Rajmohan's Wife

Front matter

RAJMOHAN'S WIFE A NOVEL

By Bankim Chandra Chatterjee

| R. CHATTERJEE CALCUTTA. 1935 |

Chapter I

RAJMOHAN'S WIFE

CHAPTER I THE DRAWERS OF WATER

THERE is a small village on the river Madhumati. On account of its being the residence of wealthy zemindars it is regarded as a village of importance. One Chaitra afternoon the summer heat was gradually abating with the weakening of the once keen rays of the sun; a gentle breeze was blowing; it began to dry the perspiring brow of the peasant in the field and play with the moist locks of village women just risen from their siesta.

It was after such a siesta that a woman of about thirty was engaged in her toilet in a humble thatched cottage. She took very little time to finish the process usually so elaborate with womankind; a dish of water, a tin-framed looking-glass three inches wide, and a comb matching it sufficed for the task. Then, a little vermilion adorned her forehead. Last of all some betel leaves dyed her lips. Thus armed, a formidable champion of the world-conquering sex set out with a pitcher in her arm and pushing open the wattled gate of a neighbouring house entered within it.

There were four huts in the house which she entered. They had mud floors and bamboo walls. There was no sign of poverty anywhere, everything was neat and tidy. The four huts stood on the four sides of a quadrangle. Of these three had entrances opening on the yard, the fourth opened outwards. This last was the reception room, while the others, screened on all sides, constituted the zenana. Some brinjals and salads were growing on the carefully tilled plot of land in front of the raised terrace before the outer room. The whole was enclosed by a reed fence with a bamboo gate. So the woman could easily make her way into the house.

It is superfluous to add that she went straight towards the zenana. I know not where the other inmates of the house had gone after their siesta, but at that time there were only two persons there—one, a young woman of eighteen bent over her embroidery and a child of four immersed in play. His elder brother had wilfully left his ink-pot behind when going to school. The child's eyes had fallen on it, and he was joyfully smearing his face with the ink. He seemed to be afraid of his brother coming back and snatching the ink-pot away, and so he was emptying the pot. The newcomer sat down on the floor by the side of her who was working and asked, "What are you doing?"

The other laughed and said, "Oh, it's Didi. What kindness! Whose face was it that I first saw on getting up this morning?"

The guest laughed back and retorted, "Who else but the person you see every morning?"

At this, the face of the younger woman clouded over for a moment, while the smile half-lingered on the lips of the other. Let us describe them both at this place.

It has already been mentioned that the visitor was thirty years of age. She was neither dark nor exactly olive; her face was not quite pretty, yet there was no feature which displeased the eye; she had a sort of restless charm, and her smiling eyes heightened the effect of it. The ornaments on her person were not large in number, but constituted a fair load for a porter. The conch-shell worker who had made her shell bracelet was no doubt a descendant of Visvakarma himself. The woman adorned with these ornaments had only a coarse sari on her plump figure. There was evidently no love lost between the sari and the washerman, for it had not visited the laundry for a long time.

The dainty limbs of the woman of eighteen were not burdened with such abundance of ornaments, nor did her speech betray any trace of the East Bengal accent, which clearly showed that this perfect flower of beauty was no daughter of the banks of the Madhumati, but was born and brought up on the Bhagirathi in some place near the capital. Some sorrow or deep anxiety had dimmed the lustre of her fair complexion. Yet her bloom was as full of charm as that of the land-lotus half-scorched and half-radiant under the noonday sun. Her long locks were tied up in a careless knot on her shoulder; but some loose tresses had thrown away that bondage and were straying over her forehead and cheeks. Her faultlessly drawn arched eyebrows were quivering with bashfulness under a full and wide forehead. The eyes were often only half-seen under their drooping lids. But when they were raised for a glance, lightning seemed to play in a summer cloud. Yet even those keen glances charged with the fire of youth betrayed anxiety. The small lips indicated the sorrow nursed in her heart. The beauty of her figure and limbs had been greatly spoilt by her physical or mental suffering. Yet no sculptor had ever created anything nearly as perfect as the form half revealed by the neat sari she wore. The well-shaped limbs were almost entirely bare of ornaments. There were only churis on the wrists and a small amulet on her arm. These too were elegant in shape.

