Kshemankari was startled. ‘The wedding took place? What are you saying, Nalin!’
Nalinaksha said, ‘Yes, it did. I boarded the boat with my bride. About two hours after we set off, shortly after sunset, an unseasonal tornado came from nowhere and overturned our boat before we knew what was happening.’
‘Lord!’ said Kshemankari. Her skin prickled.
‘When I returned to my senses after some time I found myself swimming in the river, without any sign of the boat or anyone else. The police was informed and enquiries made, but nothing came of it.’
An ashen-faced Kshemankari said, ‘What has happened has happened – don’t bring it up with me again. It makes my heart quake.’
‘I would never have told you, but I had to because you’re insisting on the marriage.’
Kshemankari said, ‘Because of one accident you won’t marry again in your lifetime?’
Nalinaksha said, ‘It isn’t that, Ma, but what if she’s alive?’
‘Are you mad? Had she been alive would she not have informed you?’
‘What does she know about me? Who is a greater stranger to her than I? She has not even set her eyes on me. I sent my address to Tarini Chatterjee after arriving in Kashi. He wrote to me saying he has had no word from her.’
‘Well, then?’
‘I have decided to wait for one full year before accepting that she is dead.’
‘You always go to extremes. What do you have to wait a year for?’
‘There’s not long to go. It’s December now, only three more months.’
‘Very well. But the bride has been decided. I have given my word to Hemnalini’s father.’
Nalinaksha said, ‘Ma, we can only give our word, but we have to depend on the one who controls its destiny.’
Kshemankari said, ‘Say what you like, I’m still trembling with anxiety.’
‘I know that, Ma, it will take you a long while to calm down. Once you are upset, you never settle down easily. That is why I don’t tell you everything.’
‘I’m glad you don’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days – whenever I hear bad news, the fear of more never seems to leave me. I am frightened to open letters lest they contain bad news. I have myself told you not to tell me; I consider myself dead, why allow this world to hurt me any more?’
51
When Kamala reached the bank of the river, the winter sun had declined to the edge of a dull, gloomy western sky. Facing the incipient darkness, Kamala joined her palms together in reverence to the setting sun. Sprinkling a few drops of the holy water of the Ganga on her head, she waded into the water and set the flowers in her hand afloat. Then she paid her respects to her ancestors. Now she was reminded of one more person worthy of her respect. She had never so much as raised her eyes to look at him; when he had sat at her side one night she had not glanced even at his feet. The few words he had exchanged with the other women in the wedding room had only filtered to her through her veil and she had been too bashful to listen closely. Standing at the edge of the water now, she tried in vain to recall his voice.
The hour of the wedding was late at night. She did not know when she had fallen asleep, exhausted. Waking in the morning, she found a young married woman, one of her neighbours, shaking her awake and giggling – there was no one else in her bed. During these final moments of her existence, she had nothing to recollect the lord of her life by. It was absolutely dark – there was nothing tangible, neither words nor a keepsake. Kamala did not know the value of the cheap red wedding garment, provided by Tarinicharan, to which the end of his shawl had been fastened as part of the rituals; she had not kept it.
The letter which Ramesh had written Hemnalini was tied to the end of her sari; unfolding it, she sat down on the sand and began to read a certain portion in the twilight. This was where her husband’s identity had been disclosed – there was not a great deal of information, only that his name was Nalinaksha Chatterjee and that he had once practised as a doctor in Rangpur, but was not to be found there any more. She had scoured the rest of the letter but found no other reference. The name Nalinaksha fell like honey on her heart, it filled her up, possessing her. A continuous flow of tears watered her heart – she felt her grief flowing away from her. Kamala’s soul began to say, ‘This is not emptiness, this is not darkness – I can see he is there, he is still mine.’ With all her conviction she responded, ‘If I am a pious woman, I shall touch his feet in this lifetime, the Almighty shall not be able to stop me. If I am here he cannot be gone, God has kept me alive to serve him.’
