Chapter 13

For six months after his father’s death, Devdas stayed continuously at home, until he grew utterly frantic with restlessness. There was no joy, no peace—only a soul-crushing monotony. On top of it all came constant thoughts of Parvati; nowadays, everything he did brought her to mind. To make matters worse, his brother Dwijadas and his devoted sister-in-law only heightened his torment.

His mother’s plight was much the same. With her husband’s demise, all happiness had vanished from her life. Living in this house under the thumb of others was becoming increasingly unbearable to her. For several days now, she had been resolving to leave for Kashi; only her inability to marry off Devdas before departing held her back. She kept saying, “Devdas, get married—let me see it done before I go.” But how was that possible? They were still in mourning, and besides, a suitable bride had to be found. In these days, therefore, a quiet regret often stirred in the mistress’s heart—how fine it would have been had he married Parvati back then! One day she called Devdas to her side and said, “Devdas, I cannot bear it any longer—perhaps I should go to Kashi for a while.” Devdas desired the very same thing; he replied, “I agree. You could return after six months.”

“Yes, my son, do that. Once we return and his final rites are completed, I shall see you married and settled into domestic life, and only then depart for Kashi to live out my days.”

Devdas gave his assent. Having accompanied his mother to Kashi and settled her there for a short stay, he proceeded to Calcutta. Arriving in Calcutta, Devdas spent three or four days searching for Chunilal. But Chunilal was nowhere to be found; he had moved house and gone away to parts unknown. One evening, Devdas remembered Chandramukhi. Would it not be well to drop by and see her? All these months he had not thought of her at all. Feeling a slight touch of embarrassment, Devdas hired a carriage and arrived before Chandramukhi’s house shortly after dusk. After calling out for a long while, a woman’s voice answered from within, “She isn’t here.”

There was a gas lamp standing nearby; Devdas stepped closer to it and asked, “Can you tell me where that woman has gone?”

Opening a window, she peered out at him for a moment and said, “Are you Devdas?”

“Yes.”

“Wait, let me unbolt the door.”

Unlocking the door, she said, “Come in—”

The voice sounded somewhat familiar, yet he could not quite place it. It had grown rather dark as well. Still doubtful, he asked, “Can you tell me where Chandramukhi is?”

The woman gave a soft smile and said, “I can; come upstairs.”

Now Devdas recognized her—“Ah! Is it you?”

“Yes, it is I. Devdas, did you forget me entirely?”

Going upstairs, Devdas saw Chandramukhi wearing a dark-bordered sari, but it was soiled. On her wrists were only two plain bangles; she wore no other ornaments. Her hair was unkempt. Astonished, he said, “You?” Looking at her more closely, he noticed she had grown far thinner than before. He said, “Have you been ill?”

Chandramukhi smiled and said, “Not in body at all. Please, sit down comfortably.”

Devdas sat on the bed and noticed that the room had undergone a complete transformation. Like its mistress, its distress knew no bounds. Not a single piece of furniture remained—the spaces where the wardrobe, table, and chairs once stood were vacant. There was only a single bed with an unwashed sheet; the pictures on the walls had been removed, though the iron nails were still driven into the plaster, a few red ribbons still dangling from one or two. The clock above was still on its bracket, but silent. All around, spiders had spun webs to their hearts’ content. In one corner, an oil lamp shed a faint, flickering light—by its dim glow, Devdas took in this novel arrangement of the room. Astonished and somewhat dismayed, he said, “Chandra, how did such ruin come upon you?”

Chandramukhi smiled a faint, sad smile and said, “Who calls this ruin? My fortune has opened at last.”

Devdas did not understand. He said, “Where did the jewels on your body go, then?”

“I sold them.”

“And the furniture?”

“Sold that too.”

“Did you sell the pictures on the wall as well?”

This time Chandramukhi smiled, pointed to a house across the way, and said, “I gave those away to Khetramoni over there.”

Devdas stared at her face for a moment and asked, “Where is Chunibabu?”

“I cannot say. He quarreled with me two months ago and walked out, and he hasn't returned since.”

Devdas was even more surprised—“Quarreled over what?”

Chandramukhi said, “Do people not quarrel?”

“They do. But why?”

“He came to act as a broker, so I turned him out.”

“A broker for what?”

Chandramukhi smiled and said, “Jute.” Then she added, “Why don’t you understand? He had brought a wealthy man—two hundred rupees a month, a heap of ornaments, and a sentry stationed at the door. You see?”

