The Professor

Sumaiya Swati Udita

(Translation of “Addhyapak” by Rabindranath Tagore)

Chapter One

I had a good influence over my peers in my college. Everyone used to think that I am an expert in different areas. This was mainly because, whether I was right or wrong, I had an opinion regarding everything. Most people cannot concretely say Yes or No, which I could a lot. I would not only express my opinion, I myself would write as well; I used to deliver speeches, compose poems, work as a critique and turned as a man to honor and envy among all the types of my classmates. I could have maintained this image of mine till I graduated from college. But a devil in disguise, a new professor, appeared against my famous position at the college. Our new professor is a famous man now; therefore it will not harm his fame significantly even if I keep his name a secret here. He can be called Mr. Bamacharan due to his behavior towards me.

It was not that he was older than us; he recently acquired the first position in M. A. and graduated having special appreciations from Mr. Tony; but he looked like an outcast being a Brahmo; he did not look like our contemporaries. We would call him a Brahmodoitya amongst our serious Hindu friends. Once we had a debate-assembly. I was the Vikramaditya and the Navaratna of that assembly. We had thirty-six members in that assembly, there would be no harm in not counting the thirty-five people within this group and those thirty-five people had the same idea about the qualifications of one person as I had. I wrote a powerful essay criticizing Carlyle for the annual meeting of our assembly. I had a strong belief- the entire audience would be amazed at its excellence- they were supposed to feel like that, because I had criticized Carlyle thoroughly.

Mr. Bamacharan was the moderator of that meeting. When I had finished reading that essay my classmate-fans sat impressed and dumbfounded at the bravado of my opinions and my proper valor in English Language. Hearing that nobody had any comments, Mr. Bamacharan stood up and said calmly that the part of the essay I had stolen from the renowned writer, Mr. Lowell’s essay was incredible and the rest of which I wrote should have been omitted.

If he had said, there was a surprising unity between the thoughts as well as the language of the new essayist and Lowell then his words could have sounded true but not so unpleasant. After that incident, a scandalous spot fell on the confidence that my friends had in me. However, the only exception was Amulyacharan, the fondest of my friends and fans. He kept telling me, “Read out your Vidyapati play to that Brahmodoitya, let us see what that critic has to say about that.”

The poet Vidyapati loved Miss Lasima the queen of King Shibsingh and he could not compose poems without seeing her. I wrote a high class musical tragedy based on this myth; the part of my audience who did not want to violate my dignity used to say, “Nothing like that ever happened in History”. I said, “that is History’s bad luck! Such an incident could make History more fascinating and legitimate”.

I have already said that the play was a high class piece of work. Amulya used to say that it was of the highest class. He used to estimate me higher, more than I estimated myself. Hence his attitude reflected the high influence I had on him, I could not measure that as well.

The advice of reading that play to Mr. Bamacharan did not sound very bad to me; for, I strongly believed that there would not be any opportunity for him to criticize anything in that drama. So a special meeting of the debate-assembly was called, where I read my play in front of the students and Mr. Bamacharan criticized it.

I don’t feel like writing down that criticism in detail.  In short, that criticism didn’t favor me; play wise the factors like the depth of the characters and their psychology could not be presented properly in Mr. Bamacharan’s opinion. The work had general hyperbolic expressions, but they are vaporous, they got lost in the playwright’s thoughts without gaining proper life and shape there.

There are stings at the backs of scorpions. Mr. Bamacharan also had the most toxicity stored in his conclusion. He told me before taking his seat, most parts of my play and their themes mimicked Goethe’s Tasso, which was translated in many places.

There were good answers to those words. I could have said, “Let it be copied but that couldn’t be a matter of criticism. In the world of Literature there is nothing like stealing- even if it goes detected. A lot of great writers have done plagiarism, including Shakespeare himself. He dared to steal the originality of literary work, because, he could turn somebody else’s work completely into his own.”

