When I was a very young wife, I gave birth to a dead child, and came near to death myself. I recovered strength very slowly, and my eyesight became weaker and weaker.
My husband at this time was studying medicine. He was not altogether sorry to have a chance of testing his medical knowledge on me. So he began to treat my eyes himself.
My elder brother was reading for his law examination. One day he came to see me, and was alarmed at my condition.
“What are you doing?” he said to my husband. “You are ruining Kumo’s eyes. You ought to consult a good doctor at once.”
My husband said irritably: “Why! what can a good doctor do more than I am doing? The case is quite a simple one, and the remedies are all well known.”
Dada answered with scorn: “I suppose you think there is no difference between you and a Professor in your own Medical College.”
My husband replied angrily: “If you ever get married, and there is a dispute about your wife’s property, you won’t take my advice about Law. Why, then, do you now come advising me about Medicine?”
While they were quarrelling, I was saying to myself that it was always the poor grass that suffered most when two kings went to war. Here was a dispute going on between these two, and I had to bear the brunt of it.
It also seemed to me very unfair that, when my family had given me in marriage, they should interfere afterwards. After all, my pleasure and pain are my husband’s concern, not theirs.
From that day forward, merely over this trifling matter of my eyes, the bond between my husband and Dada was strained.
To my surprise one afternoon, while my husband was away, Dada brought a doctor in to see me. He examined my eyes very carefully, and looked grave. He said that further neglect would be dangerous. He wrote out a prescription, and Dada for the medicine at once. When the strange doctor had gone, I implored my Dada not to interfere. I was sure that only evil would come from the stealthy visits of a doctor.
I was surprised at myself for plucking up courage speak to my brother like that. I had always hitherto been afraid of him. I am sure also that Dada was surprised at my boldness. He kept silence for a while, and then said to me: “Very well, Kumo. I won’t call in the doctor any more. But when the medicine comes you must take it.”
Dada then went away. The medicine came from chemist. I took it—bottles, powders, prescriptions and all—and threw it down the well!
My husband had been irritated by Dada’s interference, and he began to treat my eyes with greater diligence than ever. He tried all sorts of remedies. I bandaged my eyes as he told me, I wore his coloured glasses, I put in his drops, I took all his powders. I even drank the cod-liver oil he gave me, though my gorge rose against it.
Each time he came back from the hospital, he would ask me anxiously how I felt; and I would answer: “Oh! much better.” Indeed I became an expert in self-delusion. When I found that the water in my eyes was still increasing, I would console myself with the thought that it was a good thing to get rid of so much bad fluid; and, when the flow of water in my eyes decreased, I was elated at my husband’s skill.
But after a while the agony became unbearable. My eyesight faded away, and I had continual headaches day and night. I saw how much alarmed my husband was getting. I gathered from his manner that he was casting about for a pretext to call in a doctor. So I hinted that it might be as well to call one in.
That he was greatly relieved, I could see. He called in an English doctor that very day. I do not know what talk they had together, but I gathered that the Sahib had spoken very sharply to my husband.
He remained silent for some time after the doctor had gone. I took his hands in mine, and said: “What an ill-mannered brute that was! Why didn’t you call in an Indian doctor? That would have been much better. Do you think that man knows better than you do about my eyes?”
My husband was very silent for a moment, and then said with a broken voice: “Kumo, your eyes must be operated on.”
I pretended to be vexed with him for concealing the fact from me so long.
“Here you have known this all the time,” said I, “and yet you have said nothing about it! Do you think I am such a baby as to be afraid of an operation?”
At that he regained his good spirits: “There are very few men,” said he, “who are heroic enough to look forward to an operation without shrinking.”
I laughed at him: “Yes, that is so. Men are heroic only before their wives!”
He looked at me gravely, and said: “You are perfectly right. We men are dreadfully vain.”
I laughed away his seriousness: “Are you sure you can beat us women even in vanity?”
When Dada came, I took him aside: “Dada, that treatment your doctor recommended would have done me a world of good; only unfortunately. I mistook the mixture for the lotion. And since the day I made the mistake, my eyes have grown steadily worse; and now an operation is needed.”
Dada said to me: “You were under your husband’s treatment, and that is why I gave up coming to visit you.”
“No,” I answered. “In reality, I was secretly treating myself in accordance with your doctor’s directions.”
Oh! what lies we women have to tell! When we are mothers, we tell lies to pacify our children; and when we are wives, we tell lies to pacify the fathers of our children. We are never free from this necessity.
