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Chapter Three
Bimala's Story
I WONDER what could have happened to my feeling of shame. The
fact is, I had no time to think about myself. My days and nights
were passing in a whirl, like an eddy with myself in the centre.
No gap was left for hesitation or delicacy to enter.
One day my sister-in-law remarked to my husband: "Up to now the
women of this house have been kept weeping. Here comes the men's
turn.
"We must see that they do not miss it," she continued, turning to
me. "I see you are out for the fray, Chota [12] Rani! Hurl your
shafts straight at their hearts."
Her keen eyes looked me up and down. Not one of the colours into
which my toilet, my dress, my manners, my speech, had blossomed
out had escaped her. I am ashamed to speak of it today, but I
felt no shame then. Something within me was at work of which I
was not even conscious. I used to overdress, it is true, but
more like an automaton, with no particular design. No doubt I
knew which effort of mine would prove specially pleasing to
Sandip Babu, but that required no intuition, for he would discuss
it openly before all of them.
One day he said to my husband: "Do you know, Nikhil, when I first
saw our Queen Bee, she was sitting there so demurely in her gold-
bordered __sari__. Her eyes were gazing inquiringly into
space, like stars which had lost their way, just as if she had
been for ages standing on the edge of some darkness, looking out
for something unknown. But when I saw her, I felt a quiver run
through me. It seemed to me that the gold border of her
__sari__ was her own inner fire flaming out and twining round
her. That is the flame we want, visible fire! Look here, Queen
Bee, you really must do us the favour of dressing once more as a
living flame."
So long I had been like a small river at the border of a village.
My rhythm and my language were different from what they are now.
But the tide came up from the sea, and my breast heaved; my banks
gave way and the great drumbeats of the sea waves echoed in my
mad current. I could not understand the meaning of that sound in
my blood. Where was that former self of mine? Whence came
foaming into me this surging flood of glory? Sandip's hungry
eyes burnt like the lamps of worship before my shrine. All his
gaze proclaimed that I was a wonder in beauty and power; and the
loudness of his praise, spoken and unspoken, drowned all other
voices in my world. Had the Creator created me afresh, I
wondered? Did he wish to make up now for neglecting me so long?
I who before was plain had become suddenly beautiful. I who
before had been of no account now felt in myself all the
splendour of Bengal itself.
For Sandip Babu was not a mere individual. In him was the
confluence of millions of minds of the country. When he called
me the Queen Bee of the hive, I was acclaimed with a chorus of
praise by all our patriot workers. After that, the loud jests of
my sister-in-law could not touch me any longer. My relations
with all the world underwent a change. Sandip Babu made it clear
how all the country was in need of me. I had no difficulty in
believing this at the time, for I felt that I had the power to do
everything. Divine strength had come to me. It was something
which I had never felt before, which was beyond myself. I had no
time to question it to find out what was its nature. It seemed
to belong to me, and yet to transcend me. It comprehended the
whole of Bengal.
Sandip Babu would consult me about every little thing touching
the Cause. At first I felt very awkward and would hang back, but
that soon wore off. Whatever I suggested seemed to astonish him.
He would go into raptures and say: "Men can only think. You
women have a way of understanding without thinking. Woman was
created out of God's own fancy. Man, He had to hammer into
shape."
Letters used to come to Sandip Babu from all parts of the country
which were submitted to me for my opinion. Occasionally he
disagreed with me. But I would not argue with him. Then after a
day or two--as if a new light had suddenly dawned upon him--he
would send for me and say: "It was my mistake. Your suggestion
was the correct one." He would often confess to me that wherever
he had taken steps contrary to my advice he had gone wrong. Thus
I gradually came to be convinced that behind whatever was taking
place was Sandip Babu, and behind Sandip Babu was the plain
common sense of a woman. The glory of a great responsibility
filled my being.
My husband had no place in our counsels. Sandip Babu treated him
as a younger brother, of whom personally one may be very fond and
yet have no use for his business advice. He would tenderly and
smilingly talk about my husband's childlike innocence, saying
that his curious doctrine and perversities of mind had a flavour
of humour which made them all the more lovable. It was seemingly
this very affection for Nikhil which led Sandip Babu to forbear
from troubling him with the burden of the country.