There were many more good ideas as such, but I did not say them that day. Modesty was not the reason behind that. Honestly, none of those ideas came to me that day. After almost 5-7 days all those thoughts started to rise in my head like the divine weapons of Brahma; but those very weapons attacked me as they were not present in front of the enemy side. I used to think; I would tell these words at least to the students of my class. But these answers were a bit advanced than the intelligence of my foolish classmates. They only knew, theft was what it was; if they had the capacity to understand the difference between my thefts and that of the other people’s then they would be no different than me.

My father called me from the village for my marriage. I took time for some days.

At the words of Mr. Bamachran arose a debate in myself, a rebel against myself rose inside me. The critic part of me was secretly attacking the writer part of me. The writer part of me was saying, “I would take revenge against it; I should write and then I would see, if I could be better or my enemy”.

I made up my mind to write something ‘sublime’ either in prose or verse on universal love, sacrifice for others and forgiveness towards the enemy and by doing so I wanted to create huge opportunities for the Bengali critics.

I decided, I shall sit in a beautiful and quiet place to complete the creation of my most important work. I promised, I shall not meet my friends or anybody familiar or unfamiliar for at least a month.

I called Amulya and shared my plan with him. He was absolutely astounded, as if at just that time he could already see the first rays of the sun shining on my forehead for becoming the magnificent pride of this land. He gloomily pressed my hands looking widely at me and said softly, “Go brother, achieve the immortal fame for an indestructible deed!”

My body became thrilled by this; I felt as if Amulya said these words to me as the representative of all the overwhelmed fans of Bengal, sensing the imminent pride.

Amulaya also sacrificed a great deal; he absolutely avoided my company for one whole month due to the welfare of his country. With a deep sigh he left for his home at Cornwallis Street on a tram, and I went to a garden of Farasdanga on the bank of the Ganges to achieve my immortal, perpetual fame.

I would fall into a slumber while I lay on my back beside the Ganges in solitude and thought about the universal love, and woke up late at five o’ clock in the afternoon. After that I would feel a little bit exhausted physically and mentally; I would sit quietly on a small wooden sit beside the street at the back of the garden and see the movement of the bullock carts and the commuters for recreation and passing the time. I would go to the station and sit, there the keys of the telegraph would keep ticking, the bell would ring for the tickets, passengers would gather, the metal red-eyed centipede would arrive panting heavily, it would scream fiercely, and those people would jump over each other- I would enjoy this sight for a while. I would return home and go to sleep quickly for not having my company, and I would sleep late till 8-9am as there was no need to wake up early in the morning.

My body became tired, and I could not find any creek and corner of universal love either. I would feel like the bank of the Ganges is like an empty crematorium for not having the habit of staying without my friends; that Amulya was also such a great fool that, he also did not move away from his promise for a day.

Earlier I would sit in Calcutta and imagine that I would sit under the shadow of the big Banyan tree with my feet scattered, the murmuring river would flow near my feet- in the center would sit the poet in his reverie, and he will be surrounded by the kingdom of his thoughts and the nature – there would be flower in the gardens, birds would sit in the branches, there would be stars in the sky, there would be the universal love in my heart, and various countless restless rhythms would flow in my writings. But where is that nature and that nature’s poet, where is the universe and its lover! Not for a single day did I go to that garden. The gardens would be filled with flowers, the stars would go up in the sky, the shadow of the Banyan tree would fall beneath it, and I would also stay in my house like I was supposed to.

My anger kept on growing against Mr. Bamacharan for not having shown my prowess to him yet.

A debate on child marriage took place in the educated society of Bengal at that time. Mr. Bamacharan spoke against child marriage and there was a rumor that, he was in a relationship with a young woman and he is hoping to get married to her soon.

This matter was extremely funny to me, and the epic on universal love itself also could not be found anywhere, so I sat down to compose a sharp satire creating the fictional hero on the basis of the characteristics of Mr. Bamacharan and a young heroine named Kadambali Majumder. I started preparing for my journey to Calcutta after I had penned down. Suddenly an obstacle appeared in my journey.

