THE FORLORN ONE.
In the depth of night, when all were sleeping, Kunda Nandini opened
the door of her chamber and went forth. With but one dress, the
seventeen-year-old girl left the house of Surja Mukhi, and leaped
alone into the ocean of the world. Kunda had never set foot outside
the house; she could not tell in which direction to go.
The dark body of the large house loomed against the sky. Kunda
wandered for some time in the dark; then she remembered that a light
was usually to be seen from Nagendra's room. She knew how to reach
the spot; and thinking that she would refresh her eyes by seeking that
light, she went to that side of the house. The shutters were open, the
sash closed. In the darkness three lights gleamed; insects were
hovering near trying to reach the light, but the glass repelled them.
Kunda in her heart sympathized with these insects. Her infatuated eyes
dwelt upon the light; she could not bring herself to leave it. She sat
beneath some casuarina-trees near the window, every now and then
watching the fireflies dancing in the trees. In the sky black clouds
chased each other, only a star or two being visible at intervals. All
round the house rows of casuarina-trees raising their heads into the
clouds, stood like apparitions of the night. At the touch of the wind
these giant-faced apparitions whispered in their ghost language over
Kunda Nandini's head. The very ghosts, in their fear of the terrible
night, spoke in low voices. Occasionally the open shutters of the
window flapped against the walls. Black owls hooted as they sat upon
the house; sometimes a dog seeing another animal rushed after it;
sometimes a twig or a fruit fell to the ground. In the distance the
cocoanut palms waved their heads, the rustling of the leaves of the
fan palm reached the ear. Over all the light streamed, and the insect
troop came and went. Kunda sat there gazing.
A sash is gently opened; the figure of a man appears against the
light. Alas! it is Nagendra's figure. Nagendra, what if you should
discover the flower, Kunda, under the trees? What if, seeing you in
the window, the sound of her beating heart should make itself heard?
What if, hearing this sound, she should know that if you move and
become invisible her happiness will be gone? Nagendra, you are
standing out of the light; move it so that she can see you. Kunda is
very wretched; stand there that the clear water of the pool with the
stars reflected in it may not recur to her mind. Listen! the black owl
hoots! Should you move, Kunda will be terrified by the lightning. See
there! the black clouds, pressed by the wind, meet as though in
battle. There will be a rainstorm: who will shelter Kunda? See there!
you have opened the sash, swarms of insects are rushing into your
room. Kunda thinks, "If I am virtuous, shall I be born again as an
insect?" Kunda thinks she would like to share the fate of the insects.
"I have scorched myself, why do I not die?"
Nagendra, shutting the sash, moves away. Cruel! what harm you have done.
You have no business waking in the night; go to sleep. Kunda Nandini is
dying; let her die!--she would gladly do so to save you a headache. Now
the lightened window has become dark. Looking--looking--wiping her eyes,
Kunda Nandini arose and took the path before her. The ghost-like shrubs,
murmuring, asked, "Whither goest thou?" the fan palms rustled, "Whither
dost thou go?" the owl's deep voice asked the same question. The window
said, "Let her go--no more will I show to her _Nagendra_." Then foolish
Kunda Nandini gazed once more in that direction.
Oh, iron-hearted Surja Mukhi, arise! think what you have done. Make
the forlorn one return.
Kunda went on, on, on; again the clouds clashed, the sky became as
night, the lightning flashed, the wind moaned, the clouds thundered.
Kunda! Kunda! whither goest thou? The storm came--first the sound,
then clouds of dust, then leaves torn from the trees borne by the
wind; at last, plash, plash, the rain. Kunda, with thy one garment,
whither goest thou?
By the flashes of lightning Kunda saw a hut: its walls were of mud,
supporting a low roof. She sat down within the doorway, resting
against the door. In doing this she made some noise. The house owner
being awake heard the noise, but thought it was made by the storm; but
a dog, who slept within near the door, barking loudly, alarmed the
householder, who timidly opened the door, and seeing only a desolate
woman, asked, "Who is there?" No reply. "Who are you, woman?"
Kunda said, "I am standing here because of the storm."
"What? What? Speak again."
Kunda repeated her words.
The householder recognizing the voice, drew Kunda indoors, and, making
a fire, discovered herself to be Hira. She comforted Kunda, saying,
"I understand--you have run away from the scolding; have no fear, I
will tell no one. You shall stay with me for a couple of days."
