Chapter 15

For two years now, Chandramukhi had built her home in the village of Asathjhuri. On a high rise along the bank of a small river stood her two tidy mud-walled cottages; beside them was a thatch-roofed shed where a well-fed black cow was tethered. One of the two rooms served as a kitchen and storehouse; in the other she slept. The courtyard was kept spotless, swept and plastered with cow dung every day by Rema Bagdi's daughter. A fence of castor plants enclosed the yard, with a plum tree in the middle and a cluster of sacred basil to one side. In front lay the river landing—she had hired men to cut steps into the bank with felled date-palm logs. No one used this ghat except her. In the monsoon, the river would swell to its brim, its waters rising right up beneath Chandramukhi’s house. The villagers would rush over eagerly with spades, piling up earth to raise the ground for her. No gentlefolk lived in this village—only farmers, milkmen, Bagdis, two households of oil-pressers, and at the far end of the village, a pair of cobbler families. Upon settling in this village, Chandramukhi had sent word to Devdas, and in response he had sent her more money. This money Chandramukhi lent to the villagers. In times of distress and danger, everyone came running to her and returned home with cash. Chandramukhi charged no interest; instead, out of their own goodwill, they brought her a banana, a radish, or fresh greens from their fields; nor did she ever press them for the principal. Those who could not pay simply did not.

Chandramukhi would say with a smile, "I'm never giving you another copper."

He would reply meekly, "Ma-thakurun, pray for us that the harvest turns out well this time."

Chandramukhi would give her blessing. But perhaps the harvest would fail again, and the rent demands would fall due—

They would come again and stand before her with outstretched hands—and Chandramukhi would give again. Smiling to herself, she would think, So long as he lives, what need have I to worry about money?

But where was he? Nearly six months had passed without a word of news. Letters she wrote brought no reply; registered letters returned unopened. Chandramukhi had settled a family of milkmen near her house, paying forty-two rupees as dowry for their son's marriage and buying them a pair of ploughs. The whole family lived under her shelter and was devotedly loyal to her. One morning, Chandramukhi called Bhairab Milkman and asked, "Bhairab, do you know how far Talsonapur is from here?"

Bhairab thought for a moment and said, "Cross two fields, and there lies the estate office."

Chandramukhi asked, "Does the zamindar live there, then?"

Bhairab said, "Yes, he's the zamindar of these parts. This village belongs to him. He passed away three years ago; the entire tenantry feasted on luchis and sweets there for a whole month. Now he leaves two sons—vastly rich, like kings."

Chandramukhi said, "Bhairab, can you take me there?"

Bhairab replied, "Why shouldn't I be able to, Ma? Whichever day you wish, let's go."

Chandramukhi said eagerly, "Then why not today, Bhairab? Let us go today."

Bhairab said in surprise, "Today?" Then, looking at Chandramukhi's face, he added, "In that case, Ma, quickly finish cooking your meal, and I'll tie up a bit of puffed rice for myself."

Chandramukhi said, "I won't cook today, Bhairab. Just tie up your puffed rice."

Bhairab went home, tied some puffed rice and molasses in his shawl, and slung it over his shoulder. Taking a staff in hand, he returned after a short while and said, "Let us set off then. But won't you eat anything, Ma?"

Chandramukhi said, "No, Bhairab, I haven't done my daily worship and prayers yet; if I find the time, I shall perform them after arriving there."

Bhairab walked ahead to show the way. Behind him, Chandramukhi pressed on with great difficulty along the narrow earthen ridges between the fields. Her soft, unaccustomed feet were torn and bleeding, and her face grew flushed in the scorching sun. She had had neither bath nor food; yet Chandramukhi kept walking, field after field. The farmers working in the fields stared after her in astonishment.

Chandramukhi wore a red-bordered sari, a pair of bangles on her wrists, and her veil drawn halfway down over her forehead; her whole body was wrapped in a thick cotton sheet. When the sun-god was not far from setting, the two of them arrived at the village. Chandramukhi smiled faintly and said, "Bhairab, did your 'two fields' end only now?"

Failing to catch the irony, Bhairab said simply, "Ma-thakurun, we have arrived at last; but with that delicate body of yours, will you be able to return today?"

Chandramukhi thought to herself, Forget today, I doubt I shall be able to walk this road even tomorrow.

Aloud she said, "Bhairab, can one find a carriage here?"

Bhairab said, "Of course, Ma. Shall I arrange a bullock cart?"

Instructing him to arrange the cart, Chandramukhi entered the zamindar’s mansion.

