Letters

LETTERS
(A Story)

By ‘PARASHURAM’

(Translated from Bengali by Prof. Sudhansu Bimal Mookherji, M.A.)

Sukanta Datta is a brilliant youth. The Ph.D. degree which he obtained shortly after his M. Sc. degree helped him to be well settled in life. He has been working in the Sindri Fertilizers Factory for about a year. His parents are dead. A maternal uncle had brought him up and financed his education.

A letter from his maternal uncle, received by the morning delivery, reads:

“Sukanta, I have fixed up your marriage. The bride, Sunanda, is the daughter of Bijoy Ghosh, the proprietor of the Bijoy Lakshmi Cotton Mill, who lives at Shankaripada, not far from our house. He comes of a well-known and respectable family. The bride is handsome and very fair-complexioned. She got plucked in her B.Sc. She is, however, quite smart and intelligent. Herewith sent is her photograph. It is you who should have selected your bride. I cannot say why a modem young man like you shifted the responsibility to me. I have, however, done my best and I selected this bride. I hope that you will approve. The marriage is scheduled for Falgun 23 (February-March)–five weeks hence. Try from now for fifteen days’ leave. You must be here at least two days before the wedding.”

Sukanta read the letter with attention. He scrutinised the photograph. He thought for a while and went in and took out three or four colours from his paint-box, and rubbed them all on a small piece of paper, and looked at it again and again to find out if the colour was the same as his own complexion. He thought a little longer, and then wrote as follows:

“To Srimati Sunanda Ghosh: You and I are to be married. My maternal uncle says that you are very fair-complexioned. I am, however, very dark. You have perhaps heard that I am medium-complexioned. A medium complexion may, however, be of a number of shades. I feel bound in duty to tell you what my complexion is actually like. Hence the painted paper. It tallies in colour with the outer surface of my left wrist. If you have no objection to have a life’s partner with such a dark complexion, kindly write a line: “No objection.” An addressed envelope is sent herewith. No reply need be sent in case you are unwilling. If there is no response from your end within five days: I shall presume that you are not willing, and I shall inform my maternal uncle that I do not approve of his selection–Sukanta.”

A reply followed four days later.

“To Dr. Sukanta Datta: No objection, please. You do not know the truth, however. I am darker than you. I was painted before I was taken into the presence of your maternal uncle for selection. He was thus hoodwinked. Far be it from me to deceive a truthful gentleman like you. I have no painting colours. I have, therefore, poured a little blue-black ink on the piece of paper sent by you to make it as black as my hand. The paper is sent to you.

“People do not mind the dark complexion of men. But all are after fair-skinned girls. The ebony black too is eager to have a nymph as his bride. Please do not hesitate to cancel the proposal for marriage, if you have any objection to my dark complexion. And if you have none, kindly write a line to that effect within five days.–Sunanda.”

A prompt reply from Sukanta’s end said:

“I have no objection even if you are a shade darker than I. Let me, however, tell the truth. A handsome wife is an asset. She inflates the prestige and influence of the husband. I was not a little hesitant at first. But I awoke at once to the utter selfishness of my thought. I discover from your photograph that you do not lack charm. That’s enough. A dark complexion by itself does not make one ugly.

“I think I should tell you of a bad habit of mine. I smoke fifteen to twenty cigarettes a day. One of my sisters-in-law says that cigarette-smokers have a typically offensive odour in their breath. Their wives dislike it. But they do not say anything, out of delicacy. Those few Bengali girls who have taken to smoking in imitation of their counterparts, should, of course, have no objection. You do not belong to that category, I am sure. Kindly write a line if you have any objection to my smoking, and I shall have the proposal for marriage cancelled.–Sukanta.”

Sunanda’s letter was received after four days. She wrote:

“I do not mind the bad odour. Cancer is attributed to cigarettes. Can you not kindly give them up for the hookah? I do not mind its smell. For my part, I have the bad habit of daily chewing between twenty-five and thirty betel-leaves, with tobacco. Just imagine the condition of my teeth! Betel-leaf-and-tobacco chewers, they say, have a smell of ammonia in their breath. My younger brother, Lambu, has a very sensitive nose–more sensitive than even a dog’s. He smells ammonia in Krishna Sohagini Devi’s kirtan over the radio. He smells garlic when Ustad Bade Ghulam Masta’s records of Darbari Kanada are played on the gramophone. Please write a line if you have objection to my nasty habit. Kindly get the marriage proposal cancelled, if you have any.–Sunanda.”

