II

Hearing that Mani had wept at the mere thought of going to her father's

house, Jotin was so excited that he sat up in bed. Pulling his pillow

towards him, he leaned back, and said: 'Mashi, open this window a

little, and take that lamp away.'

* * * * *

The still night stood silently at the window like a pilgrim of

eternity; and the stars gazed in, witnesses through untold ages of

countless death-scenes.

Jotin saw his Mani's face traced on the background of the dark night,

and saw those two big dark eyes brimming over with tears, as it were

for all eternity.

Mashi felt relieved when she saw him so quiet, thinking he was asleep.

Suddenly he started up, and said: 'Mashi, you all thought that Mani

was too frivolous ever to be happy in our house. But you see now----'

'Yes, I see now, my Baba,[3] I was mistaken--but trial tests a

person.'

[3] Baba literally means Father, but is often used by elders as a term

of endearment. In the same way 'Ma' is used.

'Mashi!'

'Do try to sleep, dear!'

'Let me think a little, let me talk. Don't be vexed, Mashi!'

'Very well.'

'Once, when I used to think I could not win Mani's heart, I bore it

silently. But you----'

'No, dear, I won't allow you to say that; I also bore it.'

'Our minds, you know, are not clods of earth which you can possess

by merely picking up. I felt that Mani did not know her own mind, and

that one day at some great shock----'

'Yes, Jotin, you are right.'

'Therefore I never took much notice of her waywardness.'

Mashi remained silent, suppressing a sigh. Not once, but often she

had seen Jotin spending the night on the verandah wet with the

splashing rain, yet not caring to go into his bedroom. Many a day

he lay with a throbbing head, longing, she knew, that Mani would

come and soothe his brow, while Mani was getting ready to go to the

theatre. Yet when Mashi went to fan him, he sent her away petulantly.

She alone knew what pain lay hidden in that distress. Again and again

she had wanted to say to Jotin: 'Don't pay so much attention to that

silly child, my dear; let her learn to want,--to cry for things.'

But these things cannot be said, and are apt to be misunderstood.

Jotin had in his heart a shrine set up to the goddess Woman, and

there Mani had her throne. It was hard for him to imagine that his

own fate was to be denied his share of the wine of love poured out

by that divinity. Therefore the worship went on, the sacrifice was

offered, and the hope of a boon never ceased.

* * * * *

Mashi imagined once more that Jotin was sleeping, when he cried out

suddenly:

'I know you thought that I was not happy with Mani, and therefore you

were angry with her. But, Mashi, happiness is like those stars. They

don't cover all the darkness; there are gaps between. We make mistakes

in life and we misunderstand, and yet there remain gaps through which

truth shines. I do not know whence comes this gladness that fills my

heart to-night.'

Mashi began gently to soothe Jotin's brow, her tears unseen in the dark.

'I was thinking, Mashi, she's so young! What will she do when I

am----?'

'Young, Jotin? She's old enough. I too was young when I lost the idol

of my life, only to find him in my heart for ever. Was that any loss,

do you think? Besides, is happiness absolutely necessary?'

'Mashi, it seems as if just when Mani's heart shows signs of awakening

I have to----'

'Don't you worry about that, Jotin. Isn't it enough if her heart

awakes?'

Suddenly Jotin recollected the words of a village minstrel's song which

he had heard long before:

O my heart! you woke not when the man of my heart came to my door.

At the sound of his departing steps you woke up.

Oh, you woke up in the dark!

'Mashi, what is the time now?'

'About nine.'

'So early as that! Why, I thought it must be at least two or three

o'clock. My midnight, you know, begins at sundown. But why did you want

me to sleep, then?'

'Why, you know how late last night you kept awake talking; so to-day

you must get to sleep early.'

'Is Mani asleep?'

'Oh no, she's busy making some soup for you.'

'You don't mean to say so, Mashi? Does she----?'

'Certainly! Why, she prepares all your food, the busy little woman.'

'I thought perhaps Mani could not----'

'It doesn't take long for a woman to learn such things. With the need

it comes of itself.'

'The fish soup, that I had in the morning, had such a delicate

flavour, I thought you had made it.'

'Dear me, no! Surely you don't think Mani would let me do anything

for you? Why, she does all your washing herself. She knows you can't

bear anything dirty about you. If only you could see your sitting-room,

how spick and span she keeps it! If I were to let her haunt your

sick-room, she would wear herself out. But that's what she really wants

to do.'

'Is Mani's health, then----?'

'The doctors think she should not be allowed to visit the sick-room

too often. She's too tender-hearted.'

'But, Mashi, how do you prevent her from coming?'

'Because she obeys me implicitly. But still I have constantly to be

giving her news of you.'

* * * * *

The stars glistened in the sky like tear-drops. Jotin bowed his head

in gratitude to his life that was about to depart, and when Death

stretched out his right hand towards him through the darkness, he

took it in perfect trust.

* * * * *

Jotin sighed, and, with a slight gesture of impatience, said:

'Mashi, if Mani is still awake, then, could I--if only for a----?'

'Very well! I'll go and call her.'

'I won't keep her long, only for five minutes. I have something

particular to tell her.'

Mashi, sighing, went out to call Mani. Meanwhile Jotin's pulse began

to beat fast. He knew too well that he had never been able to have an

intimate talk with Mani. The two instruments were tuned differently

and it was not easy to play them in unison. Again and again, Jotin had

felt pangs of jealousy on hearing Mani chattering and laughing

merrily with her girl companions. Jotin blamed only himself,--why

couldn't he talk irrelevant trifles as they did? Not that he could

not, for with his men friends he often chatted on all sorts of

trivialities. But the small talk that suits men is not suitable for

women. You can hold a philosophical discourse in monologue, ignoring

your inattentive audience altogether, but small talk requires the

co-operation of at least two. The bagpipes can be played singly, but

there must be a pair of cymbals. How often in the evenings had Jotin,

when sitting on the open verandah with Mani, made some strained

attempts at conversation, only to feel the thread snap. And the very

silence of the evening felt ashamed. Jotin was certain that Mani

longed to get away. He had even wished earnestly that a third person

would come. For talking is easy with three, when it is hard for two.

He began to think what he should say when Mani came. But such

manufactured talk would not satisfy him. Jotin felt afraid that this

five minutes of to-night would be wasted. Yet, for him, there were

but few moments left for intimate talk.