Chapter 1

One afternoon in the month of Baishakh, there was no end to the scorching sun, nor any limit to the heat. At that precise moment, Devdas of the Mukherjees was sitting in a corner of the village pathshala on a frayed reed mat, slate in hand. Eyes wide open, then shut, legs stretched out, yawning, he suddenly grew profoundly thoughtful, and in an instant decided that remaining cooped up inside a schoolroom at such a delightful hour, instead of roaming the fields flying kites, was simply out of the question. A scheme promptly sprouted in his fertile brain. Slate in hand, he stood up.

It was lunch break at the pathshala. A group of boys, making all sorts of gestures and loud noises, were playing dang-guli beneath a banyan tree a short distance away. Devdas glanced in their direction once. He never got a lunch break—for Govinda Pandit had observed on many occasions that once Devdas set foot outside the schoolhouse, he was exceedingly disinclined to enter it again. His father, too, had forbidden it. For various reasons, it had been settled that during this hour he would remain under the custody of the monitor-student, Bhulo.

Inside the room, only the master lay with his eyes closed in afternoon languor, while the monitor-student Bhulo sat in a corner upon a broken bench missing its legs, playing the part of a petty schoolmaster. Now and then, with utmost disdain, he would watch the boys at play, or cast a lazy, sidelong glance at Devdas and Parvati. Parvati had come under the master's care and supervision only about a month ago. In this short time, the master had evidently won her complete affection; thus, with deep concentration and boundless patience, she was using ink to draw the sleeping master's portrait on the back page of her primer, examining it from various angles like a skilled artist to see how closely her painstaking sketch resembled the original. Not that there was much resemblance; yet Parvati derived immense delight and self-satisfaction from it.

At this moment, Devdas stood up, slate in hand, and called out to Bhulo, "I can't do this sum."

Bhulo said with a calm, grave face, "What sum?"

"Maund conversion—"

"Let me see the slate—"

The implication was that in such matters, all he needed was to lay his hands on the slate. Devdas handed him the slate and stood close by. Bhulo began to write, dictating aloud: "If one maund of oil costs fourteen rupees, nine annas, and three gandas, then—"

Just at that moment, an incident occurred. For three years now, the monitor-student had been sitting every day on that broken bench, having chosen it as a seat worthy of his rank. Behind him lay a heap of slaked lime. The master had bought it cheap in some bygone era with the intention of building a brick house when better times arrived. When that auspicious day would come, no one knew; but there was no end to his vigilance and care for this white powder. Lest some inexperienced, foolish, unblessed boy should waste even a grain of it, the favored and relatively older Bholanath had been entrusted with guarding this carefully accumulated treasure, and so he sat on the bench keeping watch over it.

Bholanath was writing—"If one maund of oil costs fourteen rupees, nine annas, and three gandas, then—Oh father! Oh dear!"—followed by a tremendous racket. Parvati shrieked at the top of her voice, clapped her hands, and rolled on the floor. Waking instantly from his slumber, Govinda Pandit sprang up with bloodshot eyes; he saw the line of boys beneath the tree scattering in a noisy uproar, and at that very moment his eyes fell upon a pair of legs flailing atop the broken bench, with an eruption like a volcano bursting from the pile of lime. He yelled, "What—what—what is this!"

The only one present to speak was Parvati, but she was rolling on the ground, clapping her hands. The master's futile question boomed back in fury, "What, what—what is it!"

Then the white-dusted figure of Bholanath stood up, pushing aside the lime. The master yelled again, "You filthy brute! You... inside that!"

"Aaah—aaah—aaah—"

"Again!"

"That bastard Deba—pushed me—aaah—aaah—maund conversion—"

"You filthy brute again!"

But the next moment, grasping the whole affair, he sat down on the mat and asked, "Deba pushed you down and ran away?"

Bhulo wept even louder—"Aaah—aaah—aaah—"

There followed a long session of dusting off the lime, but in his mixture of black and white, the monitor-student looked rather like a ghost, nor did his weeping show any sign of stopping.

The Pandit said, "Deba pushed you and ran away? Is that so?"

Bhulo said, "Aaah—aaah—"

The Pandit said, "I shall settle scores for this."

Bhulo said, "Aaah—aaah—aaah—"

The Pandit asked, "Where is that wretched boy—"

After that, the group of boys returned, red-faced and panting, and reported, "We couldn't catch Deba. Oof—the bricks he throws—!"

"Couldn't catch him?"

Another boy echoed the previous words, "Oof—how he—"

"Shut up, fellow—"

Gulping, he stepped aside. In his frustrated rage, the master first gave Parvati a severe scolding; then, taking Bholanath by the hand, he said, "Come, let me report this to the master at the cutcherry."

This meant that he intended to lay a complaint before the zamindar, Narayan Mukherjee, regarding his son's conduct.

It was around three in the afternoon. Narayan Mukherjee Mahashay was sitting outside smoking his hookah while a servant fanned him with a hand-fan. Somewhat surprised by the master's unseasonable arrival accompanied by his pupil, he said, "Why, Govinda!"

Govinda—a Kayastha by caste—bowed down to touch the ground in respect, pointed to Bhulo, and narrated the entire incident in detail. Mukherjee Mahashay was annoyed; he said, "Indeed, it seems Devdas has gone beyond all discipline!"

"What shall I do? Give your order."

The zamindar put down the mouthpiece of his hookah and asked, "Where did he go?"

"How should I know? He pelted bricks at those who went to catch him and drove them off."

Both of them remained silent for a while. Narayan-babu said, "When he comes home, I shall do whatever needs to be done."

