the veranda.

  Annada-babu was utterly dejected. He had not even considered the possibility of resistance. On the contrary, he had assumed that Hem would be delighted at the prospect of marrying Nalinaksha. Looking miserably into the light of the kerosene lamp, the bewildered old man began to ponder over the unfathomable mystery of a woman’s heart and the absence of Hemnalini’s mother.

  Hem sat in the dark veranda for a long time. When she looked into the room, the hopelessness on her father’s face saddened her. Going up to him and running her fingers through his hair, she said, ‘Come, Baba, the food’s getting cold, it was served a long time ago.’

  Annada-babu rose mechanically and went to the table, but he could hardly eat. He had been optimistic about Hemnalini’s crises coming to an end, but her strong objection had dismayed him. With another tragic sigh, he realized that his daughter had not probably yet forgotten Ramesh.

  On other days, Annada-babu would go to bed straight after dinner, but tonight he sat down on the canvas easy-chair in the veranda and began to brood, his eyes on the desolate cantonment road in front. Hemnalini appeared and told him gently, ‘It’s very cold here, Baba, come to bed.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Annada-babu, ‘I’ll come soon.’

  Hemnalini remained standing beside him in silence. A little later she repeated, ‘You’re cold, Baba, come into the drawing room, then.’

  Annada-babu rose from his chair without another word and went to bed.

  Hemnalini did not allow thoughts of Ramesh to interfere with her duties. She had waged a grim struggle against herself all this time. But unexpected attacks open dormant wounds. Not having a clear idea of her own future, Hemnalini had accepted Nalinaksha as her guide and followed his advice. But the marriage proposal meant emerging from the deepest recesses of her heart, which made her realize how strong the bond was. Hemnalini responded to every threat to it by growing fearful and clinging to it twice as hard.

  50

  Meanwhile Kshemankari summoned Nalinaksha. ‘I have found a bride for you,’ she told him.

  Smiling, Nalinaksha said, ‘Really?’

  ‘What do you expect? I’m not going to live forever. Now listen, it is Hemnalini I have chosen – I haven’t seen another girl like her. She may not be all that fair, but—’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, I’m not thinking of the colour of her skin. But Hemnalini? Impossible.’

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t see any reason why not.’

  Nalinaksha found it difficult to answer. But the sudden proposal of marriage with Hemnalini, whom he had counselled unselfconsciously all this time, embarrassed him.

  Kshemankari said, ‘I will not entertain objections. I won’t accept your sacrifices at your age for my sake, the way you live like an ascetic here in Kashi. I’m warning you, when the time is right I shall not let you slip through my fingers.’

  After a pause, Nalinaksha said, ‘Then let me tell you something, Ma. But you must not be upset about this. The incident I’m about to recount took place nine or ten months ago, there’s no need to be agitated about it now. But you tend to be pursued by old fears, which is why I haven’t told you all this while even though I wanted to. You can arrange for as many rituals as you like to appease the planets, but don’t trouble your heart unnecessarily.’

  An anxious Kshemankari said, ‘I don’t know what you’re about to tell me, but your preamble makes me nervous. Not that it is possible to protect oneself from bad news. However much I might try to keep it at a distance, it inevitably arrives without being invited. Tell me what you have to, good news or bad.’

  Nalinaksha said, ‘This January I was on my way back after selling all my effects in Rangpur and making arrangements for letting out the house on rent. At Sanra, I decided on a whim to sail to Calcutta instead of taking the train. I hired a large local boat and set off. After two days, while I was bathing near a sandbank, I suddenly discovered our Bhupen, with a gun in his hand. He leapt with joy when he saw me, saying, “I was out hunting and look what I found.” He had been posted as the deputy magistrate of the area and was out touring the countryside, passing the nights in a tent. We were meeting after a long time, he simply wouldn’t let me continue my journey and insisted on my accompanying him everywhere. One day we camped at a place named Dhobapukur. In the evening, we went for a stroll in the village – a very primitive place. We entered a makeshift hut next to a big field. The head of the household brought us stools to sit on. Classes were under way on the veranda outside the room. The primary school teacher was sitting on a low wooden platform, his feet propped up on a post. The boys were squatting on the floor with their slates, noisily acquiring an education. The head of the household was named Tarini Chatterjee. He asked Bhupen a thousand questions about me. Back in our tent, Bhupen said, “You’re a lucky man, there’s a marriage proposal for you.” “What do you mean?” I asked him. Bhupen said, “This Tarini Chatterjee is a moneylender; there isn’t another miser like him in the world. Because he has o
ffered his house to the school, he brags about his philanthropy to every new district magistrate. But he makes the teacher do all his accounts late into the night, paying him with only his meals. The salary comes from a government grant and school fees. One of his sisters had turned to him for help after her husband died. She was expecting a child at the time. She died after giving birth to her daughter, her illness more or less untreated. Another widowed sister did all the household work, saving Tarini the wages of a maid. She brought up the daughter as her own. When the girl was a little older, this lady died too. Since then the young girl has been living as her uncle and aunt’s maid, constantly scolded by them. She is old enough to be married, but how will an orphan find a groom? Especially as no one knows her parents. Since she was born after her father’s death, local gossipmongers have been expressing doubts over her parentage. Everyone knows Tarini Chatterjee has plenty of money – what people want is to milk his riches on the occasion of the girl’s wedding. He has been passing her off as ten for the past four years. So, by rights, she should be fourteen now. But say what you will, she lives up to her name of Kamala, she’s the goddess herself. I have never seen a girl so beautiful. Whenever a young Brahmin arrives in the village, Tarini implores him to marry her. But even if someone were to agree, the villagers would pour poison in his ears and drive him away. Therefore, it is your turn now.” You know, Ma, I was in a defiant state of mind. Without further thought I said, “I shall marry this girl.” I had already decided to marry a Hindu girl and bring her home to make you happy; I knew that marrying a grown-up Brahmo woman would displease everyone. Bhupen was astonished. “Do you know you’re saying?” he exclaimed. “I’m not just saying it, I’ve made up my mind,” I told him. “Are you sure?” asked Bhupen. “I am,” I said. Tarini Chatterjee appeared in our tent the same evening. Wrapping his sacred thread around his palm, he said deferentially, “You must rescue me from my predicament. See her for yourself, if you do not like her, it’s a different matter, but pay no attention to enemies.” “There’s no need for me to see her,” I said, “fix the date.” Tarini said, “The day after tomorrow is auspicious.” Haste would be his excuse for saving on expenses. The wedding took place.’