A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P R S T U V W X Z

The Home and the World

R >> Rabindranath Tagore >> The Home and the World




When, tomorrow, my iron safe will be opened in the presence of
these--Khema, Thako, the milk-woman and all the rest ... Let me
not think of it! Let me rather try to think what it will be like
when this third day of Magh comes round again after a year has
passed. Will all the wounds of my home life then be still as
fresh as ever? ...

Amulya writes that he will come later in the evening. I cannot
remain alone with my thoughts, doing nothing. So I sit down
again to make cakes for him. I have finished making quite a
quantity, but still I must go on. Who will eat them? I shall
distribute them amongst the servants. I must do so this very
night. Tonight is my limit. Tomorrow will not be in my hands.

I went on untiringly, frying cake after cake. Every now and then
it seemed to me that there was some noise in the direction of my
rooms, upstairs. Could it be that my husband had missed the key
of the safe, and the Bara Rani had assembled all the servants to
help him to hunt for it? No, I must not pay heed to these
sounds. Let me shut the door.

I rose to do so, when Thako came panting in: "Rani Mother, oh,
Rani Mother!"

"Oh get away!" I snapped out, cutting her short. "Don't come
bothering me."

"The Bara Rani Mother wants you," she went on. "Her nephew has
brought such a wonderful machine from Calcutta. It talks like a
man. Do come and hear it!"

I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. So, of all things, a
gramophone needs must come on the scene at such a time, repeating
at every winding the nasal twang of its theatrical songs! What a
fearsome thing results when a machine apes a man.

The shades of evening began to fall. I knew that Amulya would
not delay to announce himself--yet I could not wait. I summone
d a servant and said: "Go and tell Amulya Babu to come straight
in here." The man came back after a while to say that Amulya was
not in--he had not come back since he had gone.

"Gone!" The last word struck my ears like a wail in the
gathering darkness. Amulya gone! Had he then come like a streak
of light from the setting sun, only to be gone for ever? All
kinds of possible and impossible dangers flitted through my mind.
It was I who had sent him to his death. What if he was fearless?
That only showed his own greatness of heart. But after this how
was Ito go on living all by myself?

I had no memento of Amulya save that pistol--his reverence-
offering. It seemed to me that this was a sign given by
Providence. This guilt which had contaminated my life at its
very root--my God in the form of a child had left with me the
means of wiping it away, and then vanished. Oh the loving gift--
the saving grave that lay hidden within it!

I opened my box and took out the pistol, lifting it reverently to
my forehead. At that moment the gongs clanged out from the
temple attached to our house. I prostrated myself in salutation.

In the evening I feasted the whole household with my cakes. "You
have managed a wonderful birthday feast--and all by yourself
too!" exclaimed my sister-in-law. "But you must leave something
for us to do." With this she turned on her gramophone and let
loose the shrill treble of the Calcutta actresses all over the
place. It seemed like a stable full of neighing fillies.

It got quite late before the feasting was over. I had a sudden
longing to end my birthday celebration by taking the dust of my
husband's feet. I went up to the bedroom and found him fast
asleep. He had had such a worrying, trying day. I raised the
edge of the mosquito curtain very very gently, and laid my head
near his feet. My hair must have touched him, for he moved his
legs in his sleep and pushed my head away.

I then went out and sat in the west verandah. A silk-cotton
tree, which had shed all its leaves, stood there in the distance,
like a skeleton. Behind it the crescent moon was setting. All
of a sudden I had the feeling that the very stars in the sky were
afraid of me--that the whole of the night world was looking
askance at me. Why? Because I was alone.

There is nothing so strange in creation as the man who is alone.
Even he whose near ones have all died, one by one, is not alone--
companionship comes for him from behind the screen of death. But
he, whose kin are there, yet no longer near, who has dropped out
of all the varied companionship of a full home--the starry
universe itself seems to bristle to look on him in his darkness.

Where I am, I am not. I am far away from those who are around
me. I live and move upon a world-wide chasm of separation,
unstable as the dew-drop upon the lotus leaf.

Why do not men change wholly when they change? When I look into
my heart, I find everything that was there, still there--only
they are topsy-turvy. Things that were well-ordered have become
jumbled up. The gems that were strung into a necklace are now
rolling in the dust. And so my heart is breaking.

