Music Box and Moonshine: Famous Bengali Short Stories in Translation

By Partha Banerjee

Music Box and Moonshine is a collection of eighteen short stories from both undivided and partitioned Bengal. Translator, Partha Banerjee, takes pride in his dexterity in the two languages: he believes his long immigrant life in America preceded by a Bengali-medium schooling in Kolkata, and his profession as a human rights activist and educator

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partha Banerjee
• Release date: Jun 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9788193529508

Book preview

The Identical Rings

Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay (1838–1894)

-One-

The two of them stood at the vineyard in the middle of the garden. The blue ocean broke its endless waves ashore, washing the feet of ancient city Tamralipta.

There was a wonderful edifice at the end of the city. Adjacent to it was a beautifully built garden house; the owner was a rich trader named Dhanadas. The trader’s daughter Hiranmoyee stood in the vineyard and spoke with a young man named Purandar.

Hiranmoyee passed her nuptial age[1]. She began praying to God of the Ocean when she was eleven, and continued her pray for five years, but did not succeed to find a proper husband. Everybody, how- ever, knew why a woman of her age spoke with this young man alone. When Hiranmoyee was only four, this man was eight. His father Sachisuta was the neighbor of trader Dhanadas; their boy and girl be- came friends and played together. They always stayed together either at the house of Sachisuta or Dhanadas. Now the young woman was sixteen and the young man was twenty, yet they still had the same un- broken friendship. In course of time, the parents of the young man and woman tried to arrange marriage between them, and they had even set the wedding date. Suddenly, out of the blue, Hiranmoyee’s father said, I wouldn’t go on with this wedding. Since then, Hiranmoyee would not meet or talk to Purandar. Today, Purandar insisted that Hiranmoyee meet him. He said he had something special to say to her.

Hiranmoyee came to the vineyard and said, Why’d you ask me out here? I’m no more a young girl now; it doesn’t look proper for me to meet you alone. I won’t come to see you again.

A sixteen-year-old girl said, I’m no more a young girl now. It in- deed sounded sweet. But there was no one there who could appreciate that poetic tenderness. Neither Purandar’s age nor his state of mind was up to it.

Snapping a flower off the vine, Purandar tore it up one petal at a time. Then he said, I won’t call you again. I’m leaving for a distant land. That’s what I came to tell you.

H: Distant land? Where? P: Sinhala[2].

H: Sinhala? What for? Why’d would go to Sinhala?

P: Why? Because we are traders, that’s why; will go there to trade.

Saying this, Purandar’s eyes became moist.

Hiranmoyee remained a little preoccupied. She didn’t say a word; only kept looking at the ocean waves playing with the reflecting sun. It was early morning, a gentle breeze was blowing, the morning ray of the sun was quivering on top of the after-tide waves, and its bright, lumi- nous streak spread out like a never-ending line on the ocean water. The white frolicking foam adorned like ornaments the bluish black body of the wave, and on the beach, aquatic birds formed a long, winding white trail. Hiranmoyee saw it all: she saw the blue water, she saw the foam on top of the cresting waves, and she saw the morning sun’s playful dance. She also noticed an ocean liner anchored in the distant, and she also no- ticed a bird flying way up in the sky like a black dot. Finally, she looked at a dried flower on the ground and said, Why do you have to go – it’s your father who travels all the time.

Purandar said, My father is old now. It’s now my turn to earn money. I got permission from him.

Hiranmoyee put her forehead on the wooden pillar of the vine. Purandar noticed that her forehead curled up, her lips came apart, and her nostrils became swollen. He noticed that Hiranmoyee broke in tears.

Purandar turned his face away. He also made an attempt to see the sky, earth, city, ocean and all, but couldn’t restrain himself: tears welled down his eyes. Purandar wiped the tears and said, I came to tell you this. Since the day your father said he’d never marry you with me, I pledged to leave for Sinhala. I feel like I’ll never return from there; I’ll only come back if I can ever forget you. I don’t know how to say much, and you also wouldn’t know more. I can only tell you this: if one asks to compare you with the rest of the world, the world wouldn’t mean a thing to me. Saying this, Purandar suddenly turned around and tore off a leaf from another tree to put his feet on it. After controlling his emotions a little, he turned back and said, I know you love me. But sooner or later, you’re going to be someone else’s wife. Therefore, don’t keep me in your heart anymore. Let’s not see each other ever again in this life.

