LETTERS
(A
Story)
(Translated
from Bengali by Prof. Sudhansu Bimal Mookherji, M.A.)
Sukanta
Datta is a brilliant youth. The Ph.D. degree which he
obtained shortly after his M. Sc. degree helped him to be well settled in life.
He has been working in the Sindri Fertilizers Factory
for about a year. His parents are dead. A maternal uncle had brought him up and
financed his education.
A
letter from his maternal uncle, received by the morning delivery, reads:
“Sukanta,
I have fixed up your marriage. The bride, Sunanda, is the daughter of Bijoy Ghosh, the proprietor of
the Bijoy Lakshmi Cotton
Mill, who lives at Shankaripada, not far from our
house. He comes of a well-known and respectable family. The bride is handsome
and very fair-complexioned. She got plucked in her B.Sc. She is, however, quite
smart and intelligent. Herewith sent is her
photograph. It is you who should have selected your bride. I cannot say why a
modem young man like you shifted the responsibility to me. I have, however, done
my best and I selected this bride. I hope that you will approve. The marriage
is scheduled for Falgun 23 (February-March)–five
weeks hence. Try from now for fifteen days’ leave. You must be here at least
two days before the wedding.”
Sukanta
read the letter with attention. He scrutinised the
photograph. He thought for a while and went in and took out three or four colours from his paint-box, and rubbed them all on a small
piece of paper, and looked at it again and again to find out if the colour was the same as his own complexion. He thought a
little longer, and then wrote as follows:
“To
Srimati Sunanda Ghosh: You
and I are to be married. My maternal uncle says that you are very
fair-complexioned. I am, however, very dark. You have perhaps heard that I am
medium-complexioned. A medium complexion may, however, be of a number of
shades. I feel bound in duty to tell you what my complexion is actually like. Hence the painted paper. It tallies in colour
with the outer surface of my left wrist. If you have no objection to have a
life’s partner with such a dark complexion, kindly write
a line: “No objection.” An addressed envelope is sent herewith.
No reply need be sent in case you are unwilling. If there is no response from
your end within five days: I shall presume that you are not willing, and I
shall inform my maternal uncle that I do not approve of his selection–Sukanta.”
A
reply followed four days later.
“To
Dr. Sukanta Datta: No objection, please. You do not
know the truth, however. I am darker than you. I was painted before I was taken
into the presence of your maternal uncle for selection. He was thus hoodwinked.
Far be it from me to deceive a truthful gentleman like you. I have no painting colours. I have, therefore, poured a little blue-black ink
on the piece of paper sent by you to make it as black as my hand. The paper is
sent back to you.
“People
do not mind the dark complexion of men. But all are after fair-skinned girls.
The ebony black too is eager to have a nymph as his bride. Please do not hesitate
to cancel the proposal for marriage, if you have any objection to my dark
complexion. And if you have none, kindly write a line to that
effect within five days.–Sunanda.”
A
prompt reply from Sukanta’s end said:
“I
have no objection even if you are a shade darker than I. Let me, however, tell
the truth. A handsome wife is an asset. She inflates the prestige and influence
of the husband. I was not a little hesitant at first. But I awoke at once to
the utter selfishness of my thought. I discover from your photograph that you
do not lack charm. That’s enough. A dark complexion by itself does not make one
ugly.
“I
think I should tell you of a bad habit of mine. I smoke fifteen to twenty
cigarettes a day. One of my sisters-in-law says that cigarette-smokers have a
typically offensive odour in their breath. Their
wives dislike it. But they do not say anything, out of delicacy. Those few
Bengali girls who have taken to smoking in imitation of their counterparts,
should, of course, have no objection. You do not belong to that category, I am
sure. Kindly write a line if you have any objection to my smoking, and I shall
have the proposal for marriage cancelled.–Sukanta.”
Sunanda’s letter was
received after four days. She wrote:
“I
do not mind the bad odour. Cancer is attributed to
cigarettes. Can you not kindly give them up for the hookah? I do not
mind its smell. For my part, I have the bad habit of daily chewing between
twenty-five and thirty betel-leaves, with tobacco. Just imagine the condition
of my teeth! Betel-leaf-and-tobacco chewers, they say, have a smell of ammonia
in their breath. My younger brother, Lambu, has a
very sensitive nose–more sensitive than even a dog’s. He smells ammonia in
Krishna Sohagini Devi’s kirtan
over the radio. He smells garlic when Ustad Bade Ghulam Masta’s
records of Darbari Kanada
are played on the gramophone. Please write a line if you have objection to
my nasty habit. Kindly get the marriage proposal cancelled, if you have
any.–Sunanda.”
Sukanta
wrote back:
“Prepared
that you are to tolerate the offensive odour of
cigarettes, I have no objection to your betel and tobacco. Moreover, our
factory manufactures endless quantities of ammonia, and I am used to the
pungency thereof. I shall give a thought to your suggestion of the hookah
as a substitute for cigarettes.
“I
do not like to conceal anything from you. Let me,
therefore, make a clean breast of another lapse of mine. Men want virgin
brides–virgin both in body and mind. Women too want husbands who have had no
pre-marital love-affairs. Let me confess that my heart is not altogether
unaffected. I was once in love with Deputy Commissioner Lala
Topchand Jhopra’s
daughter, Surangi. Her parents were not very
unwilling. But it was Surangi herself who spoiled
everything in the long run. She has recently married Mr. Hanumanthiah
of the Commerce Department. The jet-black fellow is as terrible-looking as the
messenger of Death. But my salary is about a third of his. I still lick a
lacerated heart. I hope everything will be all right after our marriage. I have
a photograph of Surangi with me. I shall burn it in
your presence.