The younger woman put away her needlework and began to talk with the visitor. The latter displayed great eloquence in describing her domestic tribulations, most of which unfortunately were imaginary. She put the fringe of her mud-stained sari again and again to her eyes, which were not in a condition to call for it. But in certain eventualities even the Salagram (god) dies. As often as the end of the sari touched her eyes they shed copious tears. After many such showers she was preparing for a full-dress outburst when her eyes suddenly fell on the ink-smeared face of the child who had emptied the ink-pot and was standing with a darkened countenance. The bizarre sight converted the tears of the narrator of household misery into laughter; humour swept away pathos.

When the ceremony of tears ended at last, the sun was really sinking down to rest. At this the speaker invited the young woman to come with her to fetch water. She had in fact come there with a view to making that invitation. The younger woman refused, and when her companion began to press her, said, "There are crocodiles in the Madhumati. They will drag me away."

Her companion laughed out loudly at this, which showed her that her objection was not admitted. Yet she added, "You should go now, Kanak. It's growing late."

Kanak pointed to the sun which was still above the trees and said, "It's still noon."

At this the younger woman became grave and said, "You know, Kanak Didi, I never fetch water."

"That is why I am asking you to," replied Kanak. "Why should you remain in a cage all the day. Do not all other housewives draw water?"

The younger woman said disdainfully, "That's a work for servant girls."

"Why, who fetches water for you? Where are your servants?"

"Well, Thakurjhi fetches our water."

"If the daughter can do servants' work, cannot the daughter-in-law?"

The young woman said firmly, "I cannot argue about it, Kanak. You know my husband has forbidden me to fetch water, and you know him well."

Kanakmayee did not reply off-hand. She quickly glanced round to see if anyone was coming. When she saw there was no one about, she stood with her eyes fixed on the face of her companion as if wanting to say something. But she repressed the impulse from fear and remained musing with downcast eyes. The younger girl asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"If only you had eyes," replied Kanak.

The younger woman would not, however, listen to her. She made a sign to Kanak to stop and said, "Hush, hush, I understand your meaning."

"If you have done so, what are you going to do now?" asked Kanak.

The younger girl remained silent for a while. Her quivering lips and reddening brow betrayed the preoccupation of her mind. A slight tremor in her limbs also showed how agitated she was. After some time she said, "Let us go, but is it wrong?"

Kanak laughed and replied, "Wrong! I am not a fat-bellied Bhattacharya. I have nothing to do with the Shastras. But I would have gone even if I had fifty men."

"Oh! what bravery!" replied the other laughing as she went out to get her pitcher. "Fifty! Do you really wish for as many?"

Kanak smiled sadly and said, "It's a sin even to say so. But if all the fifty were of the same sort as the one given me by Fate, it would hardly matter. If I meet none, I am a chaste and devoted wife even if married to a crore of men."

"The Kulin girl's lot!" exclaimed the other and quickly got a tiny pitcher from the kitchen. The pitcher perfectly matched the carrier of water. Then they both marched off towards the river. Kanak laughed and said, "Come now, my proud girl, let's go and show beauty's splendour to the gaping idiots."

"Hang you, monkey!" cried the other and hid her blushing face in her veil.

Chapter II

CHAPTER II THE TWO COUSINS

THE rays of the setting sun had vanished from the tops of the cocoanut palms. But night had not yet descended on the earth. It was at this time that Kanak and her companion were returning home, each with a pitcher in her arm. By the road-side was a small garden, of a type rare in East Bengal. Numerous roses and mallika buds were caressing the eyes of the passers-by from within the compound surrounded by a handsome iron fence. Walks covered with red brick-dust had been laid down beside the old style square and oval beds. There was a tank in the middle of the gardens, whose banks were covered with soft turf. On one side was a row of brick-paved steps. Facing the steps was the reception room, in the front verandah of which two men were engaged in talk.

