Translated from the Bangla by Goutam Chakraborty
After much thought, Gokul named his right hand Pashupati, his left hand Vishnupada, his right leg Gurucharan, and his left leg Haricharan. Once he gave them names, he felt a little less uneasy. These last few days were terribly lonely. Now, with four companions to keep him company, the world didn’t seem so empty anymore.
Ever since his wife Tittiri had eloped with Gobind, the plumbing technician, Gokul’s mind had been in turmoil. At first, blood rushed to his head. What a storm of rage that was! He felt like biting his own hands and feet, like smashing crockery, like committing murder—like hanging himself if he could. But biting his hands and feet didn’t work too well, and as for crockery—he hardly owned any worth breaking. Where would he even find someone to kill? And what would he gain by hanging himself anyway? For a few days, Gokul fumed all alone, boiling in rage. But there’s no joy in nursing anger in solitude. So after barking and growling for a while, his anger, like a beaten bitch, tucked its tail and slunk away. Then came sorrow. And what sorrow, dear God! His tiny room suddenly felt like a vast, desolate ocean. If he sighed once, ten mournful sighs seemed to echo back. At times, tears welled up in his eyes. He began to think of himself as a fool, an idiot, a useless dimwit, an idle demon.
By the fifth day, one afternoon, he puffed out his chest and muttered to himself, “How am I any less than Gobind? What’s so great about him that she ran away with him? Gobind’s teeth stick out. His complexion’s coppery—one could even call him dark. Gobind begs people for cigarettes. He’s at least five or seven years older than me—practically an old man! And from his armpits comes the stench of rotten jackfruit. How could Tittiri ever suit someone like him?”
Just then, a low voice spoke up, “Say what you will, my good man, but Gobind is at least half a cubit taller than you.”
Gokul rose with a thud. “Who said that? Who’s got the guts to talk like that?”
The same voice replied, “I’m Pashupati—your right hand. Since I’m attached to you, I can’t lie, my friend.”
With a long sigh, the left hand, Vishnupada, joined in, “Don’t be offended, brother, but though Gobind’s teeth stick out a bit, they shine quite nicely. And his armpits don’t smell of rotten jackfruit at all. In fact, they smell of champak flowers. I quite like it. Whereas your armpits smell like the soles of old shoes. Ugh!”
A throat cleared—it was Gurucharan, the right foot. He said, “What’s the harm in speaking the truth? Gobind isn’t dark at all—he’s actually on the fairer side. And he doesn’t beg for cigarettes; he buys his own with his own money.”
Then Haricharan, the left foot, who’d been quiet all this time, suddenly burst out, “I can’t hold my tongue any longer! Tell me, in what way is Gobind older than you? You’ve been classmates since Class One. You dropped out after failing in Class Eight, and Gobind passed his matriculation. So frankly, Tittiri suits him better—that’s what I think!”
Gokul was utterly stunned. “Are you my friends or my enemies?” he cried.
All four voices spoke together, “We’re your friends, of course—but we won’t stop telling the truth, brother!”
If only his old mother had still been alive — at least then there would’ve been someone to look after him. But since she too had quietly passed away the day after last Shivaratri, things had become terribly dismal. He had been married for two and a half years, and in that short time, he and Tittiri had grown deeply attached — as inseparably as milk mixed with water. She was a smart, sharp woman. And yet she never let on that, behind the scenes, she’d been carrying something on with Gobind. One afternoon, Gokul came home, hot and tired, only to find the place completely empty.
He couldn’t even manage to keep one wife under his control, while that mechanic Kanai had two wives, as tame as tied-up cows! They say the law forbids more than one marriage — but clearly the law hasn’t stopped Kanai! Two plump, sprightly wives running the household together so peacefully — it was a sight that soothed the eyes. Not that they didn’t quarrel now and then, but still, they stayed together. None of them had run off with some rascal like Gobind, the way Tittiri had!
Seeing him arrive, the mistress of the house flared up like oil in fire. “Well, well! Four days you’ve been absent without a word! The plastering work is just lying there — who’s supposed to do it, you good-for-nothing?”
As an excuse, Gokul had wrapped a rag around his left hand. Looking meek and humble, he said softly, “Beg pardon, madam, but Vishnupada was a bit injured — that’s why I couldn’t come.”
“What nonsense are you babbling now? Who on earth is this Vishnupada? And even if he’s hurt, why should you skip work for that?”