Chapter Three

One day I was casually exploring the houses in the garden instead of going to the train station in the afternoon. I did not enter any of the rooms as it was never required, and I never had the slightest interest or attention about anything outside. I was roaming around like the fallen leaves on a windy day simply to pass the time.

I reached a small balcony as soon as I opened the door of the room at the north. Two big Blackberry trees were standing close to the wall facing the balcony at the north of the garden. A row of Bakul trees of another garden could be seen through the gap between those two trees.

But I saw all of those later, I did not have the scope to look at any other things at that time; I only saw then, a sixteen year-old girl walking and studying holding a book with her head bent on it.

At that time I had no capacity to discuss any theory, but I thought after a few days that, Dushmanta went to the jungle in a chariot with many big bows and arrows to hunt deer.  Though he could not kill any of them, what he saw for ten minutes amidst that, and what he heard, had been his best experience in his entire life. I also took my pen and papers and went out for a poetic hunt but my philanthropy ran away because of what I had seen through the gap between those two trees; such scenes cannot be seen twice in life.

I did not see a lot of things in this world. I did not ride on ships or balloons, and neither did I get down into coal mines- but before coming to the balcony in the north I could not understand that I was quite unaware and mistaken about the types of my dream girl. I was about to cross twenty-one years of age, and I cannot say that in the meantime my heart had not figured out any shape of the feminine beauty in imagination. I decorated that shape in many different types of attire, placing it at various locations, but it was never in my farthest dreams that I would see her in a dress, wearing shoes, and holding a book, nor even I wished for it. But my Lakshmi suddenly appeared amongst the shadows of old and new trees trembling in the deep forests and the sunlit path of the garden in the afternoon of the late-Falgun, behind the two Blackberry trees, wearing shoes, a dress, and holding a book in her hand. I did not utter a word.

She could not be seen more than two minutes. I tried in many ways to see her though various holes but it did not work. For the first time I sat with my feet stretched under the Banyan tree right before the evening- in front of my eyes the evening star rose above the deep forest on the other side with a peaceful smile, and in time the beautiful evening appeared opening the doors of its own big vast secluded bridal room alone.

The book that I saw in her hand became a new mystery for me. I kept wondering, what book was that? Was it a Novel or Poetry? What thoughts were written in it? What was exactly being expressed on that particular open page, on that part of the story, on that part of the poem’s essence, on which the shadow and the sunlight of that afternoon, the umbra of trembling of the trees in the Bakul forest and those fond fixed look fell? Along with that I wondered, how graceful it felt inside that dome of the forehead under the dark shadow of the dense open hairy mesh, what poetic mystery was forming delicately in the solitary heart of the young woman- it is hard to state clearly how I spent half of the night having such thoughts.

But who told me that she was unmarried? It was he who assured Dushmanta, a far ahead lover than me, about Shakuntala even before meeting her. He is the urge of the heart; he tells a lot of false and true things to people; some of them work, some of them do not, but it did work in Dushmanta and my case.

Whether this unknown neighbor of mine was married or unmarried or a Brahmin or a Shudra, it was not very hard for me to find out; but I did not do it, instead I only encircled my moon from far away and tried to examine it by looking upwards like a Bartavelle.

The next day I rented a small boat and set my destination at the banks, I forbade the oarsmen to row so as to keep the boat afloat on the waves.

The hermitage-cottage of my Shakuntala was on the bank of the Ganges. The cottage was not exactly like Kanva’s cottage; the stairs of the Ganges’ banks was raised up to the big balcony of the house, the balcony is over shadowed by a slanting roof.