“It
occurred to me after Surangi’s marriage that I too
should have a wife before long. I paint, take photographs, and do sundry
research work in my spare time. I need a housewife to bother
about the household, to rid me of my worries, so that I may beguile my leisure
with my hobbies. I now realise the foolishness of falling in love
on the spur of the moment. Genuine love between man and wife is
possible only after they have lived together. Parental hearts do overflow with
tenderness for the unborn child though it is not seen before its birth.
Similarly, it is immaterial for wedded love whether one selects one’s own bride
or does not. I, therefore, left the choice to my maternal uncle.
“I
have told you everything about my conduct, character and opinions. Kindly let
me know if you have any objection to marry me.–Sukanta.”
Sunanda
wrote back:
‘I
find nothing objectionable in your opinions, nor any in your conduct and
character. Your letters show that you are honest, sincere and truthful. Let me
too confess my own lapses to you. I fell in love with a Post-Graduate student, Paban Kumar. But he being a Bhaduri
1 Brahmin, his orthodox, old-fashioned parents refused to take me as
their daughter-in-law. Paban is now stationed at
Sukanta
wrote in reply:
‘Sunanda!
We have no secrets to conceal from each other. I, therefore, address you by
your name. Nothing stands in the way of our union. They say that I have an
overdose of gravity in me. Well-wishing friends add that I have a tinge of
lunacy as well. It is evident from your letters that you are jovial. My
maternal uncle’s letter says that, though you could not pass your B. Sc., you
are quite smart. Our temperaments seem to be complementary. According to
psychologists, this is the ideal condition for marriage–a genuine Raja Jataka.
To make an ideal couple, natures must be complementary. Today is
the 16th of Falgun
and we are to be married after a week. I enjoy in contemplation the prospect
and the joy of a direct conversation with you even as I pen these lines.–Yours,
Sukanta.’
Sunanda
sent a reply a few days later:
‘I
beg to be excused. Everything is upset. Paban Bhaduri is here. He told me yesterday, “Sunanda, I am a
dependent no longer. I earn a lot. I need not be bound by parental control. Let
us go to
Sukanta
was flabbergasted. He was incensed too. Temperamentally restrained as he was,
he realised after a while that Sunanda’s
proposal was not after all a bad one. A housewife was what he needed. One bride
was, therefore, as good as another. Sukanta decided not to kick up a row. Nor
would he make any enquiry. He made up his mind to be absolutely
obedient to his maternal uncle and to accept any arrangement made by him.
None
in Sukanta’s maternal uncle’s house spoke anything
about Sunanda. Nor did any one seem to be worried in the least. Sukanta
accompanied the groom’s party to the bride’s house at the appointed hour. He
did not notice anything unusual there. A sixteen year old adolescent was
serving cigarettes and betel-leaves to the groom’s party. The bride’s people
called him Lambu. Sukanta signed to the lad and asked
him in an undertone, ‘Are you Sunanda’s younger
brother Lambu?’
‘Yes,
please,’ replied Lambu.
‘What
are the developments here?’
‘All
is well. Sister is being dressed up. The auspicious moment is at hand.’
‘Has
Sunanda gone away?’
‘What
do you mean? Where does the bride go?’
‘What
about Nanda, the other elder sister of yours?’
‘I
have but one elder sister, and you are marrying her.’
‘I
see,’ said Sukanta raising his eyebrows.
It
was past midnight. All but the bride and the groom had left the bride’s
chamber. Sukanta asked his bride, ‘Are you Sunanda or Nanda?’
‘The one as much as the other.
Nanda in everyday life, I become Sunanda on special
occasions.’
‘Why
did you write all those lies to me?’
‘With
no evil intention whatever! I sounded my partner in life who is so truthful and
so large-hearted. I wanted to test his forbearance!’
‘What
about that Paban Bhaduri of
yours?’
‘He
vanished into thin air and ceased to exist. I have a fine portrait of Hanumanjee. Would it not be grand to frame it together with
the photograph of that Surangi of yours?’
‘You
are a babbler, and I know that failure in the B.Sc. examination was the penalty
for your garrulousness.’
‘Jhunu Mitter is a hundred times
more talkative. How could she top the list? Mathematics is my Achilles’ heel.
Maxwell’s Theory is all Greek to me, and there was a main question on that
topic.’
‘Ah!
that’s simplicity itself. Let me explain. Listen to me, please:–V=Ö1……../Campa
‘Enough
of it. Solving mathematical problems in the bridal chamber is inviting
misfortunes.’
‘All
right, I’ll explain it tomorrow.’
‘But
tomorrow night is the Kala Ratri 2. The bride and the groom are
not to see each other then. We meet again the night after that.’
‘Never
mind, I’ll explain Maxwell’s Theory during the third night.’
‘My
granny is an eavesdropper and a peeping Tom. If she discovers that we have
nothing better between us than the study of Maxwell’s Theory, she’ll start
other theories for our benefit! Why this hurry? I am not running away! Maxwell
can wait for a year or two.’
‘I
agree…..It is not Maxwell……Look here, Sunanda, you are a real beauty!’
‘Am
I? How sharp your eyes are!’
‘Can
you guess……What I feel like……?’
‘I
cannot……unless it be Maxwell’s Theory again!’
‘That’s
closed……’
‘Thank
heavens, it is! And now my granny can overhear us!’
1
A sub-sect of Bengali Brahmins.
2 The
second night of marriage.