Throwing away the bunch of keys tied to the end of her sari, Kamala suddenly remembered that she was wearing a brooch which Ramesh had gifted her. Taking it off at once, she flung it into the water. Then she began to walk towards the west – it was not clear to her where she should go or what she should do; all she knew was that she had to keep moving, that she could not pause here an instant.
It wasn’t long before the light at the end of the winter day would be extinguished. The white sandy bank lay deserted in the darkness, like a blank canvas from which all lines had been wiped off. The black moonless night with its galaxy of unblinking stars breathed gently on the riverbank.
Kamala saw nothing but endless darkness stretching out before her, but she knew that she had to keep moving – she did not even have the strength to know how far she could go.
She had decided to stay close to the edge of the water to avoid asking for directions. If danger were to strike, Ma Ganga would shelter her at once.
There was not a trace of mist in the sky. A dense darkness wrapped itself around Kamala without blocking her vision.
The night grew deeper. A jackal howled from the edge of the barley fields. When Kamala had walked a long way, the sand gave way to earth. A village was visible by the river. Approaching it with a beating heart, Kamala found it deep in sleep. As she crossed the village fearfully, she no longer had the strength to continue. Eventually she arrived at a point where there was no way forward. Weak with fatigue, she lay down beneath the tree, falling asleep almost at once.
At dawn, she opened her eyes to discover that the moonlight had made the darkness fainter. A middle-aged woman was asking her, ‘Who are you, asleep here beneath a tree on a winter night?’
Kamala sat up, startled. She discovered a pair of barges moored close by at the ghat – the woman was here to bathe before anyone else.
The woman said, ‘You look like you’re a Bengali.’
‘I am a Bengali,’ said Kamala.
‘But why are you lying here?’
‘I meant to go to Kashi. It grew very late at night, I was sleepy, I lay down here.’
‘What! Walk all the way to Kashi? Come to the barge, let me complete my bath in the meantime.’
Kamala and the woman got acquainted with each other after the bath.
She was related to the Siddheshwar-babu at whose house a wedding had taken place with much pomp and ceremony. The woman’s name was Nabinkali. And her husband’s name was Mukundalal Dutta – they had been living in Kashi for some time now. They could not turn down the invitation, but to ensure that they did not have to eat or sleep at their relatives’ house, they had travelled by boat. When the lady of the house had expressed her unhappiness, Nabinkali had said, ‘You know my husband isn’t well. And this has been their practice since childhood. Their food is cooked in the butter from the milk of the cows they keep at home – and the cows cannot be fed any old thing, either.’
Nabinkali said, ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Kamala,’ answered Kamala.
‘I see you’re wearing an iron bangle, so your husband’s alive, then?’
‘My husband disappeared the day after our wedding,’ said Kamala.
‘How sad! You don’t seem very old.’ Surveying Kamala from head to toe, she added, ‘Not more than fifteen.’
Kamala said, ‘I am not sure, possibly, I am fifteen.’
‘Is your father a Brahmi
n?’ Nabinkali asked.
‘Yes,’ said Kamala.
‘Where did you live?’
‘I have never been to my husband’s family house, my parents were from Bishukhali.’
Kamala was under the impression that her father used to live in Bishukhali.
‘Your parents…’
‘Neither of them is alive.’
‘Oh God! What will you do now?’
‘If a kind family in Kashi were to employ me and give me my meals, I could work for them. I can cook.’
