A Gleam of Light

-- Sarat Chandra Chatterjee

I  

THIS is a tale of long ago. Satyendra Chaudhuri's father had been a zemindar. When the boy came home after graduating at the University, his mother said to him: 'She is a fine girl, darling, listen to me, go and see her.'

Satyendra shook his head. 'No, Mother. I couldn't. I couldn't get through my exam then.'

'Why not? My daughter-in-law will stay with me, while you study in Calcutta. I can't see why you should object to that, Satu.'

'No, Mother, it wouldn't do—I can't spare the time,' Satu replied. As he was going away, his mother stopped him. 'Don't go, I have something else to tell you.' She hesitated a little. 'I have given my promise, my son, won't you think of your mother's honour?'

Satya turned round with annoyance. 'Why did you promise, then, without asking me?' he said. The mother felt hurt at her son's reply. 'It's my fault, I know,' she agreed, 'but your mother's honour is at stake. Besides, the girl's widowed mother is dreadfully poor. Listen to me, Satya, do as I say.'

'All right, I'll tell you later,' he said and went out. The mother stood in silence for a long while. He was her only son. Her husband had died seven or eight years ago; all this time she had managed their huge property herself, employing only a manager and a few servants. The boy was at college at

Calcutta; he did not have to worry about his family affairs at all. The mother decided that as soon as he had qualified as a lawyer, she would get him to marry and thus be freed from all her worldly cares by handing the property over to her son and daughter-in-law. She was determined not to stand in the way of her boy's higher education by burdening him with family responsibilities too soon. After her husband's death, no religious ceremony had taken place in her house until a few days before. Atul Mukherji's widow had come with her little daughter. She had liked the girl very much. She was only eleven years old and was exceedingly beautiful. From the few words she had spoken, Satu's mother thought, she was extraordinarily advanced for her age.

She had said to herself: 'Well, let my son see her first; then I feel sure he won't be able to help liking her.'

On the following afternoon, as he came to his mother's room for his meal, he stood speechless with amazement. 'Sit down and have your meal,' said his mother, as she entered.

Satya came out of his trance.

'What, here? Let me eat somewhere else.'

'Why not here? You needn't feel so shy in front of a little girl!' the mother answered with a gentle smile.

'Why should I be shy?' he retorted, pulling a wry face. In a couple of minutes, he gulped down his food and rose to go.

As he returned to the other room, his friends had gathered there and were preparing to have a game of dice. 'I can't play today, I have a dreadful headache,' he said firmly. Retiring to a corner, he laid his head on a bolster and closed his eyes. The friends were a little surprised, but resigned themselves to playing chess for want of a partner. The game continued amid much shouting until the evening, but Satya never once felt any desire to enquire about the course of the game. He was in no mood for anything.

When his friends retired, he went back to the inner house and was going straight to his own room. 'Going to bed so soon?' asked his mother from the verandah of the pantry.

‘Not to bed, to my studies. The M.A. course is no joke, you know! One can't afford to waste time,’ he said and clattered up the stairs.

Half an hour passed; he had not read a single line. A book lay open on the table; leaning back in his chair, he was contemplating the ceiling. He awoke from his reverie with a start. He pricked up his ears and listened. A tinkle. A moment later, a veritable cascade of tinkles. Satya sat up and saw the girl, in all her finery, coming up to him like the goddess Lakshmi herself. She stopped. Satya stared at her. 'Mother wants to know what you have decided,' she asked coolly. 'Whose mother?' asked Satya after a moment's silence. 'My mother,' was the girl's reply.

'What's your name?'

'My name is Radharani,' she answered and disappeared.

 

II  

Having firmly effected the recollection of the girl from his mind, Satya returned to Calcutta to take his Master's degree. Not until he had passed all his university examinations, probably not even after that he thought to himself.... He was determined never to marry, because, he argued, a person engrossed in worldly affairs must lose his self-respect and so on. But from time to time, strange feeling stole over him; whenever he saw a female figure, the soft face of a little girl would inevitably appear before his mind's eye and blot out every other mental picture. He had always been indifferent to women; but of late, something seemed to have happened to him, so that whenever he passed a girl he felt like having a good look at her; for all his efforts he could not tear his eyes away from her. Suddenly he would feel hot with shame, a shiver would pass down his spine, and he would hurry away blindly.

