BY SAILAJANANDA MUKHOPADHYAY

[Translator’s Note: - This short story has been freely translated from its original in BENGALI, which appeared recently in the Bengali monthly Magazine, "Purbasha," the organ of the Modern School. For purposes of compression certain portions of the original have been omitted, without impairing unity and sequence of events.

Mr. Mukhopadhyay is the acknowledged leading story-teller of the post-Rabindranath era. He leapt into prominence, more than ten years ago, by his realistic sketches of life in the slums and factories, and of the simple, ordinary life of the lower middle class, divested of the trappings of romance. His style is as straightforward and direct as his entire mode of expression. Though younger writers, in their, over-anxiety to appear as ultra-modem, have often exceeded the sensible limits of realistic art, Mr. Mukhopadhyay has rarely been found to move away from the centre of true artistic purpose and human affections. Thus being, for the sake of classification, one of the ultra-modems, he is still not one of them.]

I had no idea that Shyam Shankar Goswami of my village ever cared to read any of my novels or stories.

After nearly five years I had gone to the village. The Goswami, as soon as he saw me, called me. "Sit down," he said, "you’ve practically given up coming to the village nowadays."

His living-room was just on the road. He was sitting on I a terrace in front of it, smoking his long-piped hookah, big-paunched and bald-headed.

I had to sit down for the sake of courtesy. Shyam Shankar began: "I'm just back from my son-in-law's people. My grandson was ill, so I had to be there for about a month. Nothing to do. So r read all the books my son-in-law used to bring–God knows from where. Some of your books were also in the collection. See?"

I nodded, and said grinning, "How nice!" But to myself I thought: "Much obliged. I wish I could get away from here now." But no such hope. The Goswami insisted on my staying, and said, "So glad I've met you. Now tell me how your books are selling."

"Not much," I said, "the market is dull but-"

"Oh, you don't have to tell me," said the Goswami, discarding the pipe and gesticulating with his hand, "I knew it before. But do you know why they don’t sell? What you say about the market being dull is nonsense."

"Why?" I enquired.

"Why are you so impatient? I shall tell you presently. That's why I called you," said the Goswami patronisingly, and started smoking his pipe again.

"Listen, my dear boy," he said, with a pause between a pull at the pipe and blowing out a cloud of smoke, "do you folk believe in God?"

"Why not? Certainly."

"No, you don't," declared Shyam Shankar, making a wry face and shaking his head violently. "If you did, things would have been different. Your books would have sold and people would have read them."

I thought to myself: Not bad! As if that depended on belief in God! I asked, "But may I know-"

But he wouldn't let me finish, but began shouting and gesticulating with his hands excitedly, "Wait, wait, don't be so impatient. I'll tell you."

Then he referred to a character in one of my better-known novels, who was pictured as an impious man who had lived in sin all his life but remained unpunished till his end. This, he remarked, was a reversal of the divine scheme, which ordained that virtue should be rewarded and vice punished. He ended, saying, "Are they books or rubbish? Now you see why they don't sell."

He began pulling at his pipe furiously, his face red with anger, and his hands trembling. Though it seemed useless to protest, I couldn't let it go at that. People like the Goswami expect to find in books the pre-ordained dispensation–reward for the virtuous and retribution to the sinful, but in life one hardly ever sees things happen according to the divine pattern. I referred to the village doctor, Nanda Kaviraj. There was no vice that he hadn't committed for the sake of money; he began as a poor man, but now he was rich and living happily surrounded by his family. Shyam Shankar burst out laughing and retorted, "Wait, wait, my dear boy, you will see with your own eyes his downfall. He can't get away with it."

I realised that he wouldn't even admit that the Kaviraj was happy and prosperous in spite of everything. He said, "What haven't I seen in my time! You are young, but you also shall see. A misdoer is always knocked flat. God's law–you can't alter it. In the Kingdom of God everything has a cause."

I kept quiet but the Goswami went on with his discourse. He cited the instance of Suren Pandit, the great philanthropist who couldn't bear to see any suffering, and related how at the ripe old age of eighty he had gone to Prayag where he desired to pass away—they took him to the confluence where he bathed, said his prayers, and turned to his children, saying: "Don't grieve for me, the mother Ganges, purifier of all sins, has accepted me." And his soul departed. The Goswami had closed his eyes, and when he opened them I saw tears trickling down. Apparently he was deeply moved. "What a glorious death!" he sighed, "and why not? He was a pious man and died as Bhishma had died. Isn't that the life's fulfillment of a true devotee of God?"

Again I realised it was no use arguing with him. . . . The twilight was slowly descending on the quiet and peaceful village. A herd of cattle passed on the road before us, raising a thick cloud of dust. I got up to go. "Leaving? But come again," said the Goswami, "we are old folk and have more experience of life. Listen to our advice sometimes, since you are a writer; it will be useful. I hope you understand."

Who knows what I could understand? I passed a restless night pondering. The creator of this universe, which is governed by His unalterable laws, has the reputation of being the All-compassionate One. The sun rises at dawn, and sets in the evening; darkness never impedes the path of light and light greets the darkness. Salutations to the powerful mover of this immense machine! But the vision rose before me of how Taradas of this very village died the other day. He should never have died. He was young, and the only earning member of the family. He had but recently married a young beautiful wife, a poor orphan, who had no one to turn to except her husband. The old mother was left behind. Two little brothers who had looked up to Taradas were left helpless, destitute. With what words can one console the widowed wife or the old mother? God's mercy! But He alone knows what great beneficence He conferred on them by snatching Taradas away in the prime of his life. And what great sin was committed by his unfortunate dependants? But they did not die; their life became a long-drawn-out agony. But I had not better tell the story of their wretched life.

