Chapter 16

When Devdas had left Calcutta and was living for a while in Allahabad, he had suddenly written a letter to Chandramukhi one day: "Bou, I had resolved never to love again. Coming away empty-handed after loving someone is agony enough, but to go and try loving anew—there is no greater mockery than that in this world."

What Chandramukhi wrote in reply is of no consequence; but around this time, it kept crossing Devdas’s mind—if only she would pay a visit!

The next moment he would think in alarm—no, no, better not, what if Parvati were to find out one day! In this manner, now Parvati, now Chandramukhi inhabited the realm of his heart. At times both their faces would float side by side across the canvas of his mind—as though they were the best of friends!

Within his heart, both dwelt side by side. On certain days, with sudden starkness, it would seem to him as though both had fallen asleep. At such moments his soul would feel so hollowed out that only a lifeless discontent echoed mindlessly through him like a hollow resonance. After that, Devdas moved to Lahore. Chunilal was working there; having tracked him down, he came to visit. After a long interval, Devdas touched wine once more. He remembered Chandramukhi, who had forbidden him. He thought of how wise she was, how calm, how serene, and how full of tenderness. Parvati lay sleeping now—only at times flaring up like the flickering flame of a dying lamp. But the climate here did not agree with him. He fell ill off and on, feeling that pain near his stomach again. One day Dharmadas said, on the verge of tears, "Debta, your health is breaking down again—let us go somewhere else."

Devdas answered listlessly, "Come, let us go."

Devdas rarely drank at his lodgings. Whenever Chunilal visited, he would drink on some days, or head out on others. He would return home in the small hours of the night, or on some nights not return at all. Now for two days he was nowhere to be seen. Dharmadas wept and would not touch food or water. On the third day Devdas returned with a fever; he took to his bed and could not rise again. Three or four doctors came and began treating him.

Dharmadas said, "Debta, let me send word to your mother in Kashi—"

Devdas hastily cut him off: "Shame, shame—how could I show my mother such a face?"

Dharmadas protested, "Sickness and sorrow come to everyone; but does that mean keeping it from your mother in a time of such grave danger? Have you no sense of propriety left, Debta? Let us go to Kashi."

Devdas turned his face away and said, "No, Dharmadas, I cannot go to her at a time like this. Let me recover first, then."

Dharmadas considered for a moment mentioning Chandramukhi; but he held her in such utter contempt himself that the moment her face came to mind, he fell silent.

The thought had crossed Devdas's own mind many a time as well; but he lacked the heart to say anything. And so no one came. After many days, he slowly began to mend. One day he sat up and said, "Come, Dharmadas, let us go somewhere else now. Can one hide from one's mother in times of peril?"

"Have you no shame, Debta? Let us go to Kashi."

Packing their belongings and taking leave of Chunilal, Devdas arrived back in Allahabad—his health considerably improved. After staying there for a time, Devdas said one day, "Dharma, couldn't we go somewhere new? I have never seen Bombay—will you come?"

Seeing his eagerness, Dharmadas reluctantly gave his consent. It was the month of Jyeshtha, and the city of Bombay was not terribly hot. Upon coming here, Devdas recovered a great deal.

Dharmadas asked, "Couldn't we go home now?"

Devdas said, "No, I am well enough here. I shall stay here a little longer."

A year had passed. One morning in the month of Bhadra, leaning on Dharmadas’s shoulder, Devdas emerged from the Bombay hospital and took his seat in a carriage. Dharmadas said, "Debta, I say it is best to go to Mother."

Devdas’s eyes filled with tears—for the past few days he had been thinking constantly of his mother. Lying in the hospital, the same thought had haunted him again and again: in this world he had everything, and yet he had no one. He had a mother, he had an elder brother, he had Parvati who was more than a sister—he even had Chandramukhi! He had everyone, but he belonged to no one anymore. Dharmadas was weeping too; he said, "So then, Dada, is it settled that we go to Mother?"

