MR. Butler had just arrived at his office and was overhauling his
books to see what business was doing during the current month:
his dog was asleep near him. Every now and again the Saheb
would whistle, and take a pinch of snuff; then he would examine
his account hook or stand up and stretch his legs. He thought
anxiously of the large sums he would have to pay as fees in the
different offices of the Court[17]: though by no means possessed
of large resources, he knew very well that business would be
at a standstill if he did not pay his money down before Term
opened. He was thus engaged when the _sircar_ of Mr. Howard,
another attorney, entered his office, and put two papers into
his hand. The Saheb's face beamed with delight, and he called out
to Bancharam to come to him at once. Bancharam, throwing his shawl
over a chair and sticking his pen behind his ear, attended at once
to the summons. "Ha, Bancharam!" said Mr. Butler, "I am in luck
indeed: there are two cases against Baburam Babu -- an action in
ejectment for non-payment of revenue, and a suit in equity. Mr.
Howard has served me with a notice, and a _subpoena_ to attend."
On hearing this news Bancharam clapped his elbows against his
sides with delight and said: "Aha, Saheb, see what a fine headman
I am! all sorts of good things will come to us by my introduction
of Baburam. Give me the two papers quick and let me go in person
to Vaidyabati. These are not matters to be entrusted to another: I
shall have to employ a good deal of coaxing and wheedling, and all
my arts of persuasion will have to be called into requisition. If
I can only once climb to the top of the Tree of Fortune, I will
simply shower rupees down: just now we are very short of cash,
and we cannot afford that in a business like ours; by a sudden
dash like this we may safely reckon on getting something."
Meanwhile in the Vaidyabati house, propitiatory sacrifices were
being offered: musical instruments of all kinds were braying
and jangling. The crash of drums, the blare of brass trumpets,
the clashing of cymbals, astonished the dawn. In the great hall
of worship offerings for Matilall's welfare were in progress.
The Brahmans were variously occupied in reciting the hymn to
Durga, working up Ganges clay into representations of Siva,
or offering leaves of the sacred basil to the holy _shalgram_
in the centre of the hall. Others, deep in thought, their heads
resting on their hands, were saying to each other: "How about
our divine Brahmanhood now? so far from having saved Matilall,
our master too must now have perished with him. If he was aboard
yesterday, the boat must have been lost in the storm last night:
there can be no doubt about that. Anyhow the family are ruined:
the young Babu will now be proclaimed master, and what kind of man
he is likely to turn out no one can say: our prospects of gain
appear now to be very remote." One of the Brahmans present said
very quietly: "Why are you so anxious? nobody is depriving us of
our gains. Apply to our own case the simile of the saw cutting
the shell. The saw will cut chips off the shell whether it moves
forward or whether it moves backwards: even if the master be no
more, there will have to be a gorgeous _shraddha_. The master is
not a young man, and if the old lady objects to spending much on
his _shraddha_, everybody will abuse her." Another remarked: "Ah,
my friend, that may be all very true, but in case of his death our
gains will become very precarious: I prefer the supply to be as
constant as the Vasudhara[18]: let us be ever getting, ever eating,
say I: one shower will not suffice a long-continued thirst."
Baburam Babu's wife was a most devoted partner: ever since her
lord's departure she had been very restless and had neglected her
daily food. She had been sitting all night at one of the windows
of the house from which the Ganges was visible. As the wind blew
in strong gusts every now and again, she shuddered with fright:
she kept gazing out into the storm, but her heart trembled as she
looked: the continual rumbling of the thunder made her anxious,
and she called upon the Almighty in her distress. Time went by:
hardly a boat passed up or down the Ganges: whenever she heard
a sound she would get up and look: occasionally she saw a light
glimmering faintly in the distance and at once concluded it came
from some vessel. At last a boat did come in sight, and she waited
for it to come and tie up at the _ghât_; but when it passed on,
only skirting the shore without coming to land, the agony of
despair pierced her heart like a dart.
The night had almost come to an end and the storm had gradually
lulled. How beautiful is the calm of creation that succeeds tumult
and confusion! The stars again shone in the sky: the moon's light
seemed to dance sportively on the waters of the river: so still had
the earth become that even the rustle of the leaves could be heard.
Baburam Babu's wife, as she anxiously gazed about her, exclaimed
in her impatience: "Oh Lord of Creation! to my knowledge I have
done no wrong to any one: I have committed no sin that I am aware
of. Must I now after so long a time endure all the pangs of
widowhood? Wealth I care nothing for: ornaments I have no use for:
to be poor would be no hardship to me, I should not grieve: but
this one boon I pray for, that I may be able to look upon the faces
of my husband and my son when I die." Indeed her mental anguish
was extreme, but being a cautious woman, as well as naturally
reserved, she restrained herself lest her tears should distress
her daughters. So the night passed away, and music in the house
ushered in the dawn. The sound of melody, ordinarily so attractive,
in the case of one afflicted in mind only serves to open the
floodgates of grief; and the sorrow of the mistress of the house
was but intensified by the sweet sounds.
Just then a fisherman came to the Vaidyabati house to sell fish:
in answer to their enquiries, he said: "During the storm there
was a boat in a more or less sinking condition on the sandbank
known as the Bansberia Chur: I rather think it must have been
swamped: there was a stout gentleman in it, a Mahomedan, a young
gentleman, and others." This news was as if a thunderbolt had
fallen amongst them: the music at once ceased, and all the members
of the household lifted up their voices and wept.
