FOR a time I was utterly at a loss to think of any way of getting
that money. Then, the other day, in the light of intense
excitement, suddenly the whole picture stood out clear before me.
Every year my husband makes a reverence-offering of six thousand
rupees to my sister-in-law at the time of the Durga Puja. Every
year it is deposited in her account at the bank in Calcutta.
This year the offering was made as usual, but it has not yet been
sent to the bank, being kept meanwhile in an iron safe, in a
corner of the little dressing-room attached to our bedroom.
Every year my husband takes the money to the bank himself. This
year he has not yet had an opportunity of going to town. How
could I fail to see the hand of Providence in this? The money
has been held up because the country wants it--who could have the
power to take it away from her to the bank? And how can I have
the power to refuse to take the money? The goddess revelling in
destruction holds out her blood-cup crying: "Give me drink. I am
thirsty." I will give her my own heart's blood with that five
thousand rupees. Mother, the loser of that money will scarcely
feel the loss, but me you will utterly ruin!
Many a time, in the old days, have I inwardly called the Senior
Rani a thief, for I charged her with wheedling money out of my
trusting husband. After her husband's death, she often used to
make away with things belonging to the estate for her own use.
This I used to point out to my husband, but he remained silent.
I would get angry and say: "If you feel generous, make gifts by
all means, but why allow yourself to be robbed?" Providence must
have smiled, then, at these complaints of mine, for tonight I am
on the way to rob my husband's safe of my sister-in-law's money.
My husband's custom was to let his keys remain in his pockets
when he took off his clothes for the night, leaving them in the
dressing-room. I picked out the key of the safe and opened it.
The slight sound it made seemed to wake the whole world! A
sudden chill turned my hands and feet icy cold, and I shivered
all over.
There was a drawer inside the safe. On opening this I found the
money, not in currency notes, but in gold rolled up in paper. I
had no time to count out what I wanted. There were twenty rolls,
all of which I took and tied up in a corner of my __sari__.
What a weight it was. The burden of the theft crushed my heart
to the dust. Perhaps notes would have made it seem less like
thieving, but this was all gold.
After I had stolen into my room like a thief, it felt like my own
room no longer. All the most precious rights which I had over it
vanished at the touch of my theft. I began to mutter to myself,
as though telling __mantrams: Bande Mataram, Bande Mataram__,
my Country, my golden Country, all this gold is for you, for none
else!
But in the night the mind is weak. I came back into the bedroom
where my husband was asleep, closing my eyes as I passed through,
and went off to the open terrace beyond, on which I lay prone,
clasping to my breast the end of the __sari__ tied over the
gold. And each one of the rolls gave me a shock of pain.
The silent night stood there with forefinger upraised. I could
not think of my house as separate from my country: I had robbed
my house, I had robbed my country. For this sin my house had
ceased to be mine, my country also was estranged from me. Had I
died begging for my country, even unsuccessfully, that would have
been worship, acceptable to the gods. But theft is never
worship--how then can I offer this gold? Ah me! I am doomed to
death myself, must I desecrate my country with my impious touch?
The way to put the money back is closed to me. I have not
the strength to return to the room, take again that key, open
once more that safe--I should swoon on the threshold of my
husband's door. The only road left now is the road in front.
Neither have I the strength deliberately to sit down and count
the coins. Let them remain behind their coverings: I cannot
calculate.
There was no mist in the winter sky. The stars were shining
brightly. If, thought I to myself, as I lay out there, I had to
steal these stars one by one, like golden coins, for my country--
these stars so carefully stored up in the bosom of the darkness--
then the sky would be blinded, the night widowed for ever, and my
theft would rob the whole world. But was not also this very
thing I had done a robbing of the whole world--not only of money,
but of trust, of righteousness?
I spent the night lying on the terrace. When at last it was
morning, and I was sure that my husband had risen and left the
room, then only with my shawl pulled over my head, could I
retrace my steps towards the bedroom.
My sister-in-law was about, with her brass pot, watering her
plants. When she saw me passing in the distance she cried: "Have
you heard the news, Chota Rani?"
I stopped in silence, all in a tremor. It seemed to me that the
rolls of sovereigns were bulging through the shawl. I feared
they would burst and scatter in a ringing shower, exposing to all
the servants of the house the thief who had made herself
destitute by robbing her own wealth.
"Your band of robbers," she went on, "have sent an anonymous
message threatening to loot the treasury."