Nature has many anodynes in her pharmacy, which she secretly
administers when vital relations are being insidiously severed,
so that none may know of the operation, till at last one awakes
to know what a great rent has been made. When the knife was busy
with my life's most intimate tie, my mind was so clouded with
fumes of intoxicating gas that I was not in the least aware of
what a cruel thing was happening. Possibly this is woman's
nature. When her passion is roused she loses her sensibility for
all that is outside it. When, like the river, we women keep to
our banks, we give nourishment with all that we have: when we
overflow them we destroy with all that we are.
------
12. Bimala. the younger brother's wife, was the __Chota__ or
Junior Rani.
Sandip's Story
II
I can see that something has gone wrong. I got an inkling of it
the other day.
Ever since my arrival, Nikhil's sitting-room had become a thing
amphibious--half women's apartment, half men's: Bimala had access
to it from the zenana, it was not barred to me from the outer
side. If we had only gone slow, and made use of our privileges
with some restraint, we might not have fallen foul of other
people. But we went ahead so vehemently that we could not think
of the consequences.
Whenever Bee comes into Nikhil's room, I somehow get to know of
it from mine. There are the tinkle of bangles and other little
sounds; the door is perhaps shut with a shade of unnecessary
vehemence; the bookcase is a trifle stiff and creaks if jerked
open. When I enter I find Bee, with her back to the door, ever
so busy selecting a book from the shelves. And as I offer to
assist her in this difficult task she starts and protests; and
then we naturally get on to other topics.
The other day, on an inauspicious [13] Thursday afternoon, I
sallied forth from my room at the call of these same sounds.
There was a man on guard in the passage. I walked on without so
much as glancing at him, but as I approached the door he put
himself in my way saying: "Not that way, sir."
"Not that way! Why?"
"The Rani Mother is there."
"Oh, very well. Tell your Rani Mother that Sandip Babu wants to
see her."
"That cannot be, sir. It is against orders."
I felt highly indignant. "I order you!" I said in a raised
voice.
"Go and announce me."
The fellow was somewhat taken aback at my attitude. In the
meantime I had neared the door. I was on the point of reaching
it, when he followed after me and took me by the arm saying: "No,
sir, you must not."
What! To be touched by a flunkey! I snatched away my arm and
gave the man a sounding blow. At this moment Bee came out of the
room to find the man about to insult me.
I shall never forget the picture of her wrath! That Bee is
beautiful is a discovery of my own. Most of our people would see
nothing in her. Her tall, slim figure these boors would call
"lanky". But it is just this lithesomeness of hers that I
admire--like an up-leaping fountain of life, coming direct out of
the depths of the Creator's heart. Her complexion is dark, but
it is the lustrous darkness of a sword-blade, keen and
scintillating.
"Nanku!" she commanded, as she stood in the doorway, pointing
with her finger, "leave us."
"Do not be angry with him," said I. "If it is against orders, it
is I who should retire."
Bee's voice was still trembling as she replied: "You must not go.
Come in."
It was not a request, but again a command! I followed her in,
and taking a chair fanned myself with a fan which was on the
table. Bee scribbled something with a pencil on a sheet of paper
and, summoning a servant, handed it to him saying: "Take this to
the Maharaja."
"Forgive me," I resumed. "I was unable to control myself, and
hit that man of yours.
"You served him right," said Bee.
"But it was not the poor fellow's fault, after all. He was only
obeying his orders."
Here Nikhil came in, and as he did so I left my seat with a rapid
movement and went and stood near the window with my back to the
room.
"Nanku, the guard, has insulted Sandip Babu," said Bee to Nikhil.
Nikhil seemed to be so genuinely surprised that I had to turn
round and stare at him. Even an outrageously good man fails in
keeping up his pride of truthfulness before his wife--if she be
the proper kind of woman.
"He insolently stood in the way when Sandip Babu was coming in
here," continued Bee. "He said he had orders ..."
"Whose orders?" asked Nikhil.
"How am I to know?" exclaimed Bee impatiently, her eyes brimming
over with mortification.
