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Saratchandra Chattopadhyay’s Devdas was published in Bengali in 1917.
The ‘Devdas metaphor’, a time-honoured, enduring tragic symbol of unfulfilled love, has captivated readers and film-going audiences for the better part of a century now. But interest in the original Devdas, Saratchandra Chattopadhyay’s piece de resistance, has been rekindled recently in the wake of the Sanjay Leela Bhansali film, which is and adaptation of the Bengali novel. This is good time to take a fresh look at the novel in translation, and to look at the specific ways in which the Devdas metaphor has engaged our imagination over several generations.
The next moment he had turned the fishing rod around; holding the thick end up, he said, “You know Paro, so much beauty is not right for a person to have. It only makes you vain.” He lowered his voice and continued, “Isn’t it obvious—the moon is marked because it is so beautiful; the black bee hovers over the pristine beauty of the lotus. Come, let me mar your face and spoil its perfection.”
Devdas was not in his senses. He held the fishing rod firmly, swung it around and aimed a glancing blow at Parvati’s brow.
Immediately, her face was awash with blood. She had a jagged gash that started at the hairline and came down to her left eyebrow. She crumpled to the ground and screamed, “Dev-da, how could you do this!”
Devdas was snapping his fishing rod into tiny bits and throwing the pieces into the river; the bits of bamboo floated on the water. He replied with studied calm, “Its not much—just a gash that’s all.”
Parvati wailed with renewed misery “Oh God, Dev-da!”
Devdas tore off strips from his thin cotton shirt, soaked them in the water and began to bandage her head as he said, “Why are you sacred, Paro? This wound will heal soon—just the mark will remain. If anyone ever asks, lie to them, or you could always tell them the truth and reveal your own shame.”
“Oh no, Oh God-- ”
“For shame, Paro—do be quiet I have merely left a mark for you to remember our last meeting. You will glance at that pretty face in the mirror every now and then, won’t you?” He seemed ready to leave, not needing an answer.
Parvati wept miserably, “Oh Dev-da—”
Devdas came back; a tear glistened in a corner of his eye. “What is it Paro?”
“Pleas don’t tell anyone.”
Instantly, Devdas leaned forward, brushed her hair with his hands and said, “How can I – you are no stranger to me, Paro. Don’t you remember, in our childhood, how often I boxed your ears when you pulled a prank?”
“Dev-da, please forgive me.”
You don’t even have to ask. Paro, have you forgotten me? When was I ever mad at you for long? When did I not forgive you?”
“Dev-da—”
“Paro, you know I am not good with words. Neither do I look before I leap. I just leap and think later.” Devdas placed his hand on her head. “You have chosen wisely. You would not have found happiness with me. But one thing, your Dev-da would have held heaven in his left hand if you had been with him.”
They heard voices headed their way around the bend. Parvati slowly walked down the steps into the water. Devdas walked away.
When Parvati returned home, it was evening. Grandma spoke to her without looking up, “Paro, child, did you dig up the pond first and then fetch the water? But then her words died on her lips. She had looked at Parvati’s face. A scream rose to her lips, “Oh my God, how did this happen?”
The wound was still bleeding and the strips of cloth were dripping blood. Grandma cried, “Oh God Paro, and you are about to be married….!”
Parvati calmly set the pot down. Mother came running at the commotion. Seeing Parvati, she wailed, “Oh dear, Paro, how did this happen?”
Quite coolly, Paro replied, “I slipped and fell on the steps. The bricks hit my head and I cut myself.”
They all began to ply her with care and concern. Devdas was right—it wasn’t a deep gash. It dried up in a week.
Nearly ten more days passed. Then one evening the zamindar of Hatipota village, Sri Bhuvanmohan Chowdhry, arrived at the Chakravarty’s house dressed in the groom’s finery. It was a simple ceremony. Bhuvan-babu wasn’t an idiot—he wasn’t going to make a spectacle of himself in his second marriage.
The groom was well above forty, fair, plump and stodgily built with a salt-and –pepper moustache and a rapidly receding hairline. Some people laughed in their sleeves, while others preferred to stay silent. A trifle apologetically, Bhuvan-babu took his place at the wedding mandap. The women refrained from their usual teasing banter. The groom’s grave visage did not exactly make for mirth When the moment came for the bride and the groom to set eyes upon each other for the first time. Parvati stared at Bhuvan-babu fixedly, a tiny smile playing on her lips. Bhuvan-babu looked down with overt modesty. The neighbourhood women burst into giggles.
Nilkantha-babu, Parvati’s father, was running around supervising everything. He was a little out of his elements with this middle-aged son-in-law he had acquired. Narayan Mukherjee, Devdas’s father, was playing host for the day. A seasoned man, he didn’t let a single hitch come up in the whole ceremony. The happy event concluded in peace and harmony. The next morning Bhuvan-babu handed over a box of ornaments to Nilkhanta –babu. Within minutes they were glittering and sparkling on Parvati. The sight made her mother quietly wipe her eyes with the end of her sari. The zamindar’s wife stood nearby. She reproached her lovingly, “Don’t spoil the day with tears, sister.”
A little after dark Manorama took Parvati aside into a room and blessed her, saying, “It is all for the better. Just see if you’re not as happy as anyone can be in the years to come.”
Parvati smiled and said, “Of course I will be happy, I met my ruin for a few minutes yesterday.”