Satya was fond of swimming. The Ganges was not far from his place in Chorebagan; he often went down to Jagannathghat to bathe.

It was full moon that day. There was quite a crowd at the bathing ghat. As he was looking for the Oriya priest with whom he usually left his clothes, he found his progress barred by four or five people who were looking at something. He followed their gaze and could hardly believe what he saw.

It seemed to him that he had never looked upon such loveliness. The girl could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen. She was dressed in a simple white dhoti with a black border. She wore no jewellery at all. Kneeling before the priest she was having her forehead smeared with sandalwood paste. The panda of his acquaintance was absorbed in tracing decorative patterns on this beautiful girl's face.

Satya drew closer. Being in the habit of receiving gifts from him, the panda forgot the girl's beauty for a moment, dropped the stamp and stretched his hand out to take the dry clothes from the Bara Babu. The girl's eyes met Satu's. Quickly handing over the clothes to the priest, Satu ran down the steps into the river. He did not feel like swimming that day; he quickly got through his ablutions but by the time he mounted the steps to change into dry clothes, the girl had gone.

All through that day his mind kept returning to the Ganges. The next morning had hardly dawned, when Mother Ganges began to pull him so violently that without much ado, he took a dhoti from his clothes-rack and set out for the river.

On reaching the landing-stage, he saw the same mysterious girl coming up the steps from the river. After a little while, when Satya, too, came up to the panda, he found him busy, as on the previous day, decorating the girl's forehead. Again their eyes met; once again an electric shock passed through his body. Changing into fresh clothes, he hurried away.

 

III  

Satya saw clearly that the girl came early every morning to bathe in the Ganges. The only reason why they had not met before was obviously Satya's own dilatoriness in coming down to the river.

For seven days now they had met daily but they had not exchanged a word. Perhaps, there was no need to do so, for when a look is more eloquent, speech is futile. Whoever this unknown beauty might be, she had undoubtedly learnt the art of speaking with her eyes and she excelled in it. Satya could vouch for it from personal experience.

One day he was absent-mindedly walking home. Suddenly he heard somebody whisper to him. 'Please listen!' Who should it be but the girl? She was standing by the railway line. On her left hip she was carrying water in a pitcher and in her right hand her wet clothes. With a shake of her head she beckoned him. Looking at him appealingly, she said: 'My maid hasn’t turned up today, could you, please, see me part of the way home?' Unlike other days she was alone that day. Satya hesitated. It did not seem quite right to him somehow, but he could not say 'No' to her. The girl guessed his thoughts and smiled. A person who could smile like that would certainly have nothing denied her. 'Let's go,' said Satya at once. 'My maid is ill,' she told him, as they proceeded, 'she couldn't come today. But I must have a dip in the Ganges and I see that you too have the same bad habit!' 'Yes, I often go down to the Ganges,' answered Satya almost under his breath.

'Where do you live?'

'In lodgings in Chorebagan.'

'I live in Jorasanko. You may go with me to the crossing of Pathuriaghata and then return home along the main road.'

'Thank you, I'll do so.'

For a long time neither of them spoke. When they reached Chitpur Road, the girl turned to him, and with her characteristic smile said, 'I don't live far from here—I can go alone now. 'Good-bye.' 'Good-bye,' echoed Satya and slipped away, deep in thought. The whole of that day he was oppressed by an indescribable feeling in his heart. And only those who have experienced young love's first buffetings will sympathize with him in his suffering and understand what had happened to him that day. Not everybody will appreciate how in the intoxication of youth, the whole of creation is rosy-coloured, how one's consciousness becomes drawn like a magnet wholly to one object.

The next morning when he opened his eyes, it was already broad daylight. A wave of disappointment surged through him; he felt that the day in front of him was completely wasted. His servant happened to be passing just then; he gave him a thorough scolding. 'You good-for-nothing, why couldn't you wake me up earlier. Look at the time! You are fined a rupee.' The poor fellow was completely taken aback; Satya rushed out of the house, looking angry and without his usual change of clothes.

He hired a carriage and ordering the coachman to drive through Pathuriaghata kept a sharp look- out on both sides of the road. But as soon as he reached the riverside landing his annoyance at once vanished. He felt like a man who had suddenly found a priceless jewel by the wayside.