Nikhil sent for the man and questioned him. "It was not my
fault," Nanku repeated sullenly. "I had my orders."
"Who gave you the order?"
"The Bara Rani Mother."
We were all silent for a while. After the man had left, Bee
said: "Nanku must go!"
Nikhil remained silent. I could see that his sense of justice
would not allow this. There was no end to his qualms. But this
time he was up against a tough problem. Bee was not the woman to
take things lying down. She would have to get even with her
sister-in-law by punishing this fellow. And as Nikhil remained
silent, her eyes flashed fire. She knew not how to pour her
scorn upon her husband's feebleness of spirit. Nikhil left the
room after a while without another word.
The next day Nanku was not to be seen. On inquiry, I learnt that
he had been sent off to some other part of the estates, and that
his wages had not suffered by such transfer.
I could catch glimpses of the ravages of the storm raging over
this, behind the scenes. All I can say is, that Nikhil is a
curious creature, quite out of the common.
The upshot was, that after this Bee began to send for me to the
sitting-room, for a chat, without any contrivance, or pretence of
its being an accident. Thus from bare suggestion we came to
broad hint: the implied came to be expressed. The daughter-in-
law of a princely house lives in a starry region so remote from
the ordinary outsider that there is not even a regular road for
his approach. What a triumphal progress of Truth was this which,
gradually but persistently, thrust aside veil after veil of
obscuring custom, till at length Nature herself was laid bare.
Truth? Of course it was the truth! The attraction of man and
woman for each other is fundamental. The whole world of matter,
from the speck of dust upwards, is ranged on its side. And yet
men would keep it hidden away out of sight, behind a tissue of
words; and with home-made sanctions and prohibitions make of it a
domestic utensil. Why, it's as absurd as melting down the solar
system to make a watch-chain for one's son-in-law! [14]
When, in spite of all, reality awakes at the call of what is but
naked truth, what a gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts is
there! But can one carry on a quarrel with a storm? It never
takes the trouble to reply, it only gives a shaking.
I am enjoying the sight of this truth, as it gradually reveals
itself. These tremblings of steps, these turnings of the face,
are sweet to me: and sweet are the deceptions which deceive not
only others, but also Bee herself. When Reality has to meet the
unreal, deception is its principal weapon; for its enemies always
try to shame Reality by calling it gross, and so it needs must
hide itself, or else put on some disguise. The circumstances are
such that it dare not frankly avow: "Yes, I am gross, because I
am true. I am flesh. I am passion. I am hunger, unashamed and
cruel."
All is now clear to me. The curtain flaps, and through it I can
see the preparations for the catastrophe. The little red ribbon,
which peeps through the luxuriant masses of her hair, with its
flush of secret longing, it is the lolling tongue of the red
storm cloud. I feel the warmth of each turn of her __sari__,
each suggestion of her raiment, of which even the wearer may not
be fully conscious.
Bee was not conscious, because she was ashamed of the reality; to
which men have given a bad name, calling it Satan; and so it has
to steal into the garden of paradise in the guise of a snake, and
whisper secrets into the ears of man's chosen consort and make
her rebellious; then farewell to all ease; and after that comes
death!
My poor little Queen Bee is living in a dream. She knows not
which way she is treading. It would not be safe to awaken her
before the time. It is best for me to pretend to be equally
unconscious.
The other day, at dinner, she was gazing at me in a curious sort
of way, little realizing what such glances mean! As my eyes met
hers, she turned away with a flush. "You are surprised at my
appetite," I remarked. "I can hide everything, except that I am
greedy! Anyhow, why trouble to blush for me, since I am
shameless?"
This only made her colour more furiously, as she stammered: "No,
no, I was only..."
"I know," I interrupted. "Women have a weakness for greedy men;
for it is this greed of ours which gives them the upper hand.
The indulgence which I have always received at their hands has
made me all the more shameless. I do not mind your watching the
good things disappear, not one bit. I mean to enjoy every one of
them."
The other day I was reading an English book in which sex-problems
were treated in an audaciously realistic manner. I had left it
lying in the sitting-room. As I went there the next afternoon,
for something or other, I found Bee seated with this book in her
hand. When she heard my footsteps she hurriedly put it down and
placed another book over it--a volume of Mrs Hemans's poems.