Sukanta wrote :

“Prepared that you are to tolerate the offensive odour of cigarettes, I have no objection to your betel and tobacco. Moreover, our factory manufactures endless quantities of ammonia, and I am used to the pungency thereof. I shall give a thought to your suggestion of the hookah as a substitute for cigarettes.

“I do not like to conceal anything from you. Let me, therefore, make a clean breast of another lapse of mine. Men want virgin brides–virgin both in body and mind. Women too want husbands who have had no pre-marital love-affairs. Let me confess that my heart is not altogether unaffected. I was once in love with Deputy Commissioner Lala Topchand Jhopra’s daughter, Surangi. Her parents were not very unwilling. But it was Surangi herself who spoiled everything in the long run. She has recently married Mr. Hanumanthiah of the Commerce Department. The jet-black fellow is as terrible-looking as the messenger of Death. But my salary is about a third of his. I still lick a lacerated heart. I hope everything will be all right after our marriage. I have a photograph of Surangi with me. I shall burn it in your presence.

“It occurred to me after Surangi’s marriage that I too should have a wife before long. I paint, take photographs, and do sundry research work in my spare time. I need a housewife to bother about the household, to rid me of my worries, so that I may beguile my leisure with my hobbies. I now realise the foolishness of falling in loveon the spur of the moment. Genuine lovebetween man and wife is possible only after they have lived together. Parental hearts do overflow with tenderness for the unborn child though it is not seen before its birth. Similarly, it is immaterial for wedded love whether one selects one’s own bride or does not. I, therefore, left the choice to my maternal uncle.

“I have told you everything about my conduct, character and opinions. Kindly let me know if you have any objection to marry me.–Sukanta.”

Sunanda wrote :

‘I find nothing objectionable in your opinions, nor any in your conduct and character. Your letters show that you are honest, sincere and truthful. Let me too confess my own lapses to you. I fell in love with a Post-Graduate student, Paban Kumar. But he being a Bhaduri ¹ Brahmin, his orthodox, old-fashioned parents refused to take me as their daughter-in-law. Paban is now stationed at Bangalore, and occupies a very high position there. I have not forgotten him quite. I have no doubt, however, that with a large-hearted husband like you, he will soon be out of my mind altogether. Let me offer a suggestion. It is no use burning the photographs of Surangi and Paban. It would be far better to frame them together and hang the same in our bed-room. Poison will neutralise poison. What do you say? Please write what you think about my suggestion.–Sunanda.’

Sukanta wrote in reply:

‘Sunanda! We have no secrets to conceal from each other. I, therefore, address you by your name. Nothing stands in the way of our union. They say that I have an overdose of gravity in me. Well-wishing friends add that I have a tinge of lunacy as well. It is evident from your letters that you are jovial. My maternal uncle’s letter says that, though you could not pass your B. Sc., you are quite smart. Our temperaments seem to be complementary. According to psychologists, this is the ideal condition for marriage–a genuine Raja Jataka. To make an ideal couple, natures must be complementary. Today is the 16th of Falgun and we are to be married after a week. I enjoy in contemplation the prospect and the joy of a direct conversation with you even as I pen these lines.–Yours, Sukanta.’