Devdas turned his head and wiped away his tears; he said, "No, Dharmadas, I have no desire to show Mother this face of mine—I suppose my time for that has not yet come."

Old Dharmadas wept aloud and wailed, "Dada, Mother is still alive!"

How much lay implied in those few words, both felt deep within their hearts. Devdas’s condition had grown wretched in the extreme. His entire abdomen was swollen with spleen and liver disease; on top of that, fever and a racking cough. His skin had turned a deep, dark hue, his body reduced to skin and bones. His eyes were deeply sunken, glittering only with an unnatural brightness. The hair on his head was coarse and stiff—with a little effort, one could almost count the strands. Looking at his fingers evoked a sensation of revulsion—shrivelled as they were, and marred by the unsightly marks of disease. Arriving at the station, Dharmadas asked, "Which ticket shall I buy, Debta?"

Devdas thought it over carefully and said, "Let us go home—after that, whatever happens will happen."

When it was time for the train, they bought tickets for Hooghly and boarded.

Dharmadas stayed right beside Devdas. Before evening, Devdas’s eyes burned as the fever returned once more. Calling Dharmadas to him, he said, "Dharmadas, today I feel it may be hard even to reach home."

Dharmadas asked fearfully, "Why, Dada?"

Devdas attempted a faint smile and merely said, "The fever has returned, Dharmadas."

By the time the train passed Kashi, Devdas lay unconscious with fever. Near Patna he regained consciousness and said, "Ah, Dharmadas, going to Mother really was not meant to be."

Dharmadas said, "Come, Dada, let us get off at Patna and see a doctor—"

In reply Devdas said, "No, let it be; come, let us go home."

When the train pulled into Pandua station, day was breaking. It had rained all night, but now the rain had stopped. Devdas stood up. Below, Dharmadas lay asleep. Gently Devdas touched his forehead once; out of a quiet bashfulness, he could not bring himself to wake him. Then he opened the carriage door and stepped softly out. The train carried the sleeping Dharmadas away. Trembling, Devdas came outside the station. Calling to a horse-carriage driver, he asked, "My good man, can you take me to Hatipota?"

The man looked into his face once, looked this way and that, and then said, "No, Babu, the road is in a bad state—a horse-drawn carriage cannot go there in this monsoon."

Devdas asked anxiously, "Can a palanquin be found?"

The driver said, "No."

Devdas sank down in dismay—would he not be able to go then? The stamp of his impending end was so deeply etched upon his face that even a blind man could have read it.

Moved with pity, the driver said, "Babu, shall I arrange a bullock cart for you?"

Devdas asked, "How long will it take to reach?"

The driver said, "The road is terrible, Babu; it will likely take a good two days."

Devdas began calculating in his mind: shall I live for two days? Yet he must reach Parvati. He remembered all his untruths of so many days, all his false betrayals. But this promise of his final days had to be kept. Come what may, he had to present himself before her one last time! But the span of this life had so little left to run—that was the terror of it!

When Devdas climbed into the bullock cart and sat down, tears burst from his eyes at the thought of his mother. And another face, tender with affection, appeared now in life's final moment, radiant with a supreme purity—the face of Chandramukhi. The woman he had despised all his life as a sinner, today he saw blooming in proud glory right beside his mother, and tears streamed uncontrollably down his cheeks. In this life they would never meet again; perhaps for a long time she would not even hear the news. Even so, he had to go to Parvati. Devdas had sworn he would show himself to her once more. Today he must fulfill that pledge. The road was bad. Rainwater from the monsoon lay pooled in places along the track, or the road had washed away altogether. The entire way was choked with mud. The bullock cart lurched and creaked along. In places the driver had to get down and push the wheels; in others he had to beat the pair of bullocks mercilessly—by whatever means, these sixteen kros of road had to be crossed. A howling, icy wind blew. Today, too, a violent fever seized him after nightfall. He asked in dread, "Driver, how much farther?"

The driver replied, "There are still eight to ten kros left, Babu."

