Chapter 7

The next day, Devdas spoke briefly with his father.

His father said, “You have tormented me all your life, and as long as I live, I suppose I must continue to be tormented. Coming from your mouth, there is nothing surprising in this.”

Devdas sat silently, his head bowed.

His father said, “I will have no part in this. Whatever you wish, do it between yourself and your mother.”

Hearing this, Devdas’s mother wept and said, “My son, was even this written in my destiny?”

That very day, Devdas packed his belongings and left for Calcutta.

Upon hearing this, Parvati remained silent, a hard expression on her face breaking into an even harder smile. No one knew of what had transpired the previous night, nor did she reveal it to anyone. However, Manorama came and pressed her, “Paru, I heard Devdas has left?”

“Yes—”

“Then what is to become of you?”

She herself did not know what was to become of her; what could she say to another? For the past few days, this very thought had plagued her ceaselessly, yet she could by no means determine how much of it was hope and how much despair. Yet one thing was true: when human beings in such dark hours can find neither shore nor bound between hope and despair, the frail heart fearfully clings to hope alone. It hopes for that which would be for its own good; willingly or unwillingly, it seeks to look toward that direction with desperate, eager eyes. In Parvati’s present state, she forced herself to hope that what had passed last night could surely not go in vain. What would become of her if it failed was a thought beyond the realm of her contemplation. And so she kept thinking: Devdada will return; he will call to me again and say, ‘Paru, so long as it lies within my power, I cannot give you away to another.’

But two days later, Parvati received a letter:

Parvati, I have thought of nothing but you these past two days. Neither of my parents desires our marriage. To make you happy, I would have to deal them so grievous a blow as is beyond my power to inflict. Besides, how could I act against their wishes? I cannot imagine at present that I shall ever write to you again, so I am laying everything bare in this letter. Your family status is inferior to ours.

Mother will on no account bring a girl from a family that trades in daughters into this household; moreover, to have relatives as immediate neighbors is, in her view, thoroughly vulgar. As for Father’s opinion—you know all about that. Remembering that night causes me great pain, for I know what immense agony must have driven a proud girl like you to take such a step.

One thing more—it never occurred to me that I loved you deeply, nor do I feel any overwhelming anguish in my heart for you today. My only great sorrow is that you will suffer because of me. Try to forget me, and I offer you my heartfelt blessings that you may find fulfillment.

—Devdas

Until the moment Devdas dropped the letter into the postbox, he had thought one way; but the very instant it was dispatched, his thoughts took an entirely different turn. Having cast the stone from his hand, he stared intently in the direction it had gone. An indefinable dread began to gather in his mind. He wondered: how would this stone land upon her head? Would it strike her hard? Would she survive it? How she had wept that night, laying her head upon his feet—every step of Devdas’s walk back to the lodging from the post office brought this memory back to him. Had he done the right thing? And above all, Devdas pondered: when Parvati herself was without fault, why should his parents forbid it? As he grew older, and through living in Calcutta, he had come to understand that one ought not needlessly destroy a human life merely for the sake of ostentatious family pride and a petty whim. If Parvati did not wish to live, if she rushed to cool the burning fire in her heart in the river’s waters, would not a stain of grave sin lie at the feet of the Lord of the Universe?

Returning to the lodging, Devdas lay down in his room. These days he lived in a mess-house, having left his uncle’s residence long ago, where he had found no comfort whatsoever. In the room adjacent to Devdas’s lived a young man named Chunilal, who had resided there for nine years. His long stay in Calcutta had been spent in pursuit of passing his B.A. exams; as he had not yet succeeded, he was still obliged to remain here. Chunilal had set out on his daily evening routine, not to return until near dawn. No one else had arrived at the lodging yet. The maidservant lit the lamp and left; Devdas barred the door and lay down.

Later, the others returned one by one. At dinnertime they called out to Devdas, but he did not get up. Chunilal never returned to the lodging at night, and tonight was no exception.

