In Bengal the machinery of time being thus suddenly run at full
pressure, things which were difficult became easy, one following
soon after another. Nothing could be held back any more, even in
our corner of the country. In the beginning our district was
backward, for my husband was unwilling to put any compulsion on
the villagers. "Those who make sacrifices for their country's
sake are indeed her servants," he would say, "but those who
compel others to make them in her name are her enemies. They
would cut freedom at the root, to gain it at the top."
But when Sandip came and settled here, and his followers began to
move about the country, speaking in towns and market-places,
waves of excitement came rolling up to us as well. A band of
young fellows of the locality attached themselves to him, some
even who had been known as a disgrace to the village. But the
glow of their genuine enthusiasm lighted them up, within as well
as without. It became quite clear that when the pure breezes of
a great joy and hope sweep through the land, all dirt and decay
are cleansed away. It is hard, indeed, for men to be frank and
straight and healthy, when their country is in the throes of
dejection.
Then were all eyes turned on my husband, from whose estates alone
foreign sugar and salt and cloths had not been banished. Even
the estate officers began to feel awkward and ashamed over it.
And yet, some time ago, when my husband began to import country-
made articles into our village, he had been secretly and openly
twitted for his folly, by old and young alike. When
__Swadeshi__ had not yet become a boast, we had despised it
with all our hearts.
My husband still sharpens his Indian-made pencils with his
Indian-made knife, does his writing with reed pens, drinks his
water out of a bell-metal vessel, and works at night in the light
of an old-fashioned castor-oil lamp. But this dull, milk-and-
water __Swadeshi__ of his never appealed to us. Rather, we
had always felt ashamed of the inelegant, unfashionable furniture
of his reception-rooms, especially when he had the magistrate, or
any other European, as his guest.
My husband used to make light of my protests. "Why allow such
trifles to upset you?" he would say with a smile.
"They will think us barbarians, or at all events wanting in
refinement."
"If they do, I will pay them back by thinking that their
refinement does not go deeper than their white skins."
My husband had an ordinary brass pot on his writing-table which
he used as a flower-vase. It has often happened that, when I had
news of some European guest, I would steal into his room and put
in its place a crystal vase of European make. "Look here,
Bimala," he objected at length, "that brass pot is as unconscious
of itself as those blossoms are; but this thing protests its
purpose so loudly, it is only fit for artificial flowers."
The Bara Rani, alone, pandered to my husband's whims. Once she
comes panting to say: "Oh, brother, have you heard? Such lovely
Indian soaps have come out! My days of luxury are gone by;
still, if they contain no animal fat, I should like to try some."
This sort of thing makes my husband beam all over, and the house
is deluged with Indian scents and soaps. Soaps indeed! They are
more like lumps of caustic soda. And do I not know that what my
sister-in-law uses on herself are the European soaps of old,
while these are made over to the maids for washing clothes?
Another time it is: "Oh, brother dear, do get me some of these
new Indian pen-holders."
Her "brother" bubbles up as usual, and the Bara Rani's room
becomes littered with all kinds of awful sticks that go by the
name of __Swadeshi__ pen-holders. Not that it makes any
difference to her, for reading and writing are out of her line.
Still, in her writing-case, lies the selfsame ivory pen-holder,
the only one ever handled.
The fact is, all this was intended as a hit at me, because I
would not keep my husband company in his vagaries. It was no
good trying to show up my sister-in-law's insincerity; my
husband's face would set so hard, if I barely touched on it. One
only gets into trouble, trying to save such people from being
imposed upon!
The Bara Rani loves sewing. One day I could not help blurting
out: "What a humbug you are, sister! When your 'brother' is
present, your mouth waters at the very mention of __Swadeshi__
scissors, but it is the English-made article every time when you
work."
"What harm?" she replied. "Do you not see what pleasure it
gives him? We have grown up together in this house, since he was
a boy. I simply cannot bear, as you can, the sight of the smile
leaving his face. Poor dear, he has no amusement except this
playing at shop-keeping. You are his only dissipation, and you
will yet be his ruin!"
"Whatever you may say, it is not right to be double-faced," I
retorted.
My sister-in-law laughed out in my face. "Oh, our artless little
Chota Rani!--straight as a schoolmaster's rod, eh? But a woman
is not built that way. She is soft and supple, so that she may
bend without being crooked."
I could not forget those words: "You are his dissipation, and
will be his ruin!" Today I feel--if a man needs must have some
intoxicant, let it not be a woman.