The Spoilt Child/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII.
Baburam and Matilall return Home.
Mr. Butler had just arrived at his office and was overhauling his books to see what business was doing during the current month: his dog was asleep near him. Every now and again the Saheb would whistle, and take a pinch of snuff; then he would examine his account book or stand up and stretch his legs. He thought anxiously of the large sums he would have to pay as fees in the different offices of the Court: though by no means possessed of large resources, he knew very well that business would be at a standstill if he did not pay his money down before Term opened. He was thus engaged when the sircar of Mr. Howard, another attorney, entered his office, and put two papers into his hand. The Saheb's face beamed with delight, and he called out to Bancharam to come to him at once. Bancharam, throwing his shawl over a chair and sticking his pen behind his ear, attended at once to the summons. "Ha, Bancharam!" said Mr. Butler, "I am in luck indeed: there are two cases against Baburam Babu—an action in ejectment for non-payment of revenue, and a suit in equity. Mr. Howard has served me with a notice, and a subpoena to attend." On hearing this news Bancharam clapped his elbows against his sides with delight and said: "Aha, Saheb, see what a fine headman I am! all sorts of good things will come to us by my introduction of Baburam. Give me the two papers quick and let me go in person to Vaidyabati. These are not matters to be entrusted to another: I shall have to employ a good deal of coaxing and wheedling, and all my arts of persuasion will have to be called into requisition. If I can only once climb to the top of the Tree of Fortune, I will simply shower rupees down: just now we are very short of cash, and we cannot afford that in a business like ours; by a sudden dash like this we may safely reckon on getting something."
Meanwhile in the Vaidyabati house, propitiatory sacrifices were being offered: musical instruments of all kinds were braying and jangling. The crash of drums, the blare of brass trumpets, the clashing of cymbals, astonished the dawn. In the great hall of worship offerings for Matilall's welfare were in progress. The Brahmans were variously occupied in reciting the hymn to Durga, working up Ganges clay into representations of Siva, or offering leaves of the sacred basil to the holy shalgram in the centre of the hall. Others, deep in thought, their heads resting on their hands, were saying to each other: "How about our divine Brahmanhood now? so far from having saved Matilall, our master too must now have perished with him. If he was aboard yesterday, the boat must have been lost in the storm last night: there can be no doubt about that. Anyhow the family are ruined: the young Babu will now be proclaimed master, and what kind of man he is likely to turn out no one can say: our prospects of gain appear now to be very remote." One of the Brahmans present said very quietly: "Why are you so anxious? nobody is depriving us of our gains. Apply to our own case the simile of the saw cutting the shell. The saw will cut chips off the shell whether it moves forward or whether it moves backwards: even if the master be no more, there will have to be a gorgeous shraddha. The master is not a young man, and if the old lady objects to spending much on his shraddha, everybody will abuse her." Another remarked: "Ah, my friend, that may be all very true, but in case of his death our gains will become very precarious: I prefer the supply to be as constant as the Vasudhara: let us be ever getting, ever eating, say I: one shower will not suffice a long-continued thirst."
Baburam Babu's wife was a most devoted partner: ever since her lord's departure she had been very restless and had neglected her daily food. She had been sitting all night at one of the windows of the house from which the Ganges was visible. As the wind blew in strong gusts every now and again, she shuddered with fright: she kept gazing out into the storm, but her heart trembled as she looked: the continual rumbling of the thunder made her anxious, and she called upon the Almighty in her distress. Time went by: hardly a boat passed up or down the Ganges: whenever she heard a sound she would get up and look: occasionally she saw a light glimmering faintly in the distance and at once concluded it came from some vessel. At last a boat did come in sight, and she waited for it to come and tie up at the ghât; but when it passed on, only skirting the shore without coming to land, the agony of despair pierced her heart like a dart.
The night had almost come to an end and the storm had gradually lulled. How beautiful is the calm of creation that succeeds tumult and confusion! The stars again shone in the sky: the moon's light seemed to dance sportively on the waters of the river: so still had the earth become that even the rustle of the leaves could be heard.
Baburam Babu's wife, as she anxiously gazed about her, exclaimed in her impatience: "Oh Lord of Creation! to my knowledge I have done no wrong to any one: I have committed no sin that I am aware of. Must I now after so long a time endure all the pangs of widowhood? Wealth I care nothing for: ornaments I have no use for: to be poor would be no hardship to me, I should not grieve: but this one boon I pray for, that I may be able to look upon the faces of my husband and my son when I die." Indeed her mental anguish was extreme, but being a cautious woman, as well as naturally reserved, she restrained herself lest her tears should distress her daughters. So the night passed away, and music in the house ushered in the dawn. The sound of melody, ordinarily so attractive, in the case of one afflicted in mind only serves to open the floodgates of grief; and the sorrow of the mistress of the house was but intensified by the sweet sounds.
Just then a fisherman came to the Vaidyabati house to sell fish: in answer to their enquiries, he said: "During the storm there was a boat in a more or less sinking condition on the sandbank known as the Bansberia Chur: I rather think it must have been swamped: there was a stout gentleman in it, a Mahomedan, a young gentleman, and others." This news was as if a thunderbolt had fallen amongst them: the music at once ceased, and all the members of the household lifted up their voices and wept.
