Eyesore

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EYESORE

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

Translated from the Bengali novel, Chokher Bali, By SURENDRANATH TAGORE

Chapter 1

EYESORE

By Rabindranath Tagore.

I

BINODINI'S mother Harimati beseiged Rajlakshmi, the mother of Mahendra, and would take no denial. They both belonged to the same village, and had played together as children.

Rajlakshmi would get hold of Mahendra and entreat him, "Mahin, my son, you must come to the rescue of the poor woman's only child. I am told that the girl is really pretty, and has taken lessons from an English lady—she will just suit the taste of you young people now-a-days."

"But mother", Mahendra would reply, "there are so many modern young men besides myself."

Rajlakshmi.—That's your one great fault, Mahin, there's no getting in a word about marriage with you.

Mahendra.—Hardly an unpardonable sin, mother, since there are so many other subjects in the world to talk about.

Mahendra had lost his father in his infancy. His ways with his mother were not those of the average youth. He was nearly twenty-two, and had begun studying medicine after taking his M.A. degree; yet with his mother he was still wayward and exacting, and expected to be petted and humoured. Like a kangaroo cub he had got into the habit of continuing to want his mother's enfolding care; she was indispensable alike in his work and pleasure, both a necessity and a luxury in his life.

When next his mother plied him about Binodini, Mahendra said, "All right, let's have a look at the girl."

But when the day appointed for the visit came he said, "After all what's the use of seeing her? If I must marry to please you, why pretend to exercise my own Judgment?"

There was a trace of the sulks in his tone, but the sharp note, thought the mother, would be duly flattened down when, at the moment of the auspicious vision, her son would have occasion to endorse her taste. So with a light heart Rajlakshmi prepared to fix the wedding day.

Hut the nearer drew the day the more anxious did Mahendra become—till at last when there were only a few days left he broke out with a "no, no, I really cannot!"

Mahendra's intimate friend was Vihari. He used to call Mahendra Dada and Rajlakshmi mother. The mother used to look on him as the "useful burden-bearing barge in tow of the proud steamboat and was in a way fond of him accordingly. "Then you," said she, "must do this my son, or else the poor women"—

"I beg to be excused mother," said Vihari with hands folded in mock supplication, "many a time have I taken at your bidding the sweetmeats that your Mahendra has refused as not to his taste, but when it comes to a girl I really must draw the line."

Binodini's father had not been particularly rich, but he had engaged a missionary lady to teach his daughter to read and write and do fancy needlework. She was getting past the age when marriage ought to have been thought of, but that had escaped him altogether. So, when at length he died, his widow was beside herself hunting for a likely bridegroom. There was no dower, and the girl was over age.

At last Rajlakshmi got the girl Binodini married to a distant cousin in the village of her birth.

In a short while the girl became a widow. Mahendra laughed, "How lucky, I was not the bridegroom. With my wife a widow, where would I have been?"

Chapter 2

II

Three years later the mother and son were having another talk.

"My son, people lay the blame on me."

"What great calamity have you brought on these people, mother?"

"They say I'm not getting you married for fear the bride should take your heart away from me."

"A very natural fear," said Mahendra. "If I had been a mother I could never have got my son married—I'd rather have welcomed the blame."

"Hear the boy, just listen to him!" laughed the mother.

"The bride is sure to absorb the whole of the son," continued Mahendra, "and to what a distance has the mother, for all her trouble and all her love, to retire—you may like the idea, but I don't."

With a great gladness at heart Rajlakshmi called to her widowed sister-in-law who had only just arrived. "Listen to him, sister, just hear what Mahin is saying. He is afraid to marry lest his bride should oust his mother. Have you ever heard such an extraordinary idea?"

"This is too had, my boy", said his aunt, "everything is fit and proper in its own season. Now it is time to cut your mother's leading strings and set up house with a wife. One feels ashamed to see you still behaving like an overgrown baby."

These words did not sound exactly sweet in Rajlakshmi's ears and the few words of her reply were more plain than pleasant.—"If my son cares for his mother," said she, "more than other people's sons do, why need that make you ashamed, sister? If you had children of your own you would have known better."

