The Tragedy of Unspoken Love

It was a scorching summer afternoon. The sun blazed down relentlessly and the heat lapped around in waves. Devdas of the Mukherjee household sat in a corner of the schoolroom, on a worn, old mat with a slate in hand and a bored expression written all across his face. He closed his eyes, opened them again, stretched his legs, yawned and pondered over the available options. In a minute he decided that it was pointless wasting the entire afternoon sitting around in the schoolroom instead of roaming the fields and flying kites. In his fertile mind a plan seemed to take shape.

He stood up, slate in hand.

It was lunch break in the school. With hoops, yells and vigorous gesticulations, a bunch of boys were playing marbles under the tree nearby. Devdas glanced at them once. He wasn't allowed to go out for lunch because Govinda Master, the teacher, had noticed that Devdas wasn't inclined to come back into the schoolroom if he ever left it. His father had also placed an embargo on his going out. It had been decided that Devdas would spend the lunch hour under the supervision of the class monitor.

The only people in the room at this point were the teacher (who lay with his eyes closed, catching his forty winks after lunch),

and Bhulo the class monitor who sat on a broken bench in one corner of the room, pretending to be the teacher and casting the occasional contemptuous glance towards the boys at play and sometimes at Devdas and Parvati. Parvati had been in the school for a month or so. Perhaps she had grown really attached to the teacher and so she sat there, intently sketching his sleeping figure on the last page of her alphabet book; like an earnest artist she looked up now and then to check how close her portrait was to the original. It wasn't much of a likeness, but for what it was worth,

Parvati seemed to derive great satisfaction from it.

Devdas stood up, slate in hand, and addressed Bhulo. 'I can't get the sums right.'

With a solemn face, Bhulo asked calmly, "Which one?'

"Rithmetic.'

'Let me have the slate.' Bhulo's manner was that of the erudite teacher who only had to get his hands on the slate in order to sort the problem out. Devdas handed him the slate and stood close to him. Bhulo began to read aloud as he wrote, 'If one maund of oil costs fourteen rupees, then-'

At this juncture something happened. The class monitor had maintained his seat upon the broken, wobbly bench for the last three years, in keeping with his elevated status. Behind him stood a stack of lime. Govinda Master had procured it for a song at some point in the past with the intention of using it to plaster the walls. When the time would present itself was still unknown. But he took great care of this stack of white powder. Just so that some callous, unwise young fellow may not get to ruin even a grain of it, he had entrusted it to the care of Bholanath, the class monitor, who was relatively older and quite

the favourite. Hence Bhulo had taken up his seat at that precise spot.

Bhulo wrote, If one maund of oil costs fourteen rupees, then... oh, oh, my God, he-Ip . . .' and then all hell broke loose. Parvati shrieked loudly, stood clapping her hands, and finally rolled on the ground, giggling. Govinda Master, who had just drifted into a sound sleep, roused himself, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. He saw that the boys who had been playing under the tree were now shouting and screaming as they headed away from there. At the same time he saw that a pair of legs was dangling about behind the bench and the stack of lime looked fairly ready to burst. He shouted, "Hey, hey, what... what is it?'

There was just Parvati who could have told him anything. But she was in no condition to do so, since she was rolling on the ground, giggling and clapping. The teacher's question remained unanswered.

And then the snow-white Bholanath pushed his way out of the lime and stood up. The teacher shouted once again, 'You stupid oaf, that was you in there?'

"Yeah-ah-ah-'

'Stop that!"

'It was Deva, that bastard-he pushed-'rithmetic-'

'Don't start again, you oaf...'

By now the teacher had understood the whole sorry tale. He sat down and spoke in a solemn tone, 'So Devdas pushed you into the lime and fled, did he?'

Bhulo whimpered and nodded.

There was much shaking and brushing off to be done; but the white on his dark skin did make the class monitor look a little eerie and his sobs showed no signs of abating.

Govinda Master said again, you oaf...'

By now the teacher had understood the whole sorry tale. He sat down and spoke in a solemn tone, 'So Devdas pushed you into the lime and fled, did he?'

Bhulo whimpered and nodded.

There was much shaking and brushing off to be done; but the white on his dark skin did make the class monitor look a little eerie and his sobs showed no signs of abating.

Govinda Master said again, 'So Devdas pushed you and ran off, eh?'

Bhulo said, "Yeah ... yeah ...' and whined some more. Govinda Master said, 'I won't let him get away with this.' Bhulo said (with more sobs), 'Yeah ... yeah ...'

Govinda Master asked, "Where has the boy ...?'

The group of boys burst in, panting and red-faced. 'We couldn't catch him. Ooh, the way he hurls those stones-'

'Couldn't catch him?'

Another boy repeated, 'Ooh, the stones-'

'Shut up.'

He gulped and moved to one side. The teacher, in his thwarted fury, yelled a bit at Parvati to start with; then he took Bholanath by the hand and said, 'Come, let's go and speak to Mukherjee-babu.'

This meant that he would now go and lodge a complaint to Narayan Mukherjee, the zamindar, about his son's behaviour.

It was around three in the afternoon. Narayan Mukherjee was seated outside, smoking on his hubble-bubble, and a servant was fanning him gently. He was taken aback by the sudden arrival of the teacher and his pupils, and exclaimed, 'Hello, Govinda.'

Govinda was a kayasth by caste. He bowed low before the brahmin zamindar and offered his respects. Then he pointed to Bhulo and narrated everything in great detail. Mukherjee-babu was irritated. He said, "Well really, Devdas seems to be beyond control.'

'Please tell me what I should do.'

The zamindar laid down the pipe and asked, 'Where has he gone?'

'How do we know? He hurled stones at the.boys that tried to catch him.'

