The Home and the World - Rabindranath Tagore (books to read in your 30s .txt) 📗

class="calibre1">worship--to whom I have dedicated them through you."

My husband remained silent. Sandip left the room.

Quotation from the National song--Bande Mataram.

Rudra, the Terrible, a name of Shiva. [Trans.].

XXI

I had just sat down to make some cakes for Amulya when the Bara

Rani came upon the scene. "Oh dear," she exclaimed, "has it come

to this that you must make cakes for your own birthday?"

"Is there no one else for whom I could be making them?" I asked.

"But this is not the day when you should think of feasting

others. It is for us to feast you. I was just thinking of

making something up [29] when I heard the staggering news which

completely upset me. A gang of five or six hundred men, they

say, has raided one of our treasuries and made off with six

thousand rupees. Our house will be looted next, they expect."

I felt greatly relieved. So it was our own money after all. I

wanted to send for Amulya at once and tell him that he need only

hand over those notes to my husband and leave the explanations to

me.

"You are a wonderful creature!" my sister-in-law broke out, at

the change in my countenance. "Have you then really no such

thing as fear?"

"I cannot believe it," I said. "Why should they loot our house?"

"Not believe it, indeed! Who could have believed that they would

attack our treasury, either?"

I made no reply, but bent over my cakes, putting in the cocoa-nut

stuffing.

"Well, I'm off," said the Bara Rani after a prolonged stare at

me. "I must see Brother Nikhil and get something done about

sending off my money to Calcutta, before it's too late."

She was no sooner gone than I left the cakes to take care of

themselves and rushed to my dressing-room, shutting myself

inside. My husband's tunic with the keys in its pocket was still

hanging there--so forgetful was he. I took the key of the iron

safe off the ring and kept it by me, hidden in the folds of my

dress.

Then there came a knocking at the door. "I am dressing," I

called out. I could hear the Bara Rani saying: "Only a minute

ago I saw her making cakes and now she is busy dressing up. What

next, I wonder! One of their Bande Mataram meetings is

on, I suppose. I say, Robber Queen," she called out to me, "are

you taking stock of your loot?"

When they went away I hardly know what made me open the safe.

Perhaps there was a lurking hope that it might all be a dream.

What if, on pulling out the inside drawer, I should find the

rolls of gold there, just as before? ... Alas, everything was

empty as the trust which had been betrayed.

I had to go through the farce of dressing. I had to do my hair

up all over again, quite unnecessarily. When I came out my

sister-in-law railed at me: "How many times are you going to

dress today?"

"My birthday!" I said.

"Oh, any pretext seems good enough," she went on. "Many vain

people have I seen in my day, but you beat them all hollow."

I was about to summon a servant to send after Amulya, when one of

the men came up with a little note, which he handed to me. It

was from Amulya. "Sister," he wrote, "you invited me this

afternoon, but I thought I should not wait. Let me first execute

your bidding and then come for my prasad. I may be a

little late."

To whom could he be going to return that money? into what fresh

entanglement was the poor boy rushing? O miserable woman, you

can only send him off like an arrow, but not recall him if you

miss your aim.

I should have declared at once that I was at the bottom of this

robbery. But women live on the trust of their surroundings--this

is their whole world. If once it is out that this trust has been

secretly betrayed, their place in their world is lost. They have

then to stand upon the fragments of the thing they have broken,

and its jagged edges keep on wounding them at every turn. To sin

is easy enough, but to make up for it is above all difficult for

a woman.

For some time past all easy approaches for communion with my

husband have been closed to me. How then could I burst on him

with this stupendous news? He was very late in coming for his

meal today--nearly two o'clock. He was absent-minded and hardly

touched any food. I had lost even the right to press him to take

a little more. I had to avert my face to wipe away my tears.

I wanted so badly to say to him: "Do come into our room and rest

awhile; you look so tired." I had just cleared my throat with a

little cough, when a servant hurried in to say that the Police

Inspector had brought Panchu up to the palace. My husband, with

the shadow on his face deepened, left his meal unfinished and

went out.

A little later the Bara Rani appeared. "Why did you not send me

word when Brother Nikhil came in?" she complained. "As he was

late I thought I might as well finish my bath in the meantime.

However did he manage to get through his meal so soon?"

"Why, did you want him for anything?"