Rajlakshmi entertained a suspicion that the childless woman was jealous of her more fortunate sister.

"It was you who started the subject of bringing home a bride," replied her sister-in-law, "else what call had I—"

"If my son does not choose to bring home a bride," Rajlakshmi went on, "why should that be as a dart in your bosom? If I have been able to bring up my son all these years I hope and trust I shall be able to go on looking after him still, without wanting anybody else's help."

The tears came to her sister-in-law's eyes and she went away without another word. Mahendra was pained and, coming back early from his college, went straight to her room. He well knew there was nothing but love for him in what she had said. He also knew that his aunt had an orphan niece, her sister's child, whom the childless widow desired to bring near to herself, and make happy, by marrying to him. Though the idea of marriage was distasteful to him this desire of his aunt seemed to him only natural and extremely pathetic.

There was not much left of daylight when Mahendra entered her room. He found his aunt, Annapurna, with a drawn face, seated with her head resting against the bars of her window. In the next room lay covered her simple meal of rice, long served, as yet untouched.

Mahendra's eyes had a trick of getting moist at the slightest provocation. The sight of his aunt made the tears come. Going near he called affectionately, "Kakie."

With a forced smile Annapurna said, "Come and sit down, Mahin."

"I am fearfully hungry," said Mahendra, "won't you give me some prasad."

Annapurna saw through Mahendra's little stratagem and, keeping down her rising tears with an effort, she took her food and helped Mahendra to some.

Mahendra's heart was then soft with pity. After the meal was over he suddenly in the impulse of the moment blurted out, "Kakie, will you not show me the niece of whom you spoke to me once?"

He had no sooner uttered the words than he was afraid.

"Are your thoughts then turning to marriage?" asked Annapurna with a smile.

"No, no, it's not for myself," Mahendra hurriedly explained. "I have succeeded in persuading Vihari to agree, so please arrange a day for the visit."

"Ah," murmured Annapurna, "can she indeed be so fortunate as to get Vihari for a husband?"

Coming out of his aunt's room Mahendra met his mother near the door. "What were you two talking about?" asked Rajlakshmi.

"There was nothing particular to talk about," said Mahendra. "I only came for some pan."

"Your pan was ready in my room," remarked his mother. Mahendra cut short the subject by walking away.

When Rajlakshmi entered Annapurna's room a glance at her tear-swollen eyes led her to conjecture a great dea1. "Well Mistress Aunt," she said with a little snort, "so it seems you have been telling tales to my son," and without waiting for an answer, she swept out of the room.

Chapter 3

III

Mahendra had almost forgotten about the proposed visit to the girl, but Annapurna had not. She wrote to her niece's guardian and arranged a day for the young men to see the gir1.

When informed that the day had been appointed, Mahendra said, "Why all this hurry, Kakie? I haven't yet managed to speak to Vihari."

"What's to be done?" exclaimed Annapurna. "What will they think of us if you don't go now?"

Mahendra sent for Vihari and told him everything. "Come along," said he, "if you don't like her they can't force her on you."

"I don't know about that," Vihari said. "To go and see Kakie's niece and then to say that I do not like her is more than I can bring myself to do."

"So much the better," said Mahendra.

"Look here, Dada," said Vihari, "you have done wrong. It was not fair to keep yourself free by placing this sort of burden on another's shoulders. Now it makes it so terribly difficult for me—it will be such a blow to Kakie."

"What then do you propose to do?" Mahendra felt awkward and annoyed.

"Since you have led her to expect this of me," said Vihari, "I will marry her niece—but it's no use keeping up this farce of going to see the girl."

Vihari had a very great veneration for Annapurna.

Then at length Annapurna called Vihari to her and said, "That cannot be, my child, you must not marry a girl you have not seen. I swear you shall never marry her If she does not please you."

On the appointed day Mahendra on returning from his college said to his mother, "Put out for me my Dacca muslin things and silk tunic, will you?"

"Why," asked his mother, "where are you going?"

"I want them, mother," Mahendra replied; "let me have them, please. I'll tell you all about it afterwards."

