Sixteen

Poet Hemchandra once wrote, ‘Dawn breaks on the thirty-first night of August.’ How many years have passed since then; not a soul remains alive who remembers that first day of municipal self-rule. Now, another August night has dawned. Once again, there are celebrations in every home, once again, the tenants and the widows and the courtesans make merry in their quarters. Only now, the stage is broader, stretching from the seas to the Himalayas, across all of Bharatvarsha.

That morning, as I awoke, I sat down to ponder. Now that India is free, how much credit do I deserve? I didn’t even wave a flag to help. (Byomkesh had gone to Delhi and worked for seven months.) There are hundreds of thousands like me who did nothing, yet will enjoy the fruits of freedom. One man pulls the boat’s rope, ten cross the river. If this is the way of the world, then where is the connection between action and its reward?

I shared my spiritual dilemma with Byomkesh. He said, “We’ve gained freedom through others’ efforts, but we must make it meaningful through our own. The work isn’t finished yet.”

At half past nine, Byomkesh said, “Come, let’s go. We’ll stop by Prabhat’s house, then head to his shop.”

I asked, “Why do we need to go to Prabhat’s house?”

Byomkesh smiled faintly and said, “I have a strong desire to see Nanibala Devi.”

On the ground floor of the Bowbazar house, the inevitable Shasthibabu sat enthroned, hookah in hand. At the sight of us, he started and removed the pipe from his lips. Byomkesh asked in his sweetest voice, “No more trouble with the upstairs folks these days, I hope?”

Shasthibabu looked at us with anxious eyes and replied, “No—well—no, there’s never been any trouble on my part. I’m an old man, I keep to myself, don’t meddle in anyone’s affairs—”

Byomkesh smiled. We climbed the stairs.

A maid opened the door for us. Seeing two unfamiliar men, she stepped aside, and we entered. The room that once contained nothing but a hard wooden bench was now furnished with several comfortable chairs; a Ravi Varma painting adorned the wall. Nanibala Devi sat in a large chair, spectacles perched on her nose, perusing a well-known English weekly magazine; a pencil in her hand.

Nanibala Devi’s attire was striking. Over a glossy jute sari, she wore a blouse embroidered with vines and leaves. Both arms were adorned with thick bangles and bracelets—gold, perhaps, though gilt was not out of the question. Her face bore the dignified gravity of a householder. There could be no doubt that Nanibala, freed from the shadow of Anadi Halder, had reclaimed her true self.

Nanibala seemed a little flustered at the sight of us, but then she closed the harmonium lid and greeted us, “Come in, come in. How are you?—Chinibas, bring two cups of tea. Byomkeshbabu, a little sweet for you—?”

“No, no, nothing for us. We came looking for Prabhatbabu.”

“Prabhat? He