THE sun was just setting: gloriously beautiful was the western
sky with its many and varied tints. On land and water the sun's
tremulous light seemed gently smiling, while a soft breeze blew:
everything was calm and inviting. On such an evening as this,
a number of young men were thronging with loud and boisterous
shouts down the main street of Vaidyabati. They knocked against the
passers-by, smashing the things they were carrying, hustling them,
throwing their baskets away and robbing them of their supplies
of food. They sang continuously at the top of their voices,
imitating the howls of dogs at the same time. On either side
of the road people fled, calling for assistance and protection,
trembling, and bewildered with fear. Like a storm sweeping down
from all four quarters of the compass at once, with the roar
of heavy rain, this whirlwind came tearing and raging past. And
who are these mighty men? Who indeed but those models of virtue,
Matilall and his companions? -- King Nala and Yudhishthira over
again! They are far too great personages to pay heed to anyone:
so full of self-importance and of pride are their heads that they
are as unsteady in their gait as men drunk with much wine. They
have it all their own way as they come swaggering along.
Just then an old man from the village, one Mozoomdar, his
solitary lock waving in the breeze, a stick in one hand and some
vegetables in the other, approached them, leaning heavily on his
stick. They all surrounded him and began to amuse themselves at
his expense. Mozoomdar was a little hard of hearing, and when
they said to him: "Come, tell us, how is your wife?" he replied:
"I shall have to roast them before I can eat them." They laughed
heartily, and Mozoomdar would have liked to slip away, but there
was no escape for him. The young Babus seized him, and making
him sit on the bank of the river, gave him a pipe of tobacco,
saying to him: 'Come, Mozoomdar, tell us all about the row at
the marriage of the master of Vaidyabati: you are bit of a poet:
it is a pleasure to us to listen to you. If you do not tell us,
we shall not let you off, and we shall go and tell your wife that
you have met with an untimely death.' Mozoomdar saw that he was
in a bad way, and that there was no getting out of it unless he
complied; so, making the best of a bad job, he set his stick and
vegetables on the ground and commenced his narrative.
"It is a pitiable tale that I have to tell. What an experience
has it been to me, accompanying the master! It was close on
evening when the boat drew up at the Barnagore _ghât_. Some
women had come to the riverside to draw water: as soon as they
saw the master, they veiled their faces slightly and began to
chatter hard to each other, laughing quietly the while. 'Ha
what a lovely bridegroom!' they cried, 'what a sweet _champac_
flower for a lucky girl to fondle in her braided hair!' Said
one of them: 'Old or young, whichever he may be, the girl will
have no difficulty in seeing him with her eyes: that of itself
is something. May the wretched lot that has befallen me befall
no one else: married at the age of six, I have never even set
eyes on my husband. I have heard that he has married some fifty
wives, and is over eighty years of age; and though he is such a
wretched tottering old man, he never makes any objection to marry
if he is only well paid for it. Sorely some great crimes must have
been committed in former births, or else daughters would never be
born into a Kulin's family!' 'My dear,' said another woman to her,
'you have finished drawing water now: come along, you ought not to
gossip like this when you come to the riverside. Why, your husband
is alive, whereas the man I was married to was actually dying,
with his feet in the Ganges, when the ceremony of marriage was
performed! What possible good will it do to discuss the religious
duties of Kulin Brahmans? The secrets of the heart are best kept
locked up in the breast.'"