Mahendra could not resist the temptation of dressing up. The occasion of the selection of a bride, be it for another, demands of youth an extra touch to the hair, a little perfume on the garments.

The two friends set out to view the maiden. The three-storeyed house of Anukul, the girl's guardian and uncle, towered above the neighbourhood. When his poorer brother had died he had brought his orphaned niece to live with him. Her aunt Annapurna had said, "let her come to me." That would have been less expensive to him no doubt, but also less respectable, so he did not agree. In fact so particular was he about what was due to his position that he never even sent the girl to visit her aunt.

The girl attained the age of marriage, but, whenever the question of her dower was raised, he would say, "I have daughters of my own, how much do you expect me to do?" Such was the position of affairs when Mahendra, dressed up and scented, entered on the scene with his friend.

The sun was about to set on a long April day. At one end of the fancy-tile-floored verandah on the second storey, fruits and sweetmeats were displayed in silver dishes beside which were two silver goblets full of iced water frosted outside with dew. Mahendra with Vihari was bashfully engaged in tasting the proffered delicacies. Down below in the garden the gardener was sprinkling the shrubs with water. The south wind, bearing the cool fragrance of the moistened earth, was creating a flutter in the ends of Mahendra's muslin scarf. It seemed as if from the interstices in the venetian doors leading into the rooms little sounds of whispering and giggling and the tinkling of ornaments could he heard.

After the refreshment was over Anukul glanced towards one of the rooms and said, "Chuni, will you fetch the pan, please." After a little pause one of the doors behind them opened and a girl appeared from somewhere, wrapped round with a world of modesty, and, the casket of pan in her hand, she came up with hesitating steps and stood near Anukul. "What is there to be shy about, my little mother?" said he; "put down that casket in front of these gentlemen." The girl with downcast eyes and trembling hands put the casket on the floor near the carpet seats of the guests. From the west end of the verandah the glow of the setting sun lighted up for a moment her bashful countenance.

That was the moment when Mahendra's glance fell on the pathetic picture presented by the face of the trembling girl.

The girl was about to retire immediately after, when Anukul said, "Stay awhile, Chuni. Vihari Babu, this is my brother Apurba's daughter; he has passed away and now she has none else but me," and he heaved a sigh.

Mahendra felt a great pity. He once more glanced at the orphaned girl. "What may be your name?" he asked her.

Anukul, in an encouraging tone, repeated, "Your name, my little mother, ten him your name."

The girl, as if obeying orders, replied with downcast eyes, "My name is Asha."

"Asha! What a gentle voice, what a touching name," thought Mahendra, "poor orphaned Asha!"

The two friends came out of the house and drove off. Mahendra said, "Vihari, don't you give up this girl."

Vihari would not give a direct reply but said, "She reminds me of her aunt, she must be as good."

"I trust," said Mahendra, "that you are not feeling the burden which I placed on your shoulders so very heavy after all!"

"No, I think I'll be able to bear it," said Vihari.

"Why sacrifice yourself? I'll relieve you if you like. What say you?"

Vihari gravely turned towards Mahendra. "Are you serious, Dada?" said he. "Tell me truly while there is yet time. If you marry her, Kakie will be much better pleased, as she will then always have her near."

"Are you mad?" replied Mahendra, "if that had been possible it would have happened long ago."

Without any further objection Vihari went his way, while Mahendra, leaving the direct road, paced slowly through a long round, reaching home late.

His mother was then busily engaged in making cakes. His aunt had not yet returned from her niece's place.

Mahendra went up to the terraced roof and spreading a mat he stretched himself on it. The light of the half moon went on silently spreading its magic radiance over the Calcutta housetops. When his mother came to announce the evening meal, Mahendra in a lazy voice replied, "I'm so comfortable here, I really can't get up now."

"Let me fetch it here," the mother suggested.

"No, I think I won't have anything more tonight, I've had something to eat."

"Where have you been eating?"

"Oh, that's a long story, I'll tell you afterwards," said Mahendra.

Wounded at this unwonted behaviour on Mahendra's part his mother turned to go without another word. Recovering himself in a moment the repentant son said, "All right, mother, do bring my food up here."

"If you are not hungry, what is the good?"