My deception had the effect of bringing about a better feeling between my husband and Dada. Dada blamed himself for asking me to keep a secret from my husband: and my husband regretted that he had not taken my brother’s advice at the first.
At last, with the consent of both, an English doctor came, and operated on my left eye. That eye, however, was too weak to bear the strain; and the last flickering glimmer of light went out. Then the other eye gradually lost itself in darkness.
One day my husband came to my bedside. “I cannot brazen it out before you any longer,” said he, “Kumo, it is I who have ruined your eyes.”
I felt that his voice was choking with tears, and so I took up his right hand in both of mine and said: “Why! you did exactly what was right. You have dealt only with that which was your very own. Just imagine, if some strange doctor had come and taken away my eyesight. What consolation should I have had then? But now I can feel that all has happened for the best; and my great comfort is to know that it is at your hands I have lost my eyes. When Ramchandra found one lotus too few with which to worship God, he offered both his eyes in place of the lotus. And I hate dedicated my eyes to my God. From now, whenever you see something that is a joy to you, then you must describe it to me; and I will feed upon your words as a sacred gift left over from your vision.”
I do not mean, of course, that I said all this there and then, for it is impossible to speak these things an the spur of the moment. But I used to think over words like these for days and days together. And when I was very depressed, or if at any time the light of my devotion became dim, and I pitied my evil fate, then I made my mind utter these sentences, one by one, as a child repeats a story that is told. And so I could breathe once more the serener air of peace and love.
At the very time of our talk together, I said enough to show my husband what was in my heart.
“Kumo,” he said to me, “the mischief I have done by my folly can never be made good. But I can do one thing. I can ever remain by your side, and try to make up for your want of vision as much as is in my power.”
“No,” said I. “That will never do. I shall not ask you to turn your house into an hospital for the blind. There is only one thing to be done, you must marry again.”
As I tried to explain to him that this was necessary, my voice broke a little. I coughed, and tried to hide my emotion, but he burst out saying:
“Kumo, I know I am a fool, and a braggart, and all that, but I am not a villain! If ever I marry again, I swear to you—I swear to you the most solemn oath by my family god, Gopinath—may that most hated of all sins, the sin of parricide, fall on my head!”
Ah! I should never, never have allowed him to swear that dreadful oath. But tears were choking my voice, and I could not say a word for insufferable joy. I hid my blind face in my pillows, and sobbed, and sobbed again. At last, when the first flood of my tears was over, I drew his head down to my breast.
“Ah!” said I, “why did you take such a terrible oath? Do you think I asked you to marry again for your own sordid pleasure? No! I was thinking of myself, for she could perform those services which were mine to give you when I had my sight.”
“Services!” said he, “services! Those can be done by servants. Do you think I am mad enough to bring a slave into my house, and bid her share the throne with this my Goddess?”
As he said the word “Goddess,” he held up my face in his hands, and placed a kiss between my brows. At that moment the third eye of divine wisdom was opened, where he kissed me, and verily I had a consecration.
I said in my own mind: “It is well. I am no longer able to serve him in the lower world of household cares. But I shall rise to a higher region. I shall bring down blessings from above. No more lies! No more deceptions for me! All the littlenesses and hypocrisies of my former life shall be banished for ever!”
That day, the whole day through, I felt a conflict going on within me. The joy of the thought, that after this solemn oath it was impossible for my husband to marry again, fixed its roots deep in my heart, and I could not tear them out. But the new Goddess, who had taken her new throne in me, said: “The time might come when it would be good for your husband to break his oath and marry again.” But the woman, who was within me, said: “That may be; but all the same an oath is an oath, and there is no way out.” The Goddess, who was within me, answered: “That is no reason why you should exult over it.” But the woman, who was within me, replied: “What you say is quite true, no doubt; all the same he has taken his oath.” And the same story went on again and again. At last the Goddess frowned in silence, and the darkness of a horrible fear came down upon me.
My repentant husband would not let the servants do my work; he must do it all himself. At first it gave me unbounded delight to be dependent on him thus for every little thing. It was a means of keeping him by my side, and my desire to have him with me had become intense since my blindness. That share of his presence, which my eyes had lost, my other senses craved. When he was absent from my side, I would feel as if I were hanging in mid-air, and had lost my hold of all things tangible.