I feel I want to die. Yet in my heart everything still lives--
nor even in death can I see the end of it all: rather, in death
there seems to be ever so much more of repining. What is to be
ended must be ended in this life--there is no other way out.

Oh forgive me just once, only this time, Lord! All that you gave
into my hands as the wealth of my life, I have made into my
burden. I can neither bear it longer, nor give it up. O Lord,
sound once again those flute strains which you played for me,
long ago, standing at the rosy edge of my morning sky--and let
all my complexities become simple and easy. Nothing save the
music of your flute can make whole that which has been broken,
and pure that which has been sullied. Create my home anew with
your music. No other way can I see.

I threw myself prone on the ground and sobbed aloud. It was for
mercy that I prayed--some little mercy from somewhere, some
shelter, some sign of forgiveness, some hope that might bring
about the end. "Lord," I vowed to myself, "I will lie here,
waiting and waiting, touching neither food nor drink, so long as
your blessing does not reach me."

I heard the sound of footsteps. Who says that the gods do not
show themselves to mortal men? I did not raise my face to look
up, lest the sight of it should break the spell. Come, oh come,
come and let your feet touch my head. Come, Lord, and set your
foot upon my throbbing heart, and at that moment let me die.

He came and sat near my head. Who? My husband! At the first
touch of his presence I felt that I should swoon. And then the
pain at my heart burst its way out in an overwhelming flood of
tears, tearing through all my obstructing veins and nerves. I
strained his feet to my bosom--oh, why could not their impress
remain there for ever?

He tenderly stroked my head. I received his blessing. Now I
shall be able to take up the penalty of public humiliation which
will be mine tomorrow, and offer it, in all sincerity, at the
feet of my God.

But what keeps crushing my heart is the thought that the festive
flutes which were played at my wedding, nine years ago, welcoming
me to this house, will never sound for me again in this life.
What rigour of penance is there which can serve to bring me once
more, as a bride adorned for her husband, to my place upon that
same bridal seat? How many years, how many ages, aeons, must
pass before I can find my way back to that day of nine years ago?

God can create new things, but has even He the power to create
afresh that which has been destroyed?



Chapter Twelve

Nikhil's Story

XV



TODAY we are going to Calcutta. Our joys and sorrows lie heavy
on us if we merely go on accumulating them. Keeping them and
accumulating them alike are false. As master of the house I am
in an artificial position--in reality I am a wayfarer on the path
of life. That is why the true Master of the House gets hurt at
every step and at last there comes the supreme hurt of death.

My union with you, my love, was only of the wayside; it was well
enough so long as we followed the same road; it will only hamper
us if we try to preserve it further. We are now leaving its
bonds behind. We are started on our journey beyond, and it will
be enough if we can throw each other a glance, or feel the touch
of each other's hands in passing. After that? After that there
is the larger world-path, the endless current of universal life.

How little can you deprive me of, my love, after all? Whenever I
set my ear to it, I can hear the flute which is playing, its
fountain of melody gushing forth from the flute-stops of
separation. The immortal draught of the goddess is never
exhausted. She sometimes breaks the bowl from which we drink it,
only to smile at seeing us so disconsolate over the trifling
loss. I will not stop to pick up my broken bowl. I will march
forward, albeit with unsatisfied heart.

The Bara Rani came and asked me: "What is the meaning, brother,
of all these books being packed up and sent off in box-loads?"

"It only means," I replied, "that I have not yet been able to get
over my fondness for them."

"I only wish you would keep your fondness for some other things
as well! Do you mean you are never coming back home?"

"I shall be coming and going, but shall not immure myself here
any more."

"Oh indeed! Then just come along to my room and see how many
things __I__ have been unable to shake off __my__ fondness
for." With this she took me by the hand and marched me off.

In my sister-in-law's rooms I found numberless boxes and bundles
ready packed. She opened one of the boxes and said: "See,
brother, look at all my __pan__-making things. In this bottle
I have catechu powder scented with the pollen of screw-pine
blossoms. These little tin boxes are all for different kinds of
spices. I have not forgotten my playing cards and draught-board
either. If you two are over-busy, I shall manage to make other
friends there, who will give me a game. Do you remember this
comb? It was one of the __Swadeshi__ combs you brought for
me..."