After a few more passages between mother and son Mahendra had to sit down to a second meal after all.

Chapter 4

IV

Mahendra did not sleep well that night. Early in the morning he turned up at Vihari's lodgings.

He said, "Look here, old fellow, I feel on reflection that Kakie's real desire must be that I should marry her niece."

"There was no need for all this reflection. In many a way has she shown this desire."

"That is why I was saying," Mahendra went on, "that if I don't marry Asha, Kakie will be left with a life-long regret."

Vihari with a somewhat exaggerated enthusiasm exclaimed, "Just the thing, the very thing. If you are willing there's nothing more to be said. Only it would have been well if this desire to do the right thing had come to you yesterday."

"What matters the delay of just one day?" remarked Mahendra.

Once he had given rein to the thought of marriage, Mahendra found it difficult to contain himself any longer. "No more words, but action," thought he.

He went home and said to his mother, "All right, mother, I yield to your persuasion. I am now ready to marry."

"Now I understand," thought his mother, "why my sister-in-law went to her niece's and why Mahendra dressed himself up to go out."

That Annapurna's scheming should have prevailed over her repeated entreaties made her feel that something had gone wrong with the whole scheme of the universe. She simply said, "Very well, I'll have to find out a good girl for you."

"But there is a girl," said Mahendra, alluding to Asha.

"That girl won't do, my child, I tell you plainly."

Restraining himself with a great effort Mahendra asked, "Why what's wrong with her, mother?"

"She has no blood relations to call her own. Your marriage with her would not give us the pleasure of extending our connections."

"I would not mind foregoing the pleasure of connections, but I feel I could be happy with her."

Her son's pertinacity only hardened Rajlakshmi's resolve. She went to Annapurna and said, "Is it your idea to filch away my son from me by marrying him to this ill-omened daughter of departed parents?"

Annapurna wept as she replied, "There has been no talk of marriage with Mahin. I know nothing of what he has been telling you of his wishes in the matter."

Mahendra's mother did not believe a word of this, of course.

Then Annapurna sent for Vihari and said, with tears in her eyes, "I thought the marriage had been settled with you, why again is everything upset? I must ask you once more to give me your word. If you do not come to the rescue I shall be put to great shame. I can assure you she is a good girl and will not he unworthy of you."

"Your assurances are entirely superfluous, Kakie," said Vihari. "Since she is your sister's child I can desire no better. But Mahendra—"

"Never, child, that is impossible," said Annapurna. "I should be perfectly content if she is married to you. I do not approve of her marriage with Mahin."

"If it has not your approval, Kakie, there is nothing more to be said." With which Vihari went off to Rajlakshmi and said to her, "Mother, my marriage with Kakie's niece has been settled, my relations are not here with me, so I have shamelessly to announce it to you myself."

Rajlakshmi.—"What is that you say, Vihari? I am so glad! She is a very good girl and quite worthy of you. Take care you do not lose her."

Vihari.—"Why should I lose her, mother? Dada has himself chosen her for me and arranged the match."

All these obstacles excited Mahendra still more. He sulked at both his mother and aunt and took himself off to some dingy rooms in the students' quarter.

Rajlakshmi went to Annapurna in tears and said, "Sister, save my child. He may turn ascetic and leave home for good."

"Have patience, my sister," said Annapurna, "his anger will cool down after a few days."

"You don't know him," rejoined Rajlakshmi. "He is capable of doing anything if he doesn't get what he wants. You must somehow or other give your niece to—"

Annapurna.—"How can that be, sister? Has not everything been finally settled with Vihari?"

"That won't take long to unsettle," interposed Rajlakshmi, as she sent for Vihari. "My son," said she to him, "I am looking out for a really good bride for you, you must give up this girl, who is not at all worthy of you."

"No, mother, that cannot be," said Vihari. "Everything has been finally settled."

Then Rajlakshmi went again to Annapurna saying, "I humbly entreat you sister—I beg of you at your feet—if you will only say a word to Vihari, everything will be righted."

