Page:Eyesore - Rabindranath Tagore.pdf/71

226 "There may be one," insisted Binodini eagerly; "let me see." She then turned the half-a-dozen letters, that were to go round the village, over and over again, but not one of them was for her.

As she returned to the water's edge, crestfallen, one of her fellow-bathers mischievously began "Ola, sister Bindi, why so anxious for a letter?" Another aired her eloquence: "Well, well, how many are so fortunate as to get a letter? We have husbands and brothers, my dears, who have gone to their work in foreign parts, but the postman never favours us." And as the topic was pursued, the mischievous glances got keener, the sarcasm more and more pronounced.

Binodini had entreated Vihari at parting to write to her regularly, something, anything, just a line or two. It was hardly likely that Vihari would begin to do so the very next day, yet her desire was so insistent that she had not been able to help nursing a distant hope. She felt as if she had left Calcutta ages ago.

It did not take Binodini long, with the help of her girl friends and enemies, to make the discovery that her name had been connected with Mahendra's, and that the scandal was all over the village. Peace was out of the question.

Binodini then tried to keep herself aloof from the rest of the village. At this her neighbours were all the more incensed. They were loth to be deprived of the luxury of reproving and worrying the sinner.

In a village, seclusion is out of the question. There is no leisure to nurse a wounded heart in the darkness of a retired corner. The sore spot always attracts everybody's curious gaze. Binodini writhed like a live fish in a basket, but only succeeded in wounding herself more and more. Here she was not free even to live alone with her suffering.

When the next day the time for getting a letter had passed, Binodini shut herself into her room to write:—

Binodini posted her letter—the whole village was scandalised afresh. To be living with closed doors, to be constantly writing, to be rushing after the postman for letters! Evidently even a short stay in Calcutta was enough to make away with all sense of decency and decorum!

There was no letter the next day either. Binodini seemed to be stupefied; her face set hard. Lashed as she was by the blows of insult and contumely, from within and without, the forces of destruction seemed to be churned up from the dark depths of her heart, ready to emerge from her in cruel demoniacal shape. In her dread at these monstrous apparitions Binodini shut herself into her room once more.

She had no keepsake of Vihari, neither a photograph, nor a line of any letter. She seemed to be hunting about for some memento in her emptiness. She wanted something to put in her bosom which would bring the tears to her harsh dry eyes. She wanted tears to come and melt her inner hardness, to put out the rising flames of rebellion and enable her to enthrone Vihari's iron command on the softest spot of her heart's love. But her heart was on fire like the cloudless midday sky, and no trace of any possible tear drop was there to be seen from horizon to horizon.