Later in the day, towards evening, Bancharam Babu arrived with his usual bustle at the reception-room of the Vaidyabati house, and enquired for the master: on hearing the news from one of the servants, he fell into deep thought, resting his head on his hand, and then exclaimed: "Alas, alas, a great man has departed!" Having given way for some time to loud lamentation, he finally called for a pipe of tobacco, and thus reflected, as he puffed away:— "Ah! Baburam Babu is now dead, would that I also were so! Where now are all those hopes with which I came? They have vanished, and here am I with the great Durga Festival coming off at home, the image not yet decorated, or even coloured, and without the wherewithal to pay for it: I am quite at a loss to know what to do. A few rupees just now would have been exceedingly serviceable, no matter how they might have been got. I could have given some to my master, some I would have kept for myself: it would have been a very simple thing to cook the accounts by making a false entry or two. Who could have anticipated that the heavens would have burst asunder and fallen upon my head like this?" Then, just for the look of the thing, he shed a few tears before the servants, weeping really for the loss of his dear rupees. The officiating Brahmans, seeing him there, came and sat down by him. The wearers of the sacred thread are, as a rule, a very astute sort of people: it is hard to get at their thoughts. Some began to recount the good qualities of Baburam Babu: others complained that they were now orphans, bereft of their father: others, unable to restrain their greed of gain, remarked: "There is no time now for mourning: we must bestir ourselves to ensure Baburam Babu's happiness in the next world: he was a man of no ordinary importance." Without paying much attention to what they were saying, Bancharam Babu smoked away, and nodded his head: he knew the old proverb: "What advantage does the crow get, even if the bael is ripe?" It seemed as if he had got to the end of all things, so thoroughly broken-hearted was he: he could only sigh as he listened to what was being said: he had no plans, nor, alas, could he think of anybody to fleece! The idea once occurred to him that he might make something by informing the family that some fine portions of their property might be lost to them unless they held a very careful enquiry, but then he considered that his words would be only wasted if he spoke when their grief was so fresh. While he was thus musing, a sudden stir arose at the door, where a messenger had just arrived with a letter: the address was in the handwriting of Baburam Babu, but the messenger could give no particulars. The mistress of the house snatched at the letter, carried it into the house, opened it hurriedly, and devoured its contents. The letter was as follows:—
"Last night I was in terrible danger: the boat I was in was carried away in the darkness, at the mercy of the storm, and the boatmen lost all control over it:finally, it capsized with the violence of the waves. I was in extreme terror as it was sinking, but at the next moment I remembered you: I imagined you standing near me and saying: 'Be not afraid in the time of adversity: call on the Almighty with body, mind, and soul: He is merciful, and will rescue you out of your danger.' I acted accordingly, and when I fell into the water I found myself upon a sandbank, where the water was only knee deep. The boat was soon dashed to pieces by the violence of the storm. I remained on the sandbank the entire night and reached Bansberia next morning. Matilall fell ill from exposure, but he has been under medical treatment and is now again convalescent. I expect to reach home by nightfall."
The moment that she had read the letter, the heat of her grief was extinguished: she pondered long, and then exclaimed: "Can such a joyful destiny indeed befall so sorrowful a wretch as myself?" Even while she spoke, Baburam Babu arrived with his son and Thakchacha. Everywhere there was a great stir. The minds of all the members of the household had been shrouded in a mist of grief, and now the sun of joy had risen. As she gazed upon her husband and her son, holding her two daughters by the hand, the mistress of the house wept tears of joy. She had been intending to upbraid Matilall for his conduct, but now all was forgotten: the two girls, holding their brother's hands, fell at their father's feet and wept. When the infant boy saw his father, it was as though he had found a treasure: he kept his arms tight round his neck, and for long refused to slacken his embrace: the women of the household too offered loud prayers for the welfare of their master, as though with pán and betel in hand, they were praying for the welfare of a bridegroom. Baburam Babu was for some time like a man in a trance, unable to utter a word. Matilall reflected to himself: "The sinking of the boat has been a piece of good luck for me: it has saved me from a good scolding from my mother." As soon as the Brahmans in the outer apartments of the house saw Baburam Babu, they greeted him with vociferous blessings, saying in the Sanskrit tongue:— "Supreme over all is the might of the gods," and adding: "How could any calamity befall you, sir, with your own merits on the one hand, and on the other the divine rites that have been performed on your behalf? If such can befall, then are we no Brahmans."
Thakchacha rose up in great wrath when he heard this language, and said: "Sir, if it is by the influence of these men that calamity has been averted from you, is all my trouble on your behalf to go for nothing? do my prayers count for nothing?" The Brahmans at once humbly acquiesced saying: "Ah sir, just as the divine Krishna was once Arjuna's charioteer, so you have been the master's! all has happened by the might of your intelligence: you are a special incarnation: calamity flies far away from anyplace where you are, as from any place where we are."
Bancharam Babu had been all this time like a serpent with its crest-jewel lost, depressed and sad. He shed a few sham tears, to show off before Baburam Baba (his eyes were always rather watery), and his breast heaved with emotion. Fish would fall to his bait, he was firmly persuaded, if now he only threw in sufficient. When he heard the Brahmans' talk, he came up to them and with his favourite gesture, said: "I am no fool I can tell you: calamity could not possibly befall the master with me. Am I merely a Calcutta grasscutter that I could not have helped him?"