So Annapurna had to say—"I really don't know how to say this to you, Vihari, but what am I to do? With Asha yours? I would have felt so relieved, but you know everything—"

"I quite understand, Kakie. Your commands shall be obeyed. But never ask me to marry anyone again." So saying Vihari left.

Annapurna's eyes filled with tears, but she wiped them away lest they should prove inauspicious to Mahendra, and repeatedly tried to console herself with the hope that everything had happened for the best.

Asha, with her shapely, well-draped figure, and a bashful far-away look in her eyes, took her first step into social life. Her tender palpitating heart did not realise that there could be any thorns in the path that stretched before her; rather all fear and doubt had departed from her mind with the hope and joy of coming to Annapurna, the only one in the world who could take her mother's place.

After the wedding Rajlakshmi called Mahendra and said, "I would suggest that my little bride-mother had better continue staying with her uncle for a time."

"Why, mother?" asked Mahendra.

"Well, you see, your examination is coming on and you might be disturbed in your studies."

"Do you take me for a child, mother? Can't I be trusted to take care of myself?"

"What does it matter? It's only a year more now."

"If she had her own parents, there could have been no objection to sending her to them, but I can't keep her with her uncle."

"Oh heavens!" thought Rajlakshmi to herself, "so he is the master, and her mother-in-law a nobody! How tenderly thoughtful, all in a day! Once upon a time our husbands had also married us, but such shameless henpecked behaviour was not to be seen in those days."

"Have no fear, mother," said Mahendra with decision, "my examination shall not suffer."

Chapter 5

EYESORE

By Rabindranath Tagore.

V

THEN Rajlakshmi set about with tireless energy to initiate the daughter-in-law into her household duties. During the day her time was divided between pantry, kitchen and household god: at night, to make up for the separation from her own people, Rajlakshml would make Asha sleep with her in her room.

Annapurna, after much thought, decided to keep aloof from her niece.

Mahendra felt very much like the small boy watching an elder, of whom he is afraid, sucking all the sweetness out of a piece of sugarcane.

He went to Annapurna and said, "I really can't bear the way mother is making the poor girl slave."

Annapurna was quite aware that Rajlakshmi was overdoing it, but she said, "Why, Mahin, it's only right that your wife should be taught her housewifely duties. Would it be good for her, like the girls one sees now-a-days, to be playing the fine lady with novels and fancy needle-work?"

"Good or bad," replied Mahendra excitedly, "the girl of to-day must be like the girl of to-day. If my wife could enjoy a novel the same as I do, I'd see nothing to be sorry for, or to laugh at either."

Hearing her son's voice in Annapurna's room, Rajlakshmi left her work and hied thither. "What's all this discussion about?" she asked in a hard ringing voice.

Mahendra replied in a tone of unabated excitement, "There's nothing to discuss, mother, but I can't allow my wife to do household drudgery like a servant-maid."

The mother, suppressing her rising temper, asked with an incisive calm, "What then is to be done with the lady?"

"I'll teach her to read and write," said Mahendra.

Rajlakshmi hurried away without another word and returned in a moment, half dragging by the hand her daughter-in-law, whom she placed before Mahendra, saying, "Here she is, teach your wife to read and write by all means!"

Then turning to Annapurna she said with a great parade of mock humility, "Forgive me, Mistress Aunt, I beg you, if I've been unable to appreciate your niece and have let her stain her delicate fingers in the kitchen. I now leave you to scrub and polish her into a fine lady and hand her over to Mahendra. Let her take her ease at reading and writing—I shall be the maid-of-all-work!"

With this Rajlakshmi went off to her room and shut herself in with a great clatter of bolts.

Annapurna sank to the floor in dismay. Asha, unable to understand the inwardness of this sudden domestic storm, went pale with shame and fear. Mahendra, with rage in his heart, said to himself, "No more of this. I must look after my wife myself, or else I should be doing a great wrong."

With the wish thus supported by the sense of duty, the flame was fanned by the wind. And college, examination, friendship's claims and social duties—where were they when Mahendra, to educate his wife, went with her into retirement?

The proud Rajlakshmi vowed that even if Mahendra and his wife sat starving at her door, she would not so much as vouchsafe them a glance. She would see how Mahendra could manage with his wife without the help of his mother!