"Take me quickly, my good man, I will give you a handsome reward." Showing a hundred-rupee note he had in his pocket, he said, "I will give you a hundred rupees—take me there."

How the whole night passed after that, and through what places, Devdas knew nothing. Numb and insensate; gaining consciousness in the morning, he asked, "Hey, how much farther? Will this never end?"

The driver said, "Another six kros."

Devdas let out a long sigh and said, "Move a little faster, my man, there is no time left."

The driver did not understand, but with renewed vigor he whipped and cursed the bullocks onward. The cart rolled on at breakneck pace; inside, Devdas writhed in agony. A single thought kept turning over in his mind: shall we meet? Shall I reach her? At noon the driver stopped the cart, fed the bullocks, ate his own meal, and climbed back up. He said, "Babu, will you not eat something?"

"No, my friend, but I am desperately thirsty—can you give me a little water?"

He brought water from a pond by the roadside. Today after nightfall, along with the fever, blood began to trickle drop by drop with a prickling sensation from inside Devdas's nose. He pinched his nostrils shut with all his strength. Then he felt blood oozing past his teeth as well, and his breathing seemed to gasp for air. Panting, he asked, "How much farther?"

The driver said, "Another two kros or so; we shall reach around ten at night."

With immense effort Devdas raised his face, looked down the road, and cried, "Lord Almighty!"

The driver asked, "Babu, why are you carrying on like that?"

Devdas could not even answer this. The cart kept moving, but instead of ten o'clock, it was near midnight when the cart arrived before the paved banyan tree in front of the zamindar's mansion at Hatipota.

The driver called out, "Babu, come down."

There was no answer. He called again, still no answer. Frightened now, he brought the lamp close to the man's face: "Babu, have you fallen asleep?"

Devdas was staring; his lips moved as if to say something, but no sound came forth. The driver called once more, "Oh, Babu!"

Devdas tried to raise a hand, but the hand would not lift; only two drops of water trickled from the corners of his eyes. Thereupon the driver used his wits to lay down a bed of straw upon the paved plinth beneath the banyan tree.

Then with great difficulty he lifted Devdas out and laid him upon it. There was no one else outside; the zamindar’s household lay quiet and asleep. With terrible effort Devdas produced the hundred-rupee note from his pocket and handed it over. In the lantern light the driver saw that the Babu was looking at him, but could not speak. Reading his plight, the man took the note and tied it into his wrap. Covered right up to his face with his shawl, the lantern burning before him, his new friend sat by his feet, lost in thought.

Dawn broke. In the morning, people emerged from the zamindar's house—a strange sight met them. Beneath the tree, a man lay dying. A gentleman. A shawl over his body, shiny shoes on his feet, a ring on his finger. One by one, many gathered. Presently word reached Bhuban Babu; ordering a doctor to be fetched, he came out himself. Devdas looked at them all; but his voice was choked off—he could not utter a single word, tears merely rolling down from his eyes. The driver told as much as he knew, but to little avail. The doctor arrived and declared, "The death-rattle has set in; he will die any moment."

Everyone said, "Ah, poor soul!"

Sitting upstairs, Parvati heard the tale and said, "Ah, poor soul!"

Someone out of pity put a drop of water into his mouth. Devdas looked at him once with a piteous gaze, and then closed his eyes. He remained alive a little while longer, and after that, all was over. Now an argument arose over who would cremate him, who would touch the corpse, what caste he belonged to, and so forth. Bhuban Babu sent word to the nearest police station. An inspector arrived and conducted an inquiry. Death due to spleen and liver disease. Traces of blood on the face. Two letters were recovered from his pocket. One was written by Dwijadas Mukherjee of Talsonapur to Devdas in Bombay—sending money is not possible at present. The other was from Harimati Devi of Kashi to the said Devdas Mukherjee—how are you?

On his left arm, his initials were tattooed in English letters. The inspector completed his inquiry and said, "Yes, the man is indeed Devdas."