It was then past one in the morning. No one in the lodging was awake except Devdas. Chunilal, having returned home, stood before Devdas’s door and saw that while it was barred, the light was still burning. He called out, “Devdas, are you awake, my friend?”

Devdas replied from within, “I am. How is it you’ve returned so soon?”

Chunilal smiled faintly and said, “Yes, I’m not feeling quite well today,” and walked off. Returning after a short while, he asked, “Devdas, can you open the door for a moment?”

“I can. Why?”

“Do you have tobacco ready?”

“I do,” Devdas said, opening the door. Sitting down to prepare the hookah, Chunilal said, “Devdas, why are you still awake?”

“Does sleep come every night?”

“Does it not?”

Chunilal said with a touch of banter, “I used to think good boys like you had never seen the face of midnight—I’ve learned something new today.”

Devdas said nothing. Smoking his tobacco, Chunilal remarked casually, “Devdas, ever since you returned from home, you don’t seem yourself. There seems to be some trouble on your mind.”

Devdas had drifted into thought and gave no answer.

“Not in good spirits, are you?”

Devdas suddenly sat up on his bed. Looking eagerly into his face, he asked, “Tell me, Chuni-babu, do you have no sorrow in your heart?”

Chunilal burst out laughing. “None at all!”

“Have you never suffered in your life?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I have a great desire to know.”

“Then listen to it another day.”

Devdas said, “Tell me, Chuni, where do you spend your nights?”

Chunilal smiled softly and said, “Do you not know?”

“I know, but not really.”

Chunilal’s face brightened with enthusiasm. If nothing else, even the sense of modesty and discretion that ought to attend such topics had been forgotten by long habit. Amused, he closed his eyes and said, “Devdas, to really know, you must become just like me. Will you come with me tomorrow?”

Devdas thought for a moment. Then he said, “I hear there is great pleasure to be found there. That no sorrow stays in one’s mind—is this true?”

“Entirely true.”

“If that is so, then take me with you—I will go.”

As evening approached the following day, Chunilal came into Devdas’s room and found him busily packing, sorting, and arranging his belongings. Surprised, he asked, “What’s this, my friend? Aren’t you going?”

Without looking up, Devdas replied, “Yes, of course I am going.”

“Then what are you doing all this for?”

“I am preparing to go.”

Chunilal smiled faintly, thinking to himself that this was quite an elaborate preparation. He said, “Are you taking your entire household with you there, my friend?”

“Then with whom should I leave it?”

Chunilal failed to understand. He said, “With whom do I leave my things? Everything just stays here at the mess.”

As if suddenly coming to his senses, Devdas raised his eyes. Embarrassed, he said, “Chuni-babu, I am going home today.”

“What! When will you return?”

Shaking his head, Devdas said, “I shall not return again.”

Chunilal stared at his face in astonishment. Devdas continued, “Take this money. Pay off whatever debts I owe from this. If anything remains, distribute it among the servants of the house. I shall never return to Calcutta again.”

To himself he kept saying: Coming to Calcutta, I have lost so much—so much.

Today, piercing through the misty darkness of youth, there appeared before his eyes that wild, unruly boyhood, and that unbidden, trampled jewel, now seeming far greater and far more precious than all of Calcutta combined. Looking into Chunilal’s face, he said, “Chuni, education, learning, intellect, knowledge, progress—whatever it may be, it is all for the sake of happiness. However you view it, these are nothing more than ways to increase one’s own happiness—”

Interrupting him, Chunilal burst out, “Then are you going to study no longer?”

“No. Studying has cost me far too much. Had I known before that in exchange for all this I would gain only this meager pittance of learning, I would never in my life have set eyes on Calcutta.”

“What has happened to you?”

Devdas sank into thought; after a long pause he said, “If we ever meet again, I shall tell you everything.”

It was then nearly nine o’clock at night. Everyone at the lodging, along with Chunilal, watched in utmost astonishment as Devdas loaded all his belongings into a carriage and left the mess for home, forever. Once he had gone, Chunilal said crossly to the others at the lodging, “You can never truly read these sly, quiet types.”