Broken Ties and other Stories/Giribala
Translated by the Author.
Giribala is overflowing with the exuberance of her youth that seems spilling over all around her, in the folds of her dress, the turning of her neck, the motion of her hands, in the rhythm of her steps, now quick, now languid, in her tinkling anklets and ringing laughter, in her voice and her swift glances. Often she is seen, wrapt in a blue silk, walking on her terrace, in an impulse of unmeaning restlessness. Her limbs seem eager to dance to the time of an inner music unceasing and unheard. She takes pleasure in merely moving her body, causing ripples to break out in the flood of her young life. Suddenly she will pluck a leaf from a plant in the flower-pot, and throw it up in the sky, and her bangles give a sudden tinkle and the careless grace of her hand, like a bird freed from its cage, flies unseen in the air. With her swift fingers she brushes away from her dress a mere nothing; standing on tiptoe she peeps over her terrace walls for no cause whatever, and then with a rapid motion turns round to go to another direction, swinging her bunch of keys tied to a corner of her garment. She loosens her hair in an untimely caprice, sitting before her mirror to do it up again, and then in a fit of laziness flings herself upon her bed like a line of stray moonlight, slipping through some opening of the leaves, idling in the shadow.
She has no children and, having been married into a wealthy family, has very little work to do. Thus she seems daily accumulating her own self without expenditure till the vessel is brimming over with the seething surplus. She has her husband, but not under her control. She has grown up from a girl into a woman, and yet through familiarity escaping her husband’s notice.
When she was newly married, and her husband, Gopinath, was attending his college, he would often play the truant and, under cover of the mid-day siesta of his elders, secretly come to make love to Giribala. Though they lived under the same roof he would create occasions to send her letters on tinted notepaper perfumed with rosewater, and even would gloat upon exaggerated grievances over some imaginary neglect of love.
Just then his father died, and he became the sole owner of his property. Like an unseasoned piece of timber, the immature youth of Gopinath attracted parasites that began to bore into his substance. From now his movements took the course which led him in a contrary direction from his wife.
There is a dangerous fascination in being a leader of men, to which has succumbed many a strong soul. To be accepted as the leader of a small circle of sycophants in his own parlour has the same fearful attraction for a man who suffers from a scarcity of brains and character. Gopinath assumed the part of a hero among his friends and acquaintances, and tried daily to invent new wonders in all manner of extravagance. He won a reputation among his followers for his audacity of excesses, which goaded him not only to keep up his fame but to surpass himself at all costs.
In the meanwhile, Giribala in the seclusion of her lonely youth felt like a queen who had her throne but no subjects. She knew she had the power in her hand which could make the world of men her captive, only that world itself was missing.
Giribala has a maid-servant whose name is Sudha. She can sing and dance and improvise verses, and she freely gives expression to her regret that such a beauty as that of her mistress should be dedicated to a fool who forgets to enjoy that which he has in his possession. Giribala is never tired of hearing from her the details of her charms of beauty, while at the same time contradicting her, calling her a liar and flatterer, exciting her to swear by all that is sacred that she is earnest in her admiration—which statement, even without the accompaniment of a solemn oath, is not difficult for Giribala to believe.
Sudha used to sing to her a song beginning with the line, ‘Let me write myself a slave upon the soles of thy feet,’ and Giribala in her imagination could feel that her beautiful feet were fully worthy of bearing inscriptions of everlasting slavery from conquered hearts, if only they could be free in their career of conquest.
But the woman to whom her husband Gopinath has surrendered himself as a slave is Lavanga, the actress, who has the reputation of playing to perfection the part of a maiden languishing in hopeless love, and swooning on the stage with an exquisite naturalness. Before her husband had altogether vanished from her sphere of influence, Giribala had often heard from him about the wonderful histrionic powers of this woman, and in her jealous curiosity had greatly desired to see Lavanga on the stage. But she could not secure her husband’s consent, because Gopinath was firm in his opinion that the theatre was a place not fit for any decent woman to visit.
At last she paid for a seat, and sent Sudha to see this famous actress in one of her best parts. The account that she received from her on her return was far from flattering to Lavanga, either as to her personal appearance or as to her stage accomplishments. Since, for obvious reasons, she had great faith in Sudha’s power of appreciation where it was due, she did not hesitate to believe in her description of Lavanga which was accompanied by mimicry of a ludicrous mannerism.
