Chaubeyji arrived after a while. Vindheshwari stood up. She was so embarrassed that she felt like running away. She wanted to jump out of the window.
Chaubeyji grasped her hand and said, ‘Binni, are you scared of me?’
Binni didn’t utter a word. She just stood there like a statue. Chaubeyji made her sit down. Her throat almost choked with swelling emotions. This merciless play of fate, this cruel game was becoming unbearable to her.
Chaubeyji asked, ‘Binni, why don’t you speak? Are you angry with me?’
Vindheshwari closed her ears. She had heard this familiar voice for so many years. Today it sounded most cruel and sarcastic.
Suddenly, Chaubeyji got up, shocked, his eyes dilated, and both his hands shook like that of a toad’s limbs. He moved back two steps. Mangala was peeping inside from the window! It wasn’t a shadow, it was Mangala . . . it was Mangala . . . embodied, fully formed, alive!
Chaubeyji said in a trembling, broken voice, ‘Binni, look, what is that?’
Terrified, Binni looked towards the window. There was nothing. She said, ‘What is it? I can’t see anything.’
‘It has vanished now; but God knows that it was Mangala.’
‘Sister?’
‘Yes-yes, it was her. She was peeping inside from the window. I’m getting goose flesh.’
Trembling, Vindheshwari said, ‘I won’t stay here.’
‘No, no, Binni, there’s nothing to fear, I must have been hallucinating. The thing is that she lived here, slept here; so my imagination must have brought her image in front of me. Forget it. Today is such an auspicious day . . . my Binni has actually become mine . . .’
Chaubeyji had a rude shock again. Once more that statue was peeping inside from the window—no, not a statue but an embodied, alive and fully-formed Mangala! Her eyes were filled with contempt, as if she was mocking this scene, as if there was some play-acting going on.
Trembling, Chaubeyji said, ‘Binni, it’s happened again! Look, Mangala is standing over there.’
Vindheshwari shrieked and hugged him tight!
Chanting the name of Mahavir,1 he said, ‘Let me shut the window.’
Binni started crying. ‘I won’t stay in this house. Bhaiyaji, you didn’t obey my sister’s final wish, that’s why her soul is restless. Something awful is going to happen . . . I can sense it.’
Chaubeyji shut the panels of the window and said, ‘I’ll arrange for the recitation of holy prayers from tomorrow to ward off evil. I had never expected this! Well, forget it. These days it is very hot here. There are still two months for the rains to begin. Should we go to Mussoorie instead?’
Vindheshwari replied, ‘I don’t feel like going anywhere. Make sure the prayers are recited from tomorrow. I won’t be able to sleep in this room otherwise.’
‘According to the holy books, all that remains after death is the decayed body, so it is difficult to comprehend how I could see such a true replica of Mangala! I’m telling the truth, Binni, if you wouldn’t have shown me this mercy, I would have landed God knows where. At this time I might have been roaming the hills of Badrinath, or who can say, I might have even taken poison and been dead by now.’
‘We’ll have to go to Mussoorie and stay in a hotel.’
‘No, we can easily find a house. Let me write to one of my friends, he’ll find an accommodation there for us.’
In the middle of this conversation, a voice from nowhere came, like a divine proclamation, ‘Binni is your daughter.’
Chaubeyji closed both his ears. Trembling with fear he said, ‘Binni, let’s go from here. God knows where these voices are coming from.’
‘Binni is your daughter!’ This sound could be heard amplified a thousand times by Chaubeyji, as if each and every object in that room had shouted out the same thing.
Binni asked, sobbing, ‘What kind of a noise was it?’
‘How can I . . . I’m ashamed of saying it!’
‘For sure it was my sister’s soul. Sister, have mercy on me, I am innocent!’
‘I can hear the voice again. Oh God! Where can I go? My entire being is echoing with those words. Binni, I have done a great wrong. Mangala was a pious woman, by disobeying her orders I have brought my own ruin. Where shall I go, what shall I do?’
Chaubeyji opened the doors of the room and rushed outside. He fell down as soon as he reached the men’s quarters and fainted. Vindheshwari also ran but the moment she crossed the threshold, she too fell down!
Translated from the Hindi by Ranjeeta Dutta
By a Whisker!
Sir Yashodanand was the talk of the town. In fact the entire province was singing his praises— newspapers ran commentaries, and letters of praise were pouring in from friends. This is called social service. This is how progressive people conduct themselves. Yashodanand had brought glory to the educated class. Now who could dare say that our leaders were men of mere words and not action? If Yashodanand desired, he could have received a dowry of at least twenty thousand rupees for his son with a free topping of flattery. But Yashodanand didn’t care a damn for money and chose to marry his son off without taking a single penny in dowry. Wah! Wah! Kudos! This is real courage, love for principles and idealism. Bravo, the truly brave! A true son of your mother, you have done what no one else ever could. We bow down before you with pride.
Yashodanand had two sons. The elder son, who had completed his education, was getting married and, as we have already seen, without taking any dowry.
It was the tilak ceremony of the groom today. Sir Swamidayal of Shahjahanpur was coming for it. All the high and mighty people of the city were invited. They had all gathered at the venue and the party was on. A skilled sitar player