“Beg pardon, madam,” said Gokul, bowing slightly, “Vishnupada is the name I’ve given to my left hand.”
The mistress peered at him sharply and said, “Indeed. So you’ve even given names to your hands and feet?”
Gokul, abashed and deferential, replied, “Yes, ma’am. My right hand is Pashupati, my right foot Gurucharan, and my left foot Haricharan.”
“You’ve got quite a lot wrong in your head, I see.”
He does. Gokul knows there’s something wrong with his head. And not just his head — surely other parts of him too; otherwise why would his wife have run off?
Still humble, he says, “Well, a little.”
A ten-year-old boy from the younger side of the house, Biltu, was sitting on the verandah eating buttered bread. With a delighted voice he piped up, “Great idea! From today my right hand will be Joe Louis, my left Muhammad Ali, right leg Pelé, left leg Maradona. I’ll tell everyone right now.”
Work got done: the garden was weeded, the cowshed cleaned, soot brushed. But it doesn’t weigh on him so much anymore. After all, he is no longer alone — there are five of them now: two hands, two feet, and Gokul himself. These days he has conversations with the four companions. After finishing chores in the cowshed, when he takes a short break and sits under the jujube tree preparing to light a bidi, Pashupati shifts a bit and says, “Say what you will, the job you did was indeed like a coward’s. You should have grabbed Tittiri by the hair and hauled her back. To keep a woman subdued you need guts.”
Gokul replies in a listless voice, “It won’t help — once a wife has been taken away, is she ever returned?”
Vishnupada snorts, “Looks like your tail’s tucked between your legs. You should have sprung up and tried once. Tell the truth: you sold Tittiri to Gobind!”
Agitated, Gokul says, “Watch it. Mind your mouth. Mind your mouth.”
Vishnupada chuckles harshly, “I told the truth — that’s why it stings you.”
Gurucharan lifts his head and says, “Stinging is nothing to be surprised about.”
“Your three bighas of land were mortgaged with Kanai, the mechanic — you got about a lakh of rupees from that so-called good man Gobind to free it. What did you do with that money, don’t you remember? You blew it away playing cards at Balabhadra’s hangout. If Gobind now tries to squeeze the money out of you by putting a towel round your neck, you’ll be in deep trouble, man.”
Gokul bristled and said, “I’m not a gambler, at all. I did put it on gambling to try and increase the sum a little, that’s true. But my luck turned sour — I lost it.”
Haricharan, with a cutting tone, shot back, “If you’d been able to free the land, you wouldn’t be in this mess today, Gokul. Now you have to slave away like the lowest of servants to pay Kanai, the mechanic. I even suspect you’ve fallen into a trap and sold your wife. Otherwise, why all this pretence in searching for Tittiri? You’ve no shame. At least you could have informed the police.”
Gokul, softening, answered in a small voice, “If I’d known you all would pester me, what fool would ever have made you my pals? Is it easy to tell the police? Do they think men like us are anything more than insects?”
There was no denying that Gobind had once been his friend — a most shameless kind of friend. One must also admit Gobind had done him several favours. But did those favours justify being repaid in this manner?
The officer-in-charge narrowed his eyes and, his face hard, said, “The wife has run off. Or did you kill and bury her?”
“No, that’s not the story, Sir. She really ran away.”
“There’s no one you can trust. Everyone’s accusing people of killing their wives these days. What’s your wife’s name? How old is she? Do you have a photo?”
“Tittiri Mondal. Nineteen — maybe twenty. There’s a photo on my mobile.”
“Leave it in the outer room with the young master,” The officer-in-charge ordered. “Tell me: did she run away or was she kidnapped?”
“No, Sir,” Gokul said, “the new wife was dearly loved.”
“Eh — she’s being spoiled rotten with all that pampering. You damn flirt-master — if I hear later that you would beat her, I’ll grab you, hang you upside down and beat you with a stick. Let that stay in your head.”
“By Kali’s grace—” Gokul began.
“Who did she run off with?” The officer-in-charge cut in.
“Gobind Purkait,” Gokul replied.
“Who’s that again?”
“He’s—well, he was my friend. But these days you can’t trust anyone.”
“You always act like you’re so clever! Why did it take you so long to figure this out? Couldn’t you have done away with your wife, eh? No strength in your loins? If you can’t do away with her, she’ll run away. If you can’t be a man, all your crying now won’t help. She’s gone off with someone else — you’ve no virility, you’ve come here to whine and groan. Out with everything.”