As he came out of the carriage, she greeted him like an old friend. 'So late?' she said, 'I have been waiting for you for ages; go and bathe quickly, my maid hasn't turned up again today.'

'In a moment,' he said and hurried into the water. There was no swimming for him that day! 'Where is my carriage?' he enquired, as he came up the steps.

‘I have paid the fare.'

‘You have paid?'

‘Why not? Come,’ she replied and smiling that bewitching smile of hers preceded him.

Satya must have been completely bereft of his senses; otherwise, however ignorant and inexperienced he might have been, he was bound to ask himself what it all meant.

As they walked along, the girl said, 'Where did you say you lived? At Chorebagan?* Only thieves live there, I understand.'

* Meaning thief . . . garden; the two words together therefore mean A Garden of Thieves.

‘Why?’ Satya asked in astonishment, not following the joke.

‘You are the king of thieves,' laughed the girl, arching her neck and with a glint in her eyes. She moved on with her swan-like steps. That day the pitcher she was carrying was much bigger and the Ganges water splashing within it seemed to say to him, 'Oh you blind, infatuated young man. Watch your step! This is all deceit and illusion!'

'What about the carriage fare?' Satya enquired, as they reached the corner of the road. 'But you have already paid that,' she answered softly without turning her head.

'How could I do that?' he persisted, not seeing the hint.

'I have nothing more to give away. All that I possessed was stolen and plundered long ago.' She quickly turned her face away from him, probably, to hide the flood of laughter that was welling up within her.

The implied suggestion of theft pierced, as in a powerful lightning flash, the mist of suspicion that was enveloping Satya and illuminated the innermost depths of his heart. He felt a momentary impulse to fall at her lovely feet even in the open street, then felt such profound shame that he could not even look up to see his beloved's face. Instead, he silently made good his escape.

On the opposite pavement, her maid was waiting for her, as arranged; she came up to her and said, 'Really, didimoni, why do you keep on leading this gentleman a dance? Is he well-off? Do you think you can at least touch him for something?'

‘I don't know about that, but I always like to lead such simpletons by the nose,' her mistress replied with a smile.

The maid laughed out loud. 'You are such a tease! But you must admit, didimoni, he looks like a prince. What eyes, what handsome features and complexion! You two would suit each other admirably: as you stood talking you looked a well-matched pair.'

'Come on. If you are so fond of him, you can have him,' her mistress retorted with good humour.

But the maid was not to be put off so easily. 'No, didimoni, you must admit, you would never freely give up such a treasure,' she answered back.  

IV  

Wise men have declared that even if you come across miracles, you should never acknowledge them; for ignorant people do not believe them; Srimanta is said to have gone to the gallows for committing such a crime. However, it is a fact that on his return, Satya sat down to read Tennyson and translate Don Juan into Bengali. He was obviously not a child, but not even a vestige of doubt seems to have crossed his mind, as to whether in broad daylight and in a public highway, it was either possible to conjure up such romance or safe to let oneself be swallowed up by it!

Two or three days later, the mystery woman suddenly said, ‘Last night, I went to the theatre. You feel like crying at Sarala's misery, don't you?’

Satya had never seen the play, he had only read Swarnalata,* so he answered gently, 'Yes, indeed, she died in great misery.’

* This is a popular domestic novel of the nineteenth century, written by the late Taraknath Ganguly.

The girl heaved a deep sigh. 'What terrible suffering! But can you tell me why Sarala loved her husband so dearly, while her sister-in-law could never love hers at all.'

‘It’s human nature,' was Satya's cryptic reply.

‘That is so,' the girl agreed, 'men and women marry, but can they really love each other equally? No, they can't. There are many people who don't know what love is, even to the end of their days. They are incapable of knowing what it is. There are people, you must have noticed, who can't listen to music properly; there are others who are never angry, can't be angry if they try. They are always praised to the skies, but I feel like pulling them to bits.'

‘Why?’ Satya asked with a laugh.

‘Because they are so futile,' the girl protested hotly. 'Such a quality may have its use, but it's mostly to blame. Take, for instance, Sarala's elder brother-in-law; he couldn't even lose his temper at his wife's cruelties,' she added. Satya remained silent. 'And his wife,' she went on, 'what a devil of a woman she was! If I were there, I would have choked the life out of her.'

'But how could you be there?' Satya interposed good-naturedly. 'There was no such person as Promoda—she is a fiction of the poet's mind.'

