Chapter 14

Some two years had passed since Parvati had settled Mahendra’s marriage and found herself considerably relieved of household burdens. Jaladbala was intelligent and capable, and had taken over many of the domestic duties in Parvati’s stead. Parvati had now turned her mind elsewhere. Five years had elapsed since her own marriage, yet no child had been born to her. Having no children of her own, her heart went out all the more to the children of others. Not to speak of the poor and needy, she bore the greater part of the expenses even for the sons and daughters of families of some means. Apart from this, her days passed in looking after the family shrine, serving sadhus and mendicants, and tending to the blind and the lame. Encouraging her husband, Parvati had a second almshouse constructed. There the destitute and helpless could stay as long as they wished, provided with food and attire directly from the zamindar estate. There was another deed Parvati performed in utmost secrecy, keeping it hidden even from her husband: she surreptitiously provided financial relief to impoverished gentlefolk. This was met from her personal allowance; whatever she received monthly from her husband she spent entirely on this. Yet no matter how or where money was spent, word of it never failed to reach the estate managers and scribes at the central office. They began whispering among themselves. The maidservants eavesdropped and brought back word that household expenses had more than doubled, the treasury was drained, and nothing was being saved. Whenever extraneous expenses mounted in a household, it was as though the servants suffered a mortal wound. It was from them that Jalad heard all this. One night she said to her husband, "Are you no one in this house?"

Mahendra said, "Why do you ask that?"

His wife replied, "The servants can see it, and you cannot? The master is devoted to his new bride and will say nothing, but surely you ought to speak up."

Mahendra did not grasp her meaning, but his curiosity was aroused. He asked, "Speak up about what?"

Jaladbala assumed a grave air and began to counsel her husband: "New Mother has no children of her own—why should she care for the estate? She is squandering everything, and can you not even see it?"

Mahendra knit his brows and said, "How so?"

Jalad said, "If you had eyes, you would see. Expenses have doubled these days—endless vows, charity, feeding guests and fakirs. Well, she may be securing her afterlife, but won't you have children too? What will they eat then? Will you give away what is yours and end up begging in the streets?"

Mahendra sat up in bed and said, "Whom are you talking about? Mother?"

Jalad said, "Woe is my cursed fate that I have to spell out such things!"

Mahendra said, "So you have come to lay a complaint against Mother?"

Jalad retorted in anger, "I have no need for complaints or court cases. I only let you in on the truth inside, lest you blame me later."

Mahendra sat silent for a long while before saying, "At your father's house the pot doesn't even boil every day—what do you understand of a zamindar household's affairs?"

Now Jalad fired up in turn and snapped, "And how many almshouses, pray, were there at your mother's father's house?"

Mahendra argued no further and lay back in silence. Rising in the morning, he came to Parvati and said, "What a marriage you arranged for me, Mother! It is impossible to live in this house with her. I am leaving for Calcutta."

Parvati was taken aback. "Why, my son?"

"She speaks ill of you—I am renouncing her."

Parvati had been observing the elder daughter-in-law's behavior for some time; suppressing her feelings, she smiled and said, "Fie, my child, she is such a good girl!" Then, calling Jalad aside, she whispered, "Daughter-in-law, have you had a quarrel?"

Ever since morning, Jalad had grown inwardly terrified seeing her husband prepare for his departure to Calcutta. At her mother-in-law's gentle words she broke into tears and said, "It is my fault, Mother. But it was the maidservants who were talking about the expenses."

Parvati listened to the whole matter. Feeling ashamed herself, she wiped the young woman's tears and said, "Daughter-in-law, you are right. But I am not very worldly, child, so I gave no thought to the expenditure."

Then calling Mahendra, she said, "Son, do not take offense without fault. You are her husband, and before the thought of your well-being, all else should pale for a wife. Your bride is your Lakshmi."

Yet from that day, Parvati drew back her hand. The almshouse and the temple were no longer served as before; many orphans, blind mendicants, and fakirs began to be turned away. Hearing of this, the master called Parvati and asked, "Young bride, has Lakshmi's storehouse run dry?"

Parvati answered with a smile, "How can giving alone sustain us? One must save for a few days too—do you not see how expenses have mounted?"

"Let them mount. How many days have I left? One should do good deeds for a while and look to the afterlife."

Parvati laughed and said, "That is a very selfish thing to say! Will you think only of yourself, and leave the children to drift away? Keep quiet for a while, and everything will resume later. Man's duty is never finished!"

And so Chowdhury-mashay was quieted.

Now that Parvati's duties had lessened, her thoughts grew somewhat more intense. Yet every form of thought has its own nature. One who retains hope thinks in one manner, while one who has lost all hope thinks in another. In the former there is vitality, there is joy, contentment, sorrow, and anguish; hence it exhausts a person—one cannot dwell in it for long. But for the hopeless there is neither joy nor sorrow nor anguish, yet there is a quiet contentment. Tears may fall, depth remains—yet it does not pierce the heart anew each day. Like a wispy cloud, it drifts wherever it pleases. Where no breeze touches, it lingers; where the wind catches it, it moves away; the absorbed mind finds a strange fulfillment in anxiety-free contemplation. This was precisely Parvati’s state these days. Sitting down for her daily worship and prayers, her restless, aimless, despairing mind would suddenly dart across to Talsonapur—wandering among the bamboo groves, the mango orchards, the village schoolhouse, and the bank of the reservoir. Then again it would hide in some obscure nook where Parvati herself could not search it out. Where once a smile might have hovered at the corner of her lips, now a single teardrop would drop plop into the sacred water of the kusha copper vessel. Yet the days went by. They passed in work, in gentle speech, in acts of charity and care; and sometimes they passed with everything forgotten, like an ascetic absorbed in deep meditation. Some called her Annapurna, the goddess of grace and plenty; others called her an absent-minded recluse. But since yesterday morning, a subtle change of another kind had come over her—something sharper, somewhat harsher. As though in the swollen, still high-tide of the Ganga, an ebb-tide had suddenly set in from nowhere. No one in the house knew the reason; only we know. Yesterday Manorama had written a letter from their village. What she wrote was as follows—