Formerly, when my husband came back late from the hospital, I used to open my window and gaze at the road. That road was the link which connected his world with mine. Now when I had lost that link through my blindness, all my body would go out to seek him. The bridge that united us had given way, and there was now this unsurpassable chasm. When he left my side the gulf seemed to yawn wide open. I could only wait for the time when he should cross back again from his own shore to mine.
But such intense longing and such utter dependence can never be good. A wife is a burden enough to a man, in all conscience, and to add to it the burden of this blindness was to make his life unbearable. I vowed that I would suffer alone, and never wrap my husband round in the folds of my all-pervading darkness.
Within an incredibly short space of time I managed to train myself to do all my household duties by the help of touch and sound and smell. In fact I soon found that I could get on with greater skill than before. For sight often distracts rather than helps us. And so it came to pass that, when these roving eyes of mine could do their work no longer, all the other senses took up their several duties with quietude and completeness.
When I had gained experience by constant practice, I would not let my husband do any more household duties for me. He complained bitterly at first that I was depriving him of his penance.
This did not convince me. Whatever he might say, I could feel that he had a real sense of relief when these household duties were over. To serve daily a wife who is blind can never make up the life of a man.
My husband at last had finished his medical course. He went away from Calcutta to a small town to practise as a doctor. There in the country I felt with joy, through all my blindness, that I was restored to the arms of my mother. I had left my village birthplace for Calcutta when I was eight years old. Since then ten years had passed away, and in the great city the memory of my village home had grown dim. As long as I had eyesight, Calcutta with its busy life screened from view the memory of my early days. But when I lost my eyesight I knew for the first time that Calcutta allured only the eyes: it could not fill the mind. And now, in my blindness, the scenes of my childhood shone out once more, like stars that appear one by one in the evening sky at the end of the day.
It was the beginning of November when we left Calcutta for Harsingpur. The place was new to me, but the scents and sounds of the countryside pressed round and embraced me. The morning breeze coming fresh from the newly ploughed land, the sweet and tender smell of the flowering mustard, the shepherd-boy’s flute sounding in the distance, even the creaking noise of the bullock-cart, as it groaned over the broken village road, filled my world with delight. The memory of my past life, with all its ineffable fragrance and sound, became a living present to me, and my blind eyes could not tell me I was wrong. I went back, and lived over again my childhood. Only one thing was absent: my mother was not with me.
I could see my home with the large peepul trees growing along the edge of the village pool. I could picture in my mind’s eye my old grandmother seated on the ground with her thin wisps of hair untied, warming her back in the sun as she made the little round lentil balls to be dried and used for cooking. But somehow I could not recall the songs she used to croon to herself in her weak and quavering voice. In the evening, whenever I heard the lowing of cattle, I could almost watch the figure of my mother going round the sheds with lighted lamp in her hand. The smell of the wet fodder and the pungent smoke of the straw fire would enter into my very heart. And in the distance I seemed to hear the clanging of the temple bell wafted up by the breeze from the river bank.
Calcutta, with all its turmoil and gossip, curdles the heart. There, all the beautiful duties of life lose their freshness and innocence. I remember one day, when a friend of mine came in, and said to me: “Kumo, why don’t you feel angry? If I had been treated like you by my husband, I would never look upon his face again.”
She tried to make me indignant, because he had been so long calling in a doctor.
“My blindness,” said I, “was itself a sufficient evil. Why should I make it worse by allowing hatred to grow up against my husband?”
My friend shook her head in great contempt, when she heard such old-fashioned talk from the lips of a mere chit of a girl. She went away in disdain. But whatever might be my answer at the time, such words as these left their poison; and the venom was never wholly got out of the soul, when once they had been uttered.
So you see Calcutta, with its never-ending gossip, does harden the heart. But when I came back to the country all my earlier hopes and faiths, all that I held true in life during childhood, became fresh and bright once more. God came to me, and filled my heart and my world. I bowed to Him, and said:
“It is well that Thou has taken away my eyes. Thou art with me.”
Ah! But I said more than was right. It was a presumption to say: “Thou art with me.” All we can say is this: “I must be true to Thee.” Even when nothing is left for us, still we have to go on living.
We passed a few happy months together. My husband gained some reputation in his profession as a doctor. And money came with it.
But there is a mischief in money. I cannot point to any one event; but, because the blind have keener perceptions than other people, I could discern the change which came over my husband along with the increase of wealth.
