Stories of Bengalee Life/The Lady from Benares/Chapter 6
VI
A fortnight passed. During this interval the young couple have very nearly got over their grief for having lost the jewels. They laughed and joked and enjoyed themselves just as they had done in days gone by. Girindra Nath's new appointment proved to be a very lucrative one and that no doubt helped to console them not a little.
On receipt of the telegram, the Head Constable of Dildarnagar came that very day and recorded Girindra's statement together with a descriptive list of the missing jewels. Nothing has been heard from the Police since.
It was half past eleven. Girindra Nath was away in his office. Maloti was sitting over her midday meal when the train from Dildarnagar arrived. Each time the train came in, Maloti would rush to the front door and through a chink in it, watch with childish delight the flow of life on the platform. On this occasion she left her meal unfinished and hastened to the door. Quite an unexpected sight met her gaze. The Benares lady came out of the train and stood on the platform. A porter was taking her things out. She seemingly made some enquiry of the porter and the latter pointed with his finger towards Girindra's house.
Maloti rushed back, put away the remnants of her meal and made herself tidy. With a trembling heart she awaited the arrival of the lady. Such a train of thoughts passed through her mind within that short interval! Her little heart throbbed with delight and she prayed inwardly that her visitor might remain ignorant of her husband's suspicions towards her. All along Maloti believed her to be innocent,—now she became certain of it; were it otherwise, would she have come again of her own accord?
A minute or two later, the lady stood before Maloti. "I am so glad you have come"—she said, as she offered her pronam. The lady placed her hand affectionately on Maloti's head and blessed her silently.
Maloti then wanted to light up a fire to cook a meal for her visitor, but the latter interrupted her saying—"You need not trouble about it, dear, for it is the fast of ekadasi."[1]
The two sat down, engaged in conversation. Maloti could not fail to notice that her visitor's countenance betrayed a sadness and that there was something weighing heavily on her mind. She made bold to ask her the reason for it.
"You ought to know"—the Benares lady sighed.
"What is it"—faltered out Maloti, afraid of the reply she might receive.
"You suspect that I took away your jewel case. You have sent the Police after me—and still you ask why I am looking sad?"
Maloti was silent for some moments, overcome with a feeling of shame. Then she looked up and said—"Would you believe me if I told you that I did not, for one single moment, harbour any such suspicion in my mind?"
"But your husband did"—said the Benares lady ruefully.
"He never thought"—said Maloti in an apologetic tone—"that the Police would ever find you out. Why, only this morning he was saying to me that Benares contained no end of nunneries and to discover a nameless person from amongst their midst was entirely hopeless."
"They did find me out, however, and gave me so much trouble that I had to pay down two hundred rupees to free myself from their clutches."
"So, this has been your reward for making friends with us! I am so sorry."
A silence followed. The lady then asked—
"When does your husband come home?"
"At nightfall."
Clouds began to gather in the sky. The sunlight faded away. Looking outside, the Benares lady softly said—"I hope it is not going to rain."
"What does it matter?"—said Maloti.
"I must be off to-day."
"What! To-day?"
The lips of the lady betrayed a momentary smile. "You silly girl,"—she said—"your husband suspects me to be a robber and you desire that I should be your guest? I must return by the two-thirty train to-day. Many belonging to our nunnery are going on a pilgrimage to Puri. We all start to-morrow."
"Would you be away long?"
"Why do you ask? Would we meet again when I return?"—said the lady, her eyes dimmed with tears.
After a short pause she said—"Maloti, my child, would you like to please me?"
"Yes, if I could"—replied Maloti eagerly.
"I have got a few articles of jewellery here. Wear them for my sake"—she said, as she unlocked her box and pulled out a jewel-case of exquisite workmanship. See then pressed a spring and the lid flew open.
Maloti was amazed to see its contents. Gold and silver, set with rubies, diamonds and other precious stones almost blinded her vision with their dazzle.
"I present these to you"—said the Benares lady affectionately.
Maloti was tongue-tied for a few seconds. Then she found words to say—"You will excuse me, I can't accept these."