"But what is all this for, Sister Rani? Why have you been
packing up all these things?"

"Do you think I am not going with you?"

"What an extraordinary idea!"

"Don't you be afraid! I am not going there to flirt with you,
nor to quarrel with the Chota Rani! One must die sooner or
later, and it is just as well to be on the bank of the holy
Ganges before it is too late. It is too horrible to think of
being cremated in your wretched burning-ground here, under that
stumpy banian tree--that is why I have been refusing to die, and
have plagued you all this time."

At last I could hear the true voice of home. The Bara Rani came
into our house as its bride, when I was only six years old. We
have played together, through the drowsy afternoons, in a corner
of the roof-terrace. I have thrown down to her green amras from
the tree-top, to be made into deliciously indigestible chutnies
by slicing them up with mustard, salt and fragrant herbs. It was
my part to gather for her all the forbidden things from the
store-room to be used in the marriage celebration of her doll;
for, in the penal code of my grandmother, I alone was exempt from
punishment. And I used to be appointed her messenger to my
brother, whenever she wanted to coax something special out of
him, because he could not resist my importunity. I also remember
how, when I suffered under the rigorous régime of the doctors of
those days--who would not allow anything except warm water and
sugared cardamom seeds during feverish attacks--my sister-in-law
could not bear my privation and used to bring me delicacies on
the sly. What a scolding she got one day when she was caught!

And then, as we grew up, our mutual joys and sorrows took on
deeper tones of intimacy. How we quarrelled! Sometimes
conflicts of worldly interests roused suspicions and jealousies,
making breaches in our love; and when the Chota Rani came in
between us, these breaches seemed as if they would never be
mended, but it always turned out that the healing forces at
bottom proved more powerful than the wounds on the surface.

So has a true relationship grown up between us, from our
childhood up till now, and its branching foliage has spread and
broadened over every room and verandah and terrace of this great
house. When I saw the Bara Rani make ready, with all her
belongings, to depart from this house of ours, all the ties that
bound us, to their wide-spreading ends, felt the shock.

The reason was clear to me, why she had made up her mind to drift
away towards the unknown, cutting asunder all her lifelong bonds
of daily habit, and of the house itself, which she had never left
for a day since she first entered it at the age of nine. And yet
it was this real reason which she could not allow to escape her
lips, preferring rather to put forward any other paltry excuse.

She had only this one relationship left in all the world, and the
poor, unfortunate, widowed and childless woman had cherished it
with all the tenderness hoarded in her heart. How deeply she had
felt our proposed separation I never realized so keenly as when I
stood amongst her scattered boxes and bundles.

I could see at once that the little differences she used to have
with Bimala, about money matters, did not proceed from any sordid
worldliness, but because she felt that her claims in regard to
this one relationship of her life had been overridden and its
ties weakened for her by the coming in between of this other
woman from goodness knows where! She had been hurt at every turn
and yet had not the right to complain.

And Bimala? She also had felt that the Senior Rani's claim over
me was not based merely on our social connection, but went much
deeper; and she was jealous of these ties between us, reaching
back to our childhood.

Today my heart knocked heavily against the doors of my breast. I
sank down upon one of the boxes as I said: "How I should love,
Sister Rani, to go back to the days when we first met in this old
house of ours."

"No, brother dear," she replied with a sigh, "I would not live my
life again--not as a woman! Let what I have had to bear end with
this one birth. I could not bear it over again."

I said to her: "The freedom to which we pass through sorrow is
greater than the sorrow."

"That may be so for you men. Freedom is for you. But we women
would keep others bound. We would rather be put into bondage
ourselves. No, no, brother, you will never get free from our
toils. If you needs must spread your wings, you will have to
take us with you; we refuse to be left behind. That is why I
have gathered together all this weight of luggage. It would
never do to allow men to run too light."

"I can feel the weight of your words," I said laughing, "and if
we men do not complain of your burdens, it is because women pay
us so handsomely for what they make us carry."

"You carry it," she said, "because it is made up of many small
things. Whichever one you think of rejecting pleads that it is
so light. And so with much lightness we weigh you down ... When
do we start?"

"The train leaves at half past eleven tonight. There will be
lots of time."

