THE Vaidyabati house was all astir with preparations for
a religious ceremonial. The sun had not risen when Shridhar
Bhattacharjea, Ram Gopal Charamani and other Brahman priests, set
to work repeating _mantras_. All were employed upon something:
one was offering the sacred basil to the deity: some were busy
picking the leaves of the jessamine: others humming and beating
time on their cheeks. One was remarking: "I am no Brahman if good
fortune does not attend the sacrifices;" and another, "If things
turn out inauspiciously, I will abandon my sacred thread." The
whole household was busily engaged, but not a member of it was
happy in mind. The mistress of the house was sitting at an open
window and calling in her distress upon her guardian deity:
her infant boy lay near her, playing with a toy and tossing his
little limbs in the air. Every now and again she glanced in the
direction of the child, and said to herself: "Ah my darling,
I cannot say what kind of destiny awaits you! To be childless
is a single sorrow and anxiety: multiplied a hundred-fold is the
misery that comes with children. How is a mother's mind distracted
if her child has the slightest complaint! she will cheerfully
sacrifice her life in order to get him well again: so long as
her babe is ill, all capacity for food and sleep deserts her:
day and night to her are alike. If a child who has caused her so
much sorrow grows up good, she feels her work accomplished; but
if the contrary be the case, a living death is hers: she takes no
interest in anything in the world and cares not to show herself
in the neighbourhood. The haughty face grows wan and pinched:
in her inmost heart, like Sita, she gives expression to this
wish: 'Oh, Earth, Earth, open, and let me hide myself within
thy bosom!' The good God knows what trouble I have taken to make
Matilall a man: my young one has now learned to fly, and heavy is
my chastisement. How it grieves me to hear of such evil conduct:
I am almost heartbroken with sorrow and chagrin. I have not told
my husband all: he might have gone mad had he heard all. Away
with these thoughts! I can endure them no longer: I am but a weak
woman. What will such laments avail me now? what must be, must be."
A maid-servant came in at that moment and took the child away, and
the mistress of the house engaged in her daily religious duties.
Man's mind is so constituted that it cannot readily forget any
particular matter it may be absorbed in, to attend to other affairs
in hand. When therefore she tried to perform her usual devotions,
she found herself unable to do so. Again and again she set herself
to fix her attention on the _mantras_ she had to repeat, but her
mind kept wandering: the thought of Matilall surged up like a
strong and irresistible flood. At one time she fancied that the
orders for his imprisonment had been passed, and her imagination
depicted him as already in fetters, and being led off to jail:
she even thought she saw his father standing near him, his head
bowed down in woe, weeping bitterly; and again she almost fancied
that her son was come to see her, and was saying to her: "Mother,
forgive me: what is past cannot now be mended, but I will never
again cause you such trouble and sorrow." She then began to dream
of some great calamity as about to befall Matilall, -- that
he would be transported perhaps for life. When these phantoms
of her imagination had left her, she began to say to herself:
"Why, it is now high noon! can I have been dreaming? No, surely
this is no dream! I must have seen a vision. I wish I could tell
why my mind is so distracted to-day!" With these words she laid
herself silently down on the ground, and wept bitterly.
Her two daughters, Mokshada and Pramada, were busy drying their
hair on the roof, and Mokshada was saying to her sister: "Why
sister Pramada, you have not half combed your hair, and how dry
it is too! But it must be so, for it is ages since a drop of oil
fell upon it. It is just the use of oil and water that keeps
people in good health: to bathe once a month, and without using
oil, would be bad for any one. But why are you so wrapped in
thought? anxiety and trouble are making you as thin as a string."
_Pramada_.-- Ah, my sister, how can I help thinking? Cannot you
understand it all? Our father brought the son of a Kulin Brahmin
here when I was a mere child and married me to him. I only heard
about this when I was grown up. Considering the number of the
different places where he has contracted marriage, and considering
his personal character too, I have no wish to see his face: I would
rather not have a husband at all than such a one.
_Mokshada_.-- Hush, my dear! you must not say that. It is an
advantage to a woman to have a husband alive, whether his character
be bad or good.
_Pramada_.-- Listen then to what I have to tell you. Last year,
when I was suffering from intermittent fever and had been lying
long days and nights on my bed, too weak to rise, my husband came
one day to the house. From the time of my earliest impressions,
I had never seen what a husband was like: my idea was that there
was no treasure a woman could possess like a husband, and I
thought that if he only came and sat with me for a few moments
and spoke to me, my pain would be alleviated. But, my sister you
will not believe me when I say it! he came to my bedside, and
said: "You are my lawful wife, I married you sixteen years ago:
I have come to see you now because I am in need of money, and
will go away again directly: I have told your father that he has
cheated me: come, give me that bracelet off your wrist!" I told
him that I would first ask my mother, and would do what she bade
me. Thereupon he pulled the bracelet off my wrist by brute force;
and when I struggled to prevent his doing so, he gave me a kick
and left me. I fainted away, and did not recover till mother came
and fanned me.