The older of the two would be above thirty. He was a tall and stout man. It was because he was too stout that he could not be said to possess a good figure. His complexion was dull and dark. There was no feature on his face which could give him the least claim to handsomeness. On the contrary, he had something positively unattractive about him. In fact, his was not a common face; at the same time it was difficult to define its peculiarity off-hand. He had a dhoti of Dacca manufacture on. A long and twisted Dacca chudder was tied round his head in the shape of turban which hid even the few wisps of hair that still remained there. His dark and corpulent body could be fully seen through the shirt of Dacca muslin he was wearing, and with it his gold amulet which peeped out off and on. But the thick gold chain which adorned his neck had actually intruded outside his shirt. The shirt had gold studs fastened with a gold chain; all the fingers had rings; and there was a huge bludgeon of peach in his hand. The two small feet were enclosed in English shoes.

This man's companion was a remarkably handsome young man of about twenty-two. His clear placid complexion had turned a little dull either through want of exercise or too much comfort. His clothes were good but not very costly; a dhoti, a fine chudder, a cambric shirt and English shoes. There was a single ring on one finger, and no amulet or necklace. The elder man addressed the other, "Well Madhav, you have turned to Calcutta again. Why this infatuation?"

"Infatuation?" replied Madhav, "if my liking for Calcutta be an infatuation, why shouldn't yours for Radhaganj be called by the same name?"

Mathur asked, "Why?"

Madhav. "Why not? You have spent your life in the shade of the mango gardens of Radhaganj. You love Radhaganj. I have spent my life in the stench of Calcutta. I love Calcutta."

Mathur. "Stench only? The filth of the drains with rotten rats and cats thrown in. Surely a feast for the gods!"

Madhav smiled and said, "It is not for these that I go to Calcutta. I have business, too."

Mathur. "Business indeed! New horses, new carriages, visiting all the sharks of the town, throwing away money, burning the oil, drinks for anglicized friends, and pleasures. What are you staring at that way? Have you never seen Kanak? Or has the girl with her just dropped from the sky? Ah, Yes! Who is it with her?"

Madhav flushed, but immediately changed the subject and said, "What a girl Kanak is! She can laugh with so much sorrow eating into her heart."

Mathur. "Yes. But who is it she's got with her."

Madhav. "How can I say? I cannot see through clothes. You see she is veiled."

It was in fact Kanak and her companion who were returning with their pitchers. Everybody knew Kanak. But such indescribable beauty radiated from every movement of the other woman that it charmed the eyes first of Madhav and then of Mathur. Their looks remained fixed on her and they were as fascinated by the sight as a deer is by the sound of the flute.

When the words last recorded came out of the mouth of Madhav, a sudden gust of wind passed over the heads of the women. The younger woman was then adjusting the pitcher in arms still unused to carrying water, and she had brought down her hand from the veil. The wind blew it away and revealed the face. Madhav raised his brows in surprise. Mathur said, "There, you know her."

"Yes."

"You know her and I do not? I have spent my life here and you are only a newcomer. Well, if you know her, who is she?"

"My sister-in-law."

"Your sister-in-law? Rajmohan's wife!"

"Yes."

"Rajmohan's wife, and I have not seen her!"

"How can you? She never leaves her house."

"Why then has she to-day?"

"I don't know."

"What sort of a woman is she?"

"You have seen her.—Very handsome."

"Oh a thought-reader indeed! I am not asking that. Is she a good woman?"

"What do you mean by a 'good woman'?"

Mathur. "Oh the college has done for you! It's impossible to talk with people who have once gone there and recited the jargon of the red-faced sahibs. What I mean is—has she—"

The stern frown of Madhav cut short the coarse speech forming on Mathur's lips.

