Towards evening the storm was at its height. From the terrific downpour
of rain, the crash of thunder, and the repeated flashes of lightning,
you might think that a battle of the gods and demons was raging in the
skies. Black clouds waved like the Flags of Doom. The Ganges was lashed
into a fury, and the trees of the gardens on either bank swayed from
side to side with sighs and groans.
In a closed room of one of the riverside houses at Chandernagore, a
husband and his wife were seated on a bed spread on the floor, intently
discussing. An earthen lamp burned beside them.
The husband, Sharat, was saying: "I wish you would stay on a few days
more; you would then be able to return home quite strong again."
The wife, Kiran, was saying: "I have quite recovered already. It will
not, cannot possibly, do me any harm to go home now."
Every married person will at once understand that the conversation was
not quite so brief as I have reported it. The matter was not difficult,
but the arguments for and against did not advance it towards a solution.
Like a rudderless boat, the discussion kept turning round and round the
same point; and at last threatened to be overwhelmed in a flood of
tears.