Sunanda sent a reply a few days later:

‘I beg to be excused. Everything is upset. Paban Bhaduri is here. He told me yesterday, “Sunanda, I am a dependent no longer. I earn a lot. I need not be bound by parental control. Let us go to Bangalore and marry either according to Hindu rites or the Civil Marriage Act, whichever you prefer.” This is the situation. You realise my position, I am sure. I cannot escape from Paban Bhaduri. I elope with him tomorrow, two days before the date fixed for my wedding with you. I cannot, however, ignore my duty. I have, therefore, made an alternative arrangement. Very much like me in appearance, but fair in complexion, is my sister, Nanda, who is younger than I by a year and a half. She too failed in the B. Sc. She has a set of shining teeth. She does not chew betel or tobacco, and has never been in love. She read all your letters, and is fascinated by them. She is eager to marry you. Make no fuss, please, Dr. Sukanta. Keep everything a secret from your people. Please stick to your programme, and come to our house with the groom’s party at the appointed hour. Repeat like a good boy the mantras recited by the priest. My father will give Nanda–not me–in marriage to you. You will be happy with her, I am sure. A housewife to look after your household is all you need. A Nanda replacing a Sunanda, makes little difference. Showering praise on one’s own sister is not in good taste. I would otherwise have written a lot more to tell you what a jewel of a girl Nanda is. Good-bye today. I have a mind to apologise to you in person, if possible.–Sunanda.’

Sukanta was flabbergasted. He was incensed too. Temperamentally restrained as he was, he realised after a while that Sunanda’s proposal was not after all a bad one. A housewife was what he needed. One bride was, therefore, as good as another. Sukanta decided not to kick up a row. Nor would he make any enquiry. He made up his mind to be absolutely obedient to his maternal uncle and to accept any arrangement made by him.

None in Sukanta’s maternal uncle’s house spoke anything about Sunanda. Nor did any one seem to be worried in the least. Sukanta accompanied the groom’s party to the bride’s house at the appointed hour. He did not notice anything unusual there. A sixteen year old adolescent was serving cigarettes and betel-leaves to the groom’s party. The bride’s people called him Lambu. Sukanta signed to the lad and asked him in an undertone, ‘Are you Sunanda’s younger brother Lambu?’

‘Yes, please,’ replied Lambu.

‘What are the developments here?’

‘All is well. Sister is being dressed up. The auspicious moment is at hand.’

‘Has Sunanda gone away?’

‘What do you mean? Where does the bride go?’

‘What about Nanda, the other elder sister of yours?’

‘I have but one elder sister, and you are marrying her.’

‘I see,’ said Sukanta raising his eyebrows.

It was past midnight. All but the bride and the groom had left the bride’s chamber. Sukanta asked his bride, ‘Are you Sunanda or Nanda?’

‘The one as much as the other. Nanda in everyday life, I become Sunanda on special occasions.’

‘Why did you write all those lies to me?’

‘With no evil intention whatever! I sounded my partner in life who is so truthful and so large-hearted. I wanted to test his forbearance!’

‘What about that Paban Bhaduri of yours?’

‘He vanished into thin air and ceased to exist. I have a fine portrait of Hanumanjee. Would it not be grand to frame it together with the photograph of that Surangi of yours?’

‘You are a babbler, and I know that failure in the B.Sc. examination was the penalty for your garrulousness.’

‘Jhunu Mitter is a hundred times more talkative. How could she top the list? Mathematics is my Achilles’ heel. Maxwell’s Theory is all Greek to me, and there was a main question on that topic.’

‘Ah! that’s simplicity itself. Let me explain. Listen to me, please:–V=Ö1……../Campa

‘Enough of it. Solving mathematical problems in the bridal chamber is inviting misfortunes.’

‘All right, I’ll explain it tomorrow.’

‘But tomorrow night is the Kala Ratri ². The bride and the groom are not to see each other then. We meet again the night after that.’

‘Never mind, I’ll explain Maxwell’s Theory during the third night.’

‘My granny is an eavesdropper and a peeping Tom. If she discovers that we have nothing better between us than the study of Maxwell’s Theory, she’ll start other theories for our benefit! Why this hurry? I am not running away! Maxwell can wait for a year or two.’

‘I agree…..It is not Maxwell……Look here, Sunanda, you are a real beauty!’

‘Am I? How sharp your eyes are!’

‘Can you guess……What I feel like……?’

‘I cannot……unless it be Maxwell’s Theory again!’

‘That’s closed……’

‘Thank heavens, it is! And now my granny can overhear us!’

¹ A sub-sect of Bengali Brahmins.
² The second night of marriage.