Page:Works of Tagore from the Modern Review, 1909-24 Segment 1.pdf/261

Rh thought, could love be had within the four walls of a room? Nothing save this open, uncovered, wide sky can hold two persons. I then fancied that we had no house or home, nowhere to return, and we would thus wander away aimlessly and unopposed, hand in hand, over this moon-lit void along a way 'without space or bound.'

Walking thus we came to a point whence we saw at a distance a sort of pool in the midst of sands—the waters having stagnated there as the river had receded from the spot.

A long streak of moon-beam had swooned, as it were, upon that rippleless, sleeping, silent piece of water circled by a sandy desert. As we came to the spot, we halted. Monoramá prompted by some undefinable thought looked to my face; the shawl slipped off from her head. Lifting her face, glowing with a halo of moonlight, I kissed it.

Lo! at that moment in the silent sandy tract without a trace of human habitation, sounded a solemn voice thrice "who's she? who's she? who's she?"

I started, my wife too trembled. But the next moment, both of us came to perceive that the voice was not human, nor was it supernatural. It was the cry of some aquatic birds feeding on the chur, put to fright at our intrusion upon their sequestered and safe abode.

Nervous with the shock, we instantly returned to the boat and went to bed. Monoramá, tired as she was, soon fell asleep. Then in that darkness some one standing near my bed-curtain and pointing a long lean bony finger towards the sleeping figure of Monoramá began persistently to whisper low to my ear "who's she? who's she? who's she?"

I got up hastily, struck a match and lighted a candle. The apparition vanished, that very instant. And shaking the bed-curtain, heaving the boat, freezing the blood of my heavily perspiring body, a great laugh 'went shrilling' through the darkness of the night. It crossed the river, passed the sandbanks, blew past the sleeping countries, towns, and villages,—as if it was receding far far away, beyond country after country, world after world, gradually growing fainter and fainter—gradually it passed the land of Life and Death—it grew fainter and fainter—piercing as the point of a needle—such a faint voice I had never heard nor dreamt of. I fancied my brain to be the limitless sky and the voice, though melting far far away, could not recede from the confines of my brain. When at last it became utterly unbearable I thought of putting out the lamp with a view to compose myself to sleep. But as soon as I lay down, again that smothered voice broke out, in the darkness, by the side of the bed-curtain—"who's she? who's she? who's she?" The blood in my heart too, began to beat the same measure—"who's she? who's she? who's she?" In the depth of the night, in the still boat, my watch too, as though animated, pointing its hour-hand towards Monoramá began to sound with the same measured tick from above the shelf "who's she? who's she? who's she?"

Dakshiná Babu grew ashy pale, his voice became choked. I touched him and offered him a glass of water. Just at that time, the flame of the little kerosene lamp emitted a sudden glare and went out. I suddenly saw the first light of the dawn. The crow cawed; the doel whistled. The road in front of my house became alive with the creaking sound of a buffalo-cart passing along. All at once a change came over the expression of Dakshiná Babu's face. There was no longer the slightest sign of fear. He was heartily ashamed and highly incensed with me at what he had unfolded to me under the spell of the night and the fascination of imaginary dread. Without bidding a courteous adieu he abruptly dashed out of the room.

That very day, again at midnight, there was a knock at my door and a voice crying—"Doctor! Doctor!"