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12. Bimala. the younger brother’s wife,
was the __Chota__ or Junior Rani.
I can see that something has gone wrong. I got
an inkling of it the other day.
Ever since my arrival, Nikhil’s sitting-room
had become a thing amphibious—half women’s
apartment, half men’s: Bimala had access
to it from the zenana, it was not barred to me from
the outer side. If we had only gone slow, and
made use of our privileges with some restraint, we
might not have fallen foul of other people.
But we went ahead so vehemently that we could not think
of the consequences.
Whenever Bee comes into Nikhil’s room, I somehow
get to know of it from mine. There are the tinkle
of bangles and other little sounds; the door is perhaps
shut with a shade of unnecessary vehemence; the bookcase
is a trifle stiff and creaks if jerked open.
When I enter I find Bee, with her back to the door,
ever so busy selecting a book from the shelves.
And as I offer to assist her in this difficult task
she starts and protests; and then we naturally get
on to other topics.
The other day, on an inauspicious [13] Thursday afternoon,
I sallied forth from my room at the call of these
same sounds. There was a man on guard in the
passage. I walked on without so much as glancing
at him, but as I approached the door he put himself
in my way saying: “Not that way, sir.”
“Not that way! Why?”
“The Rani Mother is there.”
“Oh, very well. Tell your Rani Mother
that Sandip Babu wants to see her.”
“That cannot be, sir. It is against orders.”
I felt highly indignant. “I order you!”
I said in a raised voice.
“Go and announce me.”
The fellow was somewhat taken aback at my attitude.
In the meantime I had neared the door. I was
on the point of reaching it, when he followed after
me and took me by the arm saying: “No,
sir, you must not.”
What! To be touched by a flunkey! I snatched
away my arm and gave the man a sounding blow.
At this moment Bee came out of the room to find the
man about to insult me.
I shall never forget the picture of her wrath!
That Bee is beautiful is a discovery of my own.
Most of our people would see nothing in her.
Her tall, slim figure these boors would call “lanky”.
But it is just this lithesomeness of hers that I
admire—like an up-leaping fountain of life,
coming direct out of the depths of the Creator’s
heart. Her complexion is dark, but it is the
lustrous darkness of a sword-blade, keen and scintillating.
“Nanku!” she commanded, as she stood
in the doorway, pointing with her finger, “leave
us.”
“Do not be angry with him,” said I.
“If it is against orders, it is I who should
retire.”
Bee’s voice was still trembling as she replied:
“You must not go. Come in.”
