The Spoilt Child/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
Matilall's Mother and Sisters.
The Vaidyabati house was all astir with preparations for a religious ceremonial. The sun had not risen when Shridhar Bhattacharjea, Ram Gopal Charamani and other Brahman priests, set to work repeating mantras. All were employed upon something: one was offering the sacred basil to the deity: some were busy picking the leaves of the jessamine: others humming and beating time on their cheeks. One was remarking: "I am no Brahman if good fortune does not attend the sacrifices;" and another, "If things turn out inauspiciously, I will abandon my sacred thread." The whole household was busily engaged, but not a member of it was happy in mind. The mistress of the house was sitting at an open window and calling in her distress upon her guardian deity: her infant boy lay near her, playing with a toy and tossing his little limbs in the air. Every now and again she glanced in the direction of the child, and said to herself: "Ah my darling, I cannot say what kind of destiny awaits you! To be childless is a single sorrow and anxiety: multiplied a hundredfold is the misery that comes with children. How is a mother's mind distracted if her child has the slightest complaint! she will cheerfully sacrifice her life in order to get him well again: so long as her babe is ill, all capacity for food and sleep deserts her: day and night to her are alike. If a child who has caused her so much sorrow grows up good, she feels her work accomplished; but if the contrary be the case, a living death is hers: she takes no interest in anything in the world and cares not to show herself in the neighbourhood. The haughty face grows wan and pinched: in her inmost heart, like Sita, she gives expression to this wish: 'Oh, Earth, Earth, open, and let me hide myself within thy bosom!' The good God knows what trouble I have taken to make Matilall a man: my young one has now learned to fly, and heavy is my chastisement. How it grieves me to hear of such evil conduct: I am almost heartbroken with sorrow and chagrin. I have not told my husband all: he might have gone mad had he heard all. Away with these thoughts! I can endure them no longer: I am but a weak woman. What will such laments avail me now? what must be, must be."
A maid-servant came in at that moment and took the child away, and the mistress of the house engaged in her daily religious duties.
Man's mind is so constituted that it cannot readily forget any particular matter it may be absorbed in, to attend to other affairs in hand. When therefore she tried to perform her usual devotions, she found herself unable to do so. Again and again she set herself to fix her attention on the mantras she had to repeat, but her mind kept wandering: the thought of Matilall surged up like a strong and irresistible flood. At one time she fancied that the orders for his imprisonment had been passed, and her imagination depicted him as already in fetters, and being led off to jail: she even thought she saw his father standing near him, his head bowed down in woe, weeping bitterly; and again she almost fancied that her son was come to see her, and was saying to her: "Mother, forgive me: what is past cannot now be mended, but I will never again cause you such trouble and sorrow." She then began to dream of some great calamity as about to befall Matilall,—that he would be transported perhaps for life. When these phantoms of her imagination had left her, she began to say to herself: "Why, it is now high noon! can I have been dreaming? No, surely this is no dream! I must have seen a vision. I wish I could tell why my mind is so distracted to-day!" With these words she laid herself silently down on the ground, and wept bitterly.
Her two daughters, Mokshada and Pramada, were busy drying their hair on the roof, and Mokshada was saying to her sister: "Why sister Pramada, you have not half combed your hair, and how dry it is too! But it must be so, for it is ages since a drop of oil fell upon it. It is just the use of oil and water that keeps people in good health: to bathe once a month, and without using oil, would be bad for any one. But why are you so wrapped in thought? anxiety and trouble are making you as thin as a string."
Pramada.—Ah, my sister, how can I help thinking? Cannot you understand it all? Our father brought the son of a Kulin Brahmin here when I was a mere child and married me to him. I only heard about this when I was grown up. Considering the number of the different places where he has contracted marriage, and considering his personal character too, I have no wish to see his face: I would rather not have a husband at all than such a one.
Mokshada.—Hush, my dear! you must not say that. It is an advantage to a woman to have a husband alive, whether his character be bad or good.
Pramada.—Listen then to what I have to tell you. Last year, when I was suffering from intermittent fever and had been lying long days and nights on my bed, too weak to rise, my husband came one day to the house. From the time of my earliest impressions, I had never seen what a husband was like: my idea was that there was no treasure a woman could possess like a husband, and I thought that if he only came and sat with me for a few moments and spoke to me, my pain would be alleviated. But, my sister, you will not believe me when I say it! he came to my bedside, and said: "You are my lawful wife, I married you sixteen years ago: I have come to see you now because I am in need of money, and will go away again directly: I have told your father that he has cheated me: come, give me that bracelet off your wrist!" I told him that I would first ask my mother, and would do what she bade me. Thereupon he pulled the bracelet off my wrist by brute force; and when I struggled to prevent his doing so, he gave me a kick and left me. I fainted away, and did not recover till mother came and fanned me.
