Arup Bandopadhyaya was one of my intimate friends. He was sweet in his dealings and multi-talented. His mind was as clear as a clean slate. It is difficult to find a man so good in a hundred thousand. Though he was born in a middle-class family, he was dedicated to public charity. His wife, Shipra, always assisted him in his noble work. Shipra also worked somewhere. The couple decided that with the income of one they would maintain their family, and the second income would be used for public welfare. Shipra had a younger sister, Reba. Just after she took her exams for her BA from Bethune College, she came to visit her elder sister.

No one knows exactly when a person will be called to family life – not even the astrologers or matchmakers. While Reba was with her sister, three or four proposals were coming every week. Reba, as was the custom, used to appear at every marriage “interview board” and answer all their queries. Now, Reba was endowed with beauty, intelligence and good character. The marriage brokers would have taken to her, but the problem was the dowry.

On the other hand, though, how many of the suitors were immaculate, ideal candidates? They were all ordinary people, yet they demanded that their prospective bride be as perfect as the celestial goddesses; and their demands for dowry would make one’s eyes pop out.

Reba’s father took an impossible stand. “I will not give a single rupee for my daughter’s dowry. It is enough that I am giving her in marriage. Her husband’s family is lucky to the fourteenth generation that they get my daughter in their house. My daughter will adorn their family with golden beauty. Why should I pay them on top of it?”

To top it off, Reba became fed up with her frequent appearances before different “interview boards”. She became disgusted with the senseless nagging questions of the educated, half-educated, foolish and semi-foolish relatives of the suitors.

One evening, I went to Arup’s house for a certain work. I saw there was quite a crowd of people in his house. Among them I identified Manoranjan Banerjee, of my acquaintances from Manaitanr. I easily understood that another “board” had appeared to interview Reba. As I was a party neither of the bride’s family nor of the suitor’s, I did not enter inside. I took a small walk around, then sat down on a stool on the front verandah of the house. I could hear the interrogation within between Reba and the “board”.

One of them asked, “So, you are Miss Reba Mukherjee?” “Indeed, I am Reba,” she said, “but I am not Reba Mukherjee. I am Reba Mukhopadhyaya.”⁽¹⁾

Another member asked, “Well Reba Devi, do you appreciate Shakespeare?”

“I haven’t read all the works of Shakespeare, so how can I say whether I appreciate him?” she replied.

A third member asked, “I am told you were a student of economics. Can you tell us where the main defects in the Indian economy lie?”

Reba replied, “Our country is still under foreign rule. Until the colonial rule is removed, it is not possible to get an accurate picture of the economic structure of India because the foreign rulers are exploiting the country according to their convenience. Therefore, it is not possible to reply to your question right now. Moreover, even if something can be said through hair-splitting analysis, it’s certainly impossible to explain to this ‘selection board’ in such little time.”

Another “board member”, a lanky young man with a craze for literature, asked, “Can you sing Rabindra Sangeet?”

Reba replied, “I can sing but not very well. But right now I can’t sing because since yesterday I have had a cold.”

The same man hurled another question at her. “I think you have read about the monsoon season, the spring and the autumn in Rabindranath Tagore’s literature. What do you think about the sultry atmosphere he creates?”

“Frankly speaking,” Reba replied, “I haven’t had much time to read Tagore literature extensively as I was occupied mostly with the textbooks of my university syllabus. On top of that, I had to attend to my household chores.”

Yet another “board” member asked, “What sort of drama roles, particularly in one-act plays, do you like most?”

Reba replied, “I prefer to play the roles of those women who are quite outspoken and at the same time compassionate by nature. I like to be vocal against the antisocial elements who have been injecting the seeds of superstition and dogma into our society.”

The “board” members were now at a complete loss to find something to ask next. I was amused at the straight, terse replies of Reba. Now it was Reba’s turn to interrogate the honourable members of the “selection board”. She said, “You have asked me a few dozen questions, can I ask you just a half-dozen?”