'Then why imagine such things?' she interrupted. 'Well, people say that there is God, a spirit in every human being, but judging from Promoda's character, it's hard to believe that there was God within her, too. I ask you frankly, why some of those famous authors write books, which instead of improving human beings and making them love one another drive them to hate one another? One begins to despair, one doubts whether the temple of God does reside in every human heart after all.'

Satya looked at her with astonishment. 'Do you read much?' he asked.

'I don't know any English, but I read everything I can find in Bengali. Sometimes I read through the whole night—you see that main road, please come to our house, I shall show you my books.'

'Your house?' Satya was shaken out of himself.

'Yes, our house, please do come, you must come.'

Satya turned pale with fear. 'No, no, I beg you...' he implored.

'There is nothing to be afraid of, come,' she insisted.

'No, not today; some other day.'

Satya disappeared quickly, trembling all over. That day his whole being was filled with deep respect for his unknown beloved.  

V  

Satya was slowly walking home from his morning dip. He looked tired and sad. His eyelashes were still damp. Four days had gone by, but not once had he seen his beloved. She no longer came to the Ganges.

His thoughts had been running wild in the past few days. Sometimes he was assailed by a premonition of evil. He felt that she was dying, or even dead! Who could tell?

He knew the lane where she lived, but that was all. He did not know the house, nor where it was. Whenever he thought of the matter, his mind was filled with regret and self-reproach. Why had he not gone with the girl that day? Why had he resisted her entreaties? He loved her truly. It was not infatuation; it was a deep longing of the heart. There was not a shadow of deception or hypocrisy in his feeling for her; his affection for the girl was truly selfless, pure and deep.

‘Sir!’

Satya started and noticed the girl's maid waiting on the edge of the pavement across the road. He went over and in an agitated voice asked, 'What has happened to her?' He broke down completely, unable to restrain himself. The maid looked down and concealed her smile. ‘Didimoni is very ill, she wants to see you,' she answered without looking up, no doubt, in order not to burst out laughing.

‘Come,' he said, drying his tears. 'What is the matter with her? Is it very serious?' he enquired.

‘No, not very, but she has a touch of fever,' the maid replied.

Satya seemed to fold his hands in an invisible gesture and touch his forehead in thanksgiving. No more questions were asked. When they reached the house, he saw that it was a very big one. Squatting in front of it dozed the upcountry porter.

‘Suppose I go in, won't your didimoni’s father be annoyed? He does not know me, does he?' he innocently asked the maid.

‘Didimoni has lost her father, only her mother is alive. She loves you very dearly as does didimoni herself,' answered the maid mischievously.

Without another word, Satya entered the house.

Climbing the stairs, he came to the verandah of the second floor and facing it were three rooms, which looked well-furnished from outside. Loud bursts of laughter, the drumming of a tabla and the sound of a dancer's anklets came from the corner room. 'Let's go in,' said the maid, as she went up to the door.

'Here's your beau, didimoni,’ she called out, pulling the curtain aside.

Pandemonium was let loose in that room. What he saw inside sent his head whirling. He felt suddenly that he was losing his senses. Clinging to the door, he closed his eyes and sank to the floor.

Three well-dressed men were sitting on a thickly padded mattress spread on the floor. One was playing the harmonium, the second the drums, while the third was wholly absorbed in drinking. But what about the girl? She had obviously just been dancing. She was still wearing her anklets, masses of jewellery adorned her person and her eyes were bright with drink. Quickly coming up to Satya, she seized him by the hand and giggled into his ear, 'I see my friend has an attack of epilepsy. Never mind, please don't pretend, get up—all this frightens me.'

Like an unconscious man trembling at a violent electric shock, Satya shivered from head to foot at her touch.

The girl said, 'My name is Miss Bijoli. What is yours? Hobu, Gobu, or what?' Everybody thought it a huge joke and laughed aloud in unison. Her maid was so amused that she doubled up on the floor, shaken by violent fits of laughter. 'How witty you are, didimoni,’ she kept on repeating.

With mock anger in her voice, Bijoli asked her to stop and dragged Satya to a seat. Then sitting down at his feet, she began to sing with folded hands: 

Luckily my night has ended,

I can now see the face of my beloved... 