As Gokul was rising from where he sat on the floor, the officer-in-charge asked, “What do you do for a living?”
“I used to farm a little. Now I’m the manager of Kanai’s warehouse.”
“You’re the manager? Well, you’re a big man then!”
“Not like that, Sir. I just keep accounts for the items which come in and go out. Besides, I do the household chores for the mistress. If the night watchman Madan Khatik or Yadu mason are absent, I have to cover the night shifts at the warehouse too.”
“Night duty? Leaving a young wife alone at home — of course she’d run off. Who else is at your house?”
“Nobody.”
“Then of course the wife would run away. Tell me — do you have any proof that you were really married to her?”
“My friends will testify.”
“Friends as witnesses — what good is that? Anything written down?”
“No.”
“If your wife says she was never actually married to you, then what?”
“Would she lie so big a lie?”
“Why wouldn’t she? You do a lot of such foolish things. Now you’ve only yourself to blame.”
“So, does that mean nothing can be done, OC sir?”
“Hard to say,” he replied. “This is the age of women — whatever they say, that’s what stands. Now off you go. I’ve talked enough with you already. Waste of time.”
Sitting on a bench outside the police station — beside a tea stall made of bamboo fencing and a tin roof — Gokul sipped his tea and nibbled on a quarter loaf of bread, still dazed and stunned. Never in his life had he so much as come near a police station. He had always feared the police as if they were Yama, the god of death.
But that morning, he had barely shaken off his sleep when suddenly a commotion broke out — someone was shouting, “Get up! Get up, man! Wake up! Don’t stretch like some prince in his palace! There’s plenty of work to do — no time to waste!”
Half-awake, Gokul was about to rise when a sudden jerk pulled him to his feet. When his senses returned, he realized who they were — Pashupati and Vishnupada. Traitors! Faithless scoundrels!
“Hey, what are you doing! What are you doing!” he cried, struggling a bit in vain. The two of them grabbed him by the arms, dragged him along, and took him straight to the courtyard by the well. Left with no choice, he brushed his teeth, gulped down his rice soaked in water with a few sobs, and got dressed. Then, in a grave voice, he asked, “Where are we going, brothers?”
Pashupati ground his teeth and barked, “Where else? To the police station.”
“Oh Lord! I’d rather die! Spare me, brothers! The police — they’re terrifying!”
Vishnupada slapped the back of his head and said, “Terrifying, are they? And when you went to that Kapalik Habu to have Tittiri and Gobind cursed with a death spell, weren’t you scared then? Have you no shame or decency left in you? There’s no greater sinner in this world than you!”
“Oh come on,” Gokul whimpered, “those spells are just false tricks. They never work!”
“Why did you go there? Was it because you felt guilty?”
“Oh come on — what I did in a fury, can anybody really explain? In the end I didn’t even do the full ritual with Habu, and I didn’t shoot any arrows either.”
“We know why that didn’t happen. Habu Kapalik had told you: if you want to kill by causing internal bleeding it’s five thousand rupees; to make someone fall sick it’s fifteen thousand; to cause vomiting of blood it’s twenty-five thousand; and for death by lightning — that’s quicker — fifty thousand. Remember? You agreed to the blood-vomiting one, bargaining it down to ten thousand, didn’t you?”
“I did, brother. I swear to God that I won’t do such theatrics. But please don’t make me go to the police station. The very name of the station makes me freeze.”
Pashupati said, “Not only Habu Kapalik — you also hired the contract-killer Rakhal Palodhi. Rakhal said it would be two lakh rupees to bring down two corpses. You were ready to accept that. Later, when Rakhal heard that the two had run away, he backed off. He said, “I don’t have time to track someone down and kill him — bring the victim to me and I’ll take the bodies down. Two lakhs. Remember?”
Gokul began to cry and said, “Was I in my right mind then? I don’t know what I did. Don’t take it into consideration. My heart pounds at the very thought of the police station, brothers. I beg you, on my knees — don’t force me to go to the police. I’ll have a heart attack.”
“If you have a heart attack, so be it. You must go to the station,” Vishnupada shot back.
“Gurucharan and Haricharan, what are you doing?” Vishnupada called. “Take him — sling the fellow on your shoulders and start. Bring him right before the officer-in-charge.”
