"Well," said Sharat, "you know that just now all sorts of illnesses are
abroad. You would do well to stop here a month or two more."
"And at this moment I suppose every one in this place is perfectly
well!"
What had happened was this: Kiran was a universal favourite with her
family and neighbours, so that, when she fell seriously ill, they were
all anxious. The village wiseacres thought it shameless for her husband
to make so much fuss about a mere wife and even to suggest a change of
air, and asked if Sharat supposed that no woman had ever been ill
before, or whether he had found out that the folk of the place to which
he meant to take her were immortal. Did he imagine that the writ of Fate
did not run there? But Sharat and his mother turned a deaf ear to them,
thinking that the little life of their darling was of greater
importance than the united wisdom of a village. People are wont to
reason thus when danger threatens their loved ones. So Sharat went to
Chandernagore, and Kiran recovered, though she was still very weak.
There was a pinched look on her face which filled the beholder with
pity, and made his heart tremble, as he thought how narrowly she had
escaped death.
Kiran was fond of society and amusement; the loneliness of her riverside
villa did not suit her at all. There was nothing to do, there were no
interesting neighbours, and she hated to be busy all day with medicine
and dieting. There was no fun in measuring doses and making
fomentations. Such was the subject discussed in their closed room on
this stormy evening.
So long as Kiran deigned to argue, there was a chance of a fair fight.
When she ceased to reply, and with a toss of her head disconsolately
looked the other way, the poor man was disarmed. He was on the point of
surrendering unconditionally when a servant shouted a message through
the shut door.
Sharat got up and on opening the door learnt that a boat had been upset
in the storm, and that one of the occupants, a young Brahmin boy, had
succeeded in swimming ashore at their garden.
Kiran was at once her own sweet self and set to work to get out some dry
clothes for the boy. She then warmed a cup of milk and invited him to
her room.
The boy had long curly hair, big expressive eyes, and no sign yet of
hair on the face. Kiran, after getting him to drink some milk asked him
all about himself.
He told her that his name was Nilkanta, and that he belonged to a
theatrical troupe. They were coming to play in a neighbouring villa when
the boat had suddenly foundered in the storm. He had no idea what had
become of his companions. He was a good swimmer and had just managed to
reach the shore.
The boy stayed with them. His narrow escape from a terrible death made
Kiran take a warm interest in him. Sharat thought the boy's appearance
at this moment rather a good thing, as his wife would now have something
to amuse her, and might be persuaded to stay on for some time longer.
Her mother-in-law, too, was pleased at the prospect of profiting their
Brahmin guest by her kindness. And Nilkanta himself was delighted at his
double escape from his master and from the other world, as well as at
finding a home in this wealthy family.
But in a short while Sharat and his mother changed their opinion, and
longed for his departure. The boy found a secret pleasure in smoking
Sharat's hookahs; he would calmly go off in pouring rain with Sharat's
best silk umbrella for a stroll through the village, and make friends
with all whom he met. Moreover, he had got hold of a mongrel village dog
which he petted so recklessly that it came indoors with muddy paws, and
left tokens of its visit on Sharat's spotless bed. Then he gathered
about him a devoted band of boys of all sorts and sizes, and the result
was that not a solitary mango in the neighbourhood had a chance of
ripening that season.
There is no doubt that Kiran had a hand in spoiling the boy. Sharat
often warned her about it, but she would not listen to him. She made a
dandy of him with Sharat's cast-off clothes, and gave him new ones also.
And because she felt drawn towards him, and had a curiosity to know more
about him, she was constantly calling him to her own room. After her
bath and midday meal Kiran would be seated on the bedstead with her
betel-leaf box by her side; and while her maid combed and dried her
hair, Nilkanta would stand in front and recite pieces out of his
repertory with appropriate gesture and song, his elf-locks waving
wildly. Thus the long afternoon hours passed merrily away. Kiran would
often try to persuade Sharat to sit with her as one of the audience,
but Sharat, who had taken a cordial dislike to the boy, refused; nor
could Nilkanta do his part half so well when Sharat was there. His
mother would sometimes be lured by the hope of hearing sacred names in
the recitation; but love of her mid-day sleep speedily overcame
devotion, and she lay lapped in dreams.
The boy often got his ears boxed and pulled by Sharat, but as this was
nothing to what he had been used to as a member of the troupe, he did
not mind it in the least. In his short experience of the world he had
come to the conclusion that, as the earth consisted of land and water,
so human life was made up of eatings and beatings, and that the beatings
largely predominated.
It was hard to tell Nilkanta's age. If it was about fourteen or fifteen,
then his face was too old for his years; if seventeen or eighteen, then
it was too young. He was either a man too early or a boy too late. The
fact was that, joining the theatrical band when very young, he had
played the parts of Radhika, Damayanti, and Sita, and a thoughtful
Providence so arranged things that he grew to the exact stature that his
manager required, and then growth ceased.