_Mokshada_.-- Oh my dear sister Pramada, your story brings tears
into my eyes. But consider, you still have a husband living:
I have not even that.
_Pramada_.-- A fine husband indeed, my sister! Happily for me,
I once spent some time with my uncle, and learned to read and
write and to do a little fancy work with my needle; so by constant
work during the day and by a little occasional reading, writing
or sewing, I keep my trouble hidden. If I sit idle for any time,
and begin to think, my heart burns with indignation.
_Mokshada_.-- What else can it do? Ah, it is because of the many
sins committed by us in previous births that we are suffering as
we are! It is by plenty of hard work that our bodies and minds
retain their vigour: idleness only causes evil thoughts and evil
imaginations and even disease to get a stronger hold upon us:
it was uncle that told me that. I have done all I can to soften
the pains of widowhood. I always reflect that everything is in
God's hands: reliance upon Him is the real secret of life. My dear
sister, if you so constantly ponder on your grief, you will be
overwhelmed in the ocean of anxiety: it is an ocean that has no
shore. What good can possibly result from so much brooding? Just
do all your religious and secular duties as well as you can:
honour our father and mother in everything: attend to the welfare
of our two brothers: nourish and cherish any children they may
have, and they will be as your own.
_Pramada_.-- Ah my sister, what you say is indeed true, but then
our elder brother has gone altogether astray. He is given over to
vicious ways and vicious companions; and as his disposition has
changed for the worse, so his affection for his parents and for
us has lessened. Ah, the affection that brothers have for their
sisters is not one-hundredth part of the affection that sisters
have for their brothers! In their devotion to their brothers,
sisters will even risk their lives; but brothers always think that
they will get on much better if they can only be rid of their
sisters! We are Matilall's elder sisters: if he comes near us
at all, he may perhaps make himself agreeable for a short time,
and we may congratulate ourselves upon it; but then have no any
influence whatever upon his conduct?
_Mokshada_.-- All brothers are not like that. There are brothers
who regard their elder sisters as they would their mother, and
their younger sisters as they would a daughter. I am speaking
the truth: there are brothers who look upon their sisters in the
same light as they do their brothers: they are unhappy unless they
are free to converse with them; and if they fall into any danger,
they risk their lives to save them.
_Pramada_.-- That is very true, but it is our lot to have a brother
just in keeping with our unhappy destiny. Alas, there is no such
thing as happiness in this world!
At this moment, a maid-servant came to tell them her mistress was
crying: the two sisters rushed downstairs as soon as they heard it.
It was a fine moonlight evening, the moon shedding her radiance
over the breadth of the Ganges. A gentle breeze was diffusing
the sweet fragrance of the wild jungle flowers; the waves danced
merrily in the moonlight: the birds in a neighbouring grove were
calling to each other in their varied notes. Beni Babu was seated
at the Deonagaji Ghât, looking about him and singing snatches
of some up-country song on the loves of Krishna and Radha. He
was completely absorbed in his music and was beating time to it,
when suddenly he heard somebody behind him calling his name and
echoing his song. Turning round, he saw Becharam Babu of Bow Bazar:
he at once rose, and invited his guest to take a seat.
Becharam opened the conversation. "Ah! Beni, my friend! those were
home truths you told Baburam Babu to-day. I have been invited
to your village: and as I was so pleased with what I saw of you
the other day, I wanted to come and call on you just once before
leaving."
_Beni_.-- Ah, my friend Becharam, we are poor sort of folk here!
We have to work for our living: we prefer to visit places where
the secrets of knowledge or virtue are investigated. We have a
good many rich relatives and acquaintances, but we feel embarrassed
in their presence; we visit them very occasionally, when we have
fallen into any trouble, or have any very particular business on
hand. It is never a pleasure to call on upon them, and when we do
go we derive no intellectual benefit from the visit; for whatever
respect rich men may show to other rich men, they have not much to
say to us; they just remark "It is very hot to-day. How is your
business getting on? Is it flourishing? Have a smoke?" If only they
speak cheerfully and pleasantly to us, we are fully satisfied. Ah,
learning and worth have nothing like the respect shown to them that
is shown to wealth! Paying court to rich men is a very dangerous
thing: there is a popular saying:-- "The friendship of the rich is
an embankment made of sand." Their moods are capricious: a trifle
will offend them just as a trifle will please them. People do not
consider this: wealth has such magic in it that they will put up
with any humiliation, any indignity from a rich man; they will even
submit to a thrashing, and say to the rich man after it:-- "It is
your honour's good pleasure." However this be, it is a hard thing
to live with the rich and not forfeit one's chances of happiness in
the next world. In that affair of to-day, for instance, we had a
hard struggle for the right.