Devdas understood and smiled faintly, saying, “Well, I see none of those things here.”

“You would see them if they were here! I turned them away.”

“What was their offense?”

“Their offense was nothing much, but I simply did not care for it.” Devdas pondered this for a long while and said, “And no one else has come here since then?”

“No. Not just since then—ever since the day after you left, no one has come here. Only Chuni used to drop by and sit for a while, but for the past two months even that has stopped.”

Devdas lay down on the bed. Remaining silent for a long time in absentminded thought, he said softly, “Chandramukhi, so you have closed down shop altogether?”

“Yes—I am bankrupt.”

Devdas did not answer that directly, but said, “But how will you eat?”

“As you heard, there were some ornaments—I sold them.”

“How much could that be?”

“Not much. I have about eight or nine hundred rupees. I have placed it with a grocer—he pays me twenty rupees a month.”

“Twenty rupees was never enough for you before.”

“No, and even today it is not quite enough. Three months of house rent are overdue, so I am thinking of selling these two bangles on my wrists, paying off everything, and moving elsewhere.”

“Where will you go?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I’ll go to some cheap place—some country village—where twenty rupees can last a month.”

“Why haven’t you gone all this time? If you truly needed nothing else, why let debts pile up needlessly for so long?”

Chandramukhi lowered her head and thought for a moment. For the first time in her life, she felt bashful about speaking of this matter today. Devdas said, “Why have you gone silent?”

Chandramukhi shrank into a corner of the bed and said softly, “Do not be angry; before leaving, I hoped that I might see you once more. I thought that perhaps you would come one last time. Today you have come; now tomorrow I shall prepare to leave. But will you tell me where I should go?”

Devdas sat up in surprise and said, “Just in the hope of seeing me? But why?”

“A whim. You despised me so deeply. No one had ever despised me so much, perhaps that is why. I do not know whether you remember today, but I remember it well—the very day you first came here, my eyes fell upon you. I knew you were a rich man’s son, but it was not out of greed for wealth that I was drawn to you. Before you, so many men came and went, but I never saw fire or spirit in any of them. And you came and struck me at once—an unprovoked, deserved, yet uncalled-for harshness; you turned your face away in disgust, and in the end left behind something as if in jest. Do you remember any of this?”

Devdas remained silent. Chandramukhi continued, “From then on, I kept my eyes on you. Not out of love, nor out of hatred. Just as one remembers a novel thing when one sees it, so I simply could not forget you—when you came, I would remain watchful and terrified, yet when you did not come, nothing pleased me. Then what madness took hold of me—through these two eyes of mine, I began to see many things in a different light. I changed so completely from the 'me' of before—as though that 'me' existed no longer. Then you took to drink. I held drink in utter disgust. Whenever anyone got drunk, I felt great anger toward him. But when you got drunk, I felt no anger—only immense sorrow.” Saying this, Chandramukhi placed her hand upon Devdas’s feet, her eyes glistening with tears as she said, “I am a wretched woman; do not hold my offense against me. How much you used to say, with what deep contempt you pushed me away! Yet I wanted to draw that much closer to you. In the end, when you fell asleep—let it be, I shall not speak of all that; perhaps you will grow angry again.”

Devdas said nothing—this strange new tone of conversation was causing him some distress. Chandramukhi secretly wiped her eyes and went on, “One day you said—how much we endure. The humiliation, the insult—the vile cruelty and outrage—from that very day, a great pride took root in me, and I put an end to everything.”

Devdas sat up straight and asked, “But how will you manage from day to day?”

Chandramukhi said, “I have already told you that.”

“Suppose he swindles you out of all your money—”

Chandramukhi showed no fear. Calmly and naturally, she said, “It would not be surprising, but I have thought of that too. If I fall into distress, I shall beg a little help from you.”

Devdas thought for a moment and said, “Do so, then. Now make preparations to move elsewhere.”

“I shall do so tomorrow itself. I will sell these two bangles and meet with the grocer once.”

Devdas drew five hundred-rupee notes from his pocket, placed them under the pillow, and said, “Do not sell the bangles, but do see the grocer. But where will you go? To some place of pilgrimage?”

“No, Devdas. I have no great faith in pilgrimages and religious rites. I shall not go far from Calcutta; I shall go and live in some nearby village.”

“Will you work as a maidservant in some respectable family?”