"I have never been able to make out," I began, "why women are so
shy about being caught reading poetry. We men--lawyers,
mechanics, or what not--may well feel ashamed. If we must read
poetry, it should be at dead of night, within closed doors. But
you women are so akin to poesy. The Creator Himself is a lyric
poet, and Jayadeva [15] must have practised the divine art seated
at His feet."
Bee made no reply, but only blushed uncomfortably. She made as
if she would leave the room. Whereupon I protested: "No, no,
pray read on. I will just take a book I left here, and run
away." With which I took up my book from the table. "Lucky you
did not think of glancing over its pages," I continued, "or you
would have wanted to chastise me."
"Indeed! Why?" asked Bee.
"Because it is not poetry," said I. "Only blunt things, bluntly
put, without any finicking niceness. I wish Nikhil would read
it."
Bee frowned a little as she murmured: "What makes you wish that?"
"He is a man, you see, one of us. My only quarrel with him is
that he delights in a misty vision of this world. Have you not
observed how this trait of his makes him look on __Swadeshi__
as if it was some poem of which the metre must be kept correct at
every step? We, with the clubs of our prose, are the iconoclasts
of metre."
"What has your book to do with __Swadeshi__?"
"You would know if you only read it. Nikhil wants to go by made-
up maxims, in __Swadeshi__ as in everything else; so he knocks
up against human nature at every turn, and then falls to abusing
it. He never will realize that human nature was created long
before phrases were, and will survive them too."
Bee was silent for a while and then gravely said: "Is it not a
part of human nature to try and rise superior to itself?"
I smiled inwardly. "These are not your words", I thought to
myself. "You have learnt them from Nikhil. You are a healthy
human being. Your flesh and blood have responded to the call of
reality. You are burning in every vein with life-fire--do I not
know it? How long should they keep you cool with the wet towel
of moral precepts?"
"The weak are in the majority," I said aloud. "They are
continually poisoning the ears of men by repeating these
shibboleths. Nature has denied them strength--it is thus that
they try to enfeeble others."
"We women are weak," replied Bimala. "So I suppose we must join
in the conspiracy of the weak."
"Women weak!" I exclaimed with a laugh. "Men belaud you as
delicate and fragile, so as to delude you into thinking
yourselves weak. But it is you women who are strong. Men make a
great outward show of their so-called freedom, but those who know
their inner minds are aware of their bondage. They have
manufactured scriptures with their own hands to bind themselves;
with their very idealism they have made golden fetters of women
to wind round their body and mind. If men had not that
extraordinary faculty of entangling themselves in meshes of their
own contriving, nothing could have kept them bound. But as for
you women, you have desired to conceive reality with body and
soul. You have given birth to reality. You have suckled reality
at your breasts."
Bee was well read for a woman, and would not easily give in to my
arguments. "If that were true," she objected, "men would not
have found women attractive."
"Women realize the danger," I replied. "They know that men love
delusions, so they give them full measure by borrowing their own
phrases. They know that man, the drunkard, values intoxication
more than food, and so they try to pass themselves off as an
intoxicant. As a matter of fact, but for the sake of man, woman
has no need for any make-believe."
"Why, then, are you troubling to destroy the illusion?"
"For freedom. I want the country to be free. I want human
relations to be free."
------
13. According to the Hindu calendar [Trans.].
14. The son-in-law is the pet of a Hindu household.
15. A Vaishnava poet (Sanskrit) whose lyrics of the adoration of
the Divinity serve as well to express all shades of human passion
[Trans.].
III
I was aware that it is unsafe suddenly to awake a sleep-walker.
But I am so impetuous by nature, a halting gait does not suit me.
I knew I was overbold that day. I knew that the first shock of
such ideas is apt to be almost intolerable. But with women it is
always audacity that wins.
Just as we were getting on nicely, who should walk in but
Nikhil's old tutor Chandranath Babu. The world would have been
not half a bad place to live in but for these schoolmasters, who
make one want to quit in disgust. The Nikhil type wants to keep
the world always a school. This incarnation of a school turned
up that afternoon at the psychological moment.
