Chapter 10

Upon her arrival, Parvati saw that her husband’s house was immense. It was not built in the modern European fashion, but in the old, traditional style. Outer quarters, inner apartments, a worship pavilion, a performance hall, a guest house, estate offices, a treasury, and an army of servants—Parvati was astounded. She had heard that her husband was a wealthy man, a zamindar, but she had never imagined anything on such a scale. The only thing lacking was people. There were hardly any relatives or kin, male or female. That vast inner mansion lay practically deserted. Fresh from her wedding, Parvati found herself installed directly as the mistress of the household. Apart from an elderly widowed paternal aunt who had received and welcomed her into the home, there was no one else besides the retinue of servants.

Shortly before evening, a handsome, well-favoured young man of about twenty bowed in reverence, touched her feet, and standing a short distance away, said, ‘Mother, I am your eldest son.’

Parvati glanced up slightly from beneath her veil, but did not speak. Bowing once more to touch her feet, he repeated, ‘Mother, I am your eldest son—I offer you my respects.’

Lifting her long veil to her forehead, Parvati spoke this time. In a soft voice she said, ‘Come, my son, come.’

The young man’s name was Mahendra. For a moment he gazed at Parvati’s face in silent wonder; then, seating himself nearby, he began to say in a humble tone, ‘It has been two years since we lost our mother. These two years have passed in nothing but sorrow and distress. Today you have come—bless us, Mother, so that we may finally know some happiness.’

Parvati answered him in quite an easy, natural tone. For to assume at once the mantle of the mistress of the house required knowing many things and speaking of many matters. Yet to many, this account might sound somewhat extraordinary. But anyone who understood Parvati a little better would see that these swift turns of circumstance had rendered her mature far beyond her years. Besides, she had never been plagued by senseless shyness or uncalled-for diffidence. She asked, ‘Where are the rest of my children, my son?’

Mahendra gave a slight smile and said, ‘I shall tell you. Your eldest daughter—my younger sister—is away at her in-laws’ house. I wrote her a letter, but Yashoda simply could not come.’

Parvati was pained; she asked, ‘Could she not come, or did she choose not to?’

Looking somewhat abashed, Mahendra replied, ‘I cannot say for certain, Mother.’

Yet from his tone and the expression on his face, Parvati understood that Yashoda had stayed away out of anger. She said, ‘And my younger son?’

Mahendra said, ‘He will come soon. He is in Calcutta—he will return as soon as his examinations are over.’

Bhuvan Choudhury looked after the management of the estate himself. Furthermore, performing the daily worship of the sacred Salagrama stone with his own hands, observing vows, fasts, and religious rituals, and attending to holy men and ascetics at the family shrine and guest-house—these duties occupied his time from morning until ten or eleven at night. Remarrying brought out no fresh burst of festive gaiety in him. On some nights he would come into the inner quarters; on others he could not. Even when he came, conversation was sparse—lying down on the bed and pulling a side-bolster close, he would close his eyes and say at most, ‘Well, you are the mistress of the house now; take charge of everything, look after it all, and manage things as you see fit—’

Parvati would nod her head and say, ‘Very well.’

Bhuvan would say, ‘And mind you, these children—well, yes, they are all yours after all—’

Seeing her husband’s embarrassment, a spark of amusement would glint in the corner of Parvati’s eyes. He would smile faintly again and say, ‘Yes, and look here, this Mahen is your eldest son—he passed his B.A. only the other day—such a good boy, so kind and compassionate—you know, with just a little care and affection—’

Suppressing her smile, Parvati would say, ‘I know; he is my eldest son.’

‘Of course you know! No one has ever seen a son like him. And my Yashomati—she is no mere girl, she is an idol of grace. Oh, she will come, to be sure! Won’t she come to see her old father? When she arrives, if you would only—’

Parvati would step closer, rest her lotus-soft hand upon his balding head, and say softly, ‘You need not worry yourself. I shall send someone to fetch Yasho—or Mahen himself can go.’

‘He will go! Yes, he will! Ah, I have not seen her for so long—you will send someone?’

‘Of course I will. She is my daughter—would I not send for her?’

At this, the old man would sit up with sudden eagerness. Forgetting the nature of their relationship, he would place his hand upon Parvati’s head in blessing and say, ‘May good fortune attend you. I bless you—you will be happy—may God grant you long life.’

Then, all at once, certain memories seemed to rush back to the old man. Sinking back onto the bed and closing his eyes, he would murmur to himself, ‘My eldest girl... my only daughter... she loved me so deeply...’

At such moments, a teardrop would trickle past his pepper-and-salt moustache and fall upon the pillow. Parvati would wipe it away. Sometimes he would whisper softly, ‘Ah, they will all return, and once again the house will be bustling and alive... Ah, what a grand household it used to be! My sons, my daughter, my wife—such laughter and cheer—it was like a perpetual Durga Puja! Then, one day, everything went dark. The boys went off to Calcutta; Yasho’s father-in-law took her away. And then—a desolate, dark cremation ground...’

By now, tears would soak both sides of his moustache and wet the pillow anew. Wiping them with gentle concern, Parvati would ask, ‘Why did you not arrange Mahen’s marriage?’