When my boat silently arrived near the bank, I saw, my Shakuntala of the new generation is sitting on the ground floor of the balcony; at her back is a stool, and there were some books on that stool, her stacks of hair were scattered on those books, she leaned against that stool and was looking up with her head resting against her raised left arm, her face could not be seen from the boat, only the curves of her beautiful neck was visible, and one of her bare feet was on one stair above the bank and the other one was on the stair below, the pleat of her black sari had fallen crookedly and bordered her feet. A book was lying relaxed and unattended on the ground. I felt like my Lakshmi had become corporeal in the afternoon. As if a statue of leisure had suddenly sat down motionlessly. Below me was the Ganges, in front of me were the distant banks and above me the hot blue sky was looking at the internal grace of those bare feet, that lazy left arm, and that crooked neck with integrity and rapt attention.

I stared at her as long as was possible for me, I dried her two lotus-feet with the lids of my two eyes repeatedly.

At last when my boat floated away, and a tree enshrouded us in the half way, suddenly I remembered a mistake, I became aware and said to the boatmen, “Boatmen, it is not possible for me to go to Hooghly today, let us return home from here.” But we had to row the boat in the upstream, and I shrunk at the sound of the rowing. The sound kept on hitting someone who is consciously beautiful and young, whose limit was the sky but was also as weak as a fawn. When the boat approached the bank my neighbor slowly rose her face at first and then looked at my boat with mild curiosity, the next moment at seeing my curious eyes she went away fearfully; I felt, as if I had stoke her somewhere, and it rang somewhere inside her!

A slightly ripen half Guava fell down her lap as she tried to get up quickly and it came running down the stairs, my whole heart became restless for that bitten, lip-kissed Guava, but I had to observe that scene from afar as I felt shy in front of the boatmen. I saw, the water of the tides was constantly looking forward to covet that fruit with its hungry tongue from time to time, within half an hour its shameless perseverance would be gratified and having visualized that I passed the banks of my home with a painful mind.

I dreamed the entire day sitting with my feet scattered under the shadow of the Banyan tree, the nature was bowing down under two very soft feet- the sky was lighted, the world was delighted, the wind was excited, among them were the two fixed motionless beautiful feet; they did not even know that, the dust of the two feet have intoxicated the heated youth of the new spring everywhere.

Nature was something dispersed and disconnected to me before, the forest, the river, the sky, everything was a separate entity. That day the nature felt united and beautiful to me, as if it was dumbly requesting me, “I am taciturn, give me speech, there is an unsung hymn rising in my heart. Please sing it with your melody, tune, and rhythm in the beautiful human language!”

The silent pleas of the nature hit the strings of my heart. I kept hearing that song again and again, “O beautiful, O lovely, o the winner of the world, o the only flame of life, o endless life, o the ever sweet life and death.” I could not end that song, I could not unite it, I could not give it any shape clearly, I could not bind it by verses; it felt like, indescribable and immense energy was rising inside me like the water of the tides, I still could not bind it, when I would be able do it suddenly my voice would sing out, my forehead would be lighted with a supernatural glow.

At that time a boat came afloat crossing from the Naihati station from the other side and it approached and stopped at the bank of my garden. Amulya came down smiling with his plaited scarf hanging from his two shoulders and his umbrella under his armpits. The feeling I had on suddenly seeing my friend, I wished, nobody felt the same on seeing their enemies. Amulya felt very hopeful to see me sitting very angrily under the shadow of the Banyan tree at around two o’clock in the afternoon. He came so slowly as if he was afraid that a part of the greatest poem of this land of Bengal would get scared at the sound of his footsteps and dive straight into the water like wild flamingoes; I felt even angrier, slightly restlessly I said, “Hey dear Amulya, what is the matter with you? Did a thorn get stuck in your feet?” Amulya thought, I had said something very funny; he came near laughing and dusted off the tree-shade with his pleats, took out a handkerchief from his pocket and folded it and said as he sat on it, “I cannot stop laughing after reading the farce you have sent to me.” Saying that he recited several parts of it and he was about to suffocate himself with laughter. I felt as if, the pen I wrote that farce with, the tree with whose wood it was made even if I uprooted that tree and turn that farce into ashes in a big fire I would not calm down. Amulya asked me with hesitation, “How far are you with your poetry?” My blood boiled at hearing this; I said to myself, “Your intelligence is just like my poem!” With my mouth I said, “All of that will be done later my friend, do not excite me unnecessarily.”