Purandar rushed out. Hiranmoyee sat there and started crying. She stopped for a while and thought, If I die today, can Purandar still go off to Sinhala? Why not I tie the vine around my neck, or jump in the ocean? Then she thought, If I die, what difference would it make if he goes away or not? Then, she started crying again.

-Two-

Nobody knew why Dhanadas suddenly refused to marry Hiranmoyee with Purandar; he never disclosed it. If someone wanted to know, he’d say, There’s a special reason for it. Families of many other potential grooms sent proposals to marry her, but Dhanadas didn’t agree to any one. He wouldn’t pay attention to this subject at all. His wife complained, Our girl’s growing up, but he wouldn’t listen. He’d only say, "Let Gurudev[3] come; we’ll talk to him about it."

Purandar left for Sinhala. Two years went by since his departure, but he didn’t return. There was no matrimony made for Hiranmoyee. The beautiful girl of eighteen wandered around in the garden enhancing its beauty.

But she was not unhappy to be unmarried. In conversations about wedding, she’d remember Purandar and his handsome face, curly black hair, and flower-garlanded body. She’d remember the blue, jewelry-sewn scarf around his broad and strong shoulder, and the diamond rings on his lotus-like hands. Hiranmoyee would weep. If father had insisted, she’d have to marry someone he chose; but that would be like death. She was surprised, and yet of course not delighted, that father was not interested in the matter. Nobody would leave his daughter unmarried for so long; even if they do, they’d at least finalize the agreement. But why would father not bother? One day, all of a sudden, she found some clue to this puzzle.

Once during a business trip, Dhanadas had found a bizarre-looking Chinese container. The container was quite large – his wife put her jew- elry in it. Dhanadas had some more ornaments made and presented to his wife; she later gave all her old ornaments along with the container to her daughter. While sporting the ornaments, Hiranmoyee discovered a fragment of an old letter in the box.

Hiranmoyee was literate. She was deeply curious because she saw her name scribed on the fragment of the letter. She realized that it was indeed a half of a letter and that it made no sense at all. It was not clear who wrote it and to whom. Yet, reading it, she was deeply frightened. The letter fragment was like this.

astrologer calculated that …

Hiranmoyee a golden girl she is …

great danger if wedded …

doesn’t see each other …

can be …

Surmising some unknown danger, Hiranmoyee became terribly ner- vous. She didn’t tell anyone about it, and put the letter away.

-Three-

Another year passed by, yet no news came about Purandar returning from Sinhala. In Hiranmoyee, his image remained as bright as ever. She knew that Purandar could not forget her either; otherwise, he’d be back.

Suddenly, after three years, one day Dhanadas said, "Let’s all travel to Kashi[4]. A disciple has arrived from Gurudev; he asked us to bring Hiranmoyee over. Gurudev has selected a groom for her. The wedding will take place there."

Dhanadas left for Kashi along with his wife and daughter. Upon ar- rival, Guru Ananda Swami paid them a visit. He determined a suitable date for the wedding, and asked to make proper arrangements.

All the arrangements were done according to dictates of the scrip- ture, but no fanfare was allowed. Nobody outside Dhanadas’ family knew that the wedding was about to take place. Only the basic rituals were observed.

On the day of the wedding, the evening had ended. The auspicious hour was at eight, yet none other than the regular people in the house were present. None of the neighbors showed up. So far, none other than Dhanadas knew who the groom was or where he was coming from. Still, everybody was sure that Guru Ananda Swami wouldn’t find anyone other than the best possible match. But who’d guess why a great man that he was hadn’t disclosed who the person was.

In one section of the house, the priest sat and waited organizing all the items necessary for the offering; Dhanadas stood outside, all alone, waiting for the groom to arrive. In the interior of the house, Hiran- moyee waited, wearing the ceremonial dress of a bride – with no one else around. She wondered, What a mystery this is! But surely someone else, and not Purandar, is going to marry me; this man’s never going to be the husband of my life.