With a grunt they seized him, and Gurucharan and Haricharan ran like mad. Over fields and through thickets they tore, as if life depended on it, and finally dumped him at the police station — right in front of the officer-in-charge.
Sitting on the bench at the tea stall, munching on his quarter loaf and sipping sweet milky tea, Gokul fumed silently — cursing his own treacherous hands and feet. Trust the police? Hah! They’d just asked if he’d killed and buried his wife! What if they had locked him up and filed a murder case? By sheer luck he had escaped disaster.
Bhupati Gayen, the hair artist from the beauty salon in Nabaganj, was a stylish man — silk kurta, betel leaf with zarda in his mouth, and hair cut in the fashion of Uttam Kumar. He sat down beside Gokul and said in a syrupy, self-satisfied voice, “So, I hear your wife’s run away?”
Gokul replied bitterly, “What’s that to you?”
“Ah, don’t get angry, brother! Don’t twist my words. Mine have run away three times, you know.”
Gokul stared, astonished. “Your one wife ran away three times?”
“Oh, Lord no!” Bhupati laughed. “I’m not such a fool as to fetch back a runaway wife! Not one — three of my wives have run away. Each after just one round of marriage.”
“Why do your wives run away?”
“I won’t say I’m entirely innocent. My temper’s a bit short. My hand flies up before I can think. What can I do? For men like us, that’s the only place to show anger. Hit someone else and they’ll hit back, right? But my wives — all delicate flowers — they’d faint from a mere slap. After three wives ran off, I realized my household just wasn’t taking shape. Without a proper mistress of the house, how can fortune ever smile? A wife is the anchor of a household — without her, everything drifts away. Don’t you agree? So then, wisely, I married a middle-aged widow. I thought — she’s mature, sensible — this one won’t run.”
“But she didn’t, did she?”
“That’s exactly my sorrow,” Bhupati sighed. “No, she didn’t run away. But I wish she had, brother.”
“Why, tell me why?”
“Don’t even start … Prawns are really tempting to me. With one of those you can get a bowl of rice. But you know how it is, brother — the price makes us sweat. So one day I saved up, scrimped and strained, and managed to buy a few. My wife usually cooks well. But that day she got so absorbed talking to someone on the phone that the fish burned to a crisp. Can you imagine — my blood boiled. I gave her two solid slaps. It wasn’t even that serious, objectively. But the next morning two hulking lads came storming to the house and attacked me. What a beating, man. It was a complete thrashing. I couldn’t even leave the bed for a day or two."
“Were they goons?”
“Goons, of course. But one of them was my wife’s own son — from her previous marriage.”
“You had no idea your wife had a son?”
“How couldn’t I? She did tell me the boy was with his maternal aunt. They said the aunt had adopted him. Who knew the boy was such a savage! He beat me and threatened he’d kill me if I made any trouble. Since then I live in constant fear, brother. I can’t so much as make a sound. Now everything’s in my wife’s hands — she runs the house. I just cower and keep quiet. If this wife runs away, I’ll be saved. But what luck do I have, like you — that my wife will run?”
Gokul said gravely, “You should’ve gone to the police.”
“Think I didn’t go? I went, and before I could say anything, the woman had already filed a complaint accusing me of torturing her. Did you know her previous husband was a police constable? They grabbed me in an instant and tore me apart. I got out on bail. I have to show up in court now and then. So what’s your case — they say you beat her?”
“No, nothing like that. For some time she’s been nagging me to get some cosmetic job done — been pestering me. In a fit of irritation I gave her a light push one day, that’s all.”
At that Pashupati’s low growl cut through: “Liar! Liar! Just one push?”
Gokul blurted out quickly, “Not just one — I can’t count exactly, maybe two or three, perhaps four.”
Gurucharan snorted, “And kicks too. Where do you get off hitting with your feet, you scoundrel? You made me do that sin myself!”
Bhupati exhaled a long sigh and said, “Bye, brother — I have to check in at the police station first, then I’ll go and open the salon.”
Gokul rose to settle the tea bill when suddenly his right foot was lifted from behind and a sharp kick with the ankle landed on his backside. “If you admit to the kicking, that’ll do, man,” someone said.
Terrified, Gokul cried, “Do you have to tell everything like that, brother? Fine — I’ll tell you next time we meet.”
Is night duty really the start of ruin? Is that how the serpent Gobind entered through that same passage? That’s what Gokul suspected.