"Look here, do be good for once and listen to just one word of
mine. Take a good nap this afternoon. You know you never get
any sleep in the train. You look so pulled down, you might go to
pieces any moment. Come along, get through your bath first."

As we went towards my room, Khema, the maid, came up and with an
ultra-modest pull at her veil told us, in deprecatingly low
tones, that the Police Inspector had arrived with a prisoner and
wanted to see the Maharaja.

"Is the Maharaja a thief, or a robber," the Bara Rani flared up,
"that he should be set upon so by the police? Go and tell the
Inspector that the Maharaja is at his bath."

"Let me just go and see what is the matter," I pleaded. "It may
be something urgent."

"No, no," my sister-in-law insisted. "Our Chota Rani was making
a heap of cakes last night. I'll send some to the Inspector, to
keep him quiet till you're ready." With this she pushed me into
my room and shut the door on me.

I had not the power to resist such tyranny--so rare is it in this
world. Let the Inspector while away the time eating cakes. What
if business is a bit neglected?

The police had been in great form these last few days arresting
now this one, now that. Each day some innocent person or other
would be brought along to enliven the assembly in my office-room.
One more such unfortunate, I supposed, must have been brought in
that day. But why should the Inspector alone be regaled with
cakes? That would not do at all. I thumped vigorously on the
door.

"If you are going mad, be quick and pour some water over your
head--that will keep you cool," said my sister-in-law from the
passage.

"Send down cakes for two," I shouted. "The person who has been
brought in as the thief probably deserves them better. Tell the
man to give him a good big helping."

I hurried through my bath. When I came out, I found Bimal
sitting on the floor outside. [30] Could this be my Bimal of
old, my proud, sensitive Bimal?

What favour could she be wanting to beg, seated like this at my
door?

As I stopped short, she stood up and said gently with downcast
eyes: "I would have a word with you."

"Come inside then," I said.

"But are you going out on any particular business?"

"I was, but let that be. I want to hear ..."

"No, finish your business first. We will have our talk after you
have had your dinner."

I went off to my sitting-room, to find the Police Inspector's
plate quite empty. The person he had brought with him, however,
was still busy eating.

"Hullo!" I ejaculated in surprise. "You, Amulya?"

"It is I, sir," said Amulya with his mouth full of cake. "I've
had quite a feast. And if you don't mind, I'll take the rest
with me." With this he proceeded to tie up the remaining cakes
in his handkerchief.

"What does this mean?" I asked, staring at the Inspector.

The man laughed. "We are no nearer, sir," he said, "to solving
the problem of the thief: meanwhile the mystery of the theft
deepens." He then produced something tied up in a rag, which
when untied disclosed a bundle of currency notes. "This,
Maharaja," said the Inspector, "is your six thousand rupees!"

"Where was it found?"

"In Amulya Babu's hands. He went last evening to the manager of
your Chakna sub-office to tell him that the money had been found.
The manager seemed to be in a greater state of trepidation at the
recovery than he had been at the robbery. He was afraid he would
be suspected of having made away with the notes and of now making
up a cock-and-bull story for fear of being found out. He asked
Amulya to wait, on the pretext of getting him some refreshment,
and came straight over to the Police Office. I rode off at once,
kept Amulya with me, and have been busy with him the whole
morning. He refuses to tell us where he got the money from. I
warned him he would be kept under restraint till he did so. In
that case, he informed me he would have to lie. Very well, I
said, he might do so if he pleased. Then he stated that he had
found the money under a bush. I pointed out to him that it was
not quite so easy to lie as all that. Under what bush? Where
was the place? Why was he there?--All this would have to be
stated as well. 'Don't you worry,' he said, 'there is plenty of
time to invent all that.'"

"But, Inspector," I said, "why are you badgering a respectable
young gentleman like Amulya Babu?"

"I have no desire to harass him," said the Inspector. "He is not
only a gentleman, but the son of Nibaran Babu, my school-fellow.
Let me tell you, Maharaja, exactly what must have happened.
Amulya knows the thief, but wants to shield him by drawing
suspicion on himself. That is just the sort of bravado he loves
to indulge in." The Inspector turned to Amulya. "Look here,
young man," he continued, "I also was eighteen once upon a time,
and a student in the Ripon College. I nearly got into gaol
trying to rescue a hack driver from a police constable. It was a
near shave." Then he turned again to me and said: "Maharaja, the
real thief will now probably escape, but I think I can tell you
who is at the bottom of it all."