Bhairab went off to make arrangements for the cart. Inside the women's quarters, seated on the upper veranda, was the Borobou—now the mistress of the zamindari household. A maidservant led Chandramukhi before her. The two women looked each other over.

Chandramukhi offered her respects with folded hands. The elder daughter-in-law was bedecked with more jewels than her body could bear, pride practically bursting from the corners of her eyes. Her lips and teeth were stained almost black with betel and masi. One cheek bulged, likely stuffed with dokta and paan. Her hair was pulled so taut that her bun sat perched on the very crown of her head. In her ears hung twenty or thirty earrings, small and large. On one side of her nose was a nose-pin, and on the other, a gaping hole—where a large nose-ring must have been worn in her mother-in-law's day.

Chandramukhi observed that the elder daughter-in-law had a plump, manicured figure, a dark complexion, wide, prominent eyes, and a round face; she wore a black-bordered sari and a costly blouse—the sight of which filled Chandramukhi with revulsion. And the elder daughter-in-law saw that though Chandramukhi was no longer young, her body possessed a beauty beyond measure. They were probably of the same age, but the elder daughter-in-law would not admit as much to herself. In this village, she had never seen such beauty in anyone except Parvati. Wondering, she asked, "Who might you be, woman?"

Chandramukhi said, "I am one of your tenants; some of my rent is in arrears, so I have come to pay it."

Pleased, the elder daughter-in-law said, "Then why come here? Why not go to the estate office?"

Chandramukhi smiled gently and said, "Ma, we are poor folk, we cannot pay all the rent at once. I have heard that you are deeply compassionate; that is why I have come to you, so that out of mercy you might forgive a portion."

Such words the elder daughter-in-law had never heard in all her life. She was compassionate; she had the power to remit rent—and so Chandramukhi instantly won her favor. The elder daughter-in-law said, "Ah, my child, how many rupees I must let go in a single day! How many people plead with me! I cannot say no, and for that the master gets so angry with me.—So, how many rupees do you owe?"

"Not much, Ma, only two rupees; but to us even that is like a mountain. I have walked the whole day to get here."

The elder daughter-in-law said, "Ah, you are poor people; it is only right that we show mercy. Here, Bindu, take her outside and tell the dewan on my behalf to forgive her two rupees. But my child, where is your home?"

Chandramukhi said, "In your own domain—in that village of Asathjhuri. Tell me, Ma, the masters now hold two shares, do they not?"

The elder daughter-in-law said, "Accursed fate! What is left of the junior share? In a few days, it will all belong to me."

Chandramukhi asked anxiously, "Why, Ma? Has the younger master run into debt?"

The elder daughter-in-law smiled slyly and said, "Everything is mortgaged to me. My brother-in-law has gone completely to ruin! He spends all his time in Calcutta with drink and prostitutes. He has squandered countless sums—there is no end to it!"

Chandramukhi's face went pale. Pausing a moment, she asked, "Tell me, Ma, does the younger master not even come home then?"

The elder daughter-in-law said, "Why wouldn't he come! Whenever he needs money, he comes. He borrows, mortgages property, and leaves. Only two months ago he came and took away twelve thousand rupees. He doesn't even look like he'll survive—his whole body is covered in hideous disease—fie, fie!"

Chandramukhi shuddered—with a dark, troubled face, she asked, "Where does he stay in Calcutta?"

Striking her forehead with her palm, the elder daughter-in-law said with a grin, "Wretched fate! Who could possibly know? Which hotel he eats at—whose house he lies collapsed in—only he knows, and Yama knows."

Chandramukhi suddenly stood up and said, "I... must go—"

Slightly surprised, the elder daughter-in-law said, "Leaving? Here, Bindu—"

Chandramukhi interrupted her, saying, "Never mind, Ma, I can find my way to the estate office myself," and walked slowly away.

Stepping outside the house, she found Bhairab waiting—the bullock cart was ready. That night, Chandramukhi returned home. In the morning, she called Bhairab again and said, "Bhairab, I am going to Calcutta today; since you cannot go, I shall take your son with me. What do you say?"

"As you wish. But why Calcutta, Ma? Is there some special work?"

"Yes, Bhairab, some very special work."

"When will you return, Ma?"

"That I cannot say, Bhairab. Perhaps I shall return soon, or perhaps it will take long. And if I do not return, all these houses and lands are yours."

At first Bhairab was stunned. Then his eyes filled with tears. He said, "What are you saying, Ma! If you do not come back, not a soul in this village will survive."