The flustered members responded rather meekly, “Yes… but… if you so wish…”

“Well,” Reba began, “how much does the gentleman who will marry me earn monthly?”

The members of the “team” started faltering and articulated something which I could not really grasp. I could understand from their hints that Manoranjan Banerjee was the suitor in question. Reba continued, “Does he earn enough to see to all the needs of a family for all the days of the month?” The “board” members remained speechless. Reba went on, “I would guess that the purchasing power of your family for the first twenty-five days and that for the last five or six days of the month are not the same. In the first twenty-five days, the shopping list contains cabbage, beans, butterfish and pábdá fish. The dinner menus include delicious dishes made of rui fish, kai fish, steamed hilsa fish, hilsa soup, lobster, puni hilsa fish, and bhet́ki fish cooked with cabbage. In the last part of the month the menu will include the cheapest water gourd, kuco ciḿŕi, lyát́á fish, bholá fish, bhaḿgáŕ fish and teto punt́i. Isn’t so?”⁽²⁾

The “visiting team” maintained dead silence. Reba said, “When this is the family situation, then tell me what opportunity the bride will get to study Shakespeare?”

Reba further said, “What do you usually eat for breakfast? Perhaps in the early part of the month mohanbhog mixed with raisins, siḿgárá, and kacuri mixed with hing, but in the last part of the month, certainly tea from re-used teabags, without much milk, and leftover rut́is⁽³⁾ with fried radish leaves. And these are not the leaves that people buy, but those that come along with the radishes. It’s a fact, isnt it?”

The “team” members maintained silence.

“In the early part of the month,” Reba continued, “if you are invited to attend a wedding you respond with avid interest and gladly present gifts of Thermos flasks, table lamps, electric heaters, and so on, to the newlyweds, right? But if, on the contrary, anyone happens to invite you at the end of the month, you tell them, ‘I’m not in good health these days. I had to go to the toilet fifteen times today… hardly able to stand and walk… however, if my health improves, I shall certainly come.’ But you don’t go, because you can’t afford to buy presents due to a shortage of funds, isn’t it so?”

They remained silent, as before.

“You have a joint family, I know,” Reba said. “Certainly there are young boys and girls in the family. You are required to appoint private tutors to help them in their studies. Can you, with your limited means, pay the private tutors punctually? Or do they quit in frustration?” Sweat began to bead the “board” members’ foreheads. Reba continued, “Well, if early in the month your trousers tear, you most certainly buy new trousers or place orders for new ones with a good tailor. But if they tear at the end of the month, what do you do? Surely you make do by sewing on a big patch. How can you take a risk at that time for a new set of trousers?” The sweat was pouring now, though it was a winter evening.

“When this is the situation in your family,” Reba said, “then how much opportunity will the bride of the family get to cultivate Rabindra Sangeet? Now, you asked me whether I know dancing or not. In a family where the people can’t make ends meet, can you tell me what scope the bride will get to cultivate dancing?” This caused the “board” members to sweat all the more. “At the end of the month,” Reba asked, “when you run short of funds, do you beg loans from friends and family? Or do you go to the bank and the moneylenders? If this is so, then how much time will a bride get to cultivate the fine arts? Now, can you give me a direct reply to these simple questions?”

There was so much perspiration running down the suitor’s forehead that his spectacles became blurred. I then said, “Reba, you have asked enough questions. The ‘selection board’ hasn’t been able to answer a single question of yours; now you should stop.”

Reba said to her brother-in-law, “Dádá, these ‘board’ members have asked me so many questions, besides hearing my questions, that they must be tired. You should arrange an especially good refreshment for them. And in not being able to answer all my questions, they have perspired so much that I guess their throats will be dry. Please give them a huge potful of tea instead of the usual small cups.”

Excusing herself from the room, Reba wryly waved “Ta-ta”. The “board” members turned to Arup. “Arupbabu,” they said, “we have already taken a snack, and we will not have any tea just now.” After they left, I calmly came back into the house. Reba approached me and said, “Well, Dádá, was that all right?”