Finally, Dhanadas came in to call his daughter. But before he took her to the location of the wedding, he covered her eyes tightly with a piece of cloth. Hiranmoyee asked, What are you doing, father? Dha- nadas replied, It’s how Gurudev wants it. You also must obey my in- structions. Chant the ceremonial prayers in total silence. Hiranmoyee didn’t respond. Dhandas took his blindfolded daughter’s hand and brought her over to the wedding room.

If Hiranmoyee had her way, she’d find that the groom was also blindfolded, just like her. The wedding ceremony was gradually completed. None other than the Guru, priest and father of the bride were present. The bride and groom didn’t see each other. The First Sighting[5] didn’t take place.

After all the rituals were completed, Ananda Swami said to the cou- ple, "You’re now married, but you haven’t seen each other. The primary purpose of this marriage was to rid the girl of her bachelorhood. I can’t say if you’ll ever see each other; if you do, you won’t be able to recognize your spouse. However, I’ve designed a plan to help you. I have two rings in my hand; they look exactly the same. The stone the rings are made of is practically impossible to find. On the inner side of the ring, a pea- cock is engraved. I give one of them to the groom and the other to the bride. Nobody else would find an identical ring; especially, the peacock engraving could not be copied. I’ve engraved it myself. If a woman ever finds this ring on a man, she’d know it’s her husband. Likewise, if a man ever finds a similar ring on a woman, he’d know it’s his wife. You must never lose this ring, or sell it even if you have to starve and in desperate need of money. My other directive is that you must never wear the ring any time in the next five years. Today is the fifth day of the full moon in the month of Asadh[6], and it’s now eleven o’clock at night; I forbid you to wear this ring within the fifth day of the fifth Asadh, eleventh hour at night. It would be a grave danger if you flout my instructions."

Having said this, Ananda Swami left the house. Dhanadas uncov- ered his daughter’s eyes. Hiranmoyee discovered that only his father and the priest were present; his husband was not there. She spent her wed- ding night all by herself.

-Four-

After the wedding was over, Dhanadas returned home with his wife and daughter. Four more years went by. Purandar never came back; for Hiranmoyee though, it wouldn’t matter anyways.

But Hiranmoyee was sad that he didn’t return in these seven years. She said to herself, It’s not possible that just because he couldn’t forget me he never came back. I worry if he’s alive or not. I don’t desire to see him because I’m now somebody else’s wife, but why wouldn’t I expect for the long life of my childhood friend?

Dhandas however showed increased anxiety over time for some unknown reason. Gradually, anxiety caused grave illness to him; he passed away. Dhanadas’ wife voluntarily followed her husband in death[7]. Hiranmoyee had no one else; she begged to her mother not to die, but the trader’s wife didn’t listen. Hiranmoyee was left all alone in this world.

Before her death, Hiranmoyee’s mother tried to convince her, My girl, why do you worry? You of course have a husband. You might be able to find her once the stipulated time is over. Or else, you’re not a child anymore. Above all, the most important help that one could have in this world – wealth – will be with you, in abundance.

But that hope was dashed too: after his death, it was discovered that Dhanadas had not left much behind at all. Nothing other than the house, some ornaments and household items was left. Upon inquiry, Hiranmoyee came to know that for the past few years, Dhanadas was losing money in his trade; he never told anyone about it and kept trying to pay back the loans. That was the cause for his ever-increasing anxiety. Finally, he couldn’t pay it back. In deep despair, Dhanadas died.

Others came up to see Hirnamoyee and said, Your father left a lot of loan on us. You must repay our loans now. The trader’s daughter found out that they were indeed telling the truth. Then Hiranmoyee sold everything, including the residence, to repay their loans.

Out of poverty, Hirnamoyee now started living alone in a small cot- tage outside the city. There was but one man who could help, and that was Guru Ananda Swami; however, he was in a faraway land. She didn’t have anyone she could send over to him.

-Five-

Hiranmoyee was young and beautiful; it was not advisable for her to sleep alone at home. There might be danger and scandals. A milkmaid named Amala was her neighbor. She was a widow with a boy and couple of girls. She had passed her youth; she was well known for her integrity. Hiranmoyee would come over to her house to sleep at night.