He had a keen sense of justice when he was younger, and had often told me of his great desire to help the poor when once he obtained a practice of his own. He had a noble contempt far those in his profession who would not feel the pulse of a poor patient before collecting his fee. But now I noticed a difference. He had become strangely hard. Once when a poor woman came, and begged him, out of charity, to save the life of her only child, he bluntly refused. And when I implored him myself to help her, he did his work perfunctorily.
While we were less rich my husband disliked sharp practice in money matters. He was scrupulously honourable in such things. But since he had got a large account at the bank he was often closeted for hours with some scamp of a landlord’s agent, for purposes which clearly boded no good.
Where has he drifted? What has become of this husband of mine,—the husband I knew before I was blind; the husband who kissed me that day between my brows, and enshrined me on the throne of a Goddess? Those whom a sudden gust of passion brings down to the dust can rise up again with a new strong impulse of goodness. But those who, day by day, become dried up in the very fibre of their moral being; those who by some outer parasitic growth choke the inner life by slow degrees,—such wench one day a deadness which knows no healing.
The separation caused by blindness is the merest physical trifle. But, ah! it suffocates me to find that he is no longer with me, where he stood with me in that hour when we both knew that I was blind. That is a separation indeed!
I, with my love fresh and my faith unbroken, have kept to the shelter of my heart’s inner shrine. But my husband has left the cool shade of those things that are ageless and unfading. He is fast disappearing into the barren, waterless waste in his mad thirst for gold.
Sometimes the suspicion comes to me that things not so bad as they seem: that perhaps I exaggerate because I am blind. It may be that, if my eyesight were unimpaired, I should have accepted world as I found it. This, at any rate, was the light in which my husband looked at all my moods and fancies.
One day an old Musalman came to the house. He asked my husband to visit his little grand-daughter. I could hear the old man say: “Baba, I am a poor man; but come with me, and Allah will do you good.” My husband answered coldly: “What Allah will do won’t help matters; I want to know what you can do for me.”
When I heard it, I wondered in my mind why God had not made me deaf as well as blind. The old man heaved a deep sigh, and departed. I sent my maid to fetch him to my room. I met him at the door of the inner apartment, and put some money into his hand.
“Please take this from me,” said I, “for your little grand-daughter, and get a trustworthy doctor to look after her. And-pray for my husband.”
But the whole of that day I could take no food at all. In the afternoon, when my husband got up from sleep, he asked me: “Why do you look so pale?”
I was about to say, as I used to do in the past: “Oh! It’s nothing “; but those days of deception were over, and I spoke to him plainly.
“I have been hesitating,” I said, “for days together to tell you something. It has been hard to think out what exactly it was I wanted to say. Even now I may not be able to explain what I had in my mind. But I am sure you know what has happened. Our lives have drifted apart.”
My husband laughed in a forced manner, and said: “Change is the law of nature.”
I said to him: “I know that. But there are some things that are eternal.”
Then he became serious.
“There are many women,” said he, “who have a real cause for sorrow. There are some whose husbands do not earn money. There are others whose husbands do not love them. But you are making yourself wretched about nothing at all.”
Then it became clear to me that my very blindness had conferred on me the power of seeing a world which is beyond all change. Yes! It is true. I am not like other women. And my husband will never understand me.
Our two lives went on with their dull routine for some time. Then there was a break in the monotony. An aunt of my husband came to pay us a visit.
The first thing she blurted out after our first greeting was this: “Well, Krum, it’s a great pity you have become blind; but why do you impose your own affliction on your husband? You must get him to another wife.”
There was an awkward pause. If my husband had only said something in jest, or laughed in her face, all would have been over. But he stammered and hesitated, and said at last in a nervous, stupid way: “Do you really think so? Really, Aunt, you shouldn’t talk like that.”
His aunt appealed to me. “Was I wrong, Kumo?”
I laughed a hollow laugh.
“Had not you better,” said I, “consult some one more competent to decide? The pickpocket never asks permission from the man whose pocket he is going to pick.”
“You are quite right,” she replied blandly. “Abinash, my dear, let us have our little conference in private. What do you say to that?”
After a few days my husband asked her, in my presence, if she knew of any girl of a decent family who could come and help me in my household work. He knew quite well that I needed no help. I kept silence.
“Oh! there are heaps of them,” replied his aunt. “My cousin has a daughter who is just of the marriageable age, and as nice a girl as you could wish. Her people would be only too glad to secure you as a husband.”
Again there came from him that forced, hesitating laugh, and he said: “But I never mentioned marriage.”