When at last her husband deserted her in his infatuation for this woman, she began to feel qualms of doubt. But as Sudha repeatedly asserted her former opinion with a greater vehemence, comparing Lavanga to a piece of burnt log dressed up in a woman’s clothes, Giribala determined secretly to go to the theatre herself and settle this question for good.
And she did go there one night with all the excitement of a forbidden entry. Her very trepidation of heart lent a special charm to what she saw there. She gazed at the faces of the spectators, lit up with an unnatural shine of lamplight; and, with the magic of its music and the painted canvas of its scenery, the theatre seemed to her like a world where society was suddenly freed from its law of gravitation.
Coming from her walled-up terrace and joyless home, she had entered a region where dreams and reality had clasped their hands in friendship, over the wine-cup of art.
The bell rang, the orchestra music stopped, the audience sat still in their seats, the stage lights shone brighter, and the curtain was drawn up. Suddenly appeared in the light from the mystery of the unseen the shepherd girls of the Vrinda forest, and with the accompaniment of songs commenced their dance, punctuated with the uproarious applause of the audience. The blood began to throb all over Giribala’s body, and she forgot for the moment that her life was limited to her circumstances, and that she had not been set free in a world where all laws had melted in music.
Sudha came occasionally to interrupt her with anxious whispers, urging her to hasten back home for fear of being detected. But she paid no heed to the warning, for her sense of fear had gone.
The play goes on. Krishna has given offence to his beloved Radha, and she in her wounded pride refuses to recognise him. He is entreating her, abasing himself at her feet, but in vain. Giribala’s heart seems to swell. She imagines herself as the offended Radha; and feels that she also has in her this woman’s power to vindicate her pride. She had heard what a force was woman’s beauty in the world, but to-night it became to her palpable.
At last the curtain dropped, the light became dim, the audience got ready to leave the theatre, but Giribala sat still like one in a dream. The thought that she would have to go home had vanished from her mind. She waited for the curtain to rise again and the eternal theme of Krishna’s humiliation at the feet of Radha to continue. But Sudha came to remind her that the play had ended, and the lamps would soon be put out.
It was late when Giribala came back home. A kerosene lamp was dimly burning in the melancholy solitude and silence of her room. Near her window upon her lonely bed a mosquito curtain was slightly moving in a gentle breeze. Her world seemed to her distasteful and mean, like a rotten fruit swept into the dustbin.
From now she regularly visited the theatre every Saturday. The fascination of her first sight of it lost much of its glamour. The painted vulgarity of the actresses and the falseness of their affectation became more and more evident, yet the habit grew upon her. Every time the curtain rose the window of her life’s prison-house seemed to open before her, and the stage, bordered off from the world of reality by its gilded frame and scenic display, by its array of lights and even its flimsiness of conventionalism, appeared to her like a fairyland, where it was not impossible for herself to occupy the throne of the fairy queen.
When for the first time she saw her husband among the audience shouting his drunken admiration for a certain actress, she felt an intense disgust, and prayed in her mind that a day might come when she might have an opportunity to spurn him away with her contempt. But the opportunity seemed remoter every day, for Gopinath was hardly ever to be seen at his home now, being carried away, one knew not where, in the centre of a dust-storm of dissipation.
One evening in the month of March, in the light of the full moon, Giribala was sitting on her terrace dressed in her cream-coloured robe. It was her habit daily to deck herself with jewelry, as if for some festive occasion. For these costly gems were like wine to her—they sent heightened consciousness of beauty to her limbs; she felt like a plant in spring tingling with the impulse of flowers in all its branches. She wore a pair of diamond bracelets on her arms, a necklace of rubies and pearls on her neck, and a ring with a big sapphire on the little finger of her left hand. Sudha was sitting near her bare feet, admiringly touching them with her hand, and expressing her wish that she were a man privileged to offer his life as homage to such a pair of feet.
Sudha gently hummed a love-song to her, and the evening wore on to night. Everybody in the household had finished the evening meal, and gone to sleep. Then suddenly Gopinath appeared reeking with scent and liquor, and Sudha, drawing her sari over her face, hastily ran away from the terrace.