One day, however, when Hiranmoyee came to sleep at Amala’s, she said to her, Did you hear – trader Purandar happened to come back to the city after some eight years. Hirnamoyee heard it; she turned her face about so that Amala could not see her tears. To Hiranmoyee, it seemed to be the end of her worldly connections; she thought: Purandar must now have forgotten her; otherwise he wouldn’t return. Then, why’d it even matter if he’d remembered her or not? Yet, it hurt to accept the fact that the man who she’d carried in all her life wouldn’t remember her anymore. For once she thought, He hasn’t forgotten me; how much more time just would he be in a foreign land? Especially now that his father was no more, he couldn’t live far away from home. Then she thought, I must be an unfaithful woman; or why would I think of him?

Amala asked, Don’t you remember Purandar? He’s the son of trader Sachisuta.

H: I know him.

A: He’s returned; and the fortune he’s brought is phenomenal. Nobody in Tamalipa has ever seen so many ships full of treasure.

Hiranmoyee felt a little anguished. She remembered her present pover- ty, and she remembered her past with him. The pain of poverty was the greatest pain. Moreover, the thought that the enormous wealth could’ve been hers made her frustrated; was there any woman in the world who wouldn’t be upset? Hiranmoyee kept silent for a while and then brought up other subjects. Finally, at the time going to bed, she asked, Amala, has the trader’s son been married?

Amala said, No, he has not.

Hiranmoyee’s senses went numb. She didn’t speak anymore that night.

-Six-

Amala would find many excuses to visit Purandar frequently. Later, one day, Amala ran back to Hiranmoyee, smiling, and rebuked her, Darling, what kind of a woman are you?

Hiranmoyee said, Why, what have I done?

A: Why didn’t tell me all about it before?

H: What have I not told you?

A: That you’ve been so close with trader Purandar.

Hiranmoyee was a little embarrassed. She said, Well, he was my neigh- bor in childhood. What else was there to say?

A: Only a neighbor? Look, what I’ve brought you.

Having said this, Amala brought a box. She opened it and took a very precious, glittering diamond necklace out of it. Hiranmoyee had seen diamond before; she was very surprised and said, But this is incredibly precious! Where’d you get this?

A: Purandar sent it for you. He heard that you were living with me; he called on me and gave it for you.

Hiranmoyee knew that her hardship could be over once she accepted the necklace. The adorable daughter of Dhanadas couldn’t take her mis- ery anymore. She procrastinated for a while. Then she sighed and said, Amala, you go and tell the trader that I could not accept it.

Amala was astonished. She said, What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind, or don’t you believe me?

H: I do believe you, and I’m not out of my mind either. I won’t take his gift.

Amala chastised her, but Hiranmoyee wouldn’t yield. Then Amala brought the diamond necklace to King Madan Dev. She touched his feet and offered him the necklace. She said, You must accept it, Your Highness; this necklace is worthy of you, and you only. The king ac- cepted it and rewarded Amala with riches. Hiranmoyee didn’t know any of it.

A few days later, a maid of Purandar came to Hiranmoyee. She said, My master asks me to tell you that he can’t bear it that you live in this small cottage. You are his childhood friend; his home is your home. He never says that you should come and live in his house. But he’s bought your father’s house back from the lender; he wants to hand it over to you. He begs of you to go back and live there.

Out of all the suffering Hiranmoyee had, the exile from her father’s home was the most. The fact that she could never live in the home where her parents lived and died, and where she’d spent her childhood, was the most painful for her to bear. Its mention now brought tears to her eyes. She blessed the messenger and said, Perhaps I should not accept this generosity, but I couldn’t refuse anymore. May God bless him.

The maid saluted her and left. Amala was present. Hiranmoyee told her, Amala, I can’t live there all by myself though. You must come and live with me.

Amala agreed. Hiranmoyee went back to her ancestral home.

Hiranmoyee stopped Amala from visiting Purandar.

One particular thing made Hiranmoyee greatly curious. It’s because one day Amala said, Don’t you trouble yourself about household ex- penses, and don’t you work too hard either. I found a job in the King’s palace; I have no want of money anymore. I will take care of our ex- penses; you just remain the head of the household as ever before. Hi- ranmoyee found that Amala indeed found a lot of money. She became skeptical about her.

-Seven-

The fifth day of the full moon in the month of Asadh, five years after the wedding, had arrived. Hiranmoyee sat depressed in the evening. She thought, "According