"Parvati, neither of us has written to the other for a long time, so the fault lies on both sides. It is my wish that we settle our differences. Let us both admit our shortcomings and put an end to this hurt pride. But as I am older, I am begging your forgiveness first. I trust you will reply soon. It has been nearly a month since I arrived here. We women of respectable households do not understand much about bodily health and ailments.

"If one dies, we say she has gone to the Ganga; if she lives, we say she is well. So I, too, am well. But that is about myself—idle chatter. Nor is there much of practical consequence to tell. And yet there is one piece of news I have been desperate to share. Ever since yesterday I have deliberated whether to tell you or not. Telling you will bring you pain, yet keeping it to myself is agony—I am trapped as if in Maricha's dilemma. Hearing news of Devdas will surely grieve you, yet I cannot think of you without weeping myself. God saved you; otherwise, proud and sensitive as you are, had you fallen into his hands you would by now have drowned yourself in the river or taken poison. And news of him you will hear today or two days hence, for when the whole world knows of it, what point is there in hushing it up?

"He arrived here some six or seven days ago. As you know, the mistress of the zamindar estate has moved to Kashi, while Devdas has taken up residence in Calcutta. He comes home only to quarrel with his elder brother and demand money. I hear he comes by now and then, stays until he gets the money, and leaves as soon as he receives it.

"His father passed away two and a half years ago. You will be astonished to hear that in this short time he has squandered half his inheritance. Dwijadas is said to be a prudent, calculating man, and so has somehow managed to retain his share of the ancestral property; otherwise by now others would have plundered it clean. Destroying himself over drink and prostitutes, who is there to save him? On the other shore stands Yama, the god of death! And I think he will not have long to wait. Thank Heaven for one thing at least—that he never married!

"Ah, it breaks one’s heart too. That golden complexion is gone, that beauty, that grace—it is as if he were someone else entirely! His wild, unkempt hair blows in the wind, his eyes are sunken deep into their sockets, his nose juts out like a crude blade. How hideous he has become—I cannot even describe it to you! To look at him inspires revulsion and fear. All day long he wanders along the riverbank and the embankment, gun in hand, shooting birds. And when his head reels in the scorching sun, he sits with bowed head under that plum tree on the bank. After dusk he goes home and drinks—whether he sleeps at night or roams about, God alone knows.

"The other evening I had gone to the river to fetch water; I saw Devdas walking slowly with a gun in hand, his face dry and hollow. Recognizing me, he came and stood close—I was terrified to death! There was not a soul at the ghat—I was beside myself with fear. Fortunately, by God's grace, he displayed no drunkenness or mischief. Like a quiet, harmless gentleman, he asked softly, 'Mono, are you well, sister?'

"What could I do? Trembling, I nodded and said, 'Mm-hmm.'

"Then he let out a heavy sigh and said, 'Be happy, sister. Seeing you brings me such joy.' Then he walked slowly away. I stumbled and ran for my life with all my strength. Good heavens! Thank fortune he did not grab my hand or anything! Well, enough of him—if I were to write of such rogues, a letter would never suffice.

"Did I cause you great pain, sister? If even today you have not forgotten him, it must hurt. But what help is there? And if I have offended at your crimson feet, forgive, out of your own innate goodness, your Mono-didi, who craves your affection."

The letter had arrived yesterday. Today she called Mahendra and said, "I require two palanquins and thirty-two bearers. I am going to Talsonapur at once."

Mahendra asked in surprise, "I shall fetch the palanquins and bearers, Mother, but why two?"

Parvati said, "You will accompany me, my son. Should I die on the way, I shall need my eldest son to perform the final rites."

Mahendra said no more. When the palanquins arrived, the two of them departed.

Chowdhury-mashay, hearing of this, anxiously questioned the servants, but none could give a reason. Thereupon he exercised his discretion and dispatched five or six more guards and retainers after them.

One guard asked, "If we meet them on the road, are we to turn the palanquins back?"

He thought it over and said, "No, there is no need for that. Simply go along with them, so that no mishap befalls them."

That evening after dusk, the two palanquins reached Talsonapur, but Devdas was not in the village. He had left for Calcutta at noon that very day.

Parvati struck her forehead and whispered, "Destiny!" She went to meet Manorama.

Mono said, "Paru, did you come to see Devdas?"

Parvati said, "No, I came to take him away with me. He has no one of his own here."

Manorama was astonished. She said, "What are you saying? Have you no shame?"

"Shame before whom? Taking what is my own—what shame is there in that?"

"Fie, fie! What words are these? There is not even a relationship between you—do not utter such things!"

Parvati smiled a wan smile and said, "Mono-didi, what has nested in my heart ever since I gained consciousness sometimes slips from my lips. You are my sister, so you heard it."

The next morning, Parvati touched the feet of her parents in reverence and stepped into the palanquin once more.