Since every one saw how small Nilkanta was, and he himself felt small,
he did not receive due respect for his years. Causes, natural and
artificial, combined to make him sometimes seem immature for seventeen
years, and at other times a mere lad of fourteen but far too knowing
even for seventeen. And as no sign of hair appeared on his face, the
confusion became greater. Either because he smoked or because he used
language beyond his years, his lips puckered into lines that showed him
to be old and hard; but innocence and youth shone in his large eyes. I
fancy that his heart remained young, but the hot glare of publicity had
been a forcing-house that ripened untimely his outward aspect.
In the quiet shelter of Sharat's house and garden at Chandernagore,
Nature had leisure to work her way unimpeded. Nilkanta had lingered in a
kind of unnatural youth, but now he silently and swiftly overpassed that
stage. His seventeen or eighteen years came to adequate revelation. No
one observed the change, and its first sign was this, that when Kiran
treated him like a boy, he felt ashamed. When the gay Kiran one day
proposed that he should play the part of lady's companion, the idea of
woman's dress hurt him, though he could not say why. So now, when she
called for him to act over again his old characters, he disappeared.
It never occurred to Nilkanta that he was even now not much more than a
lad-of-all-work in a strolling company. He even made up his mind to pick
up a little education from Sharat's factor. But, because he was the pet
of his master's wife, the factor could not endure the sight of him.
Also, his restless training made it impossible for him to keep his mind
long engaged; sooner or later, the alphabet did a misty dance before his
eyes. He would sit long enough with an open book on his lap, leaning
against a _champak_ bush beside the Ganges. The waves sighed below,
boats floated past, birds flitted and twittered restlessly above. What
thoughts passed through his mind as he looked down on that book he alone
knew, if indeed he did know. He never advanced from one word to another,
but the glorious thought, that he was actually reading a book, filled
his soul with exultation. Whenever a boat went by, he lifted his book,
and pretended to be reading hard, shouting at the top of his voice. But
his energy dropped as soon as the audience was gone.
Formerly he sang his songs automatically, but now their tunes stirred in
his mind. Their words were of little import and full of trifling
alliteration. Even the feeble meaning they had was beyond his
comprehension; yet when he sang--
Twice-born bird, ah! wherefore stirred
To wrong our royal lady?
Goose, ah, say why wilt thou slay
Her in forest shady?
then he felt as if transported to another world and to fear other folk.
This familiar earth and his own poor life became music, and he was
transformed. That tale of the goose and the king's daughter flung upon
the mirror of his mind a picture of surpassing beauty. It is impossible
to say what he imagined himself to be, but the destitute little slave of
the theatrical troupe faded from his memory.
When with evening the child of want lies down, dirty and hungry, in his
squalid home, and hears of prince and princess and fabled gold, then in
the dark hovel with its dim flickering candle, his mind springs free
from its bonds of poverty and misery and walks in fresh beauty and
glowing raiment, strong beyond all fear of hindrance, through that fairy
realm where all is possible.
Even so, this drudge of wandering players fashioned himself and his
world anew, as he moved in spirit amid his songs. The lapping water,
rustling leaves, and calling birds; the goddess who had given shelter to
him, the helpless, the God-forsaken; her gracious, lovely face, her
exquisite arms with their shining bangles, her rosy feet as soft as
flower-petals; all these by some magic became one with the music of his
song. When the singing ended, the mirage faded, and the Nilkanta of the
stage appeared again, with his wild elf-locks. Fresh from the complaints
of his neighbour, the owner of the despoiled mango-orchard, Sharat would
come and box his ears and cuff him. The boy Nilkanta, the misleader of
adoring youths, went forth once more, to make ever new mischief by land
and water and in the branches that are above the earth.
Shortly after the advent of Nilkanta, Sharat's younger brother, Satish,
came to spend his college vacation with them. Kiran was hugely pleased
at finding a fresh occupation. She and Satish were of the same age, and
the time passed pleasantly in games and quarrels and reconciliations and
laughter and even tears. Suddenly she would clasp him over the eyes from
behind with vermilion-stained hands, or she would write "monkey" on his
back, or else she would bolt the door on him from the outside amidst
peals of laughter. Satish in his turn did not take things lying down; he
would steal her keys and rings; he would put pepper among her betel, he
would tie her to the bed when she was not looking.
Meanwhile, heaven only knows what possessed poor Nilkanta. He was
suddenly filled with a bitterness which he must avenge on somebody or
something. He thrashed his devoted boy-followers for no fault, and sent
them away crying. He would kick his pet mongrel till it made the skies
resound with its whinings. When he went out for a walk, he would litter
his path with twigs and leaves beaten from the roadside shrubs with his
cane.
Kiran liked to see people enjoying good fare. Nilkanta had an immense
capacity for eating, and never refused a good thing however often it was
offered. So Kiran liked to send for him to have his meals in her
presence, and ply him with delicacies, happy in the bliss of seeing this
Brahmin boy eat to satiety. After Satish's arrival she had much less
spare time on her hands, and was seldom present when Nilkanta's meals
were served. Before, her absence made no difference to the boy's
appetite, and he would not rise till he had drained his cup of milk and
rinsed it thoroughly with water.