The old man would reply, ‘Ah, that was in my happier days! I had indeed thought of it, but who can fathom his mind, or his stubborn resolve? He simply refused to marry. And so in my old age—the house stands empty and bleak, everything faded like a home forsaken by Lakshmi, devoid of all lustre... that is why—’

Hearing these words, Parvati’s heart grew heavy. In a poignant voice, feigning a smile, she would shake her head and say, ‘If you have grown old, I too shall grow old soon enough. Does it take long for a woman to grow old?’

Bhuvan Choudhury would sit up, tilt her chin with one hand, and gaze at her silently for a long time. Just as an artisan, after dressing an idol and crowning its head, tilts left and right to inspect his work at leisure, a faint pride and a great flood of affection gathering about that lovely face, so it was with Bhuvan Babu. On some days, a soft murmur would escape his lips: ‘Ah, you did not do well—’

‘What did I not do well, my lord?’

‘I am thinking... you do not belong here.’

Parvati would burst out laughing and say, ‘I belong here very well! What is all this talk of belonging or not belonging for the likes of us?’

Lying back down, the old man would murmur as if to himself, ‘I understand... I understand. But good will come to you. God will watch over you.’

In this manner, nearly a month passed by. In between, Chakraborty Mahashay had come once to fetch his daughter, but Parvati herself chose not to go. She told her father, ‘Father, this household is in great disarray; I shall go after some time.’

Unseen by her, he smiled into his sleeve. To himself he thought, ‘Women are indeed a species apart!’

When he had taken his leave, Parvati called Mahendra and said, ‘My son, go and bring my eldest daughter here for a visit.’

Mahendra hesitated. He knew Yashoda would under no circumstances come. He said, ‘It might be better if Father went himself.’

‘Fie! Would that look proper? Instead, let us go together—mother and son—and fetch her.’

Mahendra was astonished: ‘You will go?’

‘What is the harm, my son? I have no shame in it; if my going brings Yashoda back—if it softens her anger—is my going such a difficult thing?’

And so, the following day, Mahendra set out alone to fetch Yashoda. What artifice he used there is not known, but four days later Yashoda arrived. On that day, Parvati was adorned in a magnificent array of precious new jewels—which Bhuvan Babu had ordered from Calcutta only recently—and Parvati had put them all on for the occasion. All along the journey, Yashoda had been rehearsing in her mind speeches full of anger and hurt pride. But the moment she saw the new bride, she was rendered utterly speechless. None of those bitter thoughts remained in her mind. She could only murmur in faint disbelief, ‘This... her!’

Parvati took Yashoda by the hand and led her inside the room. Seating her close by and fanning her with a hand-fan, she said, ‘Mother, have you been angry with your daughter?’

Yashoda’s face flushed red with embarrassment. Parvati then began to take off those ornaments one by one and deck Yashoda with them. Astonished, Yashoda said, ‘What is this?’

‘It is nothing—only your daughter’s fond wish.’

Yashoda did not dislike putting on the jewelry, and by the time the dressing was complete, the trace of a smile hovered on her lips. Having decked her in every piece of gold and standing herself completely unadorned, Parvati said, ‘Mother, are you still angry with your daughter?’

‘No, no—why should I be angry? What is there to be angry about?—’

‘Of course, Mother! This is your father’s house—such a huge estate—how many maidservants does it require! I am nothing more than one such servant! Fie, Mother, does it become you to be angry with a wretched servant?’

Yashoda was older in years, but in conversation she was still a mere child. She was thrown into complete bewilderment. As she continued to fan her, Parvati spoke again: ‘I am a poor man’s daughter; by your grace I have found a little shelter here. How many poor, destitute, and helpless souls are maintained here daily by your family’s charity; I am merely one of them, Mother. One who depends on your protection—’

Yashoda had been listening, overwhelmed; now, completely forgetting herself, she threw herself down at Parvati’s feet, bowing low in reverence, and cried, ‘I fall at your feet, Mother—’

Parvati caught her by the hands.

Yashoda said, ‘Forgive my fault, Mother.’

The next day, Mahendra called Yashoda aside in private and asked, ‘Well? Has your anger subsided?’

Yashoda quickly touched her elder brother’s feet in affection and said, ‘Brother, in my temper—fie, fie! What terrible things I said! Mind that none of it ever comes to light.’

Mahendra broke into a laugh. Yashoda said, ‘Tell me, Brother—can a stepmother really show such warmth and affection?’

Two days later, Yashoda went to her father herself and said, ‘Father, write a letter to them over there—I shall not leave here for another two months.’

Bhuvan Babu was slightly surprised and asked, ‘Why, my child?’

Smiling bashfully, Yashoda replied, ‘My health is not quite well—let me stay with my Chhotoma for a few days!’

Tears welled up and burst from the old man’s eyes in sheer joy. That evening, calling Parvati to him, he said, ‘You have freed me from shame. May you live long, may you be happy.’

Parvati said, ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘What it means, I cannot explain to you. O Narayana! From what shame, from what self-reproach you have delivered me today!’

In the gathering dark of the evening, Parvati did not see that her husband’s eyes were brimming with tears. And Binodlal—Bhuvanmohan’s younger son—having finished his examinations and returned home, never went back to his studies again.