Govinda took his pupil by the hand and returned to the schoolhouse, terrifying the entire pathshala with the expression on his face and in his eyes, and vowed that even if Devdas's father was the zamindar of the area, he would not let him step into the school again. School was dismissed early that day; as they left, the boys talked animatedly among themselves.

One said, "Oof! Did you see what a bully Deba is!"

Another said, "He served Bhulo right!"

"Oof, what stones he throws!"

Another spoke up on Bhulo's behalf, "Just wait, Bhulo will get his revenge."

"Bah! He won't even come to school anymore for Bhulo to take revenge."

On one side of this small group, Parvati was walking home with her books and slate. She took hold of a boy nearby and asked, "Mani, will they really not let Deb-dada come to school anymore?"

Mani said, "No—not on any account."

Parvati moved away—the thought had displeased her all along.

Parvati's father was named Nilkantha Chakraborti. Chakraborti Mahashay was the zamindar's neighbor—that is, his small, old-fashioned brick house stood right beside the grand mansion of Mukherjee Mahashay. He owned a few bighas of land, had a handful of families as patrons, and enjoyed the favor and expectations of the zamindar's household—a comfortable family, living reasonably well.

Parvati met Dharmadas first. He was a servant in Devdas's household. From the time Devdas was one year old until now, when he was twelve, Dharmadas had been devoted to him—escorting him to the pathshala and bringing him home when school was over. He performed this duty regularly every day, and today he was on his way to the pathshala for the same purpose. Seeing Parvati, he said, "Where is your Deb-dada, Paru?"

"He ran away—"

Dharmadas said in great astonishment, "What do you mean, ran away?"

Then Parvati, remembering Bholanath's plight, broke into laughter all over again—"Look, Dhamma, Deb-da—hee hee hee—right into the lime heap—hee hee—hoo hoo—right flat on his back, Dhamma—"

Though Dharmadas could not understand everything, seeing her laughter he chuckled a little himself; then, checking his laughter, he insisted, "Tell me, Paru, what happened?"

"Deb-da pushed him—Bhulo—into the lime heap—hee hee hee—"

Dharmadas now understood the rest and grew deeply anxious; he said, "Paru, do you know where he is now?"

"How should I know!"

"You know—tell me. Ah, he must be so hungry by now."

"He must be—but I won't tell."

"Why won't you tell?"

"If I tell, he'll beat me badly. I'll go give him food."

Dharmadas was somewhat relieved; he said, "Go give it to him then, and coax him back home before evening."

"I will."

On reaching home, Parvati saw that her mother and Devdas's mother had both heard everything. She too was questioned. Smiling, then looking solemn, she told them as much as she could. Then, tying some puffed rice in her sari pallu, she entered a mango grove belonging to the zamindar. The grove was near their house, and in one corner of it stood a clump of bamboo. She knew that Devdas had cleared a small space inside this bamboo grove to smoke tobacco in secret. Whenever he had to hide after running away, this was his secret retreat. Stepping inside, Parvati saw Devdas sitting in the bamboo thicket with a small hookah in hand, smoking with an air of grave wisdom. His face was solemn, bearing distinct signs of deep worry. Seeing Parvati, he was secretly delighted, though he did not let it show. Inhaling from the hookah, he said in a stern voice, "Come here."

Parvati came and sat beside him. What was tied in her pallu caught Devdas's eye at once. Asking no questions, he untied it and began to eat, saying, "Paru, what did the Pandit say?"

"He reported it to Jethamoshai."

Devdas lowered the hookah, his eyes widening. "Reported it to Father?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

"He won't let you come to school anymore."

"I don't want to study anyway."

By this time his food was almost finished. Devdas looked at Parvati's face and said, "Give me sandesh."

"I didn't bring sandesh."

"Then give me water."

"Where will I get water?"

Annoyed, Devdas said, "You've brought nothing—why have you come then? Go, fetch water."

Parvati did not like his harsh tone; she said, "I can't go back again—come along, eat at home."

"Can I go home now?"

"Then will you stay right here?"

"I'll stay here, and then I'll leave—"

Parvati's heart sank. Seeing Devdas's apparent detachment and hearing his talk, tears welled up in her eyes; she said, "Deb-da, I will go too."

"Where? With me? Nonsense—how can that be?"

Parvati shook her head and said, "I will go—"

"No—you don't have to go—you go fetch water first—"

Parvati shook her head again and said, "I will go—"

"Fetch water first—"

"I won't go—you'll run away then."

"No—I won't."

But Parvati could not bring herself to believe him, so she stayed seated. Devdas ordered her again, "Do as I say."

"I can't go."

In anger, Devdas yanked Parvati's hair and scolded her, "Do as I say!"

Parvati remained silent. Then a blow landed on her back. "Won't you go?"

Parvati burst into tears—"I won't go, no matter what!"

Devdas walked off in one direction. Parvati, weeping, went straight to Devdas's father. Mukherjee Mahashay was very fond of Parvati. He said, "Paru, why are you crying, child?"

"Deb-da hit me."

"Where is he?"

"Sitting in the bamboo grove, smoking tobacco."

Having been angry ever since the master's visit, this news incensed him completely. He said, "Deba smokes tobacco again, does he?"

"Yes, he does, every day. His hookah is hidden in the bamboo grove—"

"Why didn't you tell me all these days?"

"Because Deb-dada would hit me."

That was not entirely true, however. She had said nothing out of fear that Devdas would be punished if she spoke. Today she had blurted it out purely in anger. She was barely eight years old—her temper was quick, but for all that, she was by no means lacking in sense or judgment. Going home, she lay down on her bed, cried for a long time, and fell asleep—she did not even eat her rice that night.