Amulya was a curious person, he could not stay without examining his surroundings, and I closed the door at the north in his fear. He asked me, “Hey what is over there?” I said, “Nothing.” I had never told such a big lie in my life.

After hitting me, striking me in various ways for two days, Amulya left on the third day on the evening train. For these two days I did not go to the balcony at the north, I did not even look at that direction, I was careful about my garden at the northern boundary to the extent that misers hide their treasures away. As soon as Amulya went away I rushed to the second floor and opened the door of the northern balcony straight. Above the open sky was the incomplete moonlight of the first new moon; below was the deep silent darkness scarred slightly by the moon light underneath the plants imprisoned by the branches; at the murmur of the sigh of the forest, deep scent of the Bakul flowers that fell under its tree, and the astounded sober silence of the wood in the evening, I could feel all of them fully in my pores. In the center of all these my unmarried woman was saying something while walking slowly with her white-bearded old father holding his right hand- the old man was listening to her attentively, silently, affectionately, and also respectfully by bending a little. There was nothing to disturb in this holy conversation, the sound of plashing in the river were fading in the distance and from within many trees one or two birds were chirping from their countless nests. I felt like my heart would tear in joy or sadness. It was like my existence has been extended and it became equal with the crepuscular world, I felt like scattered footsteps followed on my chest, as if I could hear a sweet murmur close to my ears which mixed with the plants. As if the internal pains of this vast foolish nature yelled within all the cells of my entire body; as if I could feel, the earth acted peculiarly because while it did lie still under the feet but it could not grab those feet, the bowed branches of the large trees wanted to cry aloud in insane lamentations at the height of their voice. I also immediately felt those footsteps, that chitchat in all of my organs and my entire soul but I was dying in sprinkles for not understanding anything.

I could not wait the next day. I went to meet with my neighbor in the morning. Mr. Bhabanath was reading an old book of Hamilton marked with a blue pencil attentively with his glasses on and a big mug of tea kept beside him at that time. He stared at me unmindfully through the upper gap of his spectacles for a while as I entered the house, he could not take his mind away from the book for a single moment. At last suddenly he quickly became prepared for hospitality. I introduced myself briefly. He became so excited that he could not find the holder of his spectacles. He uselessly asked, “Would you like to have some tea?” Although I never drank tea, still I said, “I do not have any problem.” Mr. Bhabanath anxiously kept calling, “Kiran”, “Kiran”. I heard a very sweet voice from near the door, “What is it father?” the Kanva-Yogi’s daughter suddenly prepared to run away like a scared deer at seeing me. Mr. Bhabanath called from behind; he said as he introduced me, “This is our neighbor Mr. Mahindrakumar”. And then he turned to me, “This is my daughter Kiranbala.” I could not figure out what I should do, and meanwhile she greeted me very softly. I quickly repaired my mistake and paid for it. Mr. Bhabanath said, “You have to bring a cup of tea for Mr. Mahindra, my dear.” I became withered inside my mind but Kiran left the room before I could say anything. I felt like, as if the mighty Bholanath has ordered his daughter Lakshmi herself to bring a cup of tea for the guest; it might taste like Ambrosia to the guest, but still, was neither any of the two men Nandi nor Bhringee around!

Chapter Four:

I became a regular guest at Mr. Bhabanath’s house. I used to detest a beverage like tea immensely, but then drinking tea every morning and evening had caused me an addiction to it.

I came here just after studying the new history of the German scholar-composed philosophy for our B. A. examination, for some days I acted like I came only to hold philosophy-discussions with Mr. Bhabanath accordingly. I used to pity him for still being engaged with some of Hamilton’s various old-classic inaccurate books, and I would not spare my chance to show off my knowledge with much splendor. Mr. Bhabanath was such a good person, he was so hesitant about everything, he would accept everything said from the mouth of a young boy, he would become anxious if he needed to disagree anywhere, he felt scared lest I felt offended. Kiran would tactfully get up from all such discussions of ours. I felt angry as well as proud at this. The extreme scholarship of our difficult topics in question was unbearable to Kiran; whenever she measured the height of the mountain of my education, she would have to look so high.