With tearful eyes, Chandramukhi smiled softly and said, "What nonsense, Bhairab! I came here only two years ago. Didn't you all live before that?"

To this, the simple Bhairab could offer no answer, but Chandramukhi understood everything in her heart. Bhairab's son Kebla alone would accompany her. When the cart was loaded with necessary goods and she was about to climb in, all the men and women of the neighborhood came to see her off, weeping as they watched. Chandramukhi could not hold back her own tears either. To hell with Calcutta! Were it not for Devdas, Chandramukhi would never have cast aside so much love for all the queenship of Calcutta.

The next day she arrived at Khetramoni's house. Other tenants were now living in her old lodgings. Khetramoni was astonished—"Didi! Where have you been all this time?"

Concealing the truth, Chandramukhi said, "I was in Allahabad."

Khetramoni looked closely, scanning her from head to foot, and said, "What happened to all your jewelry, Didi?"

Chandramukhi smiled and replied briefly, "It's all there."

That very day she went to see the grocer and said, "Doyal, how much money am I to get from you?"

Doyal was flustered—"Well, my child, nearly sixty or seventy rupees. If not today, I shall pay in a day or two."

"You don't have to give me anything—if only you will do a piece of work for me."

"What work?"

"You'll have to work for a couple of days, that's all. Rent a house in our neighborhood—do you understand?"

Doyal smiled and said, "I understand, my child."

"A good house. A very good bed, pillows, sheets, lamps, pictures, two chairs, a table—understand?"

Doyal nodded.

"A mirror, a comb, two pairs of dyed saris, blouses, and—do you know where fine gilt ornaments can be found?"

Doyal the grocer gave her an address.

Chandramukhi said, "Then a fine set of those must be bought as well—I'll go with you to choose them." Then she smiled and added, "You know everything we need—a maidservant must be arranged too."

Doyal said, "When do you need all this, child?"

"As soon as possible. It would be best within two or three days." Saying this, Chandramukhi placed a hundred-rupee note in his hand and said, "Get good things, don't skimp for cheapness."

On the third day she moved into the new house. All day long, with Keblaram's help, she arranged the room to her heart's content, and before evening set about dressing herself. Washing her face with soap, she powdered it, dissolved alta to paint her feet, and reddened her lips with paan. Then, arrayed in jewels, she put on a fitted blouse and a dyed sari; binding her hair after a long time, she put on a tip once more. Looking at her face in the mirror, she smiled to herself and thought, What more is written in my wretched fate!

Keblaram, a country boy, was startled by this unfamiliar finery and attire, and said in fear, "Didi, what is all this?"

Chandramukhi smiled and said, "Kebla, my bridegroom is coming today."

Keblaram stood staring in wonder.

After dusk, Khetramoni came to visit—"Didi, what is this all over again?"

Chandramukhi smiled slyly and said, "One needs all this again, you see."

Khetramoni gazed at her for a while and said, "The older Didi gets, the more her beauty grows."

When she had gone, Chandramukhi sat down by the window once more, as she had done long ago. She stared unblinkingly at the road. This was her task; this was what she had come to do—and as long as she stayed here, this was what she would do. If a stranger tried to come in, rattling the door, Keblaram would recite mechanically from within—"Not here."

Now and then an old acquaintance would turn up. Chandramukhi would sit them down, speak with a smile, and casually ask after Devdas; when they could tell her nothing, she would send them away at once. When the night grew late, she would set out herself. She wandered from neighborhood to neighborhood, door to door. Standing secretly by doorways, she tried to press her ear to listen to conversations—people talked of many things, but what she longed to hear was never heard. Now and then someone with covered face would suddenly approach her, reaching out a hand to touch her—and Chandramukhi would shrink away in haste. At noon she visited the homes of old female companions. In the course of talk she would ask, "Does anyone know Devdas?"

They would ask, "Who is Devdas?"

Chandramukhi would eagerly describe him—"Fair-complexioned, curly hair, a scar on the left side of his forehead, a rich man who spends money lavishly—does anyone recognize him?"

No one could give any news. With a disappointed, sorrowful face, Chandramukhi would return home. Staying awake late into the night, she would gaze out at the road. When sleep came over her, she grew annoyed, telling herself, Is this any time for you to sleep?

Gradually a month went by, and Keblaram too grew restless. Chandramukhi herself began to doubt whether he was in the city at all. Yet, clinging to hope, praying with heart and soul at the feet of the gods, she let day after day pass.

