Page:Works of Tagore from the Modern Review, 1909-24 Segment 1.pdf/240

634 they had taken, what boatman they had hired, or by what way they had gone.

One evening, when all hope had been abandoned of ever finding his wife, Bhusan entered his deserted bed-room. It was the festival of Krishna's birth, and it had been raining incessantly from early morning. In celebration of the festival there was a fair going on in the village, and in a temporary building a theatrical performance was being held. The sound of distant singing could be heard mingling with the sound of pouring rain. Bhusan was sitting alone in the darkness at the window there which hangs loose upon its hinges. He took no notice of the damp wind, the spray of the rain, and the sound of the singing. On the wall of the room were hanging a couple of pictures of the goddesses Lakshmi and Saraswati, painted at the Art Studio; on the clothes' rankrack [sic] a towel and a bodice, and a pair of saris were laid out ready for use. On a table in one corner of the room there was a box containing betel leaves, prepared by Mani's own hand, but now quite dry and uneatable. In a cupboard, with a glass door, all sorts of things were arranged with evident care,—her China dolls of childhood's days, scent bottles, decanters of coloured glass, a sumptuous pack of cards, large brightly polished shells, and even empty soapboxes. In a niche there was a favourite little lamp with its round globe. Mani had been in the habit of lighting it with her own hands every evening. One who goes away leaving everything empty, leaves the imprint of a living heart even on lifeless objects.

In the dead of night when the heavy rain had ceased and the songs of the village opera troupe had become silent, Bhusan was sitting in the same position as before. Outside the window there was such an impenetrable darkness that it seemed to him as if the very gates of oblivion were before him reaching to the sky,—as if he had only to cry out to be able to recover sight of those things which seemed to have been lost for ever.

Just as he was thinking thus, the jingling sound as of ornaments was heard. It seemed to be advancing up the steps of the ghat. The water of the river and the darkness of the night were indistinguishable. Thrilling with excitement, Bhusan tried to pierce and push through the darkness with his eager eyes,—till they ached, but he could see nothing. The more anxious he was to see, the denser the darkness became and the more shadowy the outer world.

The sound reached the top step of the bathing ghat and now began to come towards the house. It stopped in front of the door, which had been locked by the porter before he went to the fair. Then upon that closed door there fell a rain of jingling blows, as if with some ornaments. Bhusan was not able to sit still another moment, but making his way through the unlighted rooms and down the dark staircase he stood before the closed door. It was padlocked from the outside so he began to shake it with all his might. The force with which he shook the door and the sound which he made woke him suddenly. He found he had been asleep and in his sleep he had made his way down to the door of the house. His whole body was wet with perspiration, his hands and feet were icy cold, and his heart was fluttering like a lamp just about to go out. His dream, broken, he realised that there was no sound outside except the pattering of the rain which had commenced again.

Although the whole thing was a dream, Bhusan felt as if for some very small obstacle he had been cheated of the wonderful realisation of his impossible hope. The incessant patter of the rain seemed to say to,—'This awakening is a dream. This world is vain.'

The festival was continued on the following day, and the doorkeeper again had leave. Bhusan gave orders that the hall door was to be left open all night.

That night, having extinguished the light, Bhusan took his seat at the open window of his bedroom as before. The sky was dark with rain clouds and there was a silence as of something indefinite and impending. The monotonous croaking of the frogs and the sound of the distant songs were not able to break that silence, but only seemed to add an incongruity to it.

Late at night, the frogs and the crickets and the boys of the opera party became silent, and a still deeper darkness fell upon the night. It seemed that now the time had come.

Just as on the night before, a clattering and jingling sound came from the ghat by the river. But this time Bhusan did not look in that direction, lest by his