Eyesore/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?"[1] 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,[2] 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."[3]
"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.