The Slave Girl of Agra/Book 3/Chapter 3
III. SHE KNEW HER DUTY
The Palace of Debipur was now filled with anxiety and sorrow. Hemlata scarcely attended to her household duties any longer, and even her mother was drawn away from her life of religious seclusion. Nobo Kumar was lying on a bed of illness, and was scarcely expected to live.
Long years of hardship and struggle had told on his iron constitution, and when at last he was restored to Debipur the reaction came. But he was little inclined to give himself that repose which Nature demanded. Proud of his success and exulting over his return to fortune and fame, he gave himself up to excesses which in his time of life was fatal. Unused to rest, impatient of ease, divorced from the calm enjoyment of a peaceful domestic life, he thirsted for distractions, for celebrations, for pleasures. Nemesis came soon. Within a few years he broke down hopelessly and was confined to his bed. And old physicians of the family shook their heads as they saw the bloodless face and the sunken eyes of the Zemindar who a few years ago seemed to be in the very prime of his life.
Then came and watched by his bedside, by night and by day, the much-suffering woman who had been so long separated from him, dressed in her religious garment which bore on it the names of the gods she worshipped. Hemlata's mother watched with tearful, anxious eyes the husband of her youth, the companion of her life. Nature had endowed them both with high gifts and great strength of purpose, but a little rift had spoiled the harmony of their lives. Her love for him was whole-hearted, her devotion and endurance during years of hardship were heroic, her help and guidance were wise. But that gifted woman, known in all the country-side for her strong good sense and deep religious faith, had not learned the useful lesson to sometimes forgive and forget. Wrongs and slights cut a deep wound in her proud nature, disappointments stamped themselves on her memory. Marriage is not for such, and the tragedy of life is complete when an impassable gulf is concealed from public view, and the world looks with envy on the happiness of those who live in the loneliness of the desert.
Earthly happier is the woman who can punish and forgive, who can command and please, who maintains her silent control without embittering her home. She who is ever forgiving and devoted makes a loveless man heartless; she who never forgives creates a wider desolation in her home. It is to the woman of tact and command that the imagination of the East has given the name of Griha Lakshmi, the tutelary goddess of domestic peace and prosperity. She will rebuke and punish but will forget a hundred transgressions; she will control and command but will make the path of life pleasant; she will throw on all around her a silken chain of affection which is stronger than bands of steel. It is under such influence that sons grow up in obedience and daughters in love, for in the virtues of woman—says the Indian proverb—abides the prosperity of the house.
What recollections came to the helpless patient and to the loving wife, as their eyes met in that silent chamber of sickness, were known to them alone. Thoughts arise in such moments that cruel words might have been left unsaid, and cruel wrongs might have been forgiven. But not a word of what was past was spoken. Night after night the devoted woman smoothed the pillow of her suffering lord, and tended him in his pain; and her eyes, long unused to tears, often glistened with moisture as she gazed on his emaciated form and bloodless face. And he, too, at times, looked with his weak, tearful eyes on that venerable woman, ever faithful and true, whom perhaps he had not understood so long. Their souls were drawn closer together, their tears sometimes mingled, and silent prayers perhaps welled up from their hearts for forgiveness and peace on earth.
Poor Hemlata's sorrow was more open, and even convulsive. With a daughter's partial love she had been blind to the failings of her father's nature. She knew him tender and kind and loving towards her from her infancy; she was proud of his strength, his determination, his greatness. Nestling in her mother's breast she would often watch for hours that loved and tender father passing away from her for ever. Sobs burst from her bosom which she could not restrain, and often she stole out of the room to give vent to that agony and despair which almost broke her young heart.
Sirish, too, was in constant attendance, but with a man's self-control. The silent young man arranged everything, ordered everything, did everything that was possible to secure proper treatment and relief. The drugs and drinks prescribed by physicians were administered by him, nourishment and food were prepared under his own eyes. Attended by his sister, Saibalini, he soothed his young wife to needful rest when she had cried her eyes out in grief, and persuaded even her mother to take needful food when she had worn herself out by watching. Sirish had never been a favourite of Hemlata's mother, but unreasoning prejudice and pride lift and disappear like dark mists when thoughts of death and bereavement oppress the heart. Hemlata's mother, broken down by watching and grief, was no longer the proud woman who had looked down on the "beggar boy." It was in that boy that she found help and consolation when help was needed; it was on his strong arm that she leaned when she was tottering; it was on his resource that she relied when the greatest grief of her life awaited the prostrated woman.
Night and day he attended and worked as her own son, if she had one, could not have done. And late in the night, when the patient was asleep, it was Sirish who brought her some refreshments, made her bed, and persuaded her to take some needful repose. If a tear would then trickle down the withered cheeks of the old woman it was the tear of repentance. "Ye are my children," the old, broken-down woman would say to Sirish and Saibalini, holding them close to her. "Ye are to me as my own Hemlata. But I have suffered much in life, and have sometimes forgotten."
The chamber of sickness and sorrow had its lessons for the young as for the old. The days and nights passed in that chamber drew Sirish perhaps closer to the heart of his wife. She saw the deep tenderness of his soul as she had not perhaps seen it before; she read thoughts in his deep, soft eyes which she had not understood so long. And when, in moments of her weakness and sorrow for her father, he would take her up tenderly and kiss away her tears, she would shiver at that gentle touch, and place her head on his manly bosom where she found a new solace and a new strength.
All careful nursing and treatment were in vain. Nobo Kumar had lived his life and worn out his strength, and a little before dawn, one winter morning, he passed away painlessly. A wail of lamentation rose in the chamber of death, and the house and the town soon knew that the old Zemindar was no more.
