The Home and the World, Rabindranath Tagore [robert munsch read aloud txt] 📗
- Author: Rabindranath Tagore
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hands."
I could see that I was not wanted here. I went out of the room.
I could only preach and preach, so I mused, and get my effigy
burnt for my pains. I had not yet been able to bring back a
single soul from the path of death. They who have the power, can
do so by a mere sign. My words have not that ineffable meaning.
I am not a flame, only a black coal, which has gone out. I can
light no lamp. That is what the story of my life shows--my row
of lamps has remained unlit.
Sitting on the bare floor is a sign of mourning, and so, byassociation of ideas, of an abject attitude of mind. [Trans.].
XVI
I returned slowly towards the inner apartments. The Bara Rani's
room must have been drawing me again. It had become an absolute
necessity for me, that day, to feel that this life of mine had
been able to strike some real, some responsive chord in some
other harp of life. One cannot realize one's own existence by
remaining within oneself--it has to be sought outside.
As I passed in front of my sister-in-law's room, she came out
saying: "I was afraid you would be late again this afternoon.
However. I ordered your dinner as soon as I heard you coming.
It will be served in a minute."
"Meanwhile," I said; "let me take out that money of yours and
have it kept ready to take with us."
As we walked on towards my room she asked me if the Police
Inspector had made any report about the robbery. I somehow did
not feel inclined to tell her all the details of how that six
thousand had come back. "That's just what all the fuss is
about," I said evasively.
When I went into my dressing-room and took out my bunch of keys,
I did not find the key of the iron safe on the ring. What an
absurdly absent-minded fellow I was, to be sure! Only this
morning I had been opening so many boxes and things, and never
noticed that this key was not there.
"What has happened to your key?" she asked me.
I went on fumbling in this pocket and that, but could give her no
answer. I hunted in the same place over and over again. It
dawned on both of us that it could not be a case of the key being
mislaid. Someone must have taken it off the ring. Who could it
be? Who else could have come into this room?
"Don't you worry about it," she said to me. "Get through your
dinner first. The Chota Rani must have kept it herself, seeing
how absent-minded you are getting."
I was, however, greatly disturbed. It was never Bimal's habit to
take any key of mine without telling me about it. Bimal was not
present at my meal-time that day: she was busy feasting Amulya in
her own room. My sister-in-law wanted to send for her, but I
asked her not to do so.
I had just finished my dinner when Bimal came in. I would have
preferred not to discuss the matter of the key in the Bara Rani's
presence, but as soon as she saw Bimal, she asked her: "Do you
know, dear, where the key of the safe is?"
"I have it," was the reply.
"Didn't I say so!" exclaimed my sister-in-law triumphantly.
"Our Chota Rani pretends not to care about these robberies, but
she takes precautions on the sly, all the same."
The look on Bimal's face made my mind misgive me. "Let the key
be, now," I said. "I will take out that money in the evening."
"There you go again, putting it off," said the Bara Rani. "Why
not take it out and send it to the treasury while you have it in
mind?"
"I have taken it out already," said Bimal.
I was startled.
"Where have you kept it, then?" asked my sister-in-law.
"I have spent it."
"Just listen to her! Whatever did you spend all that money on?"
Bimal made no reply. I asked her nothing further. The Bara Rani
seemed about to make some further remark to Bimala, but checked
herself. "Well, that is all right, anyway," she said at length,
as she looked towards me. "Just what I used to do with my
husband's loose cash. I knew it was no use leaving it with him--
his hundred and one hangers-on would be sure to get hold of it.
You are much the same, dear! What a number of ways you men know
of getting through money. We can only save it from you by
stealing it ourselves! Come along now. Off with you to bed."
The Bara Rani led me to my room, but I hardly knew where I was
going. She sat by my bed after I was stretched on it, and smiled
at Bimal as she said: "Give me one of your pans, Chotie darling--
what? You have none! You have become a regular mem-sahib. Then
send for some from my room."
"But have you had your dinner yet?" I anxiously enquired.
"Oh long ago," she replied--clearly a fib.
She kept on chattering away there at my bedside, on all manner of
things. The maid came and told Bimal that her dinner had been
served and was getting cold, but she gave no sign of having heard
it. "Not had your dinner yet? What nonsense! It's fearfully
late." With this the Bara Rani took Bimal away with her.