Madan Khatik had gone to his brother-in-law’s place for a wedding. Gokul had the night duty for seven days. He and the mason Yadu sat on a bench outside the warehouse, on night watch with sticks in hand. The job wasn’t hard — a little conversation, the occasional doze. No heavy work, just sitting. And who doesn’t like sitting?
Yadu said, “Look, Gokul, I never thought Gobind was a bad man. After his wife died he did seem to change a bit — more pious, humble. Like he’d lost interest in worldly things.”
Gokul snapped, “I thought so too. But appearances can be deceiving. Korali Kastha actually saw them go. They were sitting side by side on a bench at the railway station.”
“True enough. And your wife had a certain spark too.”
“That’s why you can trust no one,” Gokul said. He had just returned home at dawn — hadn’t even brushed his teeth — when a sepoy came and announced himself. In a stern voice he said, “Come on — we need to identify a corpse. If the body is your wife’s, you’re in trouble.”
Terrified, Gokul said, “No, Sepoyji, I didn’t do anything.”
“Does saying that help? These days, whenever a wife is murdered, the husband is the first to be accused. Life imprisonment — or the gallows.”
With his chest pounding and trembling, calling on God, Gokul went to the morgue. He saw the corpse of a fairly plump, middle-built woman. A big breath escaped him.
“No — this is not my wife,” he said.
“Look properly. Her skull has been smashed. This is your doing. Look carefully.”
“I have looked. My wife is far more beautiful than this, and not this old.”
“If it later proves that you lied, then—”
“By Kali’s grace, this is not Tittiri.”
Over the next few days he was made to view three more female corpses at the morgue. None of them remotely resembled Tittiri. Although Sepoy Paresh Das kept pressing him — saying, “Admit it now, otherwise you’ll regret it later”— not a single one of the three bodies was his wife. How could that be?
About a week later he was ordered to appear at the station again. The officer-in-charge, eyes wide and furious, said, “Trying to lead the police by the nose? I’ll whip you until you bleed, bastard!”
Terrified and speechless, Gokul stood thin and stunned. He felt dizzy. Even God seemed not to be on his side.
The OC looked at him for a moment as if to burn him with his gaze, then said, “We’ve got news — Gobind Purkait has fled to Kashi and then to Vrindavan. And your wife — nor any other woman — is with him. Do you know what can happen to you if you lie to the police?”
Gokul broke into a sudden, choking cry, “Korali Kastha saw them in his own eyes — sitting on the bench at the station.”
The OC roared like a tiger, “Are you lying again? I’ll flay you alive, you son of a pig. Tell me where you hid your wife! If you don’t confess within seven days, you’ll be in for real trouble. She hasn’t gone to her father’s, she hasn’t gone to relatives, her phone’s off — has she simply vanished into thin air? Did you kill her and bury her somewhere, or pour kerosene and burn her? Who else but you would know?”
“By Kali’s grace, no, sir,” Gokul pleaded.
“Get out of my sight! If I don’t hear any news of your wife within seven days, I’ll arrest you for murder — remember that!”
God! Things had turned upside down. Now he had to find her — where had she gone? If he’d known this would happen, which idiot would have come to the police? The treacherous Pashupati, the bone-deep villain Vishnupada, the sly devil Gurucharan and the lickspittle Haricharan together had lit the kerosene under his life.
Even after returning home exhausted, there was no relief. He had just eaten a little rice and lain down to rest when Pashupati and Vishnupada together grabbed his throat and shook him. “You’re lying there resting, are you? Is this your time to relax? Where’s the wife? Whether she ran away or died — you don’t even know. Don’t you remember any sister-in-law or friend she might have gone to? If she didn’t go to her father’s, she must have gone somewhere. Think! Think hard — maybe something will come to mind.”
Choked by their grip, Gokul could only gasp. Gasping, he sat up and said, “Are you going to kill me? If you kill me, you’ll die too.”
Four of them spoke in unison, “That doesn’t matter. Our dying is trivial — it’s your dying that counts.”
“Whoa! Wait, man, wait. Let me think a bit.”
“Think, think — think very deeply. Otherwise there’ll be a row. I’m telling you, we aren’t good people!”
Gokul didn’t need that explained twice. He was terrified, shaking all over. The very idea of having to live with these enemies for the rest of his life made his heart sink.
He sat up on the seat, closed his eyes, straightened his spine, and really began to think. At first nothing came to mind — just a blur. Then another blur. After the third blur a vague name surfaced: Shefali.