“How could you expect,” asked his aunt, “a girl of decent family to come and live in your house without marriage?”
He had to admit that this was reasonable, and remained nervously silent.
I stood alone within the closed doors of my blindness after he had gone, and called upon my God and prayed: “O God, save my husband.”
When I was coming out of the household shrine from my morning worship a few days later, his aunt took hold of both my hands warmly.
“Kumo, here is the girl,” said she, “we were speaking about the other day. Her name is Hemangini. She will be delighted to meet you. Hemo, come here and be introduced to your sister.”
My husband entered the room at the same moment. He feigned surprise when he saw the strange girl, and was about to retire. But his aunt said: “Abinash, my dear, what are you running away for? There is no need to do that. Here is my cousin’s daughter, Hemangini, come to see you. Hemo, make your bow to him.”
As if taken quite by surprise, he began to ply his aunt with questions about the when and why and how of the new arrival.
I saw the hollowness of the whole thing, and took Hemangini by the hand and led her to my own room. I gently stroked her face and arms and hair, and found that she was about fifteen years old, and very beautiful.
As I felt her face, she suddenly burst out laughing and said: “Why! what are you doing? Are you hypnotising me?”
That sweet ringing laughter of hers swept away in a moment all the dark clouds that stood between us. I threw my right arm about her neck.
“Dear one,” said I, “I am trying to see you.” And again I stroked her soft face with my left hand.
“Trying to see me?” she said, with a new burst of laughter. “Am I like a vegetable marrow, grown in your garden, that you want to feel me all round to see how soft I am?”
I suddenly bethought me that she did not know I had lost my sight.
“Sister, I am blind,” said I.
She was silent. I could feel her big young eyes, full of curiosity, peering into my face. I knew they were full of pity. Then she grew thoughtful and puzzled, and said, after a short pause:
“Oh! I see now. That was the reason your husband invited his aunt to come and stay here.”
“No!” I replied, “you are quite mistaken. He did not ask her to come. She came of her own accord.”
Hemangini went off into a peal of laughter. “That’s just like my aunt,” said she. “Oh I wasn’t it nice of her to come without any invitation? But now she’s come, you won’t get her to move for some time, I can assure you!”
Then she paused, and looked puzzled.
“But why did father send me?” she asked. “Can you tell me that?”
The aunt had come into the room while we were talking. Hemangini said to her: “When are you thinking of going back, Aunt?”
The aunt looked very much upset.
“What a question to ask!” said she, “I’ve never seen such a restless body as you. We’ve only just come, and you ask when we’re going back!”
“It is all very well for you,” Hemangini said, “for this house belongs to your near relations. But what about me? I tell you plainly I can’t stop here.” And then she held my hand and said: “What do you think, dear?”
I drew her to my heart, but said nothing. The aunt was in a great difficulty. She felt the situation was getting beyond her control; so she proposed that she and her niece should go out together to bathe.
“No! we two will go together,” said Hemangini, clinging to me. The aunt gave in, fearing opposition if she tried to drag her away.
Going down to the river Hemangini asked me: “Why don’t you have children?”
I was startled by her question, and answered: “How can I tell? My God has not given me any. That is the reason.”
“No! That’s not the reason,” said Hemangini quickly. “You must have committed some sin. Look at my aunt. She is childless. It must be because her heart has some wickedness. But what wickedness is in your heart?”
The words hurt me. I have no solution to offer for the problem of evil. I sighed deeply, and said in the silence of my soul: “My God! Thou knowest the reason.”
“Gracious goodness,” cried Hemangini, “what are you sighing for? No one ever takes me seriously.”
And her laughter pealed across the river.
I found out after this that there were constant interruptions in my husband’s professional duties. He refused all calls from a distance, and would hurry away from his patients, even when they were close at hand.
Formerly it was only during the mid-day meals and at night-time that he could come into the inner apartment. But now, with unnecessary anxiety for his aunt’s comfort, he began to visit her at all hours of the day. I knew at once that he had come to her room, when I heard her shouting for Hemangini to bring in a glass of water. At first the girl would do what she was told; but later on she refused altogether.
Then the aunt would call, in an endearing voice: “Hemo! Hemo! Hemangini.” But the girl would cling to me with an impulse of pity. A sense of dread and sadness would keep her silent. Sometimes she would shrink towards me like a hunted thing, who scarcely knew what was coming.