"It grieved me to listen to the talk of the women, and the
words of Beni Babu, which he spoke at the time of our departure,
recurred to my mind. Then on landing at the Barnagore _Ghât_,
there was a good deal of trouble in trying to get a _palki_, but
not a single bearer was to be had, and the time for the ceremony
was fast slipping away. We had to proceed as best we could. After
a good deal of floundering about in the mud, we reached the house
of the bride's father. How can I describe to you the figure that
the master presented after he had tumbled down in the road? we had
only to put him upon an ox, for him to have appeared a veritable
Mahadeva, and we might have presented Thakchacha and Bakreswar as
Nandi and Bhringi in attendance upon him. I had heard rumours that
there would be a large distribution of presents, but on getting up
to the great hall, I saw that there was to be nothing of the sort:
it was all a delusion, and another illustration of the old proverb,
-- 'Sand has fallen into the _goor_.' Thakchacha, seeing his
hopes destroyed, was glaring around him everywhere, and strutting
insolently about. I could not help smiling to myself, but I thought
it would be safer not to express my real sentiments. The bridegroom
had meanwhile withdrawn for the ceremonies performed by the women
of the family. The women, old and young, all surrounded him,
their ornaments jingling as they moved about They were horrified
when they saw the bridegroom. During the performance of the
ceremony, when bride and bridegroom gaze into each other's eyes,
he was obliged to put his spectacles on: the women all burst out
laughing and began to make fun of him. He flew into a passion and
called out, 'Thakchacha! Thakchacha!' Thakchacha was just on
the point of running into the women's apartments, when the people
belonging to the party of the bride's father got him on the ground.
Bancharam Babu was pugnacious, and got well thrashed. Bakreswar
Babu was hustled about so that he resembled a pigeon with swollen
neck. When I saw the disturbance, I left the bridegroom's party
and joined that of the bride. What became of everybody in the end
I cannot say, but Thakchacha had to return home in a _dooly_. You
all know the saying-- 'In avarice is sin, and in sin death.'
Now listen to the poetry I have composed":--
Any counsel his parasite pours in his ears,
Baburam, the old dotard, as gospel reveres.
Still dreaming of riches by day and by night,
No thought ever stirs him of wrong or of right.
In saving and getting he squanders his life,
And lately it struck him, "I'll marry a wife!"
"Fie! you're old," cry his friends, "and what can you need more?
"You've your wife and your children, with grandsons in store?"
But their kindly advice for themselves they may keep"
At a trifle like bigamy, fortunes go cheap!
So all in a flurry he orders a boat,
And with kinsmen and servants is shortly afloat.
Good Beni's remonstrance he haughtily spurns,
Who home to his rice unrewarded returns.
Becharam is disgusted, and toddles away:
"Thakchacha, you scoundrel!" was all he could say.
But the Barnagore women such volleys of jeers
Exchange through their _chudders_ where'er he appears,
That the bridegroom gets nervous, and asks in affright,
"Can I really be such a ridiculous sight?
"Is some further expenditure needed, alas?"
And anxiously studies his face in the glass.
Reassured of his beauty, and freed from alarm
He swaggers along, upon Thakchacha's arm.
But scarce is he rid of that terrible doubt,
When in mud like a pumpkin he's tumbling about;
And his friends in the mire as they flounder half-dead,
See the Halls, not of Hymen but Pluto ahead.
And indeed it turns out, when he's taken the yoke[33],
That his vision connubial has vanished in smoke;
For the cluster of pearls he was hoping to claim,
And the gold and the silver, were nought but a name!
Thakchacha, outwitted, with furious scowl
Glares round him, scarce able to stifle a howl.
And oh, when its time for the bridegroom to enter
The ladies' domain[34], of what mirth he's the centre!
Every bangle a-jangle, around him they flutter,
And flout him and scout him till scarce he can stutter.
"This pot-bellied dotard to wed with a baby!
"This bloated old octogenarian gaby!
"With a head like a gourd, not a tooth to his gum!
"'Tis an overgrown ogre in spectacles come!
"And the child, the sweet blossom, our jewel so rare!
"Ah, shame on the Kulins, such deeds who can dare!"
While, shrinking and blinking and all of a shiver,
The bridegroom, a captive whom none will deliver,
Cries feebly as one in the direst of pain,
"To the rescue, Thakchacha!" again and again.
That hero leaps in at the piteous sound,
But is seized by the _durwans_ and hurled to the ground.
The remains of his beard he may rescue to-day,
But a terrible hiding's his share of the prey.
The guests, who consider it risky to stay,
Have other engagements, and hasten away.
Your servant, the tumult increasing still more,
Not without some temerity, made for the door,
And retired, with a fortitude second to none.
All hail to you, masters! my story is done.