| 11 June - 17 June, 2011 |
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| FICTION |
 by SARATCHANDRA CHATTOPADHYAY
Dharmadas was scared, "Why, Deva?"
Devdas tried to smile and simply said, "I have fever again, Dharma,"
When they were passing Varanasi, Devdas was comatose with fever. "Oh no, Dharma, I suppose I wasn't fated to see Mother," he said. Dharmadas said, "Deva, lets get off at Patna and see a doctor.'
Devdas answered, "No, let it be. Let's just go home."
It was the early hours of dawn when the train stopped at Pandua. It had rained all night. Devdas stood up. Dharmadas was fast sleep on the floor. Very softly Devdas touched his brow – he felt too shy to wake him. Then he opened the door and stepped outside. The train left.
Shivering, Devdas came out of the station. He beckoned to the coachman of a buggy and asked, "Hey there, could you take me to Hatipota village?"
He looked at Devdas and said, "No babu, the roads are no good. My horses can't go all the way."
Alarmed, Devdas asked. "Could I get a palanquin?"
The coachman said, "No, babu."
The ground seemed to be slipping away from under his feet and Devdas sat down quickly. The coachman took pity on him. "Babu, shall I get you to a bullock cart?"
Devdas asked, "How long will it take to reach there?"
"Roads are not good, Babu, perhaps a couple of days."
Devdas calculated mentally, "Will I live a couple of days? But he had to go to Paro. He had to make his last promise to her come true. He didn't have too long to go – that was the problem.
Sitting in the bullock cart, he thought of his mother and the tears flowed. One more face, pure and innocent, floated into his consciousness – it was Chandramukhi's. He'd never see her again; she may not even get the news until much later. But still, he must visit Paro. He had promised to see her one last time. He felt it was promise he was bound to honour.
Uneasily, he asked, "Coachman, how much longer?"
Another eight to ten miles, babu."
"Make it quick, my friend. I'll give you a very hefty tip."
The cart moved faster and faster as Devdas grew restless within. All he could think was, "Shall we meet? Will I reach?"
The cart sped on, but instead of ten, it was almost midnight when it came to a stop under the huge peepul tree before the house of the Zamindar of Hatipota. The coachman called out, Babu, we've reached. Come down now."
No answer came.
He called again, and still there was no answer.
He brought the lamp close to his passenger's face apprehensively and asked, "Babu, are you sleeping?"
Devdas' eyes were open; his lips moved, but no sound came forth. The coachman called again, "Babu."
Devdas wanted to raise his arms, but he couldn't; two teardrops rolled down his cheeks.
The coachman had the presence of mind to lay a makeshift bed of hay on the stone platform that ran around the peepul tree. The he heaved and hoisted, and moved Devdas from the cart and onto the bed. There wasn't a soul in sight; the zamindar's house lay in deep slumber. Devdas struggled to take the hundred-rupee note from his pocket and handed it to the driver. By the light of the lantern the coachman saw that the babu stared at him, but was unable to speak. He guessed how critical his condition was and quietly tied the money into the end of his shawl. Devdas' body was wrapped up in his shawl. The lantern burned bright and his new friend sat at his feet, lost in thought.
The first rays of dawn touched the sky. People from the zamindar household came out and saw a novel sight. A man lay dying under a tree. One by one many people gathered around. Word reached Bhuvan-babu soon. He sent for the doctor and came around himself. Devdas looked at each visitor in turn; he had lost his voice. He couldn't say a word. Only the tears kept rolling down his cheeks. The coachman told them all that he knew, but it wasn't much. The doctor came and pronounced, "Last moments – he'll go any time now."
Everyone said, "Poor soul"
Parvati heard about the dying man too, sitting in her room upstairs, and said, "Poor soul."
Someone took pity on him and poured a drop of water into his mouth, as was customary for the dying. Devdas looked at him piteously and then closed his eyes. He drew a few more tortured breaths and then it was all over.
There were debates over who would cremate him, who should be touching him, what caste he was etc. Bhuvan-babu sent word to the nearest police station. The inspector came and took a look: death by cirrhosis of the liver, blood on the nose and mouth. Two letters were found in his pocket. One was from Dwijodas Mukherjee of Talshonapur to Devdas of Bombay: "Its impossible to send any more money now."
 The second was from Harimati Devi in Varanasi, writing again to Devdas of Bombay: "How are you?'
On his left wrist the first letter of his name was tattooed. The inspector declared that the man was indeed Devdas.
A blue stone set in gold on his finger; worth approximately a hundred and fifty rupees. An expensive but worn out shawl: approximately two hundred rupees. The inspector made a note of his clothes and all his belongings. Both Bhuvan-babu and Mahendra were present there. When he heard the name Talshonapur, Mahendra said, "Mother's home town – If she could take a look –"
His father brushed him aside, "Do you want her to come and identify the corpse now?"
The inspector laughed in agreement, "Question doesn't arise."
Although it was now established from the letters that it was a brahmin's corpse, no one in the village wanted to touch it. So the pyre-burners (the lowest of the low castes) came and picked up the body. They did a harsh job of burning it beside some god forsaken pond and threw the charred cadaver to one side; crows and vultures perched on it, and wolves snatched at it.
Parvati had heard the news in the morning, but because she couldn't focus on anything for too long these days, she hadn't really taken it all in. But since everyone could talk of little else all day long, Parvati called a maid to her room and asked, "What's the matter? Who has died?"
The maid said, "No one knows, Mother. It must've been fate that he came all this way to die here. He lay there in the damp and cold since last night and died only at around nine this morning."
Parvati sighed and asked, "Did they find out who it was?"
The maid said, "Mahen-babu knows all about it."
She sent for Mahendra. He said, "It's Devdas Mukherjee, from your village."
Parvati came very close to him and looked at him sharply, "Who? Dev-da? How do you know?"
"There were two letters in his pocket, Mother, one was from Dwijodas Mukherjee –"
Parvati broke in, "Yes, his elder brother."
"The other was from Harimati Devi of Varanasi – "
"Yes his mother."
"His initial was tattooed on his wrist –"
Parvati said, "Yes, he got that done when he went to Calcutta for the first time –"
"There was a blue stone set in a ring –"
"His uncle gave that to him at the time of his thread-ceremony. I must go," Parvati dashed down the stairs.
Stunned out of his wits, Mahendra said, "Mother, where are you going?"
"To Dev-da."
"He isn't there any more. They took him away."
"Oh no – dear God, help me," Parvati sobbed as she ran. Mahendra darted forward and blocked her way, "Have you lost your mind, Mother – where will you go?"
Parvati stared at him down indignantly, "Mahen, do you really take me for a madwoman? Let me go."
Mahendra looked at her eyes and moved aside, silently following in her wake. Parvati went outside. The officers and clerks were still at work and they looked surprised. Bhuvan-babu looked up over his glasses and asked, "Who's there?"
Mahendra said, "Mother."
"What? Where's she going?"
Mahendra said, "To see Devdas."
Bhuvan Chowdhry screamed, "Have you all lost your collective minds – go, go and fetch her. She's mad. Oh Mahen, oh Parvati."
Then the maids and servants gathered around and caught Parvati as she fell in a faint; they took her into the house. The next day she regained consciousness, but didn't speak a word. She just called one maid and asked, "He came in the night, didn't he? All night long…"
And then she fell silent.
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