Krishna Kanta's Will (Chatterjee, Knight)/Part 1/Chapter 27
CHAPTER XXVII.
The news of Krishna Kanta's death caused much grief in the neighbourhood. One said, "An Indra hath fallen;" another, "A Dikpâl hath died;" another, "A mountain peak is broken." Krishna Kanta had been a wealthy man, but also one of sterling character. He gave handsomely to the poor, to the Brahmans, and to the Pandits. Therefore many were afflicted at his death.
Above all others, Bhramar. The first thing was to bring her home. In the day following on the Kartâ's death, Gobind Lâl's mother promptly sent for her daughter-in-law. Bhramar came back weeping for Krishna Kanta. Whether, on her first meeting with Gobind Lâl, there would have been a great rupture between them on account of Rohini, I can't tell, but in the grief for Krishna Kanta this matter remained in abeyance. When they first met, Bhramar was weeping for her father-in-law, and the sight of Gobind Lâl increased her sobs. Gobind Lâl also was weeping bitterly.
The danger of any great quarrel was averted by the general confusion. The two felt this; they both resolved that this was not the time for discussion of their personal trouble. Let Krishna Kanta's funeral rites be first reverently accomplished, and later they could refer to the other questions. Gobind Lâl said, "Bhramar, there are matters I must speak of with you; words it will make my heart burst to utter. I am distressed with a grief greater than that for the loss of my father; but I cannot speak of it now. After the funeral ceremonies I will speak to you. While these are going on we cannot introduce that topic."
Bhramar, checking her tears with great difficulty, and remembering the gods known from childhood—Kâli,Durgâ, Sivâ, Hari—said, "I also have something to say. When you have leisure, ask me about it."
Nothing further was said. The days passed on as usual—as usual to outward appearance only. Nor man, nor maid-servant, not the grihini, nor the neighbours, relations, or members of the family, not one of them knew that a cloud had arisen in the sky, that a worm had entered the flower, that an insect had attacked that charming image of love. Yet it was so. Things were no more as they had been. Their smiles were not the same. Bhramar, Gobind Lâl—did they no longer smile? They smiled, but not as of yore. The smile that had beamed forth spontaneously at the meeting of the eyes no longer came; no more that smile, half laughter, half love; the smile that spoke at once of overflowing joy and of unsatisfied desire appeared no more. Those loving looks were gone, the look which had made Bhramar think, "How beautiful he is!" and Gobind Lâl, "How many charms she has!"—that look had fled. The longing looks with which she gazed on the love-lit eyes of Gobind Lâl, so intently fixed on hers, which set Bhramar thinking, "I shall never in this life reach the further shore of this ocean of love." That look—in dwelling on which Gobind Lâl forgot all the world beside—that look was gone. No more those loving forms of address, inflexions of the one-loved name, "Bhramara," "Bhomara," "Bhorna," "Bhumri," "Bhumi," "Bhuma," "Bhou, Bhou," those ever-changing epithets, full of love, of colour, of joy, were used no more. That Kâlo, "Kâla," "Kâlachand," "Kelesona," "Kâlomanik," "Kâlindi," Kâliye"—no more of these caressing names; that playful, mischievous calling was no longer heard, that teasing speech had ceased. The very mode of their speech was changed. Formerly, there was no lack of matter for talk, now it had to be hunted for. That talk which was half words, half meeting of eyes and lips, had ceased. No more that talk with words half uttered, half left unsaid, but readily understood, that needed no response, save only simplest sounds. Formerly, when Gobind Lâl and Bhramar were together, it required much calling to induce Gobind Lâl to respond, while Bhramar did not respond at all. Now, they had not to be called, but one or other would get up with the remark, "How hot it is!" or, "Who is that calling?" and would depart. A cloud had come over the full moon, an eclipse had obscured the autumnal moon.
Who had mixed dross with the refined gold? Who had broken the chords of the divine instrument?
Now all was darkness in those hearts once lit up by the joyous rays of the noonday sun. Gobind Lâl sought to lighten this darkness by thinking of Rohini; Bhramar, to relieve this gloomiest gloom, cherished the idea of death. Refuge of the homeless, Path of the pathless, Home of love to the loveless art Thou, O Death! Comforter of the heart, Destroyer of sorrow, Preventer of misfortune, Cheerer of the destitute, art Thou, O Death! Hope of the despairing, Love of the loveless, Thou art; take, then, Bhramar to Thyself, O Death!