"What is this about both of you going off to Calcutta tomorrow?

All I can say is, I am not going to be left here alone. I should

get startled out of my life at every sound, with all these

dacoits about. Is it quite settled about your going tomorrow?"

"Yes," said I, though I had only just now heard it; and though,

moreover, I was not at all sure that before tomorrow our history

might not take such a turn as to make it all one whether we went

or stayed. After that, what our home, our life would be like,

was utterly beyond my ken--it seemed so misty and phantom-like.

In a very few hours now my unseen fate would become visible. Was

there no one who could keep on postponing the flight of these

hours, from day to day, and so make them long enough for me to

set things right, so far as lay in my power? The time during

which the seed lies underground is long--so long indeed that one

forgets that there is any danger of its sprouting. But once its

shoot shows up above the surface, it grows and grows so fast,

there is no time to cover it up, neither with skirt, nor body,

nor even life itself.

I will try to think of it no more, but sit quiet--passive and

callous--let the crash come when it may. By the day after

tomorrow all will be over--publicity, laughter, bewailing,

questions, explanations--everything.

But I cannot forget the face of Amulya--beautiful, radiant with

devotion. He did not wait, despairing, for the blow of fate to

fall, but rushed into the thick of danger. In my misery I do him

reverence. He is my boy-god. Under the pretext of his

playfulness he took from me the weight of my burden. He would

save me by taking the punishment meant for me on his own head.

But how am Ito bear this terrible mercy of my God?

Oh, my child, my child, I do you reverence. Little brother mine,

I do you reverence. Pure are you, beautiful are you, I do you

reverence. May you come to my arms, in the next birth, as my own

child--that is my prayer.

Any dainties to be offered ceremonially should be made by the

lady of the house herself. [Trans.].

XXII

Rumour became busy on every side. The police were continually in

and out. The servants of the house were in a great flurry.

Khema, my maid, came up to me and said: "Oh, Rani Mother! for

goodness" sake put away my gold necklace and armlets in your iron

safe." To whom was I to explain that the Rani herself had been

weaving all this network of trouble, and had got caught in it,

too? I had to play the benign protector and take charge of

Khema's ornaments and Thako's savings. The milk-woman, in her

turn, brought along and kept in my room a box in which were a

Benares sari and some other of her valued possessions. "I

got these at your wedding," she told me.

When, tomorrow, my iron safe will be opened in the presence of

these--Khema, Thako, the milk-woman and all the rest ... Let me

not think of it! Let me rather try to think what it will be like

when this third day of Magh comes round again after a year has

passed. Will all the wounds of my home life then be still as

fresh as ever? ...

Amulya writes that he will come later in the evening. I cannot

remain alone with my thoughts, doing nothing. So I sit down

again to make cakes for him. I have finished making quite a

quantity, but still I must go on. Who will eat them? I shall

distribute them amongst the servants. I must do so this very

night. Tonight is my limit. Tomorrow will not be in my hands.

I went on untiringly, frying cake after cake. Every now and then

it seemed to me that there was some noise in the direction of my

rooms, upstairs. Could it be that my husband had missed the key

of the safe, and the Bara Rani had assembled all the servants to

help him to hunt for it? No, I must not pay heed to these

sounds. Let me shut the door.

I rose to do so, when Thako came panting in: "Rani Mother, oh,

Rani Mother!"

"Oh get away!" I snapped out, cutting her short. "Don't come

bothering me."

"The Bara Rani Mother wants you," she went on. "Her nephew has

brought such a wonderful machine from Calcutta. It talks like a

man. Do come and hear it!"

I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. So, of all things, a

gramophone needs must come on the scene at such a time, repeating

at every winding the nasal twang of its theatrical songs! What a

fearsome thing results when a machine apes a man.

The shades of evening began to fall. I knew that Amulya would

not delay to announce himself--yet I could not wait. I summone

d a servant and said: "Go and tell Amulya Babu to come straight

in here." The man came back after a while to say that Amulya was

not in--he had not come back since he had gone.

"Gone!" The last word struck my ears like a wail in the

gathering darkness. Amulya gone! Had he then come like a streak

of light from the setting sun, only to be gone for ever? All

kinds of possible and impossible dangers flitted through my mind.

It was I who had sent him to his death. What if he was fearless?

That only showed his own greatness