I could divine that there was some connection between the taking
out of this six thousand and the robbing of the other. But I
have no curiosity to learn the nature of it. I shall never ask.
Providence leaves our life moulded in the rough--its object being
that we ourselves should put the finishing touches, shaping it
into its final form to our taste. There has always been the
hankering within me to express some great idea in the process of
giving shape to my life on the lines suggested by the Creator.
In this endeavour I have spent all my days. How severely I have
curbed my desires, repressed myself at every step, only the
Searcher of the Heart knows.
But the difficulty is, that one's life is not solely one's own.
He who would create it must do so with the help of his
surroundings, or he will fail. So it was my constant dream to
draw Bimal to join me in this work of creating myself. I loved
her with all my soul; on the strength of that, I could not but
succeed in winning her to my purpose--that was my firm belief.
Then I discovered that those who could simply and naturally draw
their environment into the process of their self-creation
belonged to one species of the genus "man",--and I to another. I
had received the vital spark, but could not impart it. Those to
whom I have surrendered my all have taken my all, but not myself
with it.
My trial is hard indeed. Just when I want a helpmate most, I am
thrown back on myself alone. Nevertheless, I record my vow that
even in this trial I shall win through. Alone, then, shall I
tread my thorny path to the end of this life's journey ...
I have begun to suspect that there has all along been a vein of
tyranny in me. There was a despotism in my desire to mould my
relations with Bimala in a hard, clear-cut, perfect form. But
man's life was not meant to be cast in a mould. And if we try to
shape the good, as so much mere material, it takes a terrible
revenge by losing its life.
I did not realize all this while that it must have been this
unconscious tyranny of mine which made us gradually drift apart.
Bimala's life, not finding its true level by reason of my
pressure from above, has had to find an outlet by undermining its
banks at the bottom. She has had to steal this six thousand
rupees because she could not be open with me, because she felt
that, in certain things, I despotically differed from her.
Men, such as I, possessed with one idea, are indeed at one with
those who can manage to agree with us; but those who do not, can
only get on with us by cheating us. It is our unyielding
obstinacy, which drives even the simplest to tortuous ways. In
trying to manufacture a helpmate, we spoil a wife.
Could I not go back to the beginning? Then, indeed, I should
follow the path of the simple. I should not try to fetter my
life's companion with my ideas, but play the joyous pipes of my
love and say: "Do you love me? Then may you grow true to
yourself in the light of your love. Let my suggestions be
suppressed, let God's design, which is in you, triumph, and my
ideas retire abashed."
But can even Nature's nursing heal the open wound, into which our
accumulated differences have broken out? The covering veil,
beneath the privacy of which Nature's silent forces alone can
work, has been torn asunder. Wounds must be bandaged--can we not
bandage our wound with our love, so that the day may come when
its scar will no longer be visible? It is not too late? So much
time has been lost in misunderstanding; it has taken right up to
now to come to an understanding; how much more time will it take
for the correcting? What if the wound does eventually heal?--can
the devastation it has wrought ever be made good?
There was a slight sound near the door. As I turned over I saw
Bimala's retreating figure through the open doorway. She must
have been waiting by the door, hesitating whether to come in or
not, and at last have decided to go back. I jumped up and
bounded to the door, calling: "Bimal."
She stopped on her way. She had her back to me. I went and took
her by the hand and led her into our room. She threw herself
face downwards on a pillow, and sobbed and sobbed. I said
nothing, but held her hand as I sat by her head.
When her storm of grief had abated she sat up. I tried to draw
her to my breast, but she pushed my arms away and knelt at my
feet, touching them repeatedly with her head, in obeisance. I
hastily drew my feet back, but she clasped them in her arms,
saying in a choking voice: "No, no, no, you must not take away
your feet. Let me do my worship."
I kept still. Who was I to stop her? Was I the god of her
worship that I should have any qualms?
Bimala's Story
XXIII
Come, come! Now is the time to set sail towards that great
confluence, where the river of love meets the sea of worship. In
that pure blue all the weight of its muddiness sinks and
disappears.
I now fear nothing--neither myself, nor anybody else. I have
passed through fire. What was inflammable has been burnt to
ashes; what is left is deathless.
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