I called Kiran in so many different names like “Shakuntala”, “Damayanti”, and knew her as a different person when I saw from afar, and then I got to know her as “Kiran” in her house. She was no more the embodiment of different heroines of the world, she was only Kiran then. She had then descended from the light of poetry hundred centuries light years ago having abandoned the paradise of dreams of a youth’s heart and she was then residing in a particular Bengali home in the role of an unmarried young woman. She spoke in absolutely daily life language, laughed innocently at little jokes, she wore two gold bangles on her two arms just like the girls of our homes, her necklace was not so fancy but very gorgeous- sometimes the upper edge of her sari would encircle her upper part and sometimes it would fall down again for not having the practice of wearing it at her paternal home, this gave me great pleasure. She was real, she was true, she was Kiran, she was nothing other than that and she was nothing more than that, and though she was not mine but still she was ours, which was why my heart always remained drenched with profuse gratefulness.

One day I was showing off my talkativeness to Mr. Bhabanath about relativity of knowledge with high enthusiasm; Kiran rose up as soon as our discussion progressed a little, and after a short time she brought a raised stove and cooking utensils with her and placed them on the ground and said to Mr. Bhabanath scornfully, “Father, why are you making Mr. Mahindra talk about those difficult topics in vain? Come Mr. Mahindra, it will be better for you to participate in cooking with me instead.”

Mr. Bhabanath had no fault, and Kiran was aware of it. But Mr. Bhabanath felt guilty like criminals and said with a little laughter, “Indeed! Okay we shall discuss about it another day.” He then went back to his daily routine of reading as he said so with a patient heart.

Again on another day in the afternoon I was amusing Mr. Bhabanath with an important information, at that moment Kiran appeared in the middle and said, “Mr. Mahindra, you have to help this feeble. I will hang the creeper on the wall, and since I cannot reach it, you have to hammer these pegs.” I got up happily, and Mr. Bhabanath also went back to his reading cheerfully.

Like that whenever I would try to place a heavy word with Mr. Bhabanath, Kiran would often break the conversation tactfully with excuses of one work or another. I would become thrilled at this inside; I understood that, I was caught by Kiran; somehow she has understood that, discussing theories with Mr. Bhabanath is not the greatest pleasure of my life.

When I would just reach the middle of the difficult mystery of diagnosing the relationship between the outside world and our senses at that time Kiran would come and say, “Mr. Mahindra, let me show you my field of Bringels, come.”

To judge the sky as limitless was just our guess only, it was nothing impossible for it to have limits in some way in some forms, beyond our experience and power of imagination, and as I would make such remarks, Kiran would appear and say, “Mr. Mahindra, two mangoes have ripen, you will have to pull that branch down.”

What a rescue, such freedom. How smoothly I would get up from the middle of the infinite sea in a moment. No matter how inescapably difficult the net of doubt about the unlimited sky and outside world was, there was not a bit of doubt about Kiran’s field of Bringels or her mango-shade. That was not mentionable in poetries or novels but it was captivating like sea-surrounded bays. How comfortable it was to stand on the ground was only felt by the one who has swum in the water for a long time. The sea of love that I have created for so long in my imagination I could not say how long I would have floated in there forever if it was true. The sky was also unlimited there, the sea was also unlimited there, all the different restricted issues of our daily lives were absolutely banished there, there was no trace of meanness, you only had to express your thoughts via music, rhythm, and tempo over there and no one could find the bottom for sinking. When Kiran pulled up that drowning fool by his hair to her mango-shade, to her bringel-field, I was then relieved to have the ground under my feet. I discovered, by cooking Khichuri in the veranda, by riding on the ladder and hammering pegs on the wall, by helping to finding out lemon flowers amongst the deep green stars of the lemon tree an unimaginable joy can be achieved, however one did not have to put any effort behind the attainment of that joy- the words that came by itself to the mouth, the laugh that excited one naturally, the amount of light that came from the sky, and the amount of shadow that fell from the tree were enough. Apart from those I had a gold stick as my youth, a touchstone called love, a healthy plant as the undivided confidence on myself. I was the winner, I was Indra, I could not see any obstacles to the path of my Ucchaihshravas. Kiran, she was my Kiran, and there was no doubt in it. I did say that clearly all these time, but those words would split my heart from one edge to the other with great happiness in a moment and dazzled my mind like thunder and danced from time to time. Kiran, my Kiran!

