'Well,' said Sharat, 'you know that just now all sorts of illness
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, 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 in 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 hookas; 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
too. And because she felt drawn towards him, and also had a curiosity
to know more about him, she was constantly calling him to her own
room. After her bath and mid-day 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, Damaynti, Sita, and
Bidya's Companion. 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 he was, and he himself
felt small, he did not receive due respect for his years. These
causes, natural and artificial, combined to make him sometimes seem
immature for seventeen years, and at other times a lad of fourteen
but far too knowing 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. He 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 him 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 Nilkanta 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; presently, 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 little meaning they had was beyond his
comprehension; yet when he sang--
Twice-born[42] bird! ah! wherefore stirred
To wrong our royal lady?
Goose, ah! say why wilt thou slay
Her in forest shady?[43]
then he felt as if transported to another world, and to far other folk.
This familiar earth and his own poor life became music, and he was
transformed. That tale of goose and king's daughter flung upon the
mirror of his mind a picture of surpassing beauty. It is impossible to
say what he imagined he himself was, but the destitute little slave
of the theatrical troupe faded from his memory.
[42] Once in the egg, and again once out of the egg.
[43] See note on Damaynti.
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 her 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 Godforsaken; 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
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 makings-up
and laughter and even tears. Suddenly she would clasp him over the
eyes, from behind, with vermilion-stained hands, she would write
'monkey' on his back, and sometimes bolt the door on him from outside
amidst peals of laughter. Satish in his turn did not take things
lying down; he would take 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.[44]
[44] A habit which was relic from his days of poverty, when milk was
too rare a luxury to allow of even its stains in the cup being wasted.
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 none 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 not to have occurred
to anybody.
The question, 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:
'Sister mine, 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.[45]
And he has evidently discovered that there is nothing like a tear
or two to soften your heart.'
[45] A reference to a folk-story of a saint who turned a pet mouse
into a tiger.
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 scarred. 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 Damaynti.'[46]
[46] To find Satish a wife.
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.