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.
Nikhil’s Story
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.