Days passed—yet no repentant footsteps were heard near her door.

Rajlakshmi conceded that if pardon was begged, pardon must be granted, or poor Mahendra would be too grievously wounded.

But the petition for pardon did not arrive.

Rajlakshmi decided that she would go and offer her forgiveness. After all, if the son was in a huff, should the mother sulk too?

Mahendra's bedroom and study was a small room, the only one on the third storey, at a corner of the terraced roof. The last few days his mother had entirely neglected the making of his bed and the tidying of his things. Like breasts aching with an excess of milk, her maternal heart had begun to feel the weight of these undischarged daily cares. That noon she thought, "By this time Mahendra must be at his college. I'd better go and do up his room. When he comes back he'll at once recognise his mother's touch."

Rajlakshmi climbed up the steep stairs. The door of Mahendra's room was ajar, and as she came up to it she started as if pricked by a thorn. Mahendra was lying asleep on a bed made on the floor, and with her back to the door his wife was gently stroking his bare feet with her hands. The sight of this conjugal scene in the broad light of day was too much for Rajlakshmi. She crept back downstairs, abashed and mortified.

Chapter 6

VI

It was intolerable that this newly-arrived stranger should be established there with the assurance of longstanding habit. So Rajlakshmi proceeded to vent her heart-burnings upon Annapurna's devoted head. "Just go and have a look," said she, "at the sort of training your Nabob's daughter has brought with her from the house of her father, the Nabob."

"Sister, why speak thus to me?" pleaded Annapurna in great distress. "She's your daughter-in-law, train her, and if needful punish her, as you will."

Rajlakshmi's voice twanged forth like a smitten bowstring: "My daughter-in-law indeed! As if I am likely to have any voice while you are behind her."

Annapurna rushed into Mahendra's bedroom with loud footsteps, startling the wedded couple into a due consciousness of their surroundings. "You wretched girl," she said to Asha, "are you determined to put me to shame? Have you lost all sense of decency and propriety that you should be taking your comfort here, leaving the whole burden of household cares on your old mother-in-law? 'Twas my evil star which led me to bring you into this house!" And as she spoke she burst into tears.

Asha, standing with bowed head, kept fidgetting with the ends of her draperies, and wept silently.

Mahendra said, "Why are you scolding the wife, Kaki? 'Tis I who have kept her up here."

"A nice thing to have done to be sure!" cried Annapurna. "She's but a child and an orphan, what should she know of right and wrong? But what sort of training are you giving her?

"Well," rejoined Mahendra, "don't you see that I've got for her a slate and paper and books? I've made up my mind to teach her to read and write, and I don't care if people speak ill of me, or whether you get angry."

"But why need her lessons take up the whole day?" asked Annapurna. "It should be quite enough if you taught her for an hour or so in the evenings."

"It's not so easy as that," replied Mahendra, "these things take quite a lot of time."

Annapurna left the room thoroughly vexed. Asha was about to follow her, but Mahendra placed himself across the door, and paid no heed to the tearful pleading in her eyes. "Wait a bit," said he, "if I have· wasted my time in sleep, I must make up for it now."

As the days went by Annapurna had to say to Asha, "The sort of progress you are making with your lessons is clear enough, but are you also going to prevent Mahendra from getting through his medical examination?"

At this Asha determined to be absolutely firm, and said to Mahendra, "You aren't reading for your examination at all—so from to-day I'm going to stay downstairs in Kaki's room." . "As you please," said Mahendra; "let's stay in Kaki's room by all means, but then she'll have to come upstairs and stay in ours!"

A bantering reply to such a serious proposition touching so grave a matter made Asha highly indignant. But Mahendra went on, "Hadn't you better keep an eye on me, day and night, to see for yourself that I really do cram for my examination?"

The decision to adopt the latter course was arrived at with remarkable ease. It is needless to describe in detail in what manner the eyes appointed to keep this strict and constant watch performed their functions. Suffice it to say that Mahendra did not pass his examination that year, and that Asha's ignorance of the life-history of the Centipede did not suffer the least abatement, in spite of the exhaustive information on the subject furnished by her reading-book.