Hira's dwelling was surrounded by a wall. Inside were a couple of
clean mud-built huts. The walls of the rooms were decorated with
figures of flowers, birds, and gods. In the court-yard grew red-leaved
vegetables, and near them jasmine and roses. The gardener from the
Babu's house had planted them. If Hira had wished, he would have given
her anything from the Babu's garden. His profit in this was that Hira
with her own hand prepared his huka and handed it to him.
In one of the huts Hira slept; in the other her grandmother. Hira made
up a bed for Kunda beside her own. Kunda lay there, but did not sleep.
Kunda desired to remain hidden, and therefore consented to be locked
in the room on the following day when Hira went to her work, so that
she should not be seen by the grandmother. At noon, when the
grandmother went to bathe, Hira, coming home, permitted Kunda to bathe
and eat. After this meal Kunda was again locked in, and Hira returned
to her work till night, when she again made up the beds as before.
Creak, creak, creak--the sound of the chain of the outer door gently
shaken. Hira was astonished. One person only, the gatekeeper,
sometimes shook the chain to give warning at night. But in his hand
the chain did not speak so sweetly; it spoke threateningly, as though
to say, "If you do not open, I will break the door." Now it seemed to
say, "How are you, my Hira? Arise, my jewel of a Hira!" Hira arose,
and opening the outer door saw a woman. At first she was puzzled, but
in a moment, recognizing the visitor, she exclaimed, "Oh, _Ganga
jal_![11] how fortunate I am!"
[Footnote 11: _Ganga jal_--Ganges water; a pet name given by Hira to
Malati. To receive this at the moment of death it essential to
salvation; therefore Hira expresses the hope to meet Malati in the
hour of death.]
Hira's _Ganga jal_ was Malati the milk-woman, whose home was at
Debipur, near Debendra Babu's house. She was a merry woman, from
thirty to thirty-two years of age, dressed in a _sari_ and wearing
shell bracelets, her lips red from the spices she ate; her complexion
was almost fair, with red spots on her cheeks; her nose flat, her
temples tattooed, a quid of tobacco in her cheek. Malati was not a
servant of Debendra's, not even a dependent, but yet a follower; the
services that others refused to perform, he obtained from her.
At sight of this woman the cunning Hira said: "Sister _Ganga jal_! may
I meet you at my last moment; but why have you come now?"
Malati whispered, "Debendra Babu wants you."
Hira, with a laugh: "Are you not to get anything?"
Malati answered, "You best know what you mean. Come at once."
As Hira desired to go, she told Kunda that she was called to her
master's house, and must go to see what was wanted. Then extinguishing
the light, she put on her dress and ornaments, and accompanied _Ganga
jal_, the two singing as they went some love song.
Hira went alone into Debendra's _boita khana_. He had been drinking,
but not heavily; he was quite sensible. His manner to Hira was
altogether changed; he paid her no compliments, but said: "I had taken
so much that evening that I did not understand what you said. Why did
you come that night? it is to know this that I have sent for you. You
told me Kunda Nandini sent you, but you did not give her message. I
suppose that was because you found me so much overcome; but you can
tell me now."
"Kunda Nandini did not send me to say anything."
"Then why did you come?" replied Debendra.
"I only came to see you."
Debendra laughed. "You are very intelligent. Nagendra Babu is
fortunate in possessing such a servant. I thought the talk about Kunda
Nandini was a mere pretence. You came to inquire after Haridasi
_Boisnavi_. You came to know my design in wearing the _Boisnavi_ garb;
why I went to the Datta house: this you came to learn, and in part you
accomplished your purpose. I do not seek to hide the matter. You did
your master's work, and have received your reward from him, no doubt.
I have a commission for you; do it, and I also will reward you."
It would be an unpleasant task to relate in detail the speech of a man
so deeply sunk in vice. Debendra, promising Hira an abundant reward,
proposed to buy Kunda Nandini.
At his words Hira's eyes reddened, her ears became like fire. When he
had finished she rose and said--
"Sir, addressing me as a servant, you have said this to me. It is not
for me to reply. I will tell my master, and he will give you a
suitable answer." Then she went quickly out.
For some moments Debendra sat puzzled and cowed. Then to revive
himself he returned to the brandy, and the songs in which he usually
indulged.