Nabinkali was delighted at the prospect of a cook from a Brahmin family who did not need to be paid. She said, ‘We don’t need one – we have a cook and servants already. The cook’s job is very important – my husband cannot tolerate the slightest thing wrong with his food. The cook takes fourteen rupees a month, on top of which we have to give him food and clothes. Still, you’re from a Brahmin family and in trouble – come with us. With so many people eating at our house, feeding another mouth will be easy enough. So much of the food goes to waste anyway. The work isn’t too heavy. My husband and I are the only ones at home. Our daughters are all married into rich families. My only son is a magistrate, he lives in Serajganj at present, he gets a letter from the governor every other month. I tell his father, “Our Noto lacks for nothing, why does he have to work so hard? I know that everyone doesn’t get a job as important as a magistrate’s, but still, he has to live away from home, doesn’t he? Why? Do we need him to work?” His father says, “That’s not the point. You’re a woman, you don’t understand. Do you think I make Noto work to earn a living? I’m not short of money. But it’s important to be engaged in some kind of work, or else, given his age, who knows what might happen.”’
There was a wind in the sails of the barges, and it did not take them long to reach Kashi. They went directly to a two-storeyed building with a small garden just outside the city.
There was no sign of a cook with a salary of fourteen rupees. There was instead a cook from Orissa with whom Nabinkali flew into a rage a few days later, dismissing him without paying his dues. And while they waited to hire a member of the rare species of a suitable cook, Kamala had to take charge of the kitchen.
Nabinkali warned Kamala repeatedly, ‘Kashi is not a safe place, my dear. You are young. Don’t leave the house alone. I will take you along for bathing in the Ganga or visiting the temple.’
Nabinkali guarded Kamala with great care to ensure that she didn’t slip away. She did not even give Kamala the opportunity to meet other Bengali women. There was no end of work to be done during the day – in the evening, Nabinkali would discuss the wealth, the ornaments, the utensils of gold and silver, the silk and velvet furnishing that she had not been able to bring to Kashi for fear of being burgled. ‘My husband has never used everyday crockery. He would even say, “It doesn’t matter if one or two plates or glasses are stolen, we can replace them easily enough.” But I cannot bear losses even though we are rich, it’s better to give some things up temporarily. Take our huge house back home – we have lost count of the number of servants there, but that doesn’t mean we can bring an army of them here, does it? My husband says, “Why not rent another house close by for them?” I say, “No, I cannot do all this – I want to live in peace, not worry day and night about the servants and two houses.” ’
52
Nabinkali’s household made Kamala feel as suffocated as a fish in a dirty, shallow pond. She would be relieved if she could escape, but where would she go? The other night she had come to know a world in which she had no home; she did not dare surrender herself to it blindly.
It was not as though Nabinkali did not love Kamala, but there was no softness in this love. She had even taken care of Kamala during a brief illness but it was difficult to accept such care with gratitude. Kamala was better when engrossed in her work but her darkest moments were those in which she had to establish Nabinkali’s friendship.
One morning, Nabinkali told Kamala, ‘My husband isn’t well today, Baman-thakrun, he won’t have any rice, he’ll have roti instead. But that doesn’t mean drowning them in ghee. I know how well you cook, but I cannot understand why so much ghee goes into it. The older cook was better – he used ghee too, but at least you could taste it in the food.’
Kamala never responded to any of this, continuing with her work as though she had heard nothing.
Today she was slicing the vegetables, her heart weighed down by the humiliation, her life appearing unbearable, when her mistress’s voice wafted out of the bedroom, startling her. Nabinkali was telling the servant, ‘Tulsi, go fetch Doctor Nalinaksha from town. Tell him karta is very ill.’
Doctor Nalinaksha! The day began to vibrate like the strings of a musical instrument. When Tulsi came downstairs, Kamala asked, ‘Where are you going, Tulsi?’ He answered, ‘To fetch Doctor Nalinaksha.’
Kamala said, ‘Who is this doctor?’
‘He’s a famous doctor hereabouts,’ said Tulsi.
‘Where does he live?’
‘In town,’ said Tulsi. ‘A mile or so away.’
Kamala always distributed the leftovers among the servants. She had been scolded for this many times but that didn’t stop her. The housewife’s strict rules often left the servants starving. And besides, she and her husband had their meals quite late in the day, which meant the servants ate even afterwards. When they came up to Kamala to tell her, ‘We’re famished, Baman-thakrun,’ she always gave them something to eat. All of them had fallen under her spell almost immediately.
