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Ritual and Reform [sa.nskaar*]/THE PATRIOT

Ritual and Reform [sa.nskaar*]/THE PATRIOT

(Translated from Bengali )

The original story [sa.nskaar*] by is a part of galpaguchchha [Collection of Stories] published by Visvabharati Publications

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In his notebook, Chitrogupto (clerk to Jomraj, god of death) keeps account, in large letters, of many sins that are not known to even the sinners themselves. Similarly, other sins occur which only I recognize as sins, no one else. The one I've sat down to write about is of that ilk. To admit one's guilt in advance, before having to account for it to Chitrogupto, is to reduce the measure of the offense.

It happened yesterday. It was a Saturday, and the Jains in our neighborhood were celebrating some festival. I had gone out with my wife Kolika in the motor-car--we had an invitation to tea at my friend Noyon-Mohon's house.

My wife's name, Kolika ("flower bud"), was given by my father-in-law, I'm not responsible for it. Her nature is not suited to her name--her opinions are quite fully blossomed. When the people of her group went out to Borobajar to picket against English fabrics, they respectfully gave her the name Dhrubo-brota ("constant in her resolve"). My name is Girindro ("chief of mountains," the Himalayas); the group knows me as my wife's husband, they don't consider the significance of my own name. By God's mercy, I have my father's wealth and hence some small measure of significance too. This attracts the attention of the group when it comes time to raise funds.

Husband and wife often get along better if their natures do not match, like dry earth and water. My nature is extremely easy-going, I don't cling fast to anything. My wife's nature is extremely tenacious, whatever she holds on to she'll never give up. It is because of this dissimilarity that peace is preserved in our world.

There is only one area where a difference of opinion persists between us, where we have not been able to compromise. Kolika believes that I do not love my shodesh (my own country). Her belief in her own beliefs is unshakeable--and so no matter what proofs I offer of my deep love for my country, I have never been able to get her to acknowledge this love, because my proofs do not match her symbols and definitions.

I have loved books since boyhood; whenever I hear of a new book I go and buy it. Even my enemies will admit that I have read those books; my friends know well that after I read the books I never stop arguing about them. As a result of all these discussions my friends began to sidle past me on the street, until in the end there was only one man left, Bon-Bihari ("frolicker in the forest," Krishna), with whom I sat down on Sundays. I called him Kon-Bihari ("frolicker in his corner"). We would sit on the rooftop terrace, talking about books sometimes until two in the morning. Because we were thus engrossed, it was not an auspicious time for us: the police of those days, if they saw a Gita in someone's house, would take it as proof of sedition. And the nationalists of those days, if in someone's house they saw a British book with its pages cut, would declare him a traitor. They reckoned me born on the white man's island and merely coated with a dark color. Even Shoroshshoti's whiteness made it difficult for her to get prayer offerings from those nationalists. The water of the lake where her white lotus bloomed, that water wouldn't put out the fire devouring the nation's future, it would make it worse--such was the rumor.