I never came into contact with any stranger woman before, I was not aware of the politics of those new group of women who went past their boundaries after availing education, hence where was modesty lacking in their behavior, where was their right to love I did not know; but I also did not know why they would not love me, in which way I was incapable.

When Kiran would give me my cup of tea to my hands at that time I also accepted Kiran’s cup full of love; when I drank the tea I used to think, my acceptance has been fruitful and Kiran’s bestowals have also been successful. If Kiran had said in a simple tune, “Mr. Mahindra, will you come tomorrow morning?” within its rhythm and tempo would play-

What charm you know, what charm you know, dear!

You take away the coward’s life, everyone is in your fear!

I would answer in simple words, “I will come by 8am tomorrow”. Could Kiran not hear the song within that-

You are the doll of my heart and the necklace,

You are all that I have as my wealth and affairs.

All my days and all my nights were replete with Ambrosia. All of my thoughts and all of my imaginations started growing new branches every moment and kept binding Kiran with me like creepers around us. When the happy-leisure would come what I should read to Kiran, what I should teach her, what I should tell her, what I should show her, my mind got covered with all those promises. Even, I also decided that I would give her such lessons that would also arise interest about the German scholar-composed new history of Philosophy in her heart, otherwise she would not be able to understand me fully. I would show her way in the light of English poetry. I would laugh to myself, as I said, “Kiran, your mango-shade, field of Bringels are a new Kingdom to me. Never even in my dreams did I know that, rare Ambrosia could be found there so easily apart from Bringels and fallen Mangoes. When the time shall come I shall also take you to another Kingdom where Bringels do not grow but still the absence of Bringels is not felt. That is the Kingdom of Knowledge, the Paradise of Thoughts.” The way the horizon-less pales stars gained light completely in the dark evening, for a few days Kiran also seemed to be filling inside with joy, beauty, and the completion of her womanhood like that. As if she was spreading the happy rays of joy after having ascended exactly at the middle of the sky of her household, her home; the glow of holiness fell upon her father’s beard at that ray, and that glow signed and sealed Kiran’s sweet name in glowing letters on each of the waves of the sea of my overwhelmed heart.

Meanwhile my time started running out, my father’s affectionate request to come for marriage-purposes had begun to transform into a strict order gradually- on the other hand Amulya could not be stopped anymore, someday he would suddenly throw his four enormous legs in the middle of my Padma forests and that apprehension eventually kept becoming stronger. How to speak out the desire of my heart without delay and transform my romance into marriage, I kept wondering about that.

Chapter Five:

One day in the afternoon I went to Mr. Bhabanath’s house and saw, he was sleeping resting against the stool and Kiran was reading a book sitting below the banks facing the Ganges’ banks. I went to the backside in silent footsteps and saw, a new collection of poems, and the page that was open contained a poem by Shelley and a line was drawn neatly beside it in red ink. Reading that poem Kiran sighed a little and looked at the furthest edge of the sky with eyes full of dreams and emotions; it felt like Kiran had read that one poem ten times for one hour and had sailed it away to the distant constellations on the boat of her heart with just one warm sigh. I did not know for whom Shelley wrote that poem; he did not write it for any Bengali man named Mahindra for sure, but I could confidently say that nobody had any right over this hymn except me. Kiran had drawn a sign of blood with a heart-pencil of her inner mind beside this poem, and the poem became hers by the charm of that enchantment, and also became mine besides her. I suppressed my excited heart and said normally, “What are you reading?” As if the sailing boat has suddenly halted in the edge. Kiran jolted and closed the book and hid it away deep in her pleats. I laughed and said, “Can I see the book?” Something stroke Kiran, she said carefully, “No, no, leave that book alone.”