A month and a half had passed since her arrival in Calcutta. Tonight her fortune turned. It was eleven o'clock at night—returning home with a heavy heart, she saw a man standing before a room by the roadside, muttering to himself. Chandramukhi's heart gave a sudden thump. That voice was so familiar! Among millions of people, Chandramukhi could pick out that voice. The spot was rather dark, and besides, the man was dead drunk, lying face down on the ground. Chandramukhi stepped close and touched his body—"Who are you, lying like this?"

The man sang out in a slurred voice—"Listen, my friend, where is the soulmate of my heart; if only I could find a husband like Kanhai..."

Chandramukhi had no doubt left; she called, "Devdas?"

Devdas grunted in the same tone, "Hmm."

"Why lie here? Will you go home?"

"No, I'm fine here—"

"Will you have a little liquor?"

"I will!" Saying this, he threw his arms straight around Chandramukhi's neck and said, "What kind of friend are you, brother?"

Tears began to stream from Chandramukhi's eyes. Then, staggering with great effort as he clung to her neck, he managed to stand up, looked into her face for a moment, and said, "Splendid! Why, this is a marvellous thing!"

Chandramukhi's tears mingled with laughter; she said, "Yes, a very fine thing; now for the moment, lean on my shoulder and walk a little forward—we need a carriage."

"Of course we do!" As they walked along the road, Devdas said in a slurred voice, "Beautiful, do you know me?"

Chandramukhi said, "I do."

Devdas broke into song—"Others give fake promises, luckily I know..." Then, sitting in the carriage and leaning on Chandramukhi's shoulder, he arrived at the house. Standing near the doorway, he reached into his pocket and said, "Beautiful! You picked me up and brought me, but there's nothing in my pocket—"

Chandramukhi silently took his hand, pulled him along, laid him straight on the bed, and said, "Go to sleep."

Devdas said in the same slurred tone, "Do you have some scheme in mind? I just told you the pocket's empty—no hope of anything. Understand, my beauty?"

The beauty understood; she said, "Give it tomorrow."

Devdas said, "So much trust isn't good—tell me openly, what do you want?"

Chandramukhi said, "Listen tomorrow"—and went into the next room.

When Devdas woke up, it was broad daylight. There was no one in the room.

Chandramukhi had bathed and gone downstairs to prepare lunch. Devdas looked around; he had never been in this room, nor could he recognize a single thing. He remembered nothing of the previous night; he remembered only someone's heartfelt care. Someone had tenderly brought him in and put him to sleep. Just then, Chandramukhi entered the room. She had changed much of her nighttime attire. She still wore her jewelry, but the colored sari, the tip on her forehead, the paan stain on her mouth—all were gone. She entered wearing a plain, simple sari. Devdas looked at her face and burst out laughing, "Where did you rob me from last night?"

Chandramukhi said, "I didn't rob you—I only picked you up off the street."

Devdas suddenly turned grave and said, "That may be, but what is all this on you! When did you arrive? You're covered in more jewels than your body can hold—who gave them to you?"

Chandramukhi fixed a sharp gaze on Devdas's face and said, "Again!"

Devdas laughed and said, "No, no—not that; is there any harm in a little joke? When did you come?"

Chandramukhi said, "A month and a half ago."

Devdas seemed to calculate something in his mind. Then he said, "You came right after you went to our house?"

Chandramukhi said in surprise, "I went to your house—how did you know?"

Devdas said, "I went home right after you left. A maidservant—the one who took you to my sister-in-law—told me that yesterday a woman had come from Asathjhuri village, a very beautiful woman. Was there anything left to guess! But why did you order so many jewels made again?"

Chandramukhi said, "I didn't order them made; these are all gilt ornaments, I bought them after coming to Calcutta. And yet look, how much useless expense I had to incur for your sake! And yesterday you couldn't even recognize me."

Devdas laughed out loud and said, "I couldn't recognize you at first, but I recognized the tenderness. Time and again I thought, who could care for me so much except my Chandramukhi?"

In her joy, Chandramukhi felt like crying. Remaining silent for a moment, she said, "Devdas, you don't despise me so much anymore—do you?"

Devdas replied, "No. On the contrary, I love you."

At noon, while he was bathing, Chandramukhi noticed a strip of flannel tied around Devdas's stomach. Frightened, she said, "What is that? Why have you tied flannel there?"

Devdas said, "I feel a little pain in my stomach—why are you reacting like that?"

Chandramukhi struck her forehead and cried, "You haven't brought ruin upon yourself, have you? It isn't pain in your liver, is it?"

Devdas smiled and said, "Chandramukhi, I suppose that's what it is."