"Who is it, then?" I asked.

"The manager, in collusion with the guard, Kasim."

When the Inspector, having argued out his theory to his own
satisfaction, at last departed, I said to Amulya: "If you will
tell me who took the money, I promise you no one shall be hurt."

"I did," said he.

"But how can that be? What about the gang of armed men?..."

"It was I, by myself, alone!"

What Amulya then told me was indeed extraordinary. The manager
had just finished his supper and was on the verandah rinsing out
his mouth. The place was somewhat dark. Amulya had a revolver
in each pocket, one loaded with blank cartridges, the other with
ball. He had a mask over his face. He flashed a bull's-eye
lantern in the manager's face and fired a blank shot. The man
swooned away. Some of the guards, who were off duty, came
running up, but when Amulya fired another blank shot at them they
lost no time in taking cover. Then Kasim, who was on duty, came
up whirling a quarterstaff. This time Amulya aimed a bullet at
his legs, and finding himself hit, Kasim collapsed on the floor.
Amulya then made the trembling manager, who had come to his
senses, open the safe and deliver up six thousand rupees.
Finally, he took one of the estate horses and galloped off a few
miles, there let the animal loose, and quietly walked up here, to
our place.

"What made you do all this, Amulya?" I asked.

"There was a grave reason, Maharaja," he replied.

"But why, then, did you try to return the money?"

"Let her come, at whose command I did so. In her presence I
shall make a clean breast of it."

"And who may 'she' be?"

"My sister, the Chota Rani!"

I sent for Bimala. She came hesitatingly, barefoot, with a white
shawl over her head. I had never seen my Bimal like this before.
She seemed to have wrapped herself in a morning light.

Amulya prostrated himself in salutation and took the dust of her
feet. Then, as he rose, he said: "Your command has been
executed, sister. The money is returned."

"You have saved me, my little brother," said Bimal.

"With your image in my mind, I have not uttered a single lie,"
Amulya continued. "My watchword __Bande Mataram__ has been
cast away at your feet for good. I have also received my reward,
your __prasad__, as soon as I came to the palace."

Bimal looked at him blankly, unable to follow his last words.
Amulya brought out his handkerchief, and untying it showed her
the cakes put away inside. "I did not eat them all," he said.
"I have kept these to eat after you have helped me with your own
hands."

I could see that I was not wanted here. I went out of the room.
I could only preach and preach, so I mused, and get my effigy
burnt for my pains. I had not yet been able to bring back a
single soul from the path of death. They who have the power, can
do so by a mere sign. My words have not that ineffable meaning.
I am not a flame, only a black coal, which has gone out. I can
light no lamp. That is what the story of my life shows--my row
of lamps has remained unlit.

------

30. Sitting on the bare floor is a sign of mourning, and so, by
association of ideas, of an abject attitude of mind. [Trans.].

XVI



I returned slowly towards the inner apartments. The Bara Rani's
room must have been drawing me again. It had become an absolute
necessity for me, that day, to feel that this life of mine had
been able to strike some real, some responsive chord in some
other harp of life. One cannot realize one's own existence by
remaining within oneself--it has to be sought outside.

As I passed in front of my sister-in-law's room, she came out
saying: "I was afraid you would be late again this afternoon.
However. I ordered your dinner as soon as I heard you coming.
It will be served in a minute."

"Meanwhile," I said; "let me take out that money of yours and
have it kept ready to take with us."

As we walked on towards my room she asked me if the Police
Inspector had made any report about the robbery. I somehow did
not feel inclined to tell her all the details of how that six
thousand had come back. "That's just what all the fuss is
about," I said evasively.

When I went into my dressing-room and took out my bunch of keys,
I did not find the key of the iron safe on the ring. What an
absurdly absent-minded fellow I was, to be sure! Only this
morning I had been opening so many boxes and things, and never
noticed that this key was not there.

"What has happened to your key?" she asked me.

I went on fumbling in this pocket and that, but could give her no
answer. I hunted in the same place over and over again. It
dawned on both of us that it could not be a case of the key being
mislaid. Someone must have taken it off the ring. Who could it
be? Who else could have come into this room?

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