About this time my brother came down from Calcutta to visit me. I knew how keen his powers of observation were, and what a hard judge he was. I feared my husband would be put on his defence, and have to stand his trial before him. So I endeavoured to hide the true situation behind a mask of noisy cheerfulness. But I am afraid I overdid the part: it was unnatural for me.
My husband began to fidget openly, and asked how long my brother was going to stay. At last his impatience became little short of insulting, and my brother had no help for it but to leave. Before going he placed his hand on my head, and kept it there for some time. I noticed that his hand shook, and a tear fell from his eyes, as he silently gave me his blessing.
I well remember that it was an evening in April, and a market-day. People who had come into the town were going back home from market. There was the feeling of an impending storm in the air; the smell of the wet earth and the moisture in the wind were all-pervading. I never keep a lighted lamp in my bedroom, when I am alone, lest my clothes should catch fire, or some accident happen. I sat on the floor in my dark room, and called upon the God of my blind world.
“O my Lord,” I cried, “Thy face is hidden. I cannot see. I am blind. I hold tight this broken rudder of a heart till my hands bleed. The waves have become too strong for me. How long wilt thou try me, my God, how long?”
I kept my head prone upon the bedstead and began to sob. As I did so, I felt the bedstead move a little. The next moment Hemangini was by my side. She clung to my neck, and wiped my tears away silently. I do not know why she had been waiting that evening in the inner room, or why she had been lying alone there in the dusk. She asked me no question. She said no word. She simply placed her cool hand on my forehead, and kissed me, and departed.
The next morning Hemangini said to her aunt in my presence: “If you want to stay on, you can. But I don’t. I’m going away home with our family servant.”
The aunt said there was no need for her to go alone, for she was going away also. Then smilingly and mincingly she brought out, from a plush case, a ring set with pearls.
“Look, Hemo,” said she, “what a beautiful ring my Abinash brought for you.”
Hemangini snatched the ring from her hand.
“Look, Aunt,” she answered quickly, “just see how splendidly I aim.” And she flung the ring into the tank outside the window.
The aunt, overwhelmed with alarm, vexation, and surprise, bristled like a hedgehog. She turned to me, and held me by the hand.
“Kumo,” she repeated again and again, “don’t say a word about this childish freak to Abinash. He would be fearfully vexed.”
I assured her that she need not fear. Not a word would reach him about it from my lips.
The next day before starting for home Hemangini embraced me, and said: “Dearest, keep me in mind; do not forget me.”
I stroked her face over and over with my fingers, and said: “Sister, the blind have long memories.”
I drew her head towards me, and kissed her hair and her forehead. My world suddenly became grey. All the beauty and laughter and tender youth, which had nestled so close to me, vanished when Hemangini departed. I went groping about with arms outstretched, seeking to find out what was left in my deserted world.
My husband came in later. He affected a great relief now that they were gone, but it was exaggerated and empty. He pretended that his aunt’s visit had kept him away from work.
Hitherto there had been only the one barrier of blindness between me and my husband. Now another barrier was added,—this deliberate silence about Hemangini. He feigned utter indifference, but I knew he was having letters about her.
It was early in May. My maid entered my room one morning, and asked me: “What is all this preparation going on at the landing on the river? Where is Master going?”
I knew there was something impending, but I said to the maid: “I can’t say.”
The maid did not dare to ask me any more questions. She sighed, and went away.
Late that night my husband came to me.
“I have to visit a patient in the country,” said he. “I shall have to start very early to-morrow morning, and I may have to be away for two or three days.”
I got up from my bed. I stood before him, and cried aloud: “Why are you telling me lies?”
My husband stammered out: “What—what lies have I told you?”
I said: “You are going to get married.”
He remained silent. For some moments there was no sound in the room. Then I broke the silence:
“Answer me,” I cried. “Say, yes.”
He answered, “Yes,” like a feeble echo.
I shouted out with a loud voice: “No! I shall never allow you. I shall save you from this great disaster, this dreadful sin. If I fail in this, then why am I your wife, and why did I ever worship my God?”
The room remained still as a stone. I dropped on the floor, and clung to my husband’s knees.
“What have I done?” I asked. “Where have I been lacking? Tell me truly. Why do you want another wife?”
My husband said slowly: “I will tell you the truth. I am afraid of you. Your blindness has enclosed you in its fortress, and I have now no entrance. To me you are no longer a woman. You are awful as my God. I cannot live my every day life with you. I want a woman—just an ordinary woman—whom I can be free to chide and coax and pet and scold.”