A ring set with a blue stone on his hand—estimated value a hundred and fifty rupees; a pair of shawls on his body—estimated value two hundred rupees. He made an inventory of the clothes and everything else. Chowdhury-mashay and Mahendranath were both present. Hearing the name Talsonapur, Mahendra remarked, "He is from Chhotoma's father's village—if she were to see him—"

Chowdhury-mashay snapped at him, "Is she going to come here to identify a corpse?"

The Daroga-babu said with a laugh, "Absolute madness!"

Though it was the corpse of a Brahmin, no one in the village would touch it; so outcasts came and bound the body to carry it away. Then they left it half-charred on the bank of some dried-up pond—crows and vultures came and perched upon it, while jackals and dogs set about quarrelling over the carcass. Yet whoever heard of it said, "Ah, poor soul!" Even the maidservants and manservants gossiped among themselves, "Ah, a gentleman, a rich man! A shawl worth two hundred rupees, a ring worth one hundred and fifty! All of it is now in the Daroga's custody; he has kept the two letters as well."

The news had indeed reached Parvati's ears in the morning, but because she could fix her mind on nothing these days, she had not quite grasped it. But when the same talk was on everyone's lips, Parvati too caught the drift of it and, before evening, called a maidservant and asked, "What has happened, girl? Who has died?"

The maid said, "Ah, nobody knows, Ma! His grave must have been bought in a past life, so he came here to die. He lay out there in the freezing cold since that night, and died at nine in the morning."

Parvati sighed and asked, "Ah, could nothing be known of who he was?"

The maid said, "Mahen-babu knows everything, I don't know that much, Ma."

When Mahendra was summoned, he said, "Devdas Mukherjee from your native village."

Parvati drew extremely close to Mahendra, fixed him with an intense gaze, and asked, "Who? Dev-dada? How did you know?"

"There were two letters in his pocket; one was written by Dwijadas Mukherjee—"

Parvati cut him short: "Yes, his elder brother."

"And another written by Harimati Devi of Kashi—"

"Yes, she is his mother."

"His name was tattooed on his arm—"

Parvati said, "Yes, he had it done when he first went to Calcutta—"

"A blue-colored ring—"

"Uncle gave it to him at his sacred thread ceremony. I am going—" even as she spoke, Parvati came running down the stairs.

Mahendra said, dumbfounded, "Oh Ma, where are you going?"

"To Dev-dada."

"He is no longer there—the outcasts have taken him away."

"Oh, Mother, my Mother!" weeping aloud, Parvati broke into a run. Mahendra ran ahead to block her path and said, "Have you gone mad, Ma? Where will you go?"

Parvati flashed a fierce glance at Mahendra and said, "Mahen, do you truly take me for a madwoman? Out of my way."

Looking into her eyes, Mahendra stepped aside and followed silently behind her. Parvati went outside. Outside, the stewards and clerks were still at work; they looked up in astonishment. Chowdhury-mashay looked over his spectacles and asked, "Who is that going?"

Mahendra said, "Chhotoma."

"What? Where is she going?"

Mahendra said, "To see Devdas."

Bhuban Chowdhury shrieked out, "Have you all gone mad? Catch her—catch her—bring her back! She has lost her mind! Oh Mahen! Oh Kane-bou!"

Thereupon servants and maids joined together to catch hold of Parvati’s fainting body and drag her back inside the house. The next day she regained consciousness, but she spoke not a word. Calling a maidservant to her, she asked only, "He came at night, didn't he? All night long!"

After that, Parvati fell silent.

Now, after all these days, I do not know what has become of Parvati, or how she fares. Nor do I wish to inquire. My heart aches only for Devdas. Whoever among you reads this tale will perhaps feel a grief like ours. Even so, if ever you should cross paths with an unfortunate, unbridled sinner like Devdas, offer up a little prayer for him. Pray that, whatever else may befall a man, no one should ever die as he died. Death itself is no calamity; but at that final hour, may a tender hand touch his forehead—may this life end while looking upon at least one face softened with compassion and love. When he dies, may he die having seen at least a single tear shed for him.