We all remain schoolboys in some corner of our hearts, and I,
even I, felt somewhat pulled up. As for poor Bee, she at once
took her place solemnly, like the topmost girl of the class on
the front bench. All of a sudden she seemed to remember that she
had to face her examination.
Some people are so like eternal pointsmen lying in wait by the
line, to shunt one's train of thought from one rail to another.
Chandranath Babu had no sooner come in than he cast about for
some excuse to retire, mumbling: "I beg your pardon, I..."
Before he could finish, Bee went up to him and made a profound
obeisance, saying: "Pray do not leave us, sir. Will you not take
a seat?" She looked like a drowning person clutching at him for
support--the little coward!
But possibly I was mistaken. It is quite likely that there was a
touch of womanly wile in it. She wanted, perhaps, to raise her
value in my eyes. She might have been pointedly saying to me:
"Please don't imagine for a moment that I am entirely overcome by
you. My respect for Chandranath Babu is even greater."
Well, indulge in your respect by all means! Schoolmasters thrive
on it. But not being one of them, I have no use for that empty
compliment.
Chandranath Babu began to talk about __Swadeshi__. I thought
I would let him go on with his monologues. There is nothing like
letting an old man talk himself out. It makes him feel that he
is winding up the world, forgetting all the while how far away
the real world is from his wagging tongue.
But even my worst enemy would not accuse me of patience. And
when Chandranath Babu went on to say: "If we expect to gather
fruit where we have sown no seed, then we ..." I had to
interrupt him.
"Who wants fruit?" I cried. "We go by the Author of the Gita
who says that we are concerned only with the doing, not with the
fruit of our deeds."
"What is it then that you do want?" asked Chandranath Babu.
"Thorns!" I exclaimed, "which cost nothing to plant."
"Thorns do not obstruct others only," he replied. "They have a
way of hurting one's own feet."
"That is all right for a copy-book," I retorted. "But the real
thing is that we have this burning at heart. Now we have only to
cultivate thorns for other's soles; afterwards when they hurt us
we shall find leisure to repent. But why be frightened even of
that? When at last we have to die it will be time enough to get
cold. While we are on fire let us seethe and boil."
Chandranath Babu smiled. "Seethe by all means," he said, "but do
not mistake it for work, or heroism. Nations which have got on
in the world have done so by action, not by ebullition. Those
who have always lain in dread of work, when with a start they
awake to their sorry plight, they look to short-cuts and scamping
for their deliverance."
I was girding up my loins to deliver a crushing reply, when
Nikhil came back. Chandranath Babu rose, and looking towards
Bee, said: "Let me go now, my little mother, I have some work to
attend to."
As he left, I showed Nikhil the book in my hand. "I was telling
Queen Bee about this book," I said.
Ninety-nine per cent of people have to be deluded with lies, but
it is easier to delude this perpetual pupil of the schoolmaster
with the truth. He is best cheated openly. So, in playing with
him, the simplest course was to lay my cards on the table.
Nikhil read the title on the cover, but said nothing. "These
writers," I continued, "are busy with their brooms, sweeping away
the dust of epithets with which men have covered up this world of
ours. So, as I was saying, I wish you would read it."
"I have read it," said Nikhil.
"Well, what do you say?"
"It is all very well for those who really care to think, but
poison for those who shirk thought."
"What do you mean?"
"Those who preach 'Equal Rights of Property' should not be
thieves. For, if they are, they would be preaching lies. When
passion is in the ascendant, this kind of book is not rightly
understood."
"Passion," I replied, "is the street lamp which guides us. To
call it untrue is as hopeless as to expect to see better by
plucking out our natural eyes."
Nikhil was visibly growing excited. "I accept the truth of
passion," he said, "only when I recognize the truth of restraint.
By pressing what we want to see right into our eyes we only
injure them: we do not see. So does the violence of passion,
which would leave no space between the mind and its object,
defeat its purpose."
"It is simply your intellectual foppery," I replied, "which makes
you indulge in moral delicacy, ignoring the savage side of truth.
This merely helps you to mystify things, and so you fail to do
your work with any degree of strength."
