Page:The Modern Review Vol 15 (January to June 1914).pdf/103

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INODINI'S mother Harimati beseigedbesieged [sic] Rajlakshmi, the mother of Mahendra, and would take no denial. They both belonged to the same village, and had played together as children.

Rajlakshmi would get hold of Mahendra and entreat him, "Mahin, my son, you must come to the rescue of the poor woman's only child. I am told that the girl is really pretty, and has taken lessons from an English lady—she will just suit the taste of you young people now-a-days."

"But mother", Mahendra would reply, "there are so many modern young men besides myself."

Rajlakshmi.—That's your one great fault, Mahin, there's no getting in a word about marriage with you.

Mahendra.—Hardly an unpardonable sin, mother, since there are so many other subjects in the world to talk about.

Mahendra had lost his father in his infancy. His ways with his mother were not those of the average youth. He was nearly twenty-two, and had begun studying medicine after taking his M.A. degree; yet with his mother he was still wayward and exacting, and expected to be petted and humoured. Like a kangaroo cub he had got into the habit of continuing to want his mother's enfolding care; she was indispensable alike in his work and pleasure, both a necessity and a luxury in his life.

When next his mother plied him about Binodini, Mahendra said, "All right, let's have a look at the girl."

But when the day appointed for the visit came he said, "After all what's the use of seeing her? If I must marry to please you, why pretend to exercise my own Judgment?"

There was a trace of the sulks in his tone, but the sharp note, thought the mother, would be duly flattened down when, at the moment of the auspicious vision, her son would have occasion to endorse her taste. So with a light heart Rajlakshmi prepared to fix the wedding day.

Hut the nearer drew the day the more anxious did Mahendra become—till at last when there were only a few days left he broke out with a "no, no, I really cannot!"

Mahendra's intimate friend was Vihari. He used to call Mahendra Dada and Rajlakshmi mother. The mother used to look on him as the "useful burden-bearing barge in tow of the proud steamboat and was in a way fond of him accordingly. "Then you," said she, "must do this my son, or else the poor women"—

"I beg to be excused mother," said Vihari with hands folded in mock supplication, "many a time have I taken at your bidding the sweetmeats that your Mahendra has refused as not to his taste, but when it comes to a girl I really must draw the line."

Binodini's father had not been particularly rich, but he had engaged a missionary lady to teach his daughter to read and write and do fancy needlework. She was getting past the age when marriage ought to have been thought of, but that had escaped him altogether. So, when at length he died, his widow was beside herself hunting for a likely bridegroom. There was no dower, and the girl was over age.

At last Rajlakshmi got the girl Binodini married to a distant cousin in the village of her birth.

In a short while the girl became a widow. Mahendra laughed, "How lucky, I was not the bridegroom. With my wife a widow, where would I have been?"

Three years later the mother and son were having another talk.

"My son, people lay the blame on me."