Chapter 11

For the next two or three days Devdas roamed aimlessly through the streets—much like a madman. When Dharmadas tried to say something, Devdas glared at him with bloodshot eyes and barked a rebuke. Seeing the turn of things, Chunilal too did not dare speak. Weeping, Dharmadas said, “Chunibabu, why has it come to this?”

Chunilal said, “What has happened, Dharmadas?”

One blind man asking another for directions. Neither of them knew the truth of what lay within. Wiping his eyes, Dharmadas said, “Chunibabu, by whatever means you can, send my little master back to his mother. And if he will no longer study, what is the use of staying here?”

The words were true enough. Chunilal fell into thought. Four or five days later, at just such an evening hour, Chunibabu was stepping out when Devdas appeared out of nowhere and caught him by the hand. “Chunibabu, are you going there?”

Chunilal stammered bashfully, “Yes—no, if you tell me not to, I won’t go.”

Devdas said, “No, I am not forbidding you to go; but tell me one thing, in what hope do you go there?”

“What hope? It is simply a way to pass the time.”

“Passes? Why, my time does not pass at all. I want to pass the time.”

Chunilal stared into his face for a moment, attempting perhaps to read his inner state upon his features. Then he said, “Devdas, can you tell me openly what has happened to you?”

“Nothing at all has happened.”

“Won’t you tell me?”

“No, Chuni, there is nothing to tell.” Chunilal kept his head bowed for a long while before saying, “Devdas, will you grant me one favor?”

“What?”

“You must go there once more. I have given my word.”

“Where we went the other day—there?”

“Yes—”

“Fie—I do not like it.”

“I shall see to it that you do.”

Devdas remained silent for a moment, as though absent-minded, and then said, “Very well, let us go.”

Having led him down one step of degradation, Chunilal had slipped away somewhere. Left alone in Chandramukhi’s room, Devdas sat on the floor drinking liquor. Sitting a short distance away, Chandramukhi gazed at him with a mournful face, until at last she cried out fearfully, “Devdas, drink no more.”

Devdas set his glass of liquor down on the floor and scowled. “Why?”

“You have taken to drink only recently, you will not be able to bear so much.”

“I do not drink to bear it. I drink only so that I can stay here.”

Chandramukhi had heard these words many times. Now and then she felt like bashing her head against the wall and dying in a river of blood. She had come to love Devdas. Devdas flung the liquor glass away. Striking the leg of the couch, it shattered to pieces. Then, reclining askew against a bolster, he slurred, “I have not the strength to get up and leave, so I sit here—my senses depart, so I look upon your face and speak—Chan... dra... yet I do not lose consciousness entirely—a little awareness still remains—I cannot touch you—I feel such deep revulsion.”

Wiping her eyes, Chandramukhi said slowly, “Devdas, so many men come here who never even touch liquor.”

Devdas opened his eyes wide and sat upright. Swaying back and forth, gesturing wildly with his hands, he said, “Touch it not? If I had my gun I would shoot them! They are viler sinners than even I!—Chandramukhi!”

Pausing for a moment, he seemed lost in thought; then he spoke again: “If ever I give up drink—though I never will—then I shall never come here again. I have a way out, but what will become of them?”

Stopping a moment, he continued, “I took to drink out of deep sorrow—it is the friend of our peril and grief! And I can no longer leave you—”

Devdas began rubbing his face against the pillow. Chandramukhi rushed over and lifted his face. Devdas scowled. “Fie, do not touch me—I still have my senses. Chandramukhi, you do not know—I alone know how deeply I despise you women.”

“I shall despise you forever—yet I shall come, yet I shall sit, yet I shall speak—for there is no other way. Will any of you ever understand that? Ha! Ha! People commit sins in the dark, and I come here to be a drunkard—what more fitting place is there in all the world! And you—”

Devdas steadied his gaze, looked into her sorrowful face for a moment, and said, “Ah! The very image of endurance. Humiliation, reproach, insult, tyranny, oppression—how much a woman can bear—you women are the living proof of it!”

Then, lying back on his spine, he began to whisper softly, “Chandramukhi says she loves me—I don’t want it—don’t want it—don’t want it—people act in the theatre, smearing soot and chalk on their faces—playing thieves, beggars, kings, queens—falling in love, speaking so many words of love, weeping so much—just as if it were all real! Chandramukhi acts in my theatre, and I watch. But I remember her—in a single moment, how everything fell apart. Where did she go—and along what path did I walk? Now a grand, lifelong play has begun. A hopeless drunkard—and this woman—let it be, let it be so—what harm is there! No hope, no assurance—no happiness, no desire—bravo! Very good indeed—”

Then Devdas turned onto his side and began muttering something under his breath.

Chandramukhi could not make out his words. In a short while, Devdas fell asleep. Chandramukhi then came and sat near him. Moistening the end of her sari, she wiped his face clean and replaced the wet pillow. Taking a fan, she fanned him for a while, then sat for a long time with her head bowed. It was then nearly one in the morning. Extinguishing the lamp and locking the door, she went into the adjacent room.