Chapter 8

It is the nature of cautious and experienced men that they do not pronounce firm opinions on the merit or flaw of anything in the twinkling of an eye—they do not form a judgement without weighing the whole, nor do they claim to understand every side after seeing merely two. But there is another sort of person who is precisely the reverse. They lack the patience to contemplate anything for long; the moment something falls into their hands, they declare it good or bad, substituting the force of their conviction for the labor of probing beneath the surface. It is not that such people cannot accomplish work in this world; on the contrary, they often achieve far more. Should fortune favor them, they may be seen at the very pinnacle of success. But if not, they plunge into the deepest abyss of ruin, lying there forever—unable to rise, unable even to sit up, turning their eyes no more toward the light, lying still like inert, dead stone. Devdas belonged to this class of men.

The next morning, he arrived back home. Surprised, his mother said, "Deba, has your college gone on holiday again?"

Devdas muttered a distracted "Yes" and walked away. When his father questioned him, he gave a similar evasive reply and slipped past. Unable to make much sense of it, the father asked his wife. Using her wits, she explained, "The summer heat hasn't abated yet, so they've given them another break."

For two days, Devdas paced about in restless agitation, for what he desired eluded him—he could not get Parvati alone even for a moment. After a couple of days, Parvati's mother happened upon Devdas and said, "Now that you're here, my child, do stay until Paru's wedding."

Devdas said, "Very well."

Every day after lunch, Parvati would go to the embankment pond to fetch water. Today, too, she came and stood at the ghat with a brass pitcher resting against her hip. A little distance away, half-hidden behind a plum tree, she spotted Devdas sitting with his fishing rod cast into the water. For a moment she thought of turning back; then she thought of drawing water quietly and slipping away; but she could do neither in haste. As she set the pitcher down on the steps, it made a slight clatter, causing Devdas to look up. He waved his hand and called out, "Paru, come here a moment."

Parvati slowly walked over and stood near him. Devdas looked up just once, then stared blankly into the water for a long while.

Parvati said, "Dev-da, did you have something to tell me?"

Without looking at her, Devdas said, "Mm—sit down." Parvati did not sit; she remained standing with her head bowed. But when no word was spoken for quite some time, she began step by step to retreat slowly toward the ghat. Devdas looked up once; then, casting his eyes back upon the water, he said, "Listen."

Parvati turned back; but seeing that Devdas still could not utter a word, she turned away once more. Devdas sat in silence. A moment later, turning around, he saw Parvati preparing to leave with her water-filled pitcher. Reeling in his line, he stepped up near the ghat and said, "I have come."

Parvati simply set down her pitcher and said nothing.

"I have come, Paru!"

Parvati was silent for a while, before asking in a barely audible whisper, "Why?"

"You wrote asking me to come—don't you remember?"

"No."

"How can that be, Paru? Don't you remember that night?"

"I do remember. But what purpose does talking about it serve now?"

Her voice was steady, yet exceedingly harsh. But Devdas failed to grasp its deeper import; he said, "Forgive me, Paru. I didn't understand so much then."

"Be quiet. I don't even care to hear such things."

"Somehow or other, I will win my parents over. Only if you—"

Casting a sharp glance at Devdas's face, Parvati said, "You have parents, but don't I have mine? Is there no need for their consent?"

Abashed, Devdas said, "Of course there is, Paru, but they are not opposed—if only you—"

"How do you know they aren't opposed? They are completely opposed."

Making a futile attempt to smile, Devdas said, "No, no, they don't object in the least—that I know very well. Only if you—"

Interrupting him mid-sentence, Parvati burst out shrilly, "Only me! With you? Chee—for shame!"

In the twinkling of an eye, Devdas's eyes blazed like fire. In a severe voice he said, "Parvati! Have you forgotten who I am?"

At first Parvati was taken aback; but regaining her composure the very next instant, she replied in a calm, stern voice, "No, why should I forget? I have watched you since childhood, and ever since I came to my senses, I have been afraid of you—is that why you've come to intimidate me? But do you not know who I am?" Saying this, she stood her ground, raising two fearless eyes to meet his.

At first no words came from Devdas; then he said, "You have only ever feared me—nothing else?"

Parvati said in a firm voice, "No, nothing else at all."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes, I am telling the truth. I have not the slightest faith in you. The man I am going to is wealthy, intelligent—calm and steadfast. He is righteous. My parents wish for my well-being; that is why they would never hand me over to an ignorant, fickle-minded, unruly person like you. Now step out of my way."

For a moment Devdas hesitated, almost making to step aside, but the very next instant he squared himself, lifted his face, and said, "Such arrogance!"

Parvati said, "And why not? If you can be arrogant, why can't I? You have looks, but no virtues—I have looks, and virtues as well. You are wealthy folks, but my father doesn't go begging either. Besides, in a couple of days I myself will be inferior to you in no respect—do you know that?"

Devdas was struck dumb.

Parvati spoke up again: "You think you can cause me immense harm. Even if not much, you might indeed do me some harm, that I know. Fine, go ahead and do it! Just let me pass."

Baffled, Devdas asked, "How could I cause you harm?"

Parvati shot back instantly, "By slandering me. Go ahead and do just that."

Hearing this, Devdas stared at her as if struck by lightning. All that escaped his lips was, "Slander you—me?"

Smiling a tiny, venomous smile of cruelty, Parvati said, "Go on, at the very last moment spread a scandal about me; broadcast far and wide that I went to you alone that night. You'll find great consolation in your heart!" Saying this, Parvati's proud, furious lips trembled and fell still.

