The Home and the World by Rabindranath Tagore (elon musk reading list TXT) 📕

such hypocrisy is not in my nature, nor in that of Nikhil either.

This, at least, is something we have in common. That is why,

nowadays, I would rather not come across him, and have taken to

fighting shy of his presence.

All these are signs of weakness. No sooner is the possibility of

a wrong admitted than it becomes actual, and clutches you by the

throat, however you may then try to shake off all belief in it.

What I should like to be able to tell Nikhil frankly is, that

happenings such as these must be looked in the face--as great

Realities--and that which is the Truth should not be allowed to

stand between true friends.

There is no denying that I have really weakened. It was not this

weakness which won over Bimala; she burnt her wings in the blaze

of the full strength of my unhesitating manliness. Whenever

smoke obscures its lustre she also becomes confused, and draws

back. Then comes a thorough revulsion of feeling, and she fain

would take back the garland she has put round my neck, but

cannot; and so she only closes her eyes, to shut it out of sight.

But all the same I must not swerve from the path I have chalked

out. It would never do to abandon the cause of the country,

especially at the present time. I shall simply make Bimala one

with my country. The turbulent west wind which has swept away

the country's veil of conscience, will sweep away the veil of the

wife from Bimala's face, and in that uncovering there will be no

shame. The ship will rock as it bears the crowd across the

ocean, flying the pennant of Bande Mataram, and it will

serve as the cradle to my power, as well as to my love.

Bimala will see such a majestic vision of deliverance, that her

bonds will slip from about her, without shame, without her even

being aware of it. Fascinated by the beauty of this terrible

wrecking power, she will not hesitate a moment to be cruel. I

have seen in Bimala's nature the cruelty which is the inherent

force of existence--the cruelty which with its unrelenting might

keeps the world beautiful.

If only women could be set free from the artificial fetters put

round them by men, we could see on earth the living image of

Kali, the shameless, pitiless goddess. I am a worshipper of

Kali, and one day I shall truly worship her, setting Bimala on

her altar of Destruction. For this let me get ready.

The way of retreat is absolutely closed for both of us. We shall

despoil each other: get to hate each other: but never more be

free.

Chapter Five

Nikhil's Story

IV

EVERYTHING is rippling and waving with the flood of August. The

young shoots of rice have the sheen of an infant's limbs. The

water has invaded the garden next to our house. The morning

light, like the love of the blue sky, is lavished upon the earth

... Why cannot I sing? The water of the distant river is

shimmering with light; the leaves are glistening; the rice-

fields, with their fitful shivers, break into gleams of gold; and

in this symphony of Autumn, only I remain voiceless. The

sunshine of the world strikes my heart, but is not reflected

back.

When I realize the lack of expressiveness in myself, I know why I

am deprived. Who could bear my company day and night without a

break? Bimala is full of the energy of life, and so she has

never become stale to me for a moment, in all these nine years of

our wedded life.

My life has only its dumb depths; but no murmuring rush. I can

only receive: not impart movement. And therefore my company is

like fasting. I recognize clearly today that Bimala has been

languishing because of a famine of companionship.

Then whom shall I blame? Like Vidyapati I can only lament:

/*

It is August, the sky breaks into a passionate rain;

Alas, empty is my house.

*/

My house, I now see, was built to remain empty, because its doors

cannot open. But I never knew till now that its divinity had

been sitting outside. I had fondly believed that she had

accepted my sacrifice, and granted in return her boon. But,

alas, my house has all along been empty.

Every year, about this time, it was our practice to go in a

house-boat over the broads of Samalda. I used to tell Bimala

that a song must come back to its refrain over and over again.

The original refrain of every song is in Nature, where the rain-

laden wind passes over the rippling stream, where the green

earth, drawing its shadow-veil over its face, keeps its ear close

to the speaking water. There, at the beginning of time, a man

and a woman first met--not within walls. And therefore we two

must come back to Nature, at least once a year, to tune our love

anew to the first pure note of the meeting of hearts.

The first two anniversaries of our married life I spent in

Calcutta, where I went through my examinations. But from the

next year onwards, for seven years without a break, we have

celebrated our union among the blossoming water-lilies. Now

begins the next octave of my life.

It was difficult for me to ignore the fact that the same month of

August had come round again this year. Does Bimala remember it,

I wonder?--she has given me no reminder. Everything is mute

about me.