Tears welled in Chandramukhi’s eyes once more. Wiping them away, she said, “I have no inclination for that. I shall live freely and at ease. Why should I invite hardship? I have never endured physical hardship in my life, nor could I bear it now. And if pulled too hard, it might snap altogether.”

Devdas smiled a faint and melancholy smile, saying, “But if you stay near the city, you may fall into temptation again—the human heart is not to be trusted.”

Now Chandramukhi’s face brightened. Smiling, she said, “That is true indeed—the human heart is not to be trusted, yet I shall fall into temptation no more. Women are prone to great greed, I grant that; but when I am willingly renouncing all objects of desire, I have no fear left. Had I given it up on a sudden impulse, perhaps caution would have been necessary, but in all this time, I have not had cause to repent even for a single day. I am quite at peace.”

Even so, Devdas shook his head and said, “A woman's heart is exceedingly fickle—exceedingly untrustworthy.”

At this, Chandramukhi moved close and sat beside him. Taking his hand, she said, “Devdas!”

Devdas looked into her face; now he could no longer bring himself to say—“Do not touch me.”

With eyes wide with affection and a voice trembling slightly, Chandramukhi drew his two hands into her lap and said, “Today is the final day; do not be angry today. There is one thing I have longed to ask you.” Saying this, she gazed steadily into Devdas’s face for a moment and said, “Did Parvati hurt you very deeply?”

Devdas frowned and said, “Why ask this?”

Chandramukhi was undaunted. In a voice calm and firm, she said, “I have my reasons. I tell you truly, when you suffer, it pains me deeply as well. Besides, I think I know many things. Time and again, in your drunken stupor, I have heard many things from your own lips. Yet even now, I cannot believe that Parvati deceived you. Rather, it seems to me that you have deceived yourself. Devdas, I am older than you; I have seen many things in this world. Do you know what I think? I am certain that the mistake was yours. It seems to me that women are not deserving of as much ill repute as they bear for being fickle and restless of heart. It is you men who bestow the ill repute, and it is you who bestow the praise. Whatever you wish to say, you express with ease; but they cannot. They cannot express the thoughts of their hearts; and even when they can, not everyone understands them. For it is so faint—drowned out before your loud words. And then it is the ill repute that grows clearer on the lips of the world.”

Chandramukhi paused slightly, cleared her throat, and continued, “In this life, I have made a trade of love for a long time, but I have loved only once. That love has cost me dearly. I have learned much—you know, love is one thing, and infatuation with beauty is quite another. Great confusion arises between the two, and it is men who cause the most confusion. Infatuation with physical beauty is said to be far less in us than in you, which is why we do not lose our minds in an instant as you do. When you come and declare your love, expressing it in so many words and ways, we remain silent. Often, we feel ashamed to hurt you, we feel sorrow, we shrink back in hesitation. Even when the very sight of a face repulses us, we cannot say out of embarrassment—'I cannot love you.'

“Then a farce of outward affection plays on; one day, when it comes to an end, the man flies into a rage and cries, 'What a traitor!' Everyone hears those words, everyone understands only that. We remain silent even then. What agony fills the heart, but who ever looks to see it?”

Devdas said nothing. She too looked at his face silently for a while and said, “Perhaps a fondness takes root; a woman thinks, surely this is love! Quietly and steadily she performs the household duties, helps with all her soul in times of distress; you heap praise upon her—how the world sings her glory! Yet perhaps even then, she has not learned the first letters of love.

“Then if in some ill-fated moment her heart writhes in unbearable agony and steps into the open, then—” Saying this, she fixed a piercing gaze upon Devdas’s face and said, “then you scream out—'Fallen woman! Shame, shame!'”

Suddenly, Devdas pressed his hand over Chandramukhi’s mouth and cried out, “Chandramukhi, what are you saying!”

Chandramukhi gently moved his hand away and said, “Have no fear, Devdas, I am not speaking of your Parvati.” Saying this, she fell silent.

Devdas too remained quiet for a while, then said absently, “But there is duty! There is virtue and sin!”

Chandramukhi said, “Of course there is. And it is precisely because there is, Devdas, that one who truly loves endures in silence. He who realizes how much joy, how much fulfillment there is merely in loving within his heart, does not seek to bring pointless grief and turmoil into the world. But what was I saying, Devdas—I know for certain that Parvati did not deceive you in the slightest; you have deceived yourself. Today you have not the capacity to understand this, I know; but if ever the time comes, perhaps then you will see that I spoke the truth.”