Mokshada.—Oh my dear sister Pramada, your story brings tears into my eyes. But consider, you still have a husband living: I have not even that.
Pramada.—A fine husband indeed, my sister! Happily for me, I once spent some time with my uncle, and learned to read and write and to do a little fancy work with my needle; so by constant work during the day and by a little occasional reading, writing or sewing, I keep my trouble hidden. If I sit idle for any time, and begin to think, my heart burns with indignation.
Mokshada.—"What else can it do? Ah, it is because of the many sins committed by us in previous births that we are suffering as we are! It is by plenty of hard work that our bodies and minds retain their vigour: idleness only causes evil thoughts and evil imaginations and even disease to get a stronger hold upon us: it was uncle that told me that. I have done all I can to soften the pains of widowhood. I always reflect that everything is in God's hands: reliance upon Him is the real secret of life. My dear sister, if you so constantly ponder on your grief, you will be overwhelmed in the ocean of anxiety: it is an ocean that has no shore. What good can possibly result from so much brooding? Just do all your religious and secular duties as well as you can: honour our father and mother in everything: attend to the welfare of our two brothers: nourish and cherish any children they may have, and they will be as your own.
Pramada.—Ah my sister, what you say is indeed true, but then our elder brother has gone altogether astray. He is given over to vicious ways and vicious companions; and as his disposition has changed for the worse, so his affection for his parents and for us has lessened. Ah, the affection that brothers have for their sisters is not one-hundredth part of the affection that sisters have for their brothers! In their devotion to their brothers, sisters will even risk their lives; but brothers always think that they will get on much better if they can only be rid of their sisters! We are Matilall's elder sisters: if he comes near us at all, he may perhaps make himself agreeable for a short time, and we may congratulate ourselves upon it; but then have we any influence whatever upon his conduct?
Mokshada.—All brothers are not like that. There are brothers who regard their elder sisters as they would their mother, and their younger sisters as they would a daughter. I am speaking the truth: there are brothers who look upon their sisters in the same light as they do their brothers: they are unhappy unless they are free to converse with them; and if they fall into any danger, they risk their lives to save them.
Pramada.—That is very true, but it is our lot to have a brother just in keeping with our unhappy destiny. Alas, there is no such thing as happiness in this world! At this moment, a maid-servant came to tell them her mistress was crying: the two sisters rushed downstairs as soon as they heard it.
It was a fine moonlight evening, the moon shedding her radiance over the breadth of the Ganges. A gentle breeze was diffusing the sweet fragrance of the wild jungle flowers; the waves danced merrily in the moonlight: the birds in a neighbouring grove were calling to each other in their varied notes. Beni Babu was seated at the Deonagaji Ghât, looking about him and singing snatches of some up-country song on the loves of Krishna and Radha. He was completely absorbed in his music and was beating time to it, when suddenly he heard somebody behind him calling his name and echoing his song. Turning round, he saw Becharam Babu of Bow Bazar: he at once rose, and invited his guest to take a seat.
Becharam opened the conversation. "Ah! Beni, my friend! those were home truths you told Baburam Babu to-day. I have been invited to your village: and as I was so pleased with what I saw of you the other day, I wanted to come and call on you just once before leaving."
Beni.—Ah, my friend Becharam, we are poor sort of folk here! We have to work for our living: we prefer to visit places where the secrets of knowledge or virtue are investigated. We have a good many rich relatives and acquaintances, but we feel embarrassed in their presence; we visit them very occasionally, when we have fallen into any trouble, or have any very particular business on hand. It is never a pleasure to call on upon them, and when we do go we derive no intellectual benefit from the visit; for whatever respect rich men may show to other rich men, they have not much to say to us; they just remark "It is very hot to-day. How is your business getting on? Is it flourishing? Have a smoke?" If only they speak cheerfully and pleasantly to us, we are fully satisfied. Ah, learning and worth have nothing like the respect shown to them that is shown to wealth! Paying court to rich men is a very dangerous thing: there is a popular saying:—"The friendship of the rich is an embankment made of sand." Their moods are capricious: a trifle will offend them just as a trifle will please them. People do not consider this: wealth has such magic in it that they will put up with any humiliation, any indignity from a rich man; they will even submit to a thrashing, and say to the rich man after it:—"It is your honour's good pleasure." However this be, it is a hard thing to live with the rich and not forfeit one's chances of happiness in the next world. In that affair of to-day, for instance, we had a hard struggle for the right.