The end had been foreseen, and every preparation had been made. Amidst the chanting of priests and the lamentations of women the body, covered with snow-white cloth, was laid on a light bedstead and carried out of the house. It was many hours' journey to the shores of the Ganges, but friends and relations pressed forward to carry the mournful burden on their shoulders. A long train of mourners headed by Sirish, followed on foot, taking the name of God and invoking His mercy. In every village through which they passed men and women came forth in crowds and did honour to their departed Master. The sun was high in the heavens and the mourners had hardly gone half the way. The bedstead was lowered and placed under a shady tree, and all rested awhile. The day had departed, and the shadows of the winter evening had closed around before the waters of the Ganges came in sight. With a loud and continuous invocation of the name of the Merciful God the body was lowered on the river side.
Messengers had been sent ahead, and preparations had been made there. A pyre had been constructed of fragrant sandal wood, and priests uttered holy hymns as they reverently laid the body on the pyre. More wood was heaped on it, jars of clarified butter were poured, and the fire which was lighted soon rose in a mighty blaze. Within a short time the cremation was complete.
The mortal remains of the dead were piously collected and thrown into the bosom of the sacred river. The mourners then plunged into the river to make their sacred ablutions. They rested in a neighbouring house that night, and on the following day returned to the desolate home of Debipur.
Sirish and all the mourners remained bare-footed and wore the white scarf of mourning round their necks for the specified number of days. They carried square pieces of woven grass with them and sat on no other seat, and the food of the family was regulated according to prescribed rules, all meat and fish and rich dishes being avoided. Day after day there was sound of crying and lamentation from the women's apartments. The sorrow of the heart-broken widow and her daughter Hemlata was deep and agonising. Every evening, as they entered the vacant chamber with incense and prayers, loud and convulsive sobs and cries broke forth. Other women joined in the wailing in honour of the dead or in sympathy with the living.
When the specified number of days had passed, the Sraddha or funeral sacrifice was performed on a scale befitting the rank of the departed. The most learned priests of the Debipur House conducted the ceremony, and Brahmans from all the neighbouring places, and even from Birnagar, were invited. Thousands of other people who came from the surrounding villages were fed; cloth was distributed to them, and the holy men were amply rewarded. Sirish was the host on the melancholy occasion. He went among the long lines of the assembled people; he spoke to them gently, made inquiries kindly, bestowed gifts amply. And in the midst of their tears the gathered multitude blessed the new Master of the Debipur House.
Late in the evening Sirish came home and prostrated himself before his mother-in-law and invoked her blessings. "I am a poor man's son, mother, born in a cottage. Thou hast raised me to affluence and rank, and made me thy own son. Help me, mother, and the ancient fame and glory of this noble House will not suffer in my hands."
There was a ring of sincerity in the voice of the old widow as she blessed him. "There are higher riches, my son, than earthly wealth; and with those riches and gifts the Most High hath endowed thee. He who hath chosen thee for this high position will be thy help and support; may He prolong thy days and increase thy glory. My days on earth are nearly ended, and the distant shrines of Mathura are a suitable place for a lone woman who seeks only to be re-united in her next life to him who is gone."
Late in the night he came to his wife, sitting alone and sad. It was the first time for months that they were by themselves undisturbed. Sirish respected the grief of his wife; he gently drew her to his bosom, laid her head on his shoulder and kissed her on the brow.
"I have loved thee, Hemlata, since thou wert a child; I have loved thee, my sweet one, as my bride and my wife. Doubly dear to me art thou to-day when he is gone who united us in life. By his sacred memory we shall love each other as man and wife as long as we live."
"By his sacred memory, husband, I shall be thy true and loving wife!" The words came spontaneously from her lips and from her heart.
"Thou hast ever been a true and loving wife, Hemlata," said her husband as he kissed her tenderly, "but there is something in which I need thy woman's courage and resource. There is something about Noren which I have withheld from thee, my wife."
There was a troubled look in Hemlata's eyes as she looked at her lord, and her heart beats could almost be heard.
"Noren went with the Emperor's troops to fight the Afghans in the South. The Emperor's troops were beaten, and Noren was wounded in the disastrous battle."
Her prophetic soul had feared this, and long had she silently mused on this. One convulsive sob burst forth from her when she knew her fears were true. And she hid her face in her husband's bosom and wept.
"Weep, dearest, for I know thou hast loved Noren like a brother ever since childhood. To me also he is dear, and I have wept for him as for an absent brother."
There was a long pause. Sirish had disclosed to his wife the sad news which he had withheld for months during her father's illness, and for weeks after his death. And his generous heart forgave his wife's convulsive grief and agonising tears for an absent friend and a wounded soldier.
"Heaven will preserve his life, my sweet wife, and Heaven will help me to do my duty. I am the Master of this estate which thy father has left, and thou art the Rani of Debipur to-day. Debipur has duties towards Birnagar which now devolve on thee and on me."
These words were like an inspiration and solace to the agonised Hemlata, and the weak woman drew strength from the strong, upright man. She wiped her tears and looked up to that noble, determined face. She could almost have fallen down in adoration before that god-like form.
"Yes, Hemlata, Heaven will preserve the life of the brave, disinherited Noren, and I have my duty to perform. Thou alone canst help me in this, for thou hast known and loved Noren long, and Noren has cherished thee like a sister and will not gainsay thy words. We go to Mathura with thy mother, and thou shalt meet Noren there. I claim thy duty as a wife, Hemlata, and Noren claims thy love as a brother. Promise me, Hemlata, thou shalt do thy part; promise me thou wilt bring him back."
"I know my duty, husband," spoke Hemlata in a firm, clear voice which rang through the silent chamber, "and Heaven will help me to do my duty as a true wife to thee—as a true sister to Noren."