Eyesore/Chapter 14
XIV
"Tell me truly," asked Asha, "how did you like my Eyesore?"
"Not half bad," replied Mahendra indifferently.
"Nobody seems to please you," said Asha, greatly disappointed.
Mahendra—"Except one!"
"Well, wait till you know her a little better," Asha went on, "and then we'll see whether you get to like her or not!"
"Know her better!" exclaimed Mahendra. "D'you mean to say that this sort of thing is to go on and on?"
"Surely," argued Asha, "you'll have to go on with an acquaintance once begun, for politeness' sake at least. What will my Eyesore think of you if you have nothing more to do with her? You really are a most extraordinary sort of person. Anybody else in your place would have been pining to make friends with such a nice girl—and you think it a great trial!"
Mahendra felt hugely pleased at being thus distinguished from other persons. "All right," he said, "where's the hurry? Your friend doesn't seem to be in any haste to be gone, nor have I any other place to run away to; so I suppose we shall be now and then coming across each other;—and when we do meet, your husband, I trust, is well-bred enough to behave properly."
Mahendra was sure that on some pretext or other Binodini would be re-appearing on the scene. But there he turned out to be entirely mistaken. Binodini did not come anywhere near his room, nor even did she accidentally cross his path.
Lest his eagerness betray itself, Mahendra did not at first venture even to mention Binodini to his wife. His constant endeavours to conceal and suppress his first-natural inclination for Binodini's companionship, had only succeeded in increasing it to a keen desire. This was now further excited by Binodini's unconcern.
The very next day Mahendra in his most casual manner asked Asha with a smile: "And what did friend Eyesore think of this unworthy husband of yours?" He had been vainly hoping to receive an enthusiastic report from Asha without the need of putting the question, but he could wait no longer.
Asha was in a fix. Her Eyesore had not said a word. In fact she was excessively annoyed with her friend on that account. To her husband she said: "Wait a bit, let your acquaintance ripen, then we shall hear what she has to say. Yesterday you barely saw each other and exchanged only a few words."
Mahendra was grievously disappointed, and it became more and more difficult for him to feign indifference about Binodini.
Vihari entered at the conclusion of Asha's excited little speech. "What's the latest discussion about?" he inquired.
"Just look here, old fellow," appealed Mahendra; "there's a girl here, Kumudini or Pramodini or something of that sort, whom your sister Asha calls her Hairwash or Fishbone or some such pet name, and whom she now insists on my nick-naming Cigar-ash or Match-box in my turn,—this is really too much!"
The clouds of a big quarrel seemed to be gathering within Asha's veil.
Vihari stared for a while at Mahendra in silence and then said: "Oh I say, sister Asha! the signs are ominous! He's trying to hoodwink us! I've seen your Eyesore, and I'll swear I'd not count it a misfortune to see her oftener. But Dada protests too much—'tis a case for grave suspicion!"
This only confirmed Asha in her idea as to the vast difference between the likes of Vihari and her Mahendra!
Mahendra suddenly developed the hobby of practising photography. He had tried it once before and given it up. He now mended his camera, got some chemicals, and started again. Even the family servants became subjects for his operations.
Asha was importunate—he really must take one of her Eyesore.
"All right," briefly replied Mahendra.
"No," said Binodini with even greater brevity.
Asha had again recourse to a stratagem, and this time it was apparent to Binodini from the very first.
The plan was for Asha to lure Binodini into her room at noon and lull her to sleep; whereupon Mahendra was to seize the opportunity to take a shot with his camera and thus vanquish her recalcitrant friend.
The surprising part of it was that Binodini, who never slept in the day-time, felt so drowsy that noon in Asha's room that she could scarcely keep her eyes open. At length with a red shawl negligently drawn over her spotless white sari,[1] she fell asleep so charmingly, with her face towards the open window, that Mahendra said it was as good as if she was posing for the picture.
Mahendra brought up his camera on tiptoe. To get the proper point of view he had to make prolonged surveys of Binodini's figure from different positions. In fact his regard for his art constrained him to diffidently step up to her head and arrange her scattered hair a little; and then, the first arrangement not being to his taste, he had to do it over again!
"Will you shift that corner of the shawl at her feet a little to the left," whispered he to Asha.
Awkward little Asha whispered back, "I'll spoil it, and perhaps wake her. Do it yourself."
Mahendra did the shifting.
At last when he had got the plate into the camera, the noise or something caused Binodini to heave a deep sigh and then sit up with a start. Asha burst out laughing. Binodini was highly indignant. "This is very wrong," she said, her glance flashing fiery darts at Mahendra.
"Very wrong, no doubt," repeated Mahendra, "but the crime has been committed, and if I'm deprived of its fruits it'll be like losing both this world and the next. Let me complete the deed, and then award me such punishment as it may please you."
Asha added her entreaties. The photograph was taken, but the first one was unsuccessful. So the artist insisted on taking another the next day. after that Binodini could not say no to a group with Asha which would serve as a memento of their eternal affection. "But this must positively be the last," she said. Whereupon Mahendra saw to it that this one also was a failure.
Thus with repeated sittings did their friendship progress fast and far.
- ↑ A plain white borderless Sari is the only garment of the Hindu widow in Bengal.