Madhav said haughtily, "You need not be so outspoken. You have no business to prattle about a respectable woman passing along the road."

Mathur replied, "Did I not say that a smattering of English converts our brethren into fiery sahibs! Well, if one is not to discuss one's sister-in-law, whom is one to discuss—his grandmother? Anyway, let it pass. Relax your scowling face, or the crows would begin to peck at it. What luck! That clown Rajmohan to have a wife like this!"

"Marriage is called a lottery," said Madhav.

And after a few more words the two parted company.

Chapter III

CHAPTER III THE TRUANT'S RETURN HOME

KANAKMAYEE and her companion silently pursued their way home. The latter was feeling extremely shy before men, and at her silence Kanak also had to remain silent. Kanak, however, felt the missed opportunity of wagging her tongue very keenly. The pathway was more lonely near their homes, and the younger woman began, "How the wretched wind hustled me!"

"Why?" replied Kanak laughingly, "has your brother-in-law never seen you before?"

"I am not thinking of him. But there was another man with him."

"He is Mathur Babu. Have you never seen him?"

"No, indeed! Is he Mathur Babu, the cousin of my sister's husband?"

"Yes, who else?"

"What a shame! Please don't talk about it to anybody."

"Oh no! I am going to tell people that you dropped your veil and showed your face when coming back from the river," said Kanak and began to simper. The younger woman said angrily, "Go to Jericho! How she goes on! I would never have come with you if I had known—"

Kanak laughed again.

"Leave your jokes alone.—O horror! Durga save me!" cried out the young woman as she cast her eyes towards her house and began to tremble. They were at that time quite close to it. Kanak saw Rajmohan standing at the door with glaring eyes, the very image of Death, and whispered to her companion, "There is trouble for you! Let me go in with you. I might be of some help."

Rajmohan's wife replied in the same low tone, "Oh no! I am quite used to it. It would probably be worse if you are there. You had better go home."

At this Kanak went her way. Rajmohan did not speak to his wife when she entered the house. She went to the kitchen to put her pitcher down. He followed her silently there. When she had set it down, he said to her, "Wait a moment," and poured out all the water on the dust-heap. Rajmohan had an old aunt who used to do his cooking. She scolded Rajmohan for thus wasting the water, "Why are you throwing the water away? You don't keep a score of servants to draw water."

"Shut up, you old hag," cried out Rajmohan and flung away the empty pitcher. Then he turned round to his wife and said in a softer but scathing tone, "Well, queen, where have you been?" The woman firmly whispered back, "I had gone to fetch water." She was standing like a statue exactly on the spot where her husband had asked her to stop.

"To fetch water!" taunted Rajmohan, "but with whose permission did you go out?"

"With nobody's permission."

Rajmohan could restrain himself no longer. "With nobody's permission!" he shouted, "have I not forbidden you a thousand times!"

The woman replied in the same even tone, "You have."

"Then, wretched girl, why did you go?"

The woman proudly replied, "I am your wife." Her face reddened and her voice began to be choked. "I had gone because I thought there was nothing wrong in it."

At this display of boldness, Rajmohan absolutely blazed up. "Have I not forbidden you a thousand times?" he shouted, and jumping on his wife who was standing stock-still, gripped her by the wrist, raising his other hand to strike her.

The helpless woman seemed to understand nothing. She did not move away one step from her assailant, but only looked at him with such pathetic eyes that his hand remained motionless as if spell-bound. After a moment's silence Rajmohan dropped his wife's hand, but immediately shouted out, "I'll kick you to death."

Even then the chidden woman did not reply. Only tears were streaming down her face. At the sight of her silent suffering the cruel man softened a little. He no longer tried to beat her, but continued his abuse. It is unnecessary to try the patience of my readers by reproducing all of his Billingsgate. The patient woman bore it silently. When, at last, Rajmohan's anger ebbed away, his aunt gathered some courage. She took her nephew's wife by the hand and led her into a room, all the while scolding her nephew. Even that was done circumspectly. But when she saw at last that Rajmohan had almost cooled down she burst out in her turn and paid the nephew back in his own coin. Rajmohan was then nursing his own grievances. He could not quite appreciate the language of his aunt. At any rate there was no novelty in it, for he had heard it many times before. So they both parted. The aunt began to console the wife, and Rajmohan went out pondering whom to fall upon and smash up.