The drunkard rose from his seat and prostrated himself before Satya. He became maudlin and started weeping: 'Sir, I have sinned much, please let me have the dust off your feet. . .'

The man at the harmonium was still in his senses.

'Why are you making fun of the poor fellow for nothing,' he said sympathetically. ‘For nothing, indeed!' Bijoli laughed. 'He is a regular scream, that's why I have brought him here on this jolly occasion to give you fun and amusement. Upon my word, Gobu, tell me truly, what did you really take me for? I go regularly for a dip in the Ganges, so I am not a Brahmo, nor a Mohammedan, nor a Christian. Such a bouncing girl as I must be a married woman or a widow—why were you making such violent love to me then? To marry me or merely to seduce me?'

More roars of laughter followed. Then they started discussing all manner of things. Satya sat there with bowed head, never answering a word. Who knows what he was thinking? And even if one did know, who could really understand his feelings?

Bijoli rose to her feet with sudden impulsiveness. 'Look at me!' she said, 'quick, Khayma, fetch some refreshment for the gentleman. He has had nothing to eat all the morning—and I have only been making fun of him!' Her bantering tone of a few moments ago suddenly changed into one of artless affection.

Presently the maid returned with some refreshments. Bijoli took them from her and sat down in front of him. 'Do eat,' she implored.

So far, Satya had been controlling himself with all his power, now he raised his eyes and said quietly, 'No, I don't want to eat.’

‘Why? Are you afraid of losing caste? Am I an untouchable?'

‘If you were, I would not hesitate to eat. No, you are what you are.'

Bijoli giggled. 'Mr Hobu seems to have learnt to use the knife well!' She laughed again, but this time it was a hollow sound; it was not a real laugh, so no one could join it.

Satya said, 'My name is Satya, not Hobu. Knives and daggers are not in my line. But when I realize my mistake, I know how to correct myself.'

Bijoli was going to say something else, but changing her mind said, 'So you won't eat food touched by me!'

'No.'

Bijoli got up. A note of bitterness crept into her bantering tone. 'You will eat. I tell you, you must, if not today, tomorrow or the day after.'

Satya shook his head. 'Everybody is liable to make a mistake,' he said, 'I have made a terrible mistake, everybody knows that, but you, too, are wrong. No, not today, not in this life, nor in my next one, I shall never eat food touched by you.'

There was such deep disgust written on his face that even the drunkard noticed it. He shook his head and said, 'Madame Bijoli, you are simply wasting your efforts on him. Let him go, do let him go—he has completely spoilt our morning.'

Bijoli did not reply, she kept on looking at Satya with surprise in her eyes. She was, indeed, terribly mistaken. She could never have imagined that such a shy, quiet person had it in him to speak like that.

She rose from her seat. 'Wait a moment,' Bijoli said softly.

The drunkard cried, 'No, you don't, he'll be a bit tough at first, let him go, let him play at the end of the line!'

Satya rushed out of the room. Bijoli followed him, barred his way and whispered. 'They'll see me, otherwise I would have asked for your forgiveness with folded hands.'

Satya turned away and remained silent.

'The next room is my study. Won't you come in and see it,' she implored, 'just once, I beg of you.'

'No,' answered Satya and moved towards the stairs. 'Shall I see you tomorrow?' she asked, as she followed him.

'No.'

'Never?'

'No, never.'

Bijoli's voice was choked with tears, she swallowed her sobs and cleared her throat. ‘I can't believe that I shan't see you again,' she said, 'but even if we never meet again, you must believe this.'

Satya was surprised at the catch in her voice; but this was nothing to the drama of the past fortnight. And yet he turned round. Bijoli's heart sank when she read the signs of deep distrust

imprinted in every line of his face. What was she to do now? Alas! she had brushed aside with her own hands, like so much dirt, every means she had of convincing him of her sincerity.

‘What do you want me to believe?' asked Satya.

Bijoli's lips trembled, but no sound came. She raised her tear-laden eyes for a moment, but dropped them. Satya saw them, but tears can be feigned! Even without looking up, she knew that Satya was waiting, but what she was bursting to say she could not get out of her heart.

She loved him. To prove even a little of that love, she could discard, like a piece of tattered cloth, this body of hers, the receptacle of her beauty, but who would believe her now? She had been proved a criminal. She was standing before her judge with all the marks of guilt upon her; how could she tell him now that, although hers was a criminal profession, she was wholly innocent and sincere that day? As time passed, she realized that the judge was about to pronounce the death sentence upon her, but how could she stop him from doing so? Satya was growing impatient, 'I'm going,' he said.

