Naukadubi: The Boatwreck

Chapter 6

Nearly three months had passed. All the issues relating to the family were close to being resolved. The older women prepared to move to temple towns. One or two companions for the bride presented themselves from neighbouring houses, keen on making her acquaintance.

The two of them had now begun spending their evenings on the deserted roof, sitting on a mat beneath the open sky. Ramesh would cover her eyes from the back without warning, drawing her head to his chest. When his wife fell asleep without her dinner even before the night had deepened, he prodded her into wakefulness, earning her ire and reproach.

One evening Ramesh tugged at the bun on her head, saying, ‘You haven’t done up your hair well today, Sushila.’

His bride was looking up at the sky.
"What are you looking at?" He asked.

"The moon..."

Ramesh sighed.
"Close enough, yet so far
Shining brightly amidst the stars
It's beauty adorns the sky
But more than it, shines your eyes."
His hands had held her from behind, his nose nuzzling on the crook of her neck, making her giggle.

"I don't understand poetry." She whispered.
"But the moon is very pretty tonight."

Ramesh felt a rush in his heart. He had planted a soft kiss on her neck, making her shiver.
"I don't know about the moon Sushila, but you look... "

"Why do all of you call me Sushila?" she spoke out suddenly, her eyes on him, her lips an inch away from his.

Ramesh stared at her in surprise, unable to understand the significance of this question.

"Do you suppose I will bring you good fortune simply through a change of name?" she asked him plainly, her head resting on his chest now. "I’ve brought bad luck to everyone since childhood – it won’t end till I die."

Ramesh’s heart began to thump, his face had turned pale instantaneously. Something was wrong somewhere – he was suddenly overcome by doubt.
"What do you mean, you’ve brought bad luck since childhood?" he asked her.

His wife said, "My father was dead before I was born, my mother died within six months of my birth. I have lived a miserable life with my maternal uncles. Suddenly I was told that you had arrived from nowhere and picked me as your bride. We were married within days and then you know the horrible things that happened."

Ramesh collapsed on the terrace floor. The moon was still in the sky, but its brilliance had suddenly drained. Afraid of asking any more questions, he wanted to distance himself from what he had discovered, dismissing it as delirium, as a nightmare. A summer breeze blew in from the south, like someone sighing after regaining consciousness. A sleepless lark kept calling in the moonlight, while the song of boatmen from the boats moored in the river nearby rose in the air. When Ramesh had not spoken for a long time, his wife touched him gently.
‘What happened, are you feeling unwell?’

‘No,’ answered Ramesh.

But there was no further response from him. They had gone down to their bedroom, and with no further conversation, Ramesh saw his wife fall asleep. Sitting up, Ramesh gazed at her slumbering figure. Whatever the creator had written into her fate had not yet left a mark on her face. How could such a terrible destiny be lurking behind such a beautiful face?

Ramesh realized that he was not the husband of this young woman but finding out who was was not easy. Cunningly he asked her, "What was your impression of me when you saw me for the first time during the wedding?"

"I did not see you,’ she answered simply. "I had lowered my eyes."

"You didn’t even know my name?"

She nodded.
"The wedding took place the very next day after I was told I was to be married. I was never told your name. My aunt got rid of me as quickly as possible."

"You have learnt to read and write, haven’t you? Can you write your name for me?" Ramesh finally asked, handing her a sheet of paper and a pencil.

"Of course I can," she responded. "It’s easy to spell my name." She wrote her name in large letters –
'Srimati Kamala Devi.'

"Very well. Write down your uncle’s name now," Ramesh said, his heart wretched in an all-encompassing agony.

Kamala wrote:
Sri Tarinicharan Chattopadhyay.
And looking up, she asked,
"Did I make a mistake?"

"No," Ramesh sighed. "Can you write the name of your village?"

She wrote, "Dhobapukur."

The details of her life which Ramesh extracted cautiously did not help very much.

Now Ramesh began to consider where his duty lay. Her husband had probably drowned. Even if he could locate her husband’s family, it was doubtful whether they would accept her. Nor would she be treated justly if she were to be sent back to her uncle and aunt. If he were to reveal the truth after she had been living as his wife all this time, how would society treat her? Where would she find refuge? Even if her husband were alive, would he be inclined to – or bold enough – let her live with him? She would sink into the depths wherever Ramesh abandoned her now.

Ramesh could not let her stay with him except as his wife, but there was nowhere else where she could live, either. But that didn’t mean he could accept her as his wife. All those portraits he had drawn of her on the canvas of the future with his loving paintbrush had to be wiped off hastily.

Ramesh could not go on living in the village. He would find a solution amidst the teeming masses in Calcutta – with this thought he took Kamala to the city, renting a house a long way from the area where he used to live.