/*

It is August, the sky breaks into a passionate rain;

Alas, empty is my house.

*/

The house which becomes empty through the parting of lovers,

still has music left in the heart of its emptiness. But the

house that is empty because hearts are asunder, is awful in its

silence. Even the cry of pain is out of place there.

This cry of pain must be silenced in me. So long as I continue

to suffer, Bimala will never have true freedom. I must free her

completely, otherwise I shall never gain my freedom from untruth

...

I think I have come to the verge of understanding one thing. Man

has so fanned the flame of the loves of men and women, as to make

it overpass its rightful domain, and now, even in the name of

humanity itself, he cannot bring it back under control. Man's

worship has idolized his passion. But there must be no more

human sacrifices at its shrine ...

I went into my bedroom this morning, to fetch a book. It is long

since I have been there in the day-time. A pang passed through

me as I looked round it today, in the morning light. On the

clothes rack was hanging a sari of Bimala's, crinkled

ready for wear. On the dressing-table were her perfumes, her

comb, her hair-pins, and with them, still, her vermilion box!

Underneath were her tiny gold-embroidered slippers.

Once, in the old days, when Bimala had not yet overcome her

objections to shoes, I had got these out from Lucknow, to tempt

her. The first time she was ready to drop for very shame, to go

in them even from the room to the verandah. Since then she has

worn out many shoes, but has treasured up this pair. When first

showing her the slippers, I chaffed her over a curious practice

of hers; "I have caught you taking the dust of my feet, thinking

me asleep! These are the offerings of my worship to ward the

dust off the feet of my wakeful divinity." "You must not say

such things," she protested, "or I will never wear your shoes!"

This bedroom of mine--it has a subtle atmosphere which goes

straight to my heart. I was never aware, as I am today, how my

thirsting heart has been sending out its roots to cling round

each and every familiar object. The severing of the main root, I

see, is not enough to set life free. Even these little slippers

serve to hold one back.

My wandering eyes fall on the niche. My portrait there is

looking the same as ever, in spite of the flowers scattered round

it having been withered black! Of all the things in the room

their greeting strikes me as sincere. They are still here simply

because it was not felt worth while even to remove them. Never

mind; let me welcome truth, albeit in such sere and sorry garb,

and look forward to the time when I shall be able to do so

unmoved, as does my photograph.

As I stood there, Bimal came in from behind. I hastily turned my

eyes from the niche to the shelves as I muttered: "I came to get

Amiel's Journal." What need had Ito volunteer an explanation? I

felt like a wrong-doer, a trespasser, prying into a secret not

meant for me. I could not look Bimal in the face, but hurried

away.

V

I had just made the discovery that it was useless to keep up a

pretence of reading in my room outside, and also that it was

equally beyond me to busy myself attending to anything at all--so

that all the days of my future bid fair to congeal into one solid

mass and settle heavily on my breast for good--when Panchu, the

tenant of a neighbouring zamindar, came up to me with a

basketful of cocoa-nuts and greeted me with a profound obeisance.

"Well, Panchu," said I. "What is all this for?"

I had got to know Panchu through my master. He was extremely

poor, nor was I in a position to do anything for him; so I

supposed this present was intended to procure a tip to help the

poor fellow to make both ends meet. I took some money from my

purse and held it out towards him, but with folded hands he

protested: "I cannot take that, sir!"

"Why, what is the matter?"

"Let me make a clean breast of it, sir. Once, when I was hard

pressed, I stole some cocoa-nuts from the garden here. I am

getting old, and may die any day, so I have come to pay them

back."

Amiel's Journal could not have done me any good that day. But

these words of Panchu lightened my heart. There are more things

in life than the union or separation of man and woman. The great

world stretches far beyond, and one can truly measure one's joys

and sorrows when standing in its midst.

Panchu was devoted to my master. I know well enough how he

manages to eke out a livelihood. He is up before dawn every day,

and with a basket of pan leaves, twists of tobacco,

coloured cotton yarn, little combs, looking-glasses, and other

trinkets beloved of the village women, he wades through the knee-

deep water of the marsh and goes over to the Namasudra quarters.

There he barters his goods for rice, which fetches him a little

more than their price in money. If he can get back soon enough

he goes out again, after a hurried meal, to the sweetmeat

seller's, where he assists in beating sugar for wafers. As soon

as he comes home he sits at his shell-bangle making, plodding on

often till midnight. All this cruel toil does not earn,