Bijoli could not even then look him straight in the eye, but spoke now. She said, 'Very well, but please don't mistrust something which I, even in my sins, believe in firmly. Believe this always that God resides in all bodies and never leaves them until death.' Then after a pause, she continued, 'God may not be worshipped in every temple, but He is still God. You may not bow down to Him, but cannot walk over Him either.' As she looked up, she saw that Satya was slowly but quietly walking away.

One can rebel against nature, but in no circumstances can it be ignored. A woman's body can be humiliated in a hundred different ways, but womanhood can never be denied! Bijoli was a dancing girl, yet first and foremost she was a woman. Almost all her life had been sinful, still she was a woman. Half an hour later when she returned to her room, her ill-used, half-dead woman's nature had awakened to life at the immortal touch of love. In this short space of time, what a wonderful transformation had taken place in her! It did not escape even the drunkard. 'Well, my beauty,' he blurted out, 'your eyelashes look wet! My God! What an obstinate mule that boy is, he didn't even touch all this food! Give it to me, pass the plate to me.' He drew the plate towards himself and began to eat noisily.

Not a word reached Bijoli's ears. Suddenly as she became aware of the anklets on her feet, she felt as though she had been stung by scorpions. She quickly took them off and threw them away.

Someone asked, 'Why are you taking them off?'

Bijoli looked up and with a smile answered, 'Because I can't carry on any more.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning no more. The dancing girl is dead....'

The drunkard was munching the sweets. 'Of what disease, my pet?' he drawled.

The girl laughed. It was again that revealing laugh. 'Of the disease from which darkness dies when you light a lamp or that kills night when the sun rises—today, my friends, your dancing girl has died for good of that disease.'  

VI  

Four years later, in a big house in Calcutta, it was the weaning ceremony of the zemindar's son. The colossal affair of feeding the guests was over. After dusk, arrangements were in progress in the huge courtyard of the house for the evening's entertainments.

On one side sat three or four dancing girls—they would dance and sing. From behind the screen on the first floor verandah, Radharani was watching the crowd down below. The ladies had not yet arrived.

Silently approaching her from behind, Satyendra said, 'Tell me, what are you looking at so intently?'

Radharani turned towards her husband and with a smile answered, 'What everybody is looking at, the dresses of the dancing girls—but why are you here suddenly?'

The husband said with a twinkle in his eyes, 'You are all alone, so I came to keep you company.'

'Not really?'

'Yes, really. Tell me, which one of those do you like best?'

'That one.' Radharani indicated with her finger, the one who sat farthest away, dressed very simply.

'Isn't she frightfully thin?'

'That may be so, but she is certainly the most beautiful. But the poor thing probably can't afford the fineries that the others have.'

Satyendra shook his head. 'Possibly. But do you know how much they are being paid?'

‘No.'

Pointing them out one by one, Satyendra said, 'Those two thirty rupees each, that one fifty and the one you call poor two hundred rupees.'

Radharani was amazed. 'Two hundred! Why, does she sing very well?'

‘I have never heard her myself. People say she could sing very well four or five years ago, but no one knows whether she can do so still or not.'

‘Then why have you engaged her at such a price?'

‘She won't come for less. Even then she was unwilling to come and had to be coaxed a good deal.'

Radharani was more surprised than ever. 'Why all this persuasion when you are paying her so much?'

Satyendra drew his chair nearer. 'The first reason is, she has given up her profession. However gifted she may be, no one wants to pay her so much money, nor does she have to come; this is a trick. The second reason is, I have my own interest in the matter,' he said.

Radharani did not believe a word of it. Still out of curiosity she came closer to him. 'Your interest, my eye! But why did she give up her profession?'

'Would you like to know?'

'Yes, do tell me.'

Satyendra paused for a moment and then said. 'Her name is Bijoli. Once,—but people will soon come, Rani, let's go in.'

'Come, let's go.' Radharani got up at once.

Later sitting at her husband's feet, Radharani listened to the whole story and wiped her tears. Finally she said, 'Are you therefore trying to revenge yourself by insulting her today? What made you do it?'