I sat some steps below and raised the topic of English poetry, I raised the topic in such a manner that Kiran would gain her knowledge of literature and my inner thoughts would be delivered via the speech of English poets. The little murmurings of the water and the land sounded soft and compassionate like a mother’s lullaby amongst the deep silence in the scorching heat.

Kiran seemed to have become restless; she said, “Father is sitting alone, will you not end that debate of yours about the endless sky?” I thought to myself, “that endless sky shall be there forever and that debate about it will also never end, but life is short and pleasant leisure is rare and ephemeral”. I said without answering Kiran’s question, “I have some poems, I will recite them to you.” Kiran said, “I will hear them tomorrow.” Saying this she looked directly inside and called out, “Father, Mr. Mahindra has come.” Mr. Bhabanath opened his eyes innocently like a child after waking up anxiously. As if something hit sharply inside my heart. I continued arguing about the endless sky inside his room. I believed Kiran continued her reading in her solitary room peacefully.

At the call of the next morning a Statesman news was found marked with red-pencil, the result of the B. A. examination has been published in it. At first a name like Kiranbala Bandhyapadhyay in the first division caught my eyes; my name is nowhere in the first, second, or third division.

Along with the pain of failing in the examination a thought kept striking me like lightning that, Kiranbala Bandhyapadhyay might be our Kiranbala. She had studied in the college or she had given this exam, although nobody told me this but my doubt kept growing stronger gradually. Because, I thought to myself, the old father and his daughter had never spoken a word about themselves, and I was so busy with my introduction and to show off my knowledge, that I never enquired about them.

The debates about my newly-read history of German scholar-composed Philosophy kept coming to my mind, and I remembered, I said to Kiran one day, “if I can get the opportunity to read some books to you then I shall be able to give you a clear idea about Poetry in English Literature”.

Kiranbala had completed her Honors in Philosophy and was the receiver of First Class in Literature. What if she was that Kiran! At last with a hard stroke I lit up my burned pride and said, “Let that be- my essays will be the pillar of my victory”. Having said this I held my head higher than before with the paper in my hand and with strong steps I entered Mr. Bhabanath’s garden.

No one was inside the house at that time.  I kept scrutinizing the old man’s books for once. I saw, my book of German scholar-composed history of Philosophy was lying in a corner carelessly; I opened it and saw, its margin is filled with his own hand-written notes. The old man has taught his daughter himself. I did not have any more doubts.

Mr. Bhabanath entered the room more radiantly than usual, as if he had just taken his morning shower under the fountains of some good news. I suddenly said with a rough smile slightly proudly, “Mr. Bhabanath, I have failed in my examination.” All the great men who secured first- class in the examinations of life after failing in the examination of schools, as if I was being counted among them that day. Examination was for the middle-class men who were successful in business, trade, job, etc., the lower-class and the higher-class had an amazing power of failure. Mr. Bhabanath’s face gradually became pale explicitly, he could not give me the news of his daughter’s passing of the examination anymore; but he became surprised at my slightly incoherent and wild behavior. He could not understand the reason of my pride with his simple brain.

At that time Kiran entered the room with a shy, tender, tearful face like the rain-washed plants with the new professor of our college, Prof. Mr. Bamacharan. I had nothing left to understand. I returned home and went for marriage in my village after burning the copy of my collection of essays.

I could not compose the epic that I wanted to compose by the banks of the Ganges, but I attained that poetry from life.