Pashupati slapped his cheek hard and said, “Is Shefali all there is? Isn’t there anything before or after? Pay proper attention. Dive deeper — go right down.”
“I’m trying. Was it necessary to slap so hard? A little softer would do. I’m trying, you see!”
“This is trickery for trickery’s sake. What if you fall asleep while thinking? That’s why we arranged that — so you don’t.”
“Got it.” Gokul said, and plunged back into thought. He groped around like a diver going deeper, and suddenly, with a sharp intake, he shot up and cried, “I’ve got it — the girl’s name is Shefali Gun. She is very dear to her. Once she starts talking about Shefali you can’t stop her.”
Vishnupada grabbed him by the neck, shook him, and said, “Think more — go deeper, all the way down.”
So Gokul strained and dove down again. After a long while, panting, he came up and said, “Done! I’ve got it. Her very beloved’s name is Shefali Gun. She’s married in Gangpur.”
Pashupati said in a grave voice, “Who’s going to tell us the groom’s name? Your father?”
Gokul said in a pleading voice, “Wait, man, wait — remembering Shefali’s husband’s name isn’t easy. I need time.”
“Time has a price, remember that. Now dive again. Don’t show your face until you remember.”
“All right, man.”
Tittiri loved to chatter. She would endlessly tell stories of her childhood. Gokul would listen and sometimes even fall asleep while listening. So of course he should have heard Shefali’s husband’s name. He ought to remember it — but if he didn’t, there’d be trouble. This time Gokul dove so deep into thought that he didn’t seem likely to surface. After about an hour, when he finally came up again, his face wore the smile of a conqueror. Grinning, he said, “I remember now. Shefali’s husband is Binod Gun. A big wholesaler in Gangpur. Hullabaloo. Lots of money.”
Vishnupada gave him a slap on the left cheek and said, “Why do we need Binod’s money? Are we going there to rob?”
From below, Gurucharan shouted, “Buses to Gangpur leave from Shambhuganj ,across the canal. One in the morning at six, and another in the afternoon at three. The little bridge collapsed last year and still hasn’t been fixed. You’ll have to walk across the canal to catch the bus, brothers. Do all of you agree?”
Immediately Pashupati, Vishnupada and Haricharan all said in one voice, “Agreed! Agreed!”
They hadn’t taken his advice or consulted him — which puffed Gokul’s cheeks out a little. But out of fear he didn’t make a fuss. Whatever happens, happens.
Suddenly Pashupati piped up, “So are we going to go empty-handed? Won’t there be presents to give?”
Vishnupada said, “Of course there will be! They’ll be on our backs. Let’s go to Nagen, the goldsmith, right away.”
Gokul, very politely and gently, said, “All right — what’s the rush? Let him come first, then we’ll see.”
“Are you mad? It’s for the auspicious occasion — hurry up!”
Reluctantly, Gokul had to get up. He had to go to Nagen, the goldsmith, and buy a nose-ring.
A whole wad of money was gone! And still, Pashupati and Vishnupada’s dangling insistence made him buy a gorgeous sari. What on earth was going on! It was like being led around by a rope through the nose. But what could poor Gokul do?
At four in the morning the two rascals — Pashupati and Vishnupada — hauled him up. While it was still dark he had to brush his teeth and bathe. Panting he gulped down a bowl of fermented rice. Then they set off. They simply couldn’t sit still. He had tried once to say, “Hey man, there’s no need to rush, the bus won’t be here for a long time yet.” But who’d listen? By the time they crossed the shallow canal on foot and reached the Shambhuganj bus stand, it wasn’t even 5:15. Gokul was out of breath and his heart was pounding. Who knows what will happen in Gangpur. If they can’t find Tittiri, will the officer-in-charge let it go? Who knows what fate has written on his forehead!
Binod Gun’s house in Gangpur was huge. As soon as you enter you feel very poor. Gokul hesitated at the threshold, but what could he do against Gurucharan and Haricharan? They hoisted him up on their shoulders and set him down inside the inner rooms. His arms and legs went stiff with fear.
It didn’t take long for word to spread. A rather plump young woman came up, lifted her brows and stood face to face. In a sharp voice she said, “So this is the brave fellow who had to come and rub his nose on the ground! Where’s your bravery gone now?”