"The intrusion of strength," said Nikhil impatiently, "where
strength is out of place, does not help you in your work ... But
why are we arguing about these things? Vain arguments only brush
off the fresh bloom of truth."
I wanted Bee to join in the discussion, but she had not said a
word up to now. Could I have given her too rude a shock, leaving
her assailed with doubts and wanting to learn her lesson afresh
from the schoolmaster? Still, a thorough shaking-up is
essential. One must begin by realizing that things supposed to
be unshakeable can be shaken.
"I am glad I had this talk with you," I said to Nikhil, "for I
was on the point of lending this book to Queen Bee to read."
"What harm?" said Nikhil. "If I could read the book, why not
Bimala too? All I want to say is, that in Europe people look at
everything from the viewpoint of science. But man is neither
mere physiology, nor biology, nor psychology, nor even sociology.
For God's sake don't forget that. Man is infinitely more than
the natural science of himself. You laugh at me, calling me the
schoolmaster's pupil, but that is what you are, not I. You want
to find the truth of man from your science teachers, and not from
your own inner being."
"But why all this excitement?" I mocked.
"Because I see you are bent on insulting man and making him
petty."
"Where on earth do you see all that?"
"In the air, in my outraged feelings. You would go on wounding
the great, the unselfish, the beautiful in man."
"What mad idea is this of yours?"
Nikhil suddenly stood up. "I tell you plainly, Sandip," he said,
"man may be wounded unto death, but he will not die. This is the
reason why I am ready to suffer all, knowing all, with eyes
open."
With these words he hurriedly left the room.
I was staring blankly at his retreating figure, when the sound of
a book, falling from the table, made me turn to find Bee
following him with quick, nervous steps, making a detour to avoid
passing too near me.
A curious creature, that Nikhil! He feels the danger threatening
his home, and yet why does he not turn me out? I know, he is
waiting for Bimal to give him the cue. If Bimal tells him that
their mating has been a misfit, he will bow his head and admit
that it may have been a blunder! He has not the strength of mind
to understand that to acknowledge a mistake is the greatest of
all mistakes. He is a typical example of how ideas make for
weakness. I have not seen another like him--so whimsical a
product of nature! He would hardly do as a character in a novel
or drama, to say nothing of real life.
And Bee? I am afraid her dream-life is over from today. She has
at length understood the nature of the current which is bearing
her along. Now she must either advance or retreat, open-eyed.
The chances are she will now advance a step, and then retreat a
step. But that does not disturb me. When one is on fire, this
rushing to and fro makes the blaze all the fiercer. The fright
she has got will only fan her passion.
Perhaps I had better not say much to her, but simply select some
modern books for her to read. Let her gradually come to the
conviction that to acknowledge and respect passion as the supreme
reality, is to be modern--not to be ashamed of it, not to glorify
restraint. If she finds shelter in some such word as "modern",
she will find strength.
Be that as it may, I must see this out to the end of the Fifth
Act. I cannot, unfortunately, boast of being merely a spectator,
seated in the royal box, applauding now and again. There is a
wrench at my heart, a pang in every nerve. When I have put out
the light and am in my bed, little touches, little glances,
little words flit about and fill the darkness. When I get up in
the morning, I thrill with lively anticipations, my blood seems
to course through me to the strains of music ...
There was a double photo-frame on the table with Bee's photograph
by the side of Nikhil's. I had taken out hers. Yesterday I
showed Bee the empty side and said: "Theft becomes necessary only
because of miserliness, so its sin must be divided between the
miser and the thief. Do you not think so?"
"It was not a good one," observed Bee simply, with a little
smile.
"What is to be done?" said I. "A portrait cannot be better than
a portrait. I must be content with it, such as it is."
Bee took up a book and began to turn over the pages. "If you are
annoyed," I went on, "I must make a shift to fill up the
vacancy."
Today I have filled it up. This photograph of mine was taken in
my early youth. My face was then fresher, and so was my mind.
Then I still cherished some illusions about this world and the
next. Faith deceives men, but it has one great merit: it imparts
a radiance to the features.
My portrait now reposes next to Nikhil's, for are not the two of
us old friends?
Content of Chapter Three [Rabindranath Tagore's novel: The Home and the World]
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