Oh, tear open my heart and see! What am I else but that,—just an ordinary woman? I am the same girl that I was when I was newly wed, a girl with all her need to believe, to confide, to worship.
I do not recollect exactly the words that I uttered. I only remember that I said: “If I be a true wife, then, may God be my witness, you shall never do this wicked deed, you shall never break your oath. Before you commit such sacrilege, either I shall become a widow, or Hemangini shall die.”
Then I fell down on the floor in a swoon. When I came to myself, it was still dark. The birds were silent. My husband had gone.
All that day I sat at my worship in the sanctuary at the household shrine. In the evening a fierce storm, with thunder and lightning and rain, swept down upon the house and shook it. As I crouched before the shrine, I did not ask my God to save my husband from the storm, though he must have been at that time in peril on the river. I prayed that whatever might happen to me, my husband might be saved from this great sin.
Night passed. The whole of the next day I kept my seat at worship. When it was evening there was the noise of shaking and beating at the door. When the door was broken open, they found me lying unconscious on the ground, and carried me to my room.
When I came to myself at last, I heard some one whispering in my ear: “Sister.”
I found that I was lying in my room with my head on Hemangini’s lap. When my head moved, I heard her dress rustle. It was the sound of bridal silk.
O my God, my God! My prayer has gone unheeded! My husband has fallen!
Hemangini bent her head low, and said in a sweet whisper: “Sister, dearest, I have come to ask your blessing on our marriage.”
At first my whole body stiffened like the trunk of a tree that has been struck by lightning. Then I sat up, and said, painfully, forcing myself to speak the words: “Why should I not bless you? You have done no wrong.”
Hemangini laughed her merry laugh.
“Wrong!” said she. “When you married it was right; and when I marry, you call it wrong!”
I tried to smile in answer to her laughter. I said in my mind: “My prayer is not the final thing in this world. His will is all. Let the blows descend upon my head; but may they leave my faith and hope in God untouched.”
Hemangini bowed to me, and touched my feet. “May you be happy,” said I, blessing her, “and enjoy unbroken prosperity.”
Hemangini was still unsatisfied.
“Dearest sister,” she said, “a blessing for me is not enough. You must make our happiness complete. You must, with those saintly hands of yours, accept into your home my husband also. Let me bring him to you.”
I said: “Yes, bring him to me.”
A few moments later I heard a familiar footstep, and the question, “Kumo, how are you?”
I started up, and bowed to the ground, and cried: “Dada!”
Hemangini burst out laughing.
“You still call him elder brother?” she asked. “What nonsense! Call him younger brother now, and pull his ears and cease him, for he has married me, your younger sister.”
Then I understood. My husband had been saved from that great sin. He had not fallen.
I knew my Dada had determined never to marry. And, since my mother had died, there was no sacred wish of hers to implore him to wedlock. But I, his sister, by my sore need bad brought it to pass. He had married for my sake.
Tears of joy gushed from my eyes, and poured down my cheeks. I tried, but I could not stop them. Dada slowly passed his fingers through my hair. Hemangini clung to me, and went on laughing.
I was lying awake in my bed for the best part of the night, waiting with straining anxiety for my husband’s return. I could not imagine how he would bear the shock of shame and disappointment.
When it was long past the hour of midnight, slowly my door opened. I sat up on my bed, and listened. They were the footsteps of my husband. My heart began to beat wildly. He came up to my bed, held my band in his.
“Your Dada,” said he, “has saved me from destruction. I was being dragged down and down by a moments madness. An infatuation had seized me, from which I seemed unable to escape. God alone knows what a load I was carrying on that day when I entered the boat. The storm came down on river, and covered the sky. In the midst of all fears I had a secret wish in my heart to be drowned, and so disentangle my life from the knot which I had tied it. I reached Mathurganj. There I heard the news which set me free. Your brother had married Hemangini. I cannot tell you with what joy and shame I heard it. I hastened on board the boat again. In that moment of self-revelation I knew that I could have no happiness except with you. You are a Goddess.”
I laughed and cried at the same time, and said: “No, no, no! I am not going to be a Goddess any longer I am simply your own little wife. I am an ordinary woman.”
“Dearest,” he replied, “I have also something I want to say to you. Never again put me to shame by calling me your God.”
On the next day the little town became joyous with sound of conch shells. But nobody made any reference to that night of madness, when all was so nearly lost.