Buddhadeva Bose - My Kind of Girl

Hiranmayee’s Raghab spent his days in this way, and would have continued to do so, had Hiranmayee not vowed that her son would earn a college degree. Languishing at the family residence in the country wouldn’t do, it just wouldn’t. So as soon as Makhanlal passed his school examinations at the village school, she goaded her husband into moving to Calcutta. As agreeing was the easiest option, Raghab acquiesced; in the process, he gradually had to give up his aristocratic habit of indolence. Soon after arriving in Calcutta, he liquidated some capital to set up a small shop in Bhabanipur. Needless to say, this too was at his wife’s advice. Hiranmayee had finally convinced him that they wouldn’t be able to keep body and soul together much longer if they kept reliving the memories of their landowning days. Investing her brains and her jewelry — which was of course her husband’s capital — she provided him with a business to run.

It soon became a thriving carpentry shop; Raghab was interested in woodwork, and had even built some furniture with his own hands. So although he started reluctantly, gradually his work became his passion. The one thing he couldn’t give up was his siesta, but barring those two or three hours, the rest of his day was spent at the shop. The goddess of wealth looked upon him favorably because of this diligence, and her favor made him even more hardworking. Within a couple of years, a new establishment was born: the South Calcutta Furnishing House.

Raghab had wanted Makhanlal to get involved with the running of the shop from the beginning: to immerse himself, learn the ways of the trade, become familiar with the smell, the touch, the colors of wood. As the workload increased with the growth of his business, he was increasingly eager for his eldest son to begin helping him. Wasn’t the intermediate degree enough — why go further? What good would a college degree do? The business star was in ascendance; if this good fortune wasn’t made use of right now, what if it gave them the slip? Wasted logic! Even if everything was lost, Makhanlal had to get his degree.

The day they received news of Makhanlal’s having passed that hallowed B.A. examination, you can imagine Hiranmayee’s joy. Her dream of twenty-one years had finally come true. So pleased was she that her happiness gave birth to an impulsive proposal: she said, “I want to get him married.”

Strange, isn’t it? Does anyone believe, today, that a B.A. is the only qualification required for marriage? A mere college graduate, Makhanlal was no more than a boy. How could he get married!

But there was nothing strange about it as far as Hiranmayee was concerned. First, this was a family tradition — not one of her uncles or her father had crossed eighteen without marrying. Even if you were modern when it came to education, you remained traditional where marriage was concerned. Theirs was an affluent household, and a bride would only make their cup of joy brim over. And the boy wasn’t one of those typical, bespectacled midgets — just see how handsome he was.

Yes, he was indeed handsome — there was no denying this. I know — knew — Makhanlal very well; at twenty-one he was a burly, powerful giant who looked thirty-two. Large and ungainly, he had prominent teeth, a manly, hair-covered chest, enormous shoes that caused great consternation when they were sighted lying around. Seeing as he could easily pass for a father of three, it didn’t seem suitable for him not to be married.

Moreover, the bride was already at hand: Subhadra-babu was their next-door neighbor, and Hiranmayee had picked his daughter out a while ago. Was the reason her beauty or her father’s wealth, you ask? Neither. Subhadra-babu was a semi-impoverished college professor, and the girl — I heard the details from Makhanlal — was not exactly what you would call beautiful. But the learning! The father was a scholar and Malati — the girl’s name was Malati — was no less of one herself. Having earned three stars in her final school examinations, she was now in college, apparently glued to a book even during her meals. And what an assortment of books all over their house, my God, had anyone ever seen the likes of it? It could be said without the slightest exaggeration that Hiranmayee had never seen so many books with anyone in her own family, that was for certain. Her husband’s ancestral home contained the smallest library in the entire village; no reading habit had taken root. Her Makhanlal followed in this mold; whether he had a college degree or not, he had not cracked a single book. Their family was truly peculiar.

Perhaps the idea of choosing a bride on the basis of her collection of books sounds unusual, but as you’ve probably realized this was where Hiranmayee’s weakness lay. If the family disposition was to change, a bride from a scholarly family was essential — this was Hiranmayee’s reasoning. In other words, just as she had attracted the goddess of wealth through the bait of wood, now she wanted to use the lure of a bookish daughter-in-law to attract the goddess of learning. Their backgrounds were beautifully compatible — why not get it over with in July, she decided, November was still a long way off.

Laying out an elaborate meal for her husband, she broached the subject. Raghab was amenable but for a different reason: a big fat dowry would enable him to expand his business. Hiranmayee dismissed the idea at once, saying, “If destiny wills, the money will come on its own — why should you have to beg for it?”

“No, no, it’s not a question of begging, just that. . Avinash-babu was saying the other day. .”

“Who’s Avinash-babu?”

“His shop is next door to mine.”

“The liquor shop? Ugh — a wine seller’s daughter?”

“Not exactly a wine seller, his background is different. Seems interested, too. Maybe you could take a look at the girl — it would make sense all around. .”

“Enough. I’m the one who’s done all the thinking for you — don’t get in the way now.”

“As you please. But will a professor’s son-in-law still be interested in running a shop?”

“Is that what’s worrying you? My Makhan isn’t like that. I can promise you he will take over the responsibility for our family very soon.” Hiranmayee turned to her son. “Well? I hope you agree?”

Makhanlal had been eating next to his father — he paused at this question. He said nothing and, looking very solemn, only lowered his face and started to trace patterns on his plate. The answer was obvious, you could see as much; shoulders that were broad enough to support the entire family were not going to find it troublesome to bear the responsibility of a slender young woman.

Are you wondering whether there’s a history to this? Yes, there is. Mother Nature never spares us from her wiles — even he, so powerfully built, with his broad, hair-covered chest, cannot prevent a tiny flower from budding within.

The thing is, Makhan ran into Malati virtually every day. “Ran into” is perhaps the wrong way of putting it; he could see her every day. Their neighbors’ inner veranda was visible from his room, and there was hardly a day when a light breeze clad in a sari didn’t lead Makhanlal’s mind to wander. Of course, like a true gentleman — or perhaps in embarrassment — he averted his eyes immediately, though not without stealing a glance or two. Sometimes Malati would bring a cane chair with her to the veranda. She seemed supremely oblivious to the fact that someone close by was watching her, or could be watching her — she sat there and read, laughed, spoke loudly, hummed songs with her brothers and sisters. Everyone knew you weren’t supposed to stare at a lady, but if the lady chose to present herself before you all the time, you weren’t expected to gouge out your own eyes, were you? Many a time Makhanlal was not even aware of what he was gazing at, but the moment Malati left the veranda for her room, he realized why his eyes had been roving. And was it just the eyes? Had the heart beneath his wide breast not been beating faster too?