‘Not at all. In fact, the fever is getting worse.’
Chaitanya Das asked in a harsh tone, ‘Then why have you people tried to deceive me into thinking that he would get better in the winter? It’s one thing to take advantage of someone’s naivety for your own benefit, but this can never be called respectable behaviour.’
Tenderly, the doctor said, ‘In these circumstances, all we can do is speculate, and speculation is never the same as the truth. It’s true that you have spent a lot of money, but I promise you that it was not my intention to deceive you.’
Shiv Das had come home for the long holidays, and it was just then that he entered the room and spoke to the doctor, ‘You can imagine what my father has been through. If his words seem accusatory, please forgive him.’
Chaitanya Das looked at his younger son with affection and said, ‘Why did you need to come in here? I’ve told you several times, don’t come in here, but you never pay heed to my advice.’
Embarrassed, Shiv Das said, ‘I’ll leave right now. Don’t get angry. I only wanted to ask the doctor what we should do for bhaiya now.’
The doctor said,‘There’s only one treatment left. You should send him to a sanatorium in Italy.’
Intently, Chaitanya Das asked, ‘How much will that cost?’
‘At the most, three thousand. He’ll need to be there for a year.’
‘Are you certain that he will come back cured?’
‘Not at all. This is a terrible disease, and even with ordinary diseases one cannot speak in certainties.’
‘And if he returns in exactly the same shape after we’ve spent all that money?’
‘That’s up to God. But you can take comfort in the thought that you’ve done whatever you could for him.’4
For half the night, the debate about whether or not to send Prabhu Das to Italy raged throughout the house. Chaitanya Das’s position was that it went against logic to spend three thousand rupees on spoiled fruit. Shiv Das agreed with him, but his mother, Tapeshwari, opposed this argument with great conviction. Ultimately, the mother’s reproaches turned Shiv Das to her side in shame. Chaitanya Das was alone. Tapeshwari had manoeuvred intelligently. She tried to ignite her husband’s goodwill. She recited proverbs about the impermanence of wealth. These weapons didn’t bring her victory, so she began a deluge of tears. Chaitanya Das could not withstand the body blows of these waterworks. He acknowledged his defeat with the words, ‘Please, please, don’t cry. I will do whatever you say.’
‘When?’
‘I need to get my hands on that much money.’
‘Why not just admit that you don’t want to send him to Italy?’
‘I want to send him, but I don’t have the money right now. Don’t you know that?’
‘There is money in the bank, isn’t there? You have property that can be sold, don’t you? It shouldn’t be that hard to come up with two or three thousand.’
Chaitanya Das looked at his wife as if he might devour her, and a moment later he said, ‘You say such childish things. There is no special life-giving fountain in Italy that will immediately work its magic. When all he will be doing there is waiting for his destiny, then we should proceed cautiously. I cannot sacrifice the accumulated property of our ancestors and the money saved up in the bank for an uncertain outcome.’
Scared, Tapeshwari said, ‘But ultimately half of it is Prabhu Das’s, too.’
Chaitanya Das said mockingly, “‘Not just half, I can give him the entirety of it, but only when there is some hope for his future, when he can improve the reputation of the family and grow our fortune and use our investments to do something. I cannot be swayed by emotions into blowing away real wealth.’
Tapeshwari was left speechless. She had lost even though she had won.
Six months after this discussion, Shiv Das received his BA. Chaitanya Das mortgaged one-eighth of his property to send him to England to study law. He himself went to see his son off in Bombay. When he returned, his conscience was satisfied. He had invested money in the kind of project that held out real hope of limitless rewards. A week later, poor Prabhu Das passed away with his high ambitions.5
Chaitanya Das was sitting at the Manikarnika Ghat with his friends watching the flames of the funeral pyre. Lines of tears glistened under his eyes. For a moment, his paternal love had defeated his economic principles. And in his heavy-heartedness, a notion kept rising up in his head—It’s possible that Prabhu Das could have become better if he had gone to Italy. Alas! I held on to three thousand rupees but let my gem of a son fall from my grasp. The notion grew stronger by the moment and his guilt, sadness, and regret turned into arrows that pierced through him. And the anguish in his heart grew into a lance. The flames in his soul burned no less white than the flames of the pyre. Suddenly, he heard the sounds of clarinets. He raised his head and saw a large group of men carrying a corpse. They proceeded along, playing drums, singing and raining down flowers. When they got to the ghat, they lowered the corpse and began setting up the pyre. One of the young men amongst them went and stood next to Chaitanya Das. Chaitanya Das asked, ‘Which neighborhood are you from?’
The young man answered, ‘We are from the countryside. We set out last night. This was our father. We don’t come here often, but our father’s last wish was to be cremated at the Manikarnika Ghat.’
‘Are all these men with you?’
‘Yes, and there are more coming. There are approximately a hundred all together. It cost a fortune to get here, but at least my elderly father’s soul will be liberated. What else is money for?’
‘What illness did he have?’
Very gently,