Giribala thought for a moment that her day had come at last. She turned away her face, and sat silent.
But the curtain in her stage did not rise, and no song of entreaty came from her hero with the words:
Listen to the pleading of the moonlight, my love, and hide not thy face.
In his dry unmusical voice Gopinath said: ‘Give me your keys.’
A gust of south wind like a sigh of the insulted romance of the poetic world scattered all over the terrace the smell of the night-blooming jasmines, and loosened some wisp of hair on Giribala’s cheek. She let go her pride, and got up and said: ‘You shall have your keys if you listen to what I have to say.’
Gopinath said: ‘I cannot delay. Give me your keys,’
Giribala said: ‘I will give you the keys and everything that is in the safe, but you must not leave me.’
Gopinath said: ‘That cannot be. I have urgent business.’
‘Then you shan’t have the keys,’ said Giribala.
Gopinath began to search for them. He opened the drawers of the dressing-table, broke open the lid of the box that contained Giribala’s toilet requisites, smashed the glass panes of her almirah, groped under the pillows and mattress of the bed, bur the keys he could not find. Giribala stood near the door stiff and silent, like a marble image gazing at vacancy. Trembling with rage, Gopinath came to her, and said with an angry growl: ‘Give me your keys or you will repent it.’
Giribala did not answer, and Gopinath, pinning her to the wall, snatched away by force her bracelets, necklace and ring, and, giving her a parting kick, went away.
Nobody in the house woke up from his sleep, none in the neighbourhood knew of this outrage, the moonlight remained placid, and the peace of the night undisturbed. Hearts can be rent never to heal again amidst such serene silence.
The next morning Giribala said she was going to see her father, and left home. As Gopinath’s present destination was not known, and she was not responsible to anybody else in the house, her absence was not noticed.
The new play of Manorama was on rehearsal in the theatre where Gopinath was a constant visitor. Lavanga was practising for the part of the heroine Manorama, and Gopinath, sitting in the front seat with his rabble of followers, would vociferously encourage his favourite actress with his approbation. This greatly disturbed the rehearsal, but the proprietors of the theatre did not dare to annoy a patron of whose vindictiveness they were afraid. But one day he went so far as to molest an actress in the green-room, and he had to be turned away with the aid of the police.
Gopinath determined to take his revenge, and when, after a great deal of preparation and shrieking advertisements, the new play Manorama was about to be produced, Gopinath took away the principal actress Lavanga with him, and disappeared. It was a great shock to the manager, who had to postpone the opening night, get hold of a new actress, and teach her the part, bringing out the play before the public with considerable misgivings in his mind.
But the success was as unexpected as it was unprecedented. When the news reached Gopinath, he could not resist the curiosity to come and see the performance.
The play opens with Manorama living in her husband’s house neglected and hardly noticed. Near the end of the drama her husband deserts her, and, concealing his first marriage, manages to marry a millionaire’s daughter. When the wedding ceremony is over, and the bridal veil is raised from her face, she is discovered to be the same Manorama, only no longer the former drudge, but queenly in her beauty and splendour of dress and ornaments. In her infancy she had been brought up in a poor home, having been kidnapped from the house of her rich father. He, having traced her to her husband’s home, brings her back to him, and celebrates her marriage once again in a fitting manner.
In the concluding scene, when the husband is going through his period of penitence and humiliation, as is fit in a play which has a moral, a sudden disturbance arose among the audience. So long as Manorama appeared obscured in her position of drudgery Gopinath showed no sign of perturbation; but when after the wedding ceremony she came out dressed in her red bridal robe, and took her veil off, when with majestic pride of her overwhelming beauty she turned her face towards the audience and, slightly bending her neck, shot a fiery glance of exultation at Gopinath, applause broke out in wave after wave, and the enthusiasm of the spectators became unbounded.
Suddenly Gopinath cried out in a thick voice, ‘Giribala,’ and like a madman tried to rush upon the stage. The audience shouted, ‘Turn him out,’ the police came to drag him away, and he struggled and screamed, ‘I will kill her,’ while the curtain dropped.