That very day the doctor came, examined him at length, and confirmed that very fear. He prescribed medicine and warned that without sufficient care, grave harm could ensue. Both of them understood the implication. Word was sent to his lodgings to fetch Dharmadas, and money was drawn from the bank for his treatment. Two days passed like this, but on the third day fever set in.

Devdas called Chandramukhi and said, "You arrived just in the nick of time, otherwise you might never have seen me again."

Wiping her eyes, Chandramukhi threw herself heart and soul into nursing him. With folded hands she prayed, Lord, I never dreamed even in my wildest thoughts that I could be of such use in his hour of need; only make Devdas well.

For over a month Devdas remained bedridden, then slowly began to recover; the illness was kept from turning fatal.

During this time, one day Devdas said, "Chandramukhi, your name is so long, it's cumbersome to call you by it all the time—I want to shorten it a bit."

Chandramukhi said, "Very well."

Devdas said, "Then from today I shall call you Bou."

Chandramukhi burst out laughing. She said, "Call me that if you like, but there ought to be some meaning to it."

"Does everything have to have a meaning?"

"If it pleases you, call me that by all means; but won't you tell me why you have this fancy?"

"No; and you must never ask the reason either."

Chandramukhi nodded and said, "Very well, so be it."

Devdas remained quiet for a long while, then suddenly asked in a grave tone, "Tell me, Bou, who are you to me, that you nurse me so devotedly with all your life?"

Chandramukhi was no bashful bride, nor a tongue-tied girl; keeping a steady, calm gaze on his face, she said in a voice thick with affection, "You are my all in all—have you not understood even to this day?"

Devdas had been staring at the wall. Keeping his eyes fixed there, he began to speak softly, "I have understood, but I find no great joy in it. How I love Parvati, how she loves me—yet what agony it brings! Having suffered so much, I thought I would never step into these traps again; nor did I do so willingly. But why did you do this? Why did you bind me by force?" Pausing silently for a moment, he added, "Bou, you too will perhaps suffer just like Parvati."

Chandramukhi, covering her face with the end of her sari, sat silently at one corner of the bed.

Devdas began to speak again in a low voice, "How different the two of you are, and yet how alike. One proud and haughty, the other so calm, so restrained. She can endure nothing, and how much you bear! How much fame and good name she has, and how much infamy is yours! Everyone loves her, and no one loves you. But I love you—yes, I do indeed!" Breathing a heavy sigh, he continued, "I know not how the Judge of sins and virtues will judge you; but if we meet again after death, I shall never be able to stay far from you."

Chandramukhi wept silently, soaking her chest in tears; in her heart she prayed, Lord, if ever in any age, in any birth, this sinner's atonement is complete, grant me only this reward.

Two months went by. Devdas had recovered, but his body had not regained its strength. A change of air was necessary. Tomorrow he would travel upcountry to the West; only Dharmadas would go with him.

Chandramukhi pleaded with him, "You will need a maidservant too; let me go with you."

Devdas said, "Fie, that cannot be! Whatever else I do, I cannot be so shameless."

Chandramukhi fell completely silent. She was not unreasonable, so she understood easily. Whatever else might be, in this world she possessed no honor. In her company Devdas would find joy, would receive care, but never honor. Wiping her eyes, she asked, "When shall I see you again?"

Devdas said, "I cannot say; but as long as I live I shall never forget you, and my thirst to see you will never be quenched."

Offering her bow, Chandramukhi stepped aside. Whispering softly, she said, "This is enough for me. I ask for nothing more."

At the time of leaving, Devdas handed Chandramukhi another two thousand rupees and said, "Keep this. There is no trusting a human body; what if in the end you are left adrift without shelter?"

Chandramukhi understood this too, so she held out her hands and took the money. Wiping her eyes, she asked, "Tell me one thing before you go—"

Devdas looked into her face and said, "What?"

Chandramukhi said, "The elder sister-in-law said that a foul disease had taken hold of your body—is that true?"

Devdas was pained by the question; he said, "The elder sister-in-law is capable of anything; but if it were so, would you not have known? What secret of mine is unknown to you? In this matter, you know even more than Parvati."

Chandramukhi wiped her eyes once more and said, "I am saved. But still, take great care of yourself. Your health is poor as it is—mind that you never make a mistake."

In reply Devdas only smiled; he said nothing.

Chandramukhi said, "And one more favor—promise that if your health takes even the slightest turn for the worse, you will send me word?"

Devdas looked at her face, nodded, and said, "Of course I will, Bou!"

Bowing once more, Chandramukhi ran weeping into the adjoining room.