Becharam.—From observation of Baburam Babu's general behaviour, I am inclined to think that his affairs are not prospering. Alas, alas, what counsellors he has got! That wretched Mahomedan, Thakchacha, a prince of rogues! there is an evil magic in him. Then Bancharam, the attorney's clerk! he is like a fine mango, fair outside but rotten at the core. Well-practised in all the arts of chicanery, like a cat treading stealthily along in the wet, he simulates innocence while all the while exercising his wiles to entrap his prey. Anybody falling under the influence of that sorcery would be utterly, and for ever, ruined. Then there is Bakreswar the schoolmaster, a teacher of ethics forsooth! A passed master indeed in the art of cajolery, a very prince of flatterers! Ugh! But tell me, is it your English education that has given you this high moral standard?
Beni.—Have I this high moral standard you attribute to me? It is only your kindness to say so. The slight acquaintance I have with morality is entirely due to the kind favour of Barada Babu, of Badaragan: I lived with him for some time, and he very kindly gave me some excellent advice.
Becharam.—Who is this Barada Babu? Please tell me some particulars about him. It is always a pleasure to me to hear anything of this kind.
Beni.—Barada Babu's home is in Eastern Bengal, in Pergunnah Etai Kagamari. On the death of his father he moved to Calcutta, and found great difficulty at first in providing himself with food and clothing: he had not even the wherewithal to buy his daily meal. But from his boyhood he had always engaged in meditation upon divine things, and so it was that when trouble befell him it did not affect him so much. At this time he used to live in a common tiled hut, his only means of subsistence being the two rupees a month which he received from a younger brother of his father's. He was on terms of intimacy with a few good men and would associate with none but these: he was very independent, and refused to be under obligations to anybody. Not having the means to keep either a man-servant or a maid-servant, he did all his own marketing, cooking for himself as well; and he did not neglect his studies even when he was cooking. Morning noon and night, he calmly and peacefully meditated on God. The clothes in which he attended school were torn and dirty, and excited the derision of rich men's sons: he pretended not to hear them when they laughed and jeered at him, and eventually succeeded by his pleasant and courteous address in winning them completely over. With very many, pride is the only result of English learning: they scorn the very earth they live on. This however found no place in the mind of Barada Babu: his disposition was too calm and mild. When he had completed his education he left school, and at once obtained employment as a teacher, on thirty rupees a month. He then took his mother, his wife and his two nephews to live with him, and did his very utmost to make them comfortable. He would also look after the wants of the many poor people living in his immediate neighbourhood, helping them, as far as his means allowed, with money, visiting them when they were sick, and supplying them with medicine. As none of these poor people could afford to send their children to school, he held a class for them himself every morning. One of his cousins who had fallen dangerously ill after his father's death, recovered entirely, thanks to the unremitting attention of Barada Babu, who sat by his bedside for days and nights together. He was deeply devoted to his aunt, and regarded her quite as a mother. Some men appear to have a contempt for the things of this world in comparison with things of eternity, like the contempt for death that is characteristic of those who are in constant attendance at burning-ghâts. Does death or calamity befall any of their friends or kinsfolk, the world, they feel, is nothing, and God all. This idea is constantly present to the mind of Barada Babu: conversation with him and observation of his conduct soon make it apparent; but he never parades his opinions before the world. He is in no sense ostentatious: he never does anything for mere appearance sake. All his good deeds are done in secret: numbers of people meet with kindness from him, but only the person actually benefited by him is aware of it; and he is much annoyed if others get any inkling of it. Though a man of varied accomplishments, he is without a particle of vanity. It is the man who has only a smattering of learning who is puffed up with pride and self-importance. "Aha!" says such a one to himself, "what a very learned man I am! Who can write as I do? Who is so erudite as I? How I always do speak to the point!" Barada Babu is a different sort of man altogether: though his learning is so profound, he never treats the thoughts of others as beneath his attention. It does not annoy him to hear an opinion expressed opposite to his own: on the contrary, he listens with pleasure, and reviews his own beliefs. To describe in detail all his good qualities would be a long affair, but they may be summed up in the remark that so gentle and god-fearing a man has rarely been seen: he could not do wrong even if his life were at stake. Yes, the amount of instruction to be had from personal intercourse with Barada Babu far exceeds any to be got from books!
Becharam.—Ah, how it charms one to hear of a man like that! But now, as it is getting very late, and I have to cross the river, I will, with your permission, return home. Let me see you for a moment at the police, court to- morrow.