Chapter IV

CHAPTER IV THE HISTORY OF THE RISE AND PROGRESS OF A ZEMINDAR FAMILY

IT is a notorious fact that many eminent zemindar families in Bengal owe their rise to some ignoble origin.

Bangshibadan Ghose lived as a menial servant with an old zemindar of East Bengal whose name and family are now extinct. The unfruitfulness of his first marriage induced the zemindar, late in life, to take another wife, but it had been preordained that he should live and die childless. He had, however, a blessing which next to a progeny he deemed the greatest good that could befall him in his old age—a young and beautiful wife. It is true indeed that discordance and broils between his two helpmates often interrupted his domestic felicity, for the elder lady always sturdily maintained that seniority constituted the indisputable rule by which favours should be bestowed, which indisputable rule, however, the old gentleman always presumed to dispute. Matters were getting to a hopeless state when interfered an umpire whose award brooked no question, and justly acknowledging the claims of her own indefeasible right of seniority removed the elder lady to another world. The old man and his youthful mate were now left in peace, but the former justly took warning by the occurrence and perceived that he himself might be called upon to follow at no distant day. Now hopeless of leaving a family, he reflected with bitterness that his ample estates must be left to the enjoyment of those who had been to him almost strangers, and that though they might remain in the possession of his wife during her lifetime, she could not, with her hands fettered by the law, be anything more than a pensioner on her own estate. Desirous of leaving it in a condition which should leave the young woman its complete mistress, and led into the same course by the advice and influence of his wife, whose perception of her own future prospects was wonderfully clear, he began to free his possessions of landed incumbrances and to convert his zemindaris into ready money and movables as often as he could advantageously do it, and so successful was his uxorious zeal that when he died his relict became the mistress of a splendid fortune of which landed property formed a very inconsiderable portion. Now Karunamayee was a decidedly sensible woman, and she judged it right that, mistress of her fortune and her person, she should enjoy both. Ram, the godhead, she argued, had, in the depth of his love and gratitude for his adored wife, consoled himself in the days of his bereavement by a metallic representative of Sita. Why then should not her immense love for her departed husband find expression under the same representative system? She also thought that it would be a decided improvement in the plan, if she made a human being instead of a metallic image represent the loved and lost one for whom she mourned, inasmuch as a human being is a nobler thing, and would bear a closer resemblance than metal, and also as such resemblance would by no means be confined to the external form alone. Thus fortified by reason and veneration for the departed as well as by the example of the gods, she lost no time in making her choice. Bangshibadan Ghose the menial servant was the happy mortal on whom it fell. This crafty person perceived his advantage too clearly to neglect it, and lord of his mistress's bosom, he saw no reason [why] he should not be the same of her fortune. It was an easy achievement and his progress from the rank of Khansama to that of Sadar Naib was rapid. A fever originally slight, but which from unintelligible or rather very intelligible causes, became fearfully violent, forced the anxious widow to part with her domestic and with the world before age had chilled her fires. A few days after, the distant and expectant relatives of her husband came to take possession of her estates, but found to their great mortification that they consisted only of a few wretched villages. Of movables, they were told, there were only a few and these she had given away to her servants.