"Why not?"—said her friend complainingly.
"Why should I take these from you?—They are worth a small fortune."
"Well—they are my gift to you."
"May be—but what right have I to take them? I mustn't indeed."
Clouds deepened in the sky. There were signs of a coming storm. Daylight was all but gone.
In slow, deliberate accents, the Benares lady said—"Suppose you have such a right."
"I have such a right? What do you mean?"—said Maloti, in utter astonishment.
Looking on the floor with tearful eyes, the Benares lady said—almost in whispers—
"I will tell you. That is why I have come to-day."
Maloti's bosom throbbed with an uncertain terror. She glanced at the lady in breathless silence.
"Is your mother really dead?"
"That's what people say"—said Maloti, her tones clearly betraying her painful diffidence.
"Then you know. I am your wretched mother."—Tears freely flowed down the lady's cheeks as she uttered these words.
A thrill of horror passed through Maloti's frame. Involuntarily she moved away a little from her mother.
An incident that had occurred a few months ago, came back to Maloti's mind. She was at her paternal home then, before her husband took her to Dinapur. Mokshada, whom she called her grandmother, had just returned after a long pilgrimage. She was sharing a bed with an aunt of hers and this old lady. Thinking that Maloti was fast asleep, the two elderly ladies began a secret conversation. But Maloti was really awake and could catch every syllable that passed between them. What she heard gave her a cruel shock of surprise. She then learnt for the first time that her mother whom she believed to be in heaven, was really alive and that the grandmother had accidentally come across her in some place of pilgrimage. She learnt that her mother, whose memory she had been cherishing all her life as a most sacred treasure, was, in the eyes of the world a fallen woman. The agony of mind that Maloti bore in silence that night was indescribable—and this was that mother! The pain and the humiliation of that night now returned to her with redoubled intensity.
The mother was weeping still. After regaining her self-possession to some extent, she said—"Does my son-in-law know?"
"No, he doesn't."
"When did you hear?"
"After marriage."
"Was it from aunt Mokshada?"
"Yes."
"It was from her that I heard of your marriage and that your husband was the Goods Clerk at Dinapur. She also told me that you were to come to Dinapur in the month of Aswin."
Maloti wiped away her tears with a corner of her saree, looked her mother full in the face and said—"Then it was not by chance that you came to Dinapore! Why did you?" Her tone, alas, was stern and unforgiving.
The poor mother relapsed into another fit of sobs. "Can one forget one's own child?"—she managed to say.
Maloti felt like crying too. It seemed strange to her that she should have become so tenderly attached to this lady, quite unaware of the relationship between them.
"Why did you reveal yourself?"—said Maloti in a tremulous voice.
"I hardly know. I could not restrain myself."
Maloti was about to say—"I am glad you did or else I should never have known what it was to look upon one's mother." But she checked herself immediately. An inner voice seemed to whisper to her—"Such a mother! Better not have seen her at all."—So she sat there, sternly silent.
The departure of the train drew near. The Station porter, as arranged, came to fetch away the things.
"Please take away these jewels—I won't wear them"—said Maloti.
The lady looked at her daughter's face and understood what was passing in her mind. She said—"It is not as you suppose. You may wear them without the slightest compunction. Had it been otherwise, I would much rather have thrown them in the river than given them to you. For fourteen years I have done penance for the one single folly of my life. These articles of jewellery are not the wages of my sin. My father was a very rich man, and he gave me these when I was married."
"But still I feel I cannot use them, without consulting my husband first."
"Yes, ask him. Should he however disapprove, you may sell them and make over the proceeds to some Hindoo temple."
She rose to go.
Maloti, in spite of her resolution to the contrary, now fully surrendered herself to the claims of nature. Clasping the feet of the lady with both her arms, she made her obeisance and in a voice choked with tears, said—"Mamma, come again."
"May you be a Savitri, may fortune and happiness ever attend your path"—the mother sobbed out and the next moment she was gone.
- ↑ Ekadasi—the eleventh day of the moon, is observed by all Hindu widows as a day of fast.