Why only Taradas? I have the deaths of many such Taradases indelibly imprinted in my memory. I have seen many a well-laden boat sink in mid-stream. I have seen many happy homes burnt to ashes by the premature death of some one. So many hopes of so many people have withered before the blossom-time; so many women have ended existence by mourning only over the memory of the dead. I have seen infants leave their mothers bereft, mothers leave their infants helpless, husbands lose their wives and wives lose their husbands–all apparently before their time. Nobody could stay the hand of Death. Is there any other alternative but to accept the immutable decree of the All-compassionate One? But the Goswami said that this world was His Kingdom, in which nothing happened without a cause–life or death was not without a meaning; whatever transpired was only for life's good, and here in this kingdom virtue and vice were measured to the infinitesimal balance.

But I could not reconcile myself to such a scheme. I thought that tomorrow I'd have it out with the Goowami again. But what's the use of arguing at all? Even if the Goswami could be convinced, things will go on happening just the same, and if he remained unconvinced, men and women, cowed down by the fear of death, would still call the most cruel unseen power by the name of the All-beneficent.

However, I was spared the necessity of arguing with the Goswami again. For, the next evening I left for Calcutta on getting the news that my wife had received a serious injury by slipping down near the tap where she had gone to fetch water.

I got into the train with a worried mind. The thought came to me how such trivial things as my wife's accident have been the prelude to fateful calamities. Somehow I couldn't reassure myself that the All-beneficent God is watching over us all, when suddenly I heard a voice from behind. I turned round and found that a plump and genial man was offering me a cigarette out of his pocket. He was saying, "Why are you so quiet and preoccupied? Have a cigarette, it's swadeshi. Don't you see I'm wearing khaddar? I've just come out of jail."

I couldn't very well refuse the cigarette. But I have rarely come across a stranger proffering me a cigarette and speaking with such a kindly smile. I reasoned it this way: He had been confined in jail, and the breath of free air had probably awakened in him a desire to make friends with everybody. But why did he go to jail? Civil disobedience? I was wondering as I quietly smoked the cigarette, when he himself began telling me all about himself.

The long and short of his story was that an intimate friend of his had got involved in some political trouble, and for just being the friend of such a man he was also implicated and sentenced to four years' imprisonment. "All for nothing," he remarked. He said that he was returning home after four years, and would get down at a place which was a couple of stations before Howrah.

He went on talking about various things. His geniality was infectious; and already he had made friends of every passenger in that little compartment. Each new arrival was greeted by him in the same cordial manner. He was joy personified. He made the compartment hum with gaiety. The night was dark outside; the sky was full of stars. The train tore through the fathomless depths of the enveloping darkness–onward, forward. Only our tiny little compartment on this running train seemed full of the sparkle of life and laughter. Perhaps in the other compartments they were all asleep or perhaps they were bustling and jostling against each other for a little space to sit down; we alone here sat wide awake–we, who belonged to different places and classes, strangers unknown, and yet drawn to each other by the magnetism of this one individual.

As the train neared his destination, he began telling about his wife, his children, and his home. How eager he seemed to get back home after four long years' separation! He had counted the days, he said, and so had his wife. . . . .Quite natural. I asked about his children. His face brightened up. He said, "Oh yes, they'll all come to the station–my son and two daughters. They must have grown in these four years. I wonder if they'll recognise me. You'll see them presently; I'll introduce them to you."

The train was nearing his destination. In half an hour's time he would get off. He began looking at his watch every now and then. He packed up his things and began pulling his box near the door, when I suggested: "Let the box remain where it is; we'll help you to get it out" He smiled and said, "How nice of you. I might forget the box once I see my family." Then he sat down in his place. He seemed unable to sit still and was very restless. Once he looked out of the window to see how far the station was. Looking this way and that, he got up suddenly and addressing everybody, said, "Goodbye, now it's time for me to get off." They all wished him goodbye in return, and seemed sad to let him go.

The station lights became visible. The train was still moving. He advanced to the door. Looking at his watch, he said "Three minutes late," and then leaned over the door. But his impatience was so great that he pulled open the door. Then he stood before the open poor, gripping with both his hands the outer rod-handle, as if he would not brook a moment's delay to get off as soon as the train was in, regardless of the risk. As I was about to go and warn him, a fast mail train passed with a terrific roar on the opposite track and everything became confused. We all screamed. He had disappeared. What an awful calamity! My heart nearly stopped beating. He had fallen down, but how it happened in the twinkling of an eye, we could scarcely realise. Somebody jumped up and pulled at the alarm signal. The train screeched and stopped dead almost near the station platform. The mail train had also pulled up.

And then? It was all over. My hand trembles even to set down what I saw. A blood-besmeared lump of flesh, the face, hands and legs all pounded and crushed. What a heart- rending wail of grief rose from his wife and children who stood round that inert mass! A heart of stone would melt to hear it.

It was a scene I could never forget. The train moved on. . . .

Presently they all started discussing the catastrophic death which they had just witnessed, and it finally led on to a general debate on the impermanence of life. I couldn't bring myself to join in the discussion. We passed the remaining intermediate stations and finally arrived at Howrah station. I got down from the train mechanically, and mechanically followed the crowd to the exit. There was the usual hubub–men, horses, carriages, and cars rushing and jostling. Every morning, newspapers come out with reports of one or two fatal accidents to pedestrians, run over by cars. But one can't stand on the footpath, idly pondering over such things. I had to move on, remembering my wife was ill and forgetting all such unexpected fatalities. Did relentless, remorseless Destiny smile from afar? Who knows?

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