A cry came from upstairs. ‘What’s all the discussion at the kitchen door, Tulsi? Do you think I don’t have eyes? Can’t you go on an errand without passing by the kitchen? That’s how you pilfer things, don’t you? Really, Baman-thakrun, you were abandoned on the streets and we gave you shelter, is this how you pay me back?’
Nabinkali was certain that her servants were stealing her possessions. She did not hesitate to upbraid her domestic staff even without the slightest evidence. She told herself that even if she were firing her arrows blindly, most of them would find their mark. The servants should be aware that she was always alert and that they could not deceive her.
But today, Nabinkali’s barb made no impression on Kamala. She worked mechanically, her attention wandering.
Kamala was waiting downstairs at the kitchen door when Tulsi returned, but he was alone. ‘Didn’t the doctor come?’ asked Kamala.
‘No, he did not,’ said Tulsi.
‘Why not?’
‘His mother is ill.’
‘His mother? Isn’t there anyone else at home?’
‘No, he is not married.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘The servants there say he has no wife.’
‘Maybe his wife is dead.’
‘Perhaps. But their servant Braja says he was not married when he worked as a doctor at Rangpur.’
‘Tulsi!’ came the call from the first floor. Kamala dashed into the kitchen and Tusli went upstairs.
Nalinaksha. A doctor at Rangpur. Kamala had no more doubts.
When Tulsi came downstairs, Kamala asked him again, ‘Listen, Tulsi, I have a relative with the same name as the doctor’s – tell me whether he’s a Brahmin.’
‘Yes, he is. His surname is Chatterjee.’
Tulsi did not dare prolong the conversation with Kamala for fear of earning his employer’s wrath. He left.
Going up to Nabinkali, Kamala told her, ‘After my work is done today, I want to go and take a dip at the Dashashwamedh Ghat.’
Nabinkali said, ‘Impossible. My husband is ill today, I might need your help, how can you go today?’
Kamala said, ‘I’ve discovered that one of my relatives lives here in Kashi, I want to meet him.’
‘I don’t like all this. I’m old enough to know what’s going on. Who brought you the information? It must have been Tulsi. I’m not keeping that boy here any more. Now listen, Baman-thakrun, as long as you live here there’s no q
uestion of going out alone for a bath or in search of a relative.’
The doorman was ordered to throw Tulsi out at once and to never allow him in the house again.
Under their lady’s instructions, the other servants began to avoid Kamala as much as possible.
Kamala had been patient as long as she was not sure about Nalinaksha but now she could contain herself no longer. It was unbearable to live somewhere else while her husband was in the same town. She began to make mistakes in her work constantly.
Nabinkali said, ‘I don’t like the way you’re going, Bamun-thakrun. Have you been suddenly possessed by a spirit? You’re not eating yourself but are you going to make us starve too? We can barely touch the food you cook these days.’
Kamala said, ‘I cannot work here any more, my heart is not in it. Let me go.’
Nabinkali snarled, ‘This is what comes of helping you. Out of sheer charity I let my excellent cook go for your sake. I didn’t even check whether you really are from a Brahmin family or not. And now she says, “Let me go”! I’m going to inform the police if you try to run away. My son is a magistrate – many people have been hanged on his orders, you cannot play your tricks on me. You’ve heard how Gada tried to leave, we taught him a lesson, he’s still in jail. We’re not the kind of people to stand all this.’
It was true – the servant Gada had been falsely accused of stealing a watch and jailed.
Kamala could find no way out. The objective of her life was only an arm’s length away, but she was being held back cruelly by the same arm.
Kamala simply could not be bound by her work and her room any more. When her work for the day was done, she would wrap herself in a shawl and go into the garden. Standing near the wall, she gazed at the road that led into town. Her tender young heart, ardent with the desire to serve, raced along the deserted road to a house somewhere in town. A long time later, she would finally return to her room.