Bangshibadan carried with him a splendid fortune to Radhaganj, the seat of his humble paternal abode. He very prudently made no display of his immense wealth, except so much as was necessary to a life of comfort. On his demise he left a splendid patrimony to each of his three sons. These, who deemed long possession had conferred security, were no longer restrained by the same prudential considerations as their father, purchased zemindaris, built fine houses, and assumed the state and style that belonged to their wealth. The eldest Ramkanta by dint of prudent and able management improved his share, and after having lived to a green old age bequeathed it to the equally able or abler hands of his only son, Mathur, with whom we have had the pleasure of making the reader acquainted. Ramkanta had viewed with eyes of jealousy the encroachments that were being made in the ancient manners and usages by the influence of western civilization and had steadily forborne to send his son to an English school, which he condemned as a thing not only useless but as positively mischievous. Mathur was early associated with his father in the management of the zemindari and proved an exceedingly apt scholar in the science of chicane, fraud and torture.

The fate of Ramkanai, the second son of Bangshibadan, was different. By nature indolent and extravagant, he soon managed to throw his affairs into disorder. His houses and gardens were the most magnificent, his estates the most unprofitable and the worst managed. Some wily hangers-on, too, played on his credulity and painted to him in alluring colours the chances which a certain mercantile scheme they propounded presented of retrieving his affairs. Ramkanai followed their advice and, placing himself under their guidance, took up his residence in Calcutta. It is needless to add that his advisers continued to fleece him of every farthing he had ventured in the speculation and eventually to bring his mismanaged and neglected estates to the hammer.

One good result however had followed Ramkanai's residence in the metropolis. Influenced by the example of the metropolitans, he had bestowed on his son Madhav as good an education as he could receive in Calcutta. He had also accomplished that great object of a Hindu father's love—the marriage of his son with a girl of remarkable beauty. A poor Kayastha dwelt in a small village in the vicinity of Calcutta, who boasted that the only good fortune that the heavens had conferred on him was perfect in its kind, and his two daughters had not their equal in beauty or in dutiful and amiable conduct. But the same circumstances which often so cruelly match the fairest and tenderest of fair and tender Bengalis, consigned the eldest of his daughters, the noble and beautiful Matangini, to the arms of the brutal Rajmohan; yet, when the marriage took place, Matangini's father thought he had not chosen ill. Rajmohan had indeed then reached manhood and was therefore unsuited in age—but this was not minded much. He possessed no handsome person—but a handsome person was to be looked for in a boy bridegroom, not in a man. He lived in an adjoining village, and the prospect that no great distance would separate father and daughter served greatly to favour the match in the eyes of the former. His robust frame and vast strength were the envy and admiration of all who knew him. His spirit was active and energetic, ready in expedients, and as a natural consequence, though his father had left him no fortune and given him no education, he was never much in want. This circumstance which promised to rescue Matangini from the pinchings of poverty seemed to her father to be another and the greatest recommendation, and the marriage accordingly took place. The younger and more fortunate Hemangini became the bride of young Madhav.

The father of Madhav died a little before the latter completed his studies at college. He would have been left penniless but for a circumstance which nobody had foreseen.

Ramgopal the third son of Bangshibadan was neither so fortunate as the first, nor so unfortunate as the second. He died early and childless bequeathing nearly the whole of his property to his nephew Madhav on condition the latter maintained his relict as long as she lived in Madhav's household.

Madhav continued his studies till he finished them, his agents managing his estate for him during his absence and minority. After the expiration of the year, he prepared to leave the city for Radhaganj with his young and beautiful wife. Before [going there he] took her to her father's house in order [to enable her to] bid her parents farewell. [Madhav's wife] was beloved by her sister, [and design] or accident brought also Rajmohan [and his wife to the] house.

Madhav intended to make a short stay with his father-in-law; Hemangini incessantly wept at the prospect of parting with her parents and her sister, for how long she knew not. It was a far, far country whither she was going, and would she ever come back to the scene of her earliest affection? Would her parents ever visit her there? Her father said he would, but then her mother? her sister? Her mother and sister answered not, but wept with her in silence, and gave her their blessings.

Matangini took hold of her sister's hand and drew her aside. When they were alone, she said, "Hem, I have something to ask of you." Hemangini did not reply but gazed upon her sister with an enquiring look in her large black eyes.

"Hem," Matangini resumed, "we part to-morrow."