But now, if Kiran was not present to ask him to try this and that, he
was miserable, and nothing tasted right. He would get up, without eating
much, and say to the serving-maid in a choking voice: "I am not hungry."
He thought in imagination that the news of his repeated refusal, "I am
not hungry," would reach Kiran; he pictured her concern, and hoped that
she would send for him, and press him to eat. But nothing of the sort
happened. Kiran never knew and never sent for him; and the maid finished
whatever he left. He would then put out the lamp in his room, and throw
himself on his bed in the darkness, burying his head in the pillow in a
paroxysm of sobs. What was his grievance? Against whom? And from whom
did he expect redress? At last, when no one else came, Mother Sleep
soothed with her soft caresses the wounded heart of the motherless lad.
Nilkanta came to the unshakable conviction that Satish was poisoning
Kiran's mind against him. If Kiran was absent-minded, and had not her
usual smile, he would jump to the conclusion that some trick of Satish
had made her angry with him. He took to praying to the gods, with all
the fervour of his hate, to make him at the next rebirth Satish, and
Satish him. He had an idea that a Brahmin's wrath could never be in
vain; and the more he tried to consume Satish with the fire of his
curses, the more did his own heart burn within him. And upstairs he
would hear Satish laughing and joking with his sister-in-law.
Nilkanta never dared openly to show his enmity to Satish. But he would
contrive a hundred petty ways of causing him annoyance. When Satish
went for a swim in the river, and left his soap on the steps of the
bathing-place, on coming back for it he would find that it had
disappeared. Once he found his favourite striped tunic floating past him
on the water, and thought it had been blown away by the wind.
One day Kiran, desiring to entertain Satish, sent for Nilkanta to recite
as usual, but he stood there in gloomy silence. Quite surprised, Kiran
asked him what was the matter. But he remained silent. And when again
pressed by her to repeat some particular favourite piece of hers, he
answered: "I don't remember," and walked away.
At last the time came for their return home. Everybody was busy packing
up. Satish was going with them. But to Nilkanta nobody said a word. The
question whether he was to go or not seemed to have occurred to nobody.
The subject, as a matter of fact, had been raised by Kiran, who had
proposed to take him along with them. But her husband and his mother and
brother had all objected so strenuously that she let the matter drop. A
couple of days before they were to start, she sent for the boy, and with
kind words advised him to go back to his own home.
So many days had he felt neglected that this touch of kindness was too
much for him; he burst into tears. Kiran's eyes were also brimming
over. She was filled with remorse at the thought that she had created a
tie of affection, which could not be permanent.
But Satish was much annoyed at the blubbering of this overgrown boy.
"Why does the fool stand there howling instead of speaking?" said he.
When Kiran scolded him for an unfeeling creature, he replied: "My dear
sister, you do not understand. You are too good and trustful. This
fellow turns up from the Lord knows where, and is treated like a king.
Naturally the tiger has no wish to become a mouse again. And he has
evidently discovered that there is nothing like a tear or two to soften
your heart."
Nilkanta hurriedly left the spot. He felt he would like to be a knife to
cut Satish to pieces; a needle to pierce him through and through; a fire
to burn him to ashes. But Satish was not even scared. It was only his
own heart that bled and bled.
Satish had brought with him from Calcutta a grand inkstand. The inkpot
was set in a mother-of-pearl boat drawn by a German-silver goose
supporting a penholder. It was a great favourite of his, and he cleaned
it carefully every day with an old silk handkerchief. Kiran would laugh,
and tapping the silver bird's beak would say--
Twice-born bird, ah! wherefore stirred
To wrong our royal lady?
and the usual war of words would break out between her and her
brother-in-law.
The day before they were to start, the inkstand was missing and could
nowhere be found. Kiran smiled, and said: "Brother-in-law, your goose
has flown off to look for your Damayanti."
But Satish was in a great rage. He was certain that Nilkanta had stolen
it--for several people said they had seen him prowling about the room
the night before. He had the accused brought before him. Kiran also was
there. "You have stolen my inkstand, you thief!" he blurted out. "Bring
it back at once." Nilkanta had always taken punishment from Sharat,
deserved or undeserved, with perfect equanimity. But, when he was called
a thief in Kiran's presence, his eyes blazed with a fierce anger, his
breast swelled, and his throat choked. If Satish had said another word,
he would have flown at him like a wild cat and used his nails like
claws.
Kiran was greatly distressed at the scene, and taking the boy into
another room said in her sweet, kind way: "Nilu, if you really have
taken that inkstand give it to me quietly, and I shall see that no one
says another word to you about it." Big tears coursed down the boy's
cheeks, till at last he hid his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.
Kiran came back from the room and said: "I am sure Nilkanta has not
taken the inkstand." Sharat and Satish were equally positive that no
other than Nilkanta could have done it.