Inside Devdas's chest, anger and humiliation erupted like a violent volcano. In a choked whisper he said, "I am to find consolation by spreading false scandal?" And the very next instant, grasping the thick butt of the fishing rod, he swung it hard and spoke in a terrible voice, "Listen, Parvati, it is not good to have so much beauty. Vanity grows too great." Dropping his voice a pitch, he added, "Don't you see—it is because the moon is so beautiful that it carries a dark stain of disgrace; because the lotus is so fair, the black bumblebee alights upon it. Come, let me imprint a mark of disgrace upon your face too."

Devdas had reached the outer limit of his endurance. Gripping the butt of the rod tightly, he swung it and struck Parvati hard across the head; instantly, the skin sliced open from her forehead down below her left eyebrow. In the blink of an eye, her whole face was bathed in blood.

Collapsing to the ground, Parvati cried, "Dev-da, what have you done!"

Breaking the fishing rod into pieces and setting them afloat on the water, Devdas answered calmly, "Nothing much—just a slight cut."

In anguish, Parvati wept aloud, "Oh, Dev-da!"

Tearing off a strip from his own thin shirt and wetting it in the water, Devdas bound it over Parvati's forehead as he said, "Don't be afraid, Paru! This wound will heal soon—only the scar will remain. If anyone ever asks about it, tell a lie; or else tell the truth and reveal your own dishonor yourself."

"Oh, Mother!"

"Chee, don't act like that, Paru. On this day of final parting, I have merely left behind a little keepsake to remember me by. You will look at that golden face of yours in the mirror now and then, won't you?" Saying this, without waiting for an answer, he turned to leave.

Weeping in desperation, Parvati called out, "Dev-dada!"

Devdas turned back. A single tear glinted in the corner of his eye.

In a voice steeped in tender affection, he said, "What is it, Paru?"

"Please don't tell anyone."

Devdas bent down in an instant, touched his lips to Parvati's hair, and said, "Silly girl—are you a stranger to me, Paru? Don't you remember how I used to twist your ears when you misbehaved in our childhood?"

"Dev-dada—forgive me."

"You don't need to ask for that, my dear. Have you truly forgotten me so completely, Paru? When was I ever angry with you? When did I ever fail to forgive you?"

"Dev-dada—"

"Parvati, you know very well that I am not a man of many words, nor can I act with deep forethought. I simply do whatever enters my head." Laying his hand on Parvati's head in blessing, Devdas said, "You have done the right thing. You would never have found happiness with me, even though your Dev-dada would have gained eternal paradise."

Just then, some people were approaching from the other side of the embankment. Parvati slowly waded into the water. Devdas departed. By the time Parvati returned home, the afternoon light was waning. Her grandmother, without looking up, was saying, "Paru, sister, are you digging a pond to fetch water?"

But the words died in her throat. The moment she looked into Parvati's face, she shrieked, "Oh, Lord! How did this terrible calamity happen?"

Blood was still trickling from the wound; the cloth was soaked almost entirely red. Weeping, she cried, "Oh dear God! Your wedding is right around the corner, Paru!"

Parvati calmly set the pitcher down. Her mother rushed over, crying, "How did this catastrophe happen, Paru?"

Paru replied matter-of-factly, "I slipped on the steps at the ghat. My head struck a brick and got cut."

Then everyone joined in tending to her. Devdas had spoken the truth—the injury was not severe. In four or five days it scabbed over. Another eight or ten days passed in that manner. Then one night, Sri Bhubanmohan Chowdhury, the landlord of Hatipota village, arrived dressed as the groom to solemnize the marriage. The festivities lacked much grand pomp. Bhuban-babu was no fool; coming to marry again in his middle age, he did not consider it fitting to play the young dandy.

The groom was not under forty—rather a bit over; fair-complexioned, portly, built like a plump, pampered Nandalalal! He had a salt-and-pepper mustache and a slight bald patch at the front of his head.

At the sight of the groom, some laughed while others stayed quiet. With a calm and grave expression, looking almost like a guilty man, Bhuban-babu came and stood under the wedding canopy. The customary playful torments, such as pinching the groom's ears, did not take place; for no one dared lay a hand on the ears of a man so wise and solemn. During the shubho-drishti, the ritual exchange of glances, Parvati stared at him fixedly, a faint trace of a smile at the corner of her lips—and Bhuban-babu lowered his eyes like a little boy. The neighborhood women burst into giggles. Chakraborty Mahashay bustled about frantically, quite overwhelmed with attending to such an elderly bridegroom. The zamindar Narayan Mukherji presided as the bride's guardian for the day. A seasoned man of affairs, he let no lapse occur on any side. The auspicious ceremony was concluded in flawless order.

The next morning, Chowdhury Mahashay produced a chest of jewels. Parvati glistened with them from head to toe. Seeing this, her mother wiped the corner of her eyes with her anchal. The zamindar's wife was standing nearby; she admonished her affectionately, "Do not bring ill omen by shedding tears today, sister!"

A little before evening, Manorama pulled Parvati into a quiet room and blessed her, "What has happened is for the best. From now on, you'll see how happy you will be."

Parvati smiled faintly and said, "Indeed I shall. After all, I made a bit of an acquaintance with Yama, the god of death, yesterday!"

"What kind of talk is that?"

"You'll see in due time."

Manorama then turned to another topic, saying, "I wish I could call Devdas over just once to show him this golden idol!"

Parvati seemed to start out of a daze. "Can you, sister? Can't he be called over just once?"

Shivering at the tone of her voice, Manorama asked, "Why, Paru?"

Twirling the bangle on her wrist, Parvati said absently, "Just once I would take the dust of his feet upon my head—since I am leaving today, am I not?"

Manorama pulled Parvati into her arms, and the two wept bitter tears together. Evening had fallen and the room had grown dark; her grandmother pushed open the door and called from outside, "O Paru, O Mono, come out now, my girls!"

That very night, Parvati departed for her husband's home.