On the other hand, Satyendra's eyes, too, did not remain dry; his voice broke. 'It is an insult, no doubt,' he said, 'but no one except us three knows anything about it. No one will ever know.'

Radharani did not reply. She wiped her eyes with the end of her sari and went out.

The courtyard had filled with the guests. The other dancing girls were getting ready, only Bijoli still sat there with bowed head. Tears were falling down her cheeks. During the last five years, her savings had become almost exhausted, that was why she was now driven by want to undertake dancing which she had once forsworn. But she found it difficult to stand up. She could not have imagined even two hours ago that her limbs would grow so heavy and weigh her down before the hungry gaze of unknown men.

'You are wanted upstairs.' Bijoli looked up and saw a boy of twelve to thirteen standing by her side. Pointing to the first floor verandah, the boy repeated, 'The mistress wants to see you.'

Bijoli could not trust her ears, so she asked, 'Who wants to see me?'

'My mistress wishes to see you.'

'Who are you?'

'I am a servant here.'

Bijoli shook her head. 'No, not me,' she said. 'Go and ask again.’ The boy returned presently and said, 'Your name is Bijoli, I believe. Yes, you are wanted; please follow me, the mistress is waiting for you.'

'Very well,' she said and hurriedly took off her anklets. She followed the boy and entered the house, thinking that the lady of the house had perhaps a special request to make.

Radharani was standing near her bedroom door with the baby in her arms. Bijoli hurried across to her and hesitated as she drew near, but Radharani took her by the hand and forcing her to a seat said with a smile, 'Didi, do you not know me?' Bijoli was dumb with surprise. Radharani lifted the boy up and said, 'You may not recognize this younger sister of yours, but surely you must recognize him or I shall have a serious quarrel with you.' She smiled gently.

Even at this smile Bijoli could find no words to answer. But the gloomy sky of her mind gradually cleared. Her gaze left the exquisite beauty of the mother's face and rested on the rose-bud face of the child. Radha remained silent. Bijoli looked and looked and suddenly stood up. She took the baby in her arms and pressing it close to her heart burst into tears. 'Do you recognize him now?' asked Radharani.

‘Yes, sister, I do.'

Radharani said, 'Didi, out of the churning of the ocean, you distilled the poison for yourself and left the nectar for me. I have him today because he loved you.'

Bijoli was absorbed in a snapshot of Satyendra, but now she looked up with a smile. 'Nectar is the antidote to poison, sister. I Have not been robbed of it, darling. That poison has turned this hardened sinner into an immortal soul.'

‘Would you like to see him, didi? said Radharani without replying to what she had said.

Bijoli closed her eyes for a moment and said, 'No, dear. Four years ago, when he recognized the sinner in me and left me in deep disgust, I boasted that he would come back and I would see him again. But my boast was empty; he never came back. I can see today why the Destroyer of Pride crushed my boast in this way. What He creates by destroying, what He returned by taking away, nobody knows better than I, my dear.' Wiping her tears, she added, 'Out of the agony of my heart, I have often accused God as relentless, cruel, but I now see how merciful He has been to me, a sinner. If he had come back, I would have been ruined completely. I should never really have had him, and at the same time I should have lost myself.’

Radharani's voice was choked with tears; she could not utter a word. Bijoli said, 'I thought that if I saw him again, I would again ask for his forgiveness, but it is not necessary any more. If you will only give me this photograph, sister, I shall be quite content. If I wanted anything more, God would not forgive me.'

She got up to go.

'When shall I see you again, didi?’ sobbed Radharani.

'Never, sister. I have a small house; I shall sell it and go right away as soon as possible. By the way, could you tell me why he suddenly remembered me like this after all this time? Why did he give a false name when his people came to fetch me?'

Radharani's face blushed with shame; she remained silent, looking at the ground.

After a moment's thought Bijoli said, 'Perhaps I understand. To humiliate me? Isn't that so? Otherwise, I don't see any reason for going to such trouble.'

Radharani felt more ashamed than ever. Bijoli laughed.

'You have nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. But he, too, is mistaken. However, please give him my respects and tell him that it cannot be. I have nothing of my own any more. If he tries to humiliate me, it is he who will be humiliated.'

'Good-bye, didi.’

'Good-bye, sister. Although I am much older than you, I have no right to b less you. So I wish with all my heart that your married life may be everlasting. Good-bye.'