Devdas’s eyes filled with tears. Today, somehow, it felt to him as though Chandramukhi’s words were true. Chandramukhi saw these tears, but made no move to wipe them away. To herself she thought: 'I have seen you many times in many ways; I know your heart. I understand well that you cannot court love like an ordinary man. As for beauty—who does not love beauty?

'But that all your fiery pride would surrender at the feet of beauty—that I can by no means believe. Parvati may be exceedingly beautiful; yet, even so, it seems to me that it was she who loved you first, she who declared it first.'

As she thought this to herself, it suddenly escaped her lips in a soft whisper, “I know from my own self how deeply she loves you!”

Devdas sat up quickly and said, “What did you say?”

Chandramukhi said, “Nothing. I was only saying that she was not captivated merely by your looks. You possess good looks, no doubt, but that is not what bewitches. This sharp, austere beauty does not even catch everyone’s eye. But whoever’s eye it catches can never look away again.” Sighing deeply, she said, “What an irresistible pull you possess—only one who has ever loved you knows. Is there a woman on this earth who would willingly turn away from such heaven!”

Looking at his face in silence once more for a while, she began to speak in a soft murmur, “This beauty is not seen with the eyes! Its deep shadow falls straight into the center of the heart. And then, when the day is done, it turns to ashes on the funeral pyre along with the fire.”

Devdas looked into Chandramukhi’s face with a bewildered gaze and said, “What are all these things you are saying today?”

Chandramukhi gave a soft smile and said, “There is no greater calamity, Devdas, than when someone you do not love forcibly speaks to you of love! But I was only pleading Parvati’s case—not my own.”

Devdas prepared to get up and said, “I shall leave now.”

“Sit a little longer. I have never had you in your right senses, never held your hands like this and spoken to you—what contentment!” Saying this, she suddenly laughed out loud.

Devdas said in surprise, “Why did you laugh?”

“Oh, it is nothing, just an old memory that came to mind. It was ten years ago—when I left home out of love. Back then, I thought I loved so deeply that I could even give my life. Then one day, over a paltry piece of jewelry, such a quarrel broke out between us that neither of us ever looked upon the other’s face again. I consoled my mind, thinking he didn't love me at all—otherwise, would he refuse a piece of jewelry?”

Once more Chandramukhi laughed to herself. The next moment, with a calm and grave expression, she murmured, “Junk jewelry! Did I know back then that one would unhesitatingly give even one's life just to cure a slight headache! Back then, I neither understood the pain of Sita and Damayanti, nor believed the story of Jagai and Madhai. Tell me, Devdas, everything is possible in this world, isn't it?”

Devdas could say nothing; he stared at her blankly for a moment like one dumbfounded and said, “I must go—”

“What is there to fear? Sit a little longer. I no longer wish to beguile you—those days of mine are past. Now, as much as you despise me, I despise myself just as much; but Devdas, why don't you get married?”

Only now did Devdas seem to draw a breath; smiling faintly, he said, “I ought to, but I have no heart for it.”

“Even if you haven't, do it anyway. Looking upon the faces of your children will bring you much peace. Besides, it will give me a resort as well. I could live comfortably in your household, even as a maidservant.”

Devdas said with a smile, “Very well, I shall call for you then.”

Chandramukhi seemed not even to notice his smile; she said, “Devdas, there is one more thing I wish to ask.”

“What?”

“Why did you talk with me for so long tonight?”

“Was there any harm in it?”

“I do not know about harm. But it is certainly new! Unless you lost your senses to drink, you never used to look at my face before!”

Devdas did not answer her question, but said with a mournful face, “I must not touch drink now—my father has passed away.”

Chandramukhi gazed at him with compassionate eyes for a long time and said, “Will you drink after this?”

“I cannot say.”

Chandramukhi drew his hands a little closer, her voice thick with tears as she said, “If you can, give it up; do not ruin such a golden life before its time.”

Devdas stood up abruptly and said, “I am going. Wherever you go, send word—and if ever you need anything, do not hesitate out of shame.”

Chandramukhi bowed and touched the dust of his feet, saying, “Bless me, so that I may find happiness. And one request—God forbid, but if ever you should need a maidservant, remember me.”

“Very well.”—Saying this, Devdas departed. With folded hands, Chandramukhi wept and said, “O God! Grant that we may meet once more.”