I said, “It was perfectly all right. You were certainly correct, but for those fellows, it was a bit too much to swallow.”

The next morning, as I was returning from the market, I saw Manoranjan with a coarse jute bag in his hand haggling over the price of water gourd. Manoranjan jumped as if he had seen a ghost when he saw me.

I said to him, “Hello, Manoranjan. Were you in your right senses to join in that ‘selection board’ yesterday?” Manoranjan remained silent. “Times are changing,” I said. “People’s psychology is changing. Many fixed ideas of the past are disappearing. Don’t you realize these things?

“Remember some time back you went to Pipepara to interview Panchapradiip Pakrasi’s daughter, Bhundibala?⁽⁴⁾ Though battered by volleys of questions, Bhundibala didn’t utter a single word in protest. She bowed to all that humilation and torture without a murmur. Do you think all girls are like Bhundibala? How will you ever forget the good drubbing Reba Mukherjee gave you yesterday?”

Manoranjan kept mum. I said, “You can’t avoid it and remain silent. Now speak up and tell me what your next policy is.”

Manoranjan mumbled a few words as he rubbed his head, “It was a blunder on my part to go there personally.”

I pressed on, “It was a blunder indeed! But now tell me, what’s your next ‘five-year plan’?”

Manoranjan said, “I won’t go back there for quite some time.” I said, “But why? Why won’t you go there? You must certainly go there. But when you do, you should wear a long veil, so that even your next-door neighbours would not recognize you. They will not know you are Manoranjan Babu of Manaitar, but think you are a certain Manorama Devi, trudging along for a holy dip in the Ganges.” I chuckled to myself.

Seeing me smile, someone called from my side. “Hello, Dádá,” the person said, “what’s so funny?” I was a bit surprised to see my close neighbour, Jagadamba, of Angata.

“Oh, Jagadamba, what brings you here?”

She said, “I’m here on an urgent errand.”

I said humorously, “Urgent or not, you are always ready to work.”

She explained, “I found a suitor for my cousin. She’s as beautiful as the goddess Lakśmii, and as learned as the goddess Sarasvátii. He’s a good catch, and I will take him to my cousin. My cousin lives in Dashana in our Nadia District, and we have already settled with the suitor. He’s as handsome as can be and intelligent, too. And he’s clever at housekeeping and cooking, too.”

I said, “Do you think men should be responsible for the household chores?”

She protested, “And why not? When the women of the house fall sick or are feeling bored cooking and doing rounds of household chores for days on end, the men should lend a hand.”

I agreed with her, “Yes, that’s true.”

“This boy is ideal in all respects. If my cousin likes him, we will lose no time in arranging the wedding, joining their hands, blowing conches and ululating.”

“When will you return to Angata?” I asked.

Jagadamba replied, “I will go back after I’ve finished this work.”

“What is your exact relation to your cousin?”

She said, “She is my first cousin on my mother’s side.”

I asked, “Is the bride as good as the groom?”

“I already told you she’s like Lakśmii and Sarasvatii, and like Brhaspatii in good character. Her power of endurance is really incomparable. She is mild and soft-spoken, but she will not tolerate any injustice.”

“That is the way it should be,” I said. “Whatever may be one’s beauty or merits, one should never submit to injustice. What’s your cousin’s name?”

Jagadamba said, “Her nickname is Arshuli and her name is Reba Mukherjee.”

My eyes fell on Manoranjan standing beside me. His face had become as dark as the gloomy monsoon clouds.

Footnotes

(1) “Mukherjee” is a British shortening of the name “Mukhopadhyaya”. It was a matter of ethnic pride during colonial rule to insist on the proper name. –Trans.

(2) All the foods mentioned for the first part of the month are expensive and those mentioned in the last part are cheap. –Trans.

(3) In Hindi chápatis: Indian flat bread. –Trans.

(4) This girl’s name means “Dimwitted, dunce”; someone who lacks dynamism. –Trans.