_Becharam_.-- From observation of Baburam Babu's general behaviour,
I am inclined to think that his affairs are not prospering. Alas,
alas, what counsellors he has got! That wretched Mahomedan,
Thakchacha, a prince of rogues! there is an evil magic in him.
Then Bancharam, the attorney's clerk! he is like a fine mango, fair
outside but rotten at the core. Well-practised in all the arts of
chicanery, like a cat treading stealthily along in the wet, he
simulates innocence while all the while exercising his wiles to
entrap his prey. Anybody falling under the influence of that
sorcery would be utterly, and for ever, ruined. Then there is
Bakreswar the schoolmaster, a teacher of ethics forsooth! A passed
master indeed in the art of cajolery, a very prince of flatterers!
Ugh! But tell me, is it your English education that has given you
this high moral standard?
_Beni_.-- Have I this high moral standard you attribute to me? It
is only your kindness to say so. The slight acquaintance I have
with morality is entirely due to the kind favour of Barada Babu,
of Badaragan: I lived with him for some time, and he very kindly
gave me some excellent advice.
_Becharam_.-- Who is this Barada Babu? Please tell me some
particulars about him. It is always a pleasure to me to hear
anything of this kind.
_Beni_.-- Barada Babu's home is in Eastern Bengal, in Pergunnah
Etai Kagamari. On the death of his father he moved to Calcutta,
and found great difficulty at first in providing himself with food
and clothing: he had not even the wherewithal to buy his daily
meal. But from his boyhood he had always engaged in meditation
upon divine things, and so it was that when trouble befell him
it did not affect him so much. At this time he used to live in
a common tiled hut, his only means of subsistence being the two
rupees a month which he received from a younger brother of his
father's. He was on terms of intimacy with a few good men and
would associate with none but these: he was very independent, and
refused to be under obligations to anybody. Not having the means
to keep either a man-servant or a maid-servant, he did all his
own marketing, cooking for himself as well; and he did not neglect
his studies even when he was cooking. Morning noon and night, he
calmly and peacefully meditated on God. The clothes in which he
attended school were torn and dirty, and excited the derision of
rich men's sons: he pretended not to hear them when they laughed
and jeered at him, and eventually succeeded by his pleasant and
courteous address in winning them completely over. With very many,
pride is the only result of English learning: they scorn the
very earth they live on. This however found no place in the mind
of Barada Babu: his disposition was too calm and mild. When he
had completed his education he left school, and at once obtained
employment as a teacher, on thirty rupees a month. He then took
his mother, his wife and his two nephews to live with him, and
did his very utmost to make them comfortable. He would also look
after the wants of the many poor people living in his immediate
neighbourhood, helping them, as far as his means allowed, with
money, visiting them when they were sick, and supplying them
with medicine. As none of these poor people could afford to send
their children to school, he held a class for them himself every
morning. One of his cousins who had fallen dangerously ill after
his father's death, recovered entirely, thanks to the unremitting
attention of Barada Babu, who sat by his bedside for days and
nights together. He was deeply devoted to his aunt, and regarded
her quite as a mother. Some men appear to have a contempt for the
things of this world in comparison with things of eternity, like
the contempt for death that is characteristic of those who are in
constant attendance at burning-_ghâts_. Does death or calamity
befall any of their friends or kinsfolk, the world, they feel,
is nothing, and God all. This idea is constantly present to the
mind of Barada Babu: conversation with him and observation of his
conduct soon make it apparent; but he never parades his opinions
before the world. He is in no sense ostentatious: he never does
anything for mere appearance sake. All his good deeds are done in
secret: numbers of people meet with kindness from him, but only the
person actually benefited by him is aware of it; and he is much
annoyed if others get any inkling of it. Though a man of varied
accomplishments, he is without a particle of vanity. It is the
man who has only a smattering of learning who is puffed up with
pride and self-importance. "Aha!" says such a one to himself,
"what a very learned man I am! Who can write as I do? Who is so
erudite as I? How I always do speak to the point!" Barada Babu
is a different sort of man altogether: though his learning is so
profound, he never treats the thoughts of others as beneath his
attention. It does not annoy him to hear an opinion expressed
opposite to his own: on the contrary, he listens with pleasure,
and reviews his own beliefs. To describe in detail all his good
qualities would be a long affair, but they may be summed up in
the remark that so gentle and god-fearing a man has rarely been
seen: he could not do wrong even if his life were at stake. Yes,
the amount of instruction to be had from personal intercourse
with Barada Babu far exceeds any to be got from books!
_Becharam_.-- Ah, how it charms one to hear of a man like
that! But now, as it is getting very late, and I have to cross
the river, I will, with your permission, return home. Let me
see you for a moment at the police court to-morrow.