RAMESH knew now that the girl was not his wedded wife, but it was no easy matter to discover whose wife she was. Once he asked her artfully, “What did you think when you first saw me at our wedding?”
“I didn’t see you,” she answered, “I never looked up all the time.”
Ramesh. “Didn’t you even hear my name?”
The Girl. “I only heard of you for the first time on the day before we were married; my aunt was in such a hurry to get me off her hands that she never even told me your name.”
Ramesh. “By the way, I was told you could read and write; let me see if you can spell your name.” And he gave her a sheet of paper and a pencil.
“As if I couldn’t spell my own name!” she cried contemptuously. “As it happens, it’s quite an easy one,” and she wrote “Srimati Kamala Debi” in large letters.
Ramesh. “Now write your uncle’s name.”
Kamala wrote “Srijukta Tarini Charan Chattopadhyay.”
“Did I make any mistake?” she asked.
“No,” said Ramesh. “Now just write me the name of your village.”
She wrote “Dhobapukur.”
By such expedients Ramesh gradually amassed a number of facts about the girl’s former life, but when all was done he was as far off as ever from the main object of his inquiries.
Ramesh now set himself to think out a future plan of action. Her husband had in all probability been drowned. Even if he could find out where the husband’s people lived and send Kamala to them it was very doubtful if they would receive her, and it would not be fair to her to send her back to her uncle’s house. What sort of reception would she have from society if it were known that she had been living all this time with another man as his wife? Where could she find sanctuary? Even if her husband were alive was it likely that he would wish or dare to take her back? Whatever Ramesh did with her he would be casting her adrift on a chartless sea. He could not keep her with him on any footing except that of a wife and he could not hand her over to any one else; and yet he and she could not live together as man and wife. Ramesh had hastily to smudge out the charming picture of this girl as his future companion in life though he had painted it in such glowing tints while love mixed the colours!
A continued stay in his own village would be intolerable, but in the teeming population of Calcutta he would be a mere noteless unit, and there he might discover some solution. He carried Kamala off to Calcutta accordingly and took lodgings at a considerable distance from his former abode.
Kamala found the experience intensely exciting. They had no sooner settled into their quarters on the day of their arrival than she ensconced herself in the window-seat. The unceasing stream of humanity was a spectacle inspiring her with a curiosity that nothing could satisfy. They had a solitary maidservant to whom the Calcutta streets were no novelty and she looked on the girl’s wonder as sheer madness.
“What on earth is there to gape at? Aren’t you going to have your bath? It’s quite late,” she cried peevishly.
This woman was to work during the daytime and go home in the evening, it being impossible to find a servant who would stay for the night.
“I can’t sleep any longer with Kamala,” thought Ramesh, “but how’s the child going to spend the nights alone in a strange place?”
The servant went away after supper. Ramesh showed Kamala where she was to sleep, and said, “You go to bed now, I’ll come later when I’ve finished reading.”
He opened a book and pretended to read. Kamala was tired and soon fell asleep.
This served for the first night. On the following night, too, Ramesh contrived to send Kamala to bed alone. The day had been very hot. Ramesh spread a coverlet on the balcony outside the bedroom and settled down there for the night. He lay for a long time meditating and fanning himself, but at last towards midnight he fell asleep.
At two or three in the morning he half-awoke and realised that he was not alone; some one was fanning him gently. Still not fully awake he drew the girl towards him and murmured drowsily, “Go to sleep, Susila, you mustn’t fan me.” Fear of the dark made Kamala nestle into the fold of Ramesh’s arm, where she went peacefully to sleep.
Ramesh awoke early and started up in consternation. Kamala was still asleep and her right arm was round his neck. With alluring confidence she had exercised her authority over him and was using his breast as a pillow. His eyes filled with tears as he gazed at the sleeping girl. How could he rudely tear asunder the soft noose of the trusting child’s arms? He remembered now that she had stolen to his side in the middle of the night to fan him.
With a deep sigh he gently released himself from her clinging arms and arose.
After much anxious thought he decided as a temporary solution of the problem to send Kamala to a girls’ boarding school, and he broached the matter to her accordingly.
“Would you like to have some lessons, Kamala?”
She looked up at him with an expression that said plainer than words, “What can you mean?”
Ramesh discoursed at length on the benefits of education and the pleasure to be derived from study, but he might have saved his breath, for all that Kamala said was:
“All right, you teach me.”
“You’ll have to go to school,” said Ramesh.
“To school!” exclaimed Kamala; “a big girl like me!”
Ramesh smiled at Kamala’s pretensions to maturity. “Girls much older than you go to school,” he told her.
Kamala had nothing more to say and one day she drove to the school with Ramesh. It was a huge place and there seemed to be no limit to the number of girls, older or younger than Kamala.
Ramesh consigned her to the headmistress’s care and was on the point of leaving when Kamala made a move as though to accompany him.
“Where are you off to?” he said. “You’ll have to stay here.”
“Aren’t you staying here?” asked Kamala in a tremulous voice.”
“I can’t,” said Ramesh.
“Then I can’t stay either,” said Kamala, seizing him by the hand. “Take me away with you.”
“Don’t be silly, Kamala,” said Ramesh, releasing his hand.
The rebuke reduced Kamala to speechlessness; she stood as if spellbound and her face seemed to shrink away and contract. Sore at heart Ramesh hastened off, but hurry as he might he could not forget the look on that lovely, helpless, little, frightened face.