For a while both were silent. Finally Mukherjee-babu said, 'I

will do the needful once he gets back home.'

Govinda Master led his students back to the schoolroom and terrorized everyone with his fearsome expressions. He vowed that he wouldn't let Devdas into the schoolroom again, although he was the zamindar's son. That day school was let off a little early. On their way back the boys were full of chatter.

One said, 'Oof, did you see what a thug he is?'

Another said, 'It serves Bhulo right.'

'Oh, the way he hurls those stones!'

Another one was on Bhulo's side, 'He will take revenge, just you wait and see.'

'Oh but Devdas won't ever come to school again. So how will Bhulo take his revenge?'

Straggling behind this small bunch of boys, Parvati was also on her way home. She caught hold of one of the boys nearest to her and asked, 'Moni, will they really not allow Devda to come to school ever again?'

Moni said, 'No, never.'

Parvati moved away. She hadn't liked that.

Parvati's father's name was Nilkantha Chakravarty. He was the zamindar's neighbour, meaning that his small and ancient house stood next to the zamindar's huge, palatial mansion. He owned some land, had a few clients in whose homes he did the puja, and then there was kindness from the zamindar household- all in all, it was a comfortable life that he led.

On the way home, Parvati ran into Dharmadas. He was a servant in Devdas's house. For the last twelve years, ever since his infancy, Devdas had been looked after by Dharmadas. He was a servant in Devdas's house. For the last twelve years, ever since his infancy, Devdas had been looked after by Dharmadas. He dropped

him off to school every morning and then picked him up again atthe end of the day. This was his daily routine; he was on his way to the school right now. When he saw Parvati he asked, 'Paro, where is your Dev-dada?'

'He ran away...'

Immensely surprised, Dharmadas said, 'What do you mean, ran away?'

Parvati recalled Bholanath's predicament once again and burst into giggles, 'Dhamma, you know, Dev-da-hee hee hee-in the lime stack-hoo hoo hoo-Dhamma, he fell on his face ...'

Dharmadas couldn't make out all of what she was saying. But he shared in her laughter. Then he sobered up and asked again, 'Tell me Paro, what happened?'

''Dev-da pushed Bhulo into the stack of lime and ran away- hee hee hee-'

Now Dharmadas got the whole picture and grew really worried. He said, 'Paro, do you know where he is now?'

"How should I know?'

"You do know... please tell me. Poor thing, he must be hungry by now.'

'He must be ... but I won't tell you.'

"Why not?'

'He will beat me up. I can go and give him the food.'

Dharmadas was appeased and said, 'Fine, you do that then. And mind you, see that he gets home before dark.'

Twill.

Parvati came back home and found that her mother and Devdas's mother had both heard everything. She was grilled once

again. She tried to repeat as much of the story as she could, holding

her laughter in check. Then she tied up some puffed rice in the anchal of her sari and set off for one of the many mango groves owned by the zamindar. This one was close to her house; at one end of it lay a bamboo clump. She knew that Devdas had cleared up a space in that clump, in order to smoke his hubble-bubble in peace. Whenever he needed a hideaway, this was the place that served him best.

When she got there, Parvati found Devdas sitting in the middle of the bamboo clump holding a small hookah and smoking like a wise old man. His face looked sombre and bore the traces of much concern. He was delighted to see Parvati, but he didn't show any of his pleasure. He continued to smoke and solemnly said, 'Come.'

Parvati came up to him and sat down. Immediately Devdas spotted what she had bundled up in her anchal. Without saying another word, he untied it and began to munch. Then he said, 'Paro, what did the master say?'

'He has complained to your father.'

Devdas put his hookah down, his eyes wide with surprise, and said, 'He has gone to Father?'

'Yes.'

'And?'

'They won't let you go into the school ever again.'

'And I don't want to go there either.'

By now Devdas's stock of puffed rice was almost at an end. He looked at Parvati and said, 'Give me the sweets.'

'T haven't brought any.'

'Then give me some water.'

"Where will I find water?'Irritated, Devdas said, 'If you don't have anything, then why have you come? Go and fetch me some water.'

Parvati didn't like his tone. She said, 'I can't go again. Why don't you come and drink it yourself?'

"How can I go there now?'

'Are you planning to stay here for good?'

'At least for now. Later, I'll go away ...'

Parvati felt miserable. She felt like crying at this show of apparent disinterest from Devdas. She said, 'Dev-da, I'll come too."

'Where? With me? Are you crazy?'

Parvati shook her head and said, 'I will too.'

'First go and get me the water.'

'No. You will run away.'

T won't.'

But Parvati couldn't trust him and so she continued to sit there. Devdas ordered her once again, 'Go, I tell you.'

T cannot go.'

Angry, Devdas grabbed her hair and commanded, 'Go.'

Parvati was silent. Then a hard fist landed on her back. 'Won't go, eh?'

Parvati burst into tears, 'I will not go.'

Devdas walked away. Parvati, sobbing hard, left the mango grove. She walked and walked, till she found herself right in front of Devdas's father. Mukherjee-babu was very fond of Parvati. He said, 'Paro, child, why are you crying?'

"Dev-da has beaten me.'

"Where is he?'

'He was smoking his hookah, sitting in the bamboo grove.

Mukherjee-babu was already upset by the complaint lodged by the teacher and this fresh piece of news made him see red. He said, 'Has Deva taken to smoking?'

"Yes, he does. Every day. He hides his hookah in the bamboo grove

"Why have you never told me?'

"Because he will beat me."

This wasn't entirely true. She had kept quiet because she didn't want Devdas to be punished. If she had spilled the beans today it was only because she was so mad at him. She was barely eight years old-too young to rein in her temper. But she was by no means immature.

At home she hit the bed and wept for a long time before finally drifting off to sleep. She didn't have any dinner.