Later in the day, towards evening, Bancharam Babu arrived with
his usual bustle at the reception-room of the Vaidyabati house,
and enquired for the master: on hearing the news from one of the
servants, he fell into deep thought, resting his head on his hand,
and then exclaimed: "Alas, alas, a great man has departed!" Having
given way for some time to loud lamentation, he finally called
for a pipe of tobacco, and thus reflected, as he puffed away:--
"Ah! Baburam Babu is now dead, would that I also were so! Where
now are all those hopes with which I came? They have vanished,
and here am I with the great Durga Festival coming off at home,
the image not yet decorated, or even coloured, and without the
wherewithal to pay for it: I am quite at a loss to know what to
do. A few rupees just now would have been exceedingly serviceable,
no matter how they might have been got. I could have given some
to my master, some I would have kept for myself: it would have
been a very simple thing to cook the accounts by making a false
entry or two. Who could have anticipated that the heavens would
have burst asunder and fallen upon my head like this?" Then,
just for the look of the thing, he shed a few tears before the
servants, weeping really for the loss of his dear rupees. The
officiating Brahmans, seeing him there, came and sat down by
him. The wearers of the sacred thread are, as a rule, a very
astute sort of people: it is hard to get at their thoughts. Some
began to recount the good qualities of Baburam Babu: others
complained that they were now orphans, bereft of their father:
others, unable to restrain their greed of gain, remarked: "There
is no time now for mourning: we must bestir ourselves to ensure
Baburam Babu's happiness in the next world: he was a man of no
ordinary importance." Without paying much attention to what they
were saying, Bancharam Babu smoked away, and nodded his head: he
knew the old proverb: "What advantage does the crow get, even if
the _bael_ is ripe?" It seemed as if he had got to the end of all
things, so thoroughly broken-hearted was he: he could only sigh as
he listened to what was being said: he had no plans, nor, alas,
could he think of anybody to fleece! The idea once occurred to
him that he might make something by informing the family that some
fine portions of their property might be lost to them unless they
held a very careful enquiry, but then he considered that his words
would be only wasted if he spoke when their grief was so fresh.
While he was thus musing, a sudden stir arose at the door, where
a messenger had just arrived with a letter: the address was in
the handwriting of Baburam Babu, but the messenger could give no
particulars. The mistress of the house snatched at the letter,
carried it into the house, opened it hurriedly, and devoured its
contents. The letter was as follows:--
"Last night I was in terrible danger: the boat I was in was
carried away in the darkness, at the mercy of the storm, and the
boatmen lost all control over it: finally, it capsized with the
violence of the waves. I was in extreme terror as it was sinking,
but at the next moment I remembered you: I imagined you standing
near me and saying: 'Be not afraid in the time of adversity:
call on the Almighty with body, mind, and soul: He is merciful,
and will rescue you out of your danger.' I acted accordingly,
and when I fell into the water I found myself upon a sandbank,
where the water was only knee deep. The boat was soon dashed to
pieces by the violence of the storm. I remained on the sandbank
the entire night and reached Bansberia next morning. Matilall fell
ill from exposure, but he has been under medical treatment and
is now again convalescent. I expect to reach home by nightfall."
The moment that she had read the letter, the heat of her grief
was extinguished: she pondered long, and then exclaimed: "Can
such a joyful destiny indeed befall so sorrowful a wretch as
myself?" Even while she spoke, Baburam Babu arrived with his son
and Thakchacha. Everywhere there was a great stir. The minds of all
the members of the household had been shrouded in a mist of grief,
and now the sun of joy had risen. As she gazed upon her husband
and her son, holding her two daughters by the hand, the mistress
of the house wept tears of joy. She had been intending to upbraid
Matilall for his conduct, but now all was forgotten: the two girls,
holding their brother's hands, fell at their father's feet and
wept. Then the infant boy saw his father, it was as though he had
found a treasure: he kept his arms tight round his neck, and for
long refused to slacken his embrace: the women of the household too
offered loud prayers for the welfare of their master, as though
with _pán_ and betel in hand, they were praying for the welfare
of a bridegroom. Baburam Babu was for some time like a man in a
trance, unable to utter a word. Matilall reflected to himself:
"The sinking of the boat has been a piece of good luck for me:
it has saved me from a good scolding from my mother." As soon
as the Brahmans in the outer apartments of the house saw Baburam
Babu, they greeted him with vociferous blessings, saying in the
Sanskrit tongue:-- "Supreme over all is the might of the gods,"
and adding: "How could any calamity befall you, sir, with your
own merits on the one hand, and on the other the divine rites
that have been performed on your behalf? If such can befall,
then are we no Brahmans."
Thakchacha rose up in great wrath when he heard this language,
and said: "Sir, if it is by the influence of these men that
calamity has been averted from you, is all my trouble on your
behalf to go for nothing? do my prayers count for nothing?" The
Brahmans at once humbly acquiesced saying: "Ah sir, just as the
divine Krishna was once Arjuna's charioteer, so you have been the
master's! all has happened by the might of your intelligence:
you are a special incarnation: calamity flies far away from
anyplace where you are, as from any place where we are."
Bancharam Babu had been all this time like a serpent with its
crest-jewel lost, depressed and sad. He shed a few sham tears,
to show off before Baburam Baba (his eyes were always rather
watery), and his breast heaved with emotion. Fish would fall
to his bait, he was firmly persuaded, if now he only threw in
sufficient. When he heard the Brahmans' talk, he came up to them
and with his favourite gesture, said: "I am no fool I can tell
you: calamity could not possibly befall the master with me. Am I
merely a Calcutta grasscutter that I could not have helped him?"