Gokul didn’t need to do anything. Pashupati and Vishnupada sprang up and grabbed his ears and dangled him like two monkeys. His tongue stuck out on its own like the goddess Kali’s.
Seeing that, the angry girl gave a faint laugh and said, “Enough, enough — you don’t have to hold your ears in front of me. But sir, you go around slandering Gobind-da. Tsk tsk — aren’t you ashamed? I heard Godind-da is your friend. You doubted such a good man! And is my girl that sort of woman? Because you laid hands on her, Gobind-da brought her along and delivered her to my house.”
Pashupati jabbed him in the right side of his stomach, and Gokul, on the verge of tears, said, “I made a terrible mistake, sister — it will never, ever happen again in my life.”
Shefali said, “Remember that in future. If anything happens again, my friend won’t go back this time. In fact, I’m not even sure she’ll go now. If she doesn’t, she’ll stay here for good.”
Then she turned toward the inner rooms and called out loudly, “Hey, Tittiri, come here! See who’s come!”
Tittiri came and stood there — clouds of the rainy season on her face, lightning in her eyes.
Gokul didn’t have to do a thing himself. Gurucharan and Haricharan did what was needed — they struck him behind the knees so that he fell flat on the ground, and then Pashupati and Vishnupada dragged him right to Tittiri’s feet. His pent-up sobs burst out at once in great gasps. Tittiri, startled, stepped back and cried out in distress, “What are you doing! What are you doing! I’ll incur sin!”
Shefali said, “Oh come on — didn’t Lord Krishna also hold Radharani’s feet? Why should it be a sin? Let him hold them a bit.”
At that, the cloud on Tittiri’s face began to clear a little. But Gokul’s excesses had to be mentioned too — once he’d touched her feet, what was the need to grab his own ears and start doing sit-ups as well? Ignoring Gokul's protests, Pashupati and Vishnupada again hung from his ears, while Gurucharan and Haricharan made him do sit-ups — not just once or twice, but twenty times, straight.
Still, that effort worked — the tension on Tittiri’s face vanished. And when the nose-ring and the sari came out of the bag, a faint smile appeared, like a sliver lining through the clouds.
After all that varied humiliation, Gokul was ceaselessly pampered. First came mohanbhog and luchi, with five kinds of sweets. At noon there was fine-grained rice, grated coconut and mustard mashed into mankachu, split yellow lentils cooked with fish head, rohu fish curry, koi wrapped in leaves, yogurt and sweets.
On their way back they caught the three-o’clock bus — he and Tittiri. Gokul carried Tittiri’s suitcase and a little bundle. They didn’t talk much, both a bit embarrassed — like a newly wed pair. They smiled, looked at each other and dropped their eyes shyly.
When they reached the canal at Shambhuganj, Pashupati snapped, “Will the bride walk through the broken water crossing? She’ll catch the cold. Carry her across.”
“Ah, my hands are full with the luggage, can’t you see?”
“There’s a porter standing ready. Give him ten rupees and he’ll carry it all.”
Fine, then.
“But if you lift me into your arms what will people say ?” Tittiri said in pseudo anger.
“There’s no choice, wife — I’ve been ordered.”
Tittiri hid her face and said, “Damn you.”
At dusk they arrived home. The house should have been dark, but when they entered Gokul was astonished to find it full of light. Butterflies fluttered, bees buzzed, and the scent of flowers seemed to come from everywhere. So this is what it’s like when the bride comes home, he thought — how had he never noticed before? In that sudden happiness he stole a kiss from his wife.
At once he heard his four enemies muttering, “What an indecent sight! No shame at all. Will she do all that in front of five people?”
Gokul answered in a low voice, “I’ll kiss her a hundred times, a thousand times — what of your fathers?”
Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay [born 1935] is a prominent author in Bengali from India. He has written stories for both adults and children. He is known for creating the relatively new fictional sleuths Barodacharan and Shabor Dasgupta. Many of his novels and short stories like Hirer Angti, Dosar, Aaschorjo Pradip, Eagaler Chokh, were adapted into movies. He was the recipient of Sahitya Akademi Award in 1989 for his novel Manabjamin.
Goutam Chakraborty, born in 1966 in a village of South 24 Parganas, moved to Kolkata in early seventies and graduated in science from St. Xavier’s college. After a brief stint in engineering services outside Bengal, he joined the Government of West Bengal and is still working. He is a passionate reader of literature and likes to express himself in different forms of literature.