Warning: include() [function.include]: URL file-access is disabled in the server configuration in E:\inetpub\vhosts\magtheweekly.com\httpdocs\15\fiction.php on line 74
Warning: include(http://www.magtheweekly.com/skymidpage.php) [function.include]: failed to open stream: no suitable wrapper could be found in E:\inetpub\vhosts\magtheweekly.com\httpdocs\15\fiction.php on line 74
Warning: include() [function.include]: Failed opening 'http://www.magtheweekly.com/skymidpage.php' for inclusion (include_path='.;./includes;./pear') in E:\inetpub\vhosts\magtheweekly.com\httpdocs\15\fiction.php on line 74
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.
For the last two years Chandramukhi had lived in Ashathjhuri village, named after an ancient peepul tree that had left its hanging roots flow into the ground in a large area around itself. On the banks of the river, on a slight gradient, stood Chandrmaukhi’s ramshackle hut.Adjoining it was a shed where a black, healthy cow was tethered. There were two rooms—one kitchen-cum-store room and the other the bedroom. The yard was swept and wiped clean—Ram Bagdi’s daughter did that every day. Thorny bushes fringed the yard; a berry tree stood in the middle and a tulsi plant had its pride of the place in one corner. Chandrmaukhi had got some men to cut down the palm tree and make some steps from her hut down to the river. She was the only one who used those steps. When the rains came, the banks overflowed and the water lapped around her doorstep. The villagers came running with shovels and spades and dumped some oil to raise the level of the ground. There were no genteel folk in this village, just farmers, some lower castes, a mattering of milkmen and a few cobbler families.
After Chandramukhi had settled in the village, she had written to Devdas. With his reply he had sent some money. Chankdramukhi loaned out this money to the villagers. When in trouble, they all rushed to her, borrowed a small sum and went home. She didn’t charge any interest on the loans. Instead, they gifted her odd vegetables from the fields or milk or grains. She never asked anymore for the money back. Whoever could, returned it; a lot of others didn’t. Chandramukhi would only laugh and say, “ I’ll never give you money again.”
The villagers went down on their knees and pleaded, “Mother, pray that we have good rains this year.”
Chandramukhi prayed. But then the crops weren’t as good as expected, or the villagers were pressed for taxes, and they came to her again and once again she gave them what she could. Smiling to herself, she said, “May God, grant him a long life—I don’t have to worry about money as long as he’s there.”
But where was Devdas? For the last six months there had been no news of him. Her letters were unanswered. Registered letter came back undelivered. Chandramukhi had helped a milkman’s family to build near her hut, paid their son’s dowry and bought them some farm implements. They were dependent on her and extremely loyal. One morning Chandrmaukhi called the milkman, and said, “Bhairav, do you know how far Talshonapur is from here?”
Bhairav scratched his head, “Their estate lies at the end of two meadows from here.”
Chandramukhi asked, “Does the landlord’s family live there?”
Bhairav said, Yes, all of this area belongs to them. The old zaminadar went to heaven three years ago. All the villagers ate hearty meals for a month then… Now his two sons run the estate-- they’re rich, like Kings.”
Chandramukhi said, “Bhairav, could you take me there?”
Bhairav said, Certainly, Mother, any day you wish.”
Chandramukhi was eager, “Then let’s go today, Bhairav.”
Bhairav was taken aback.“Today?” then he glanced at her face and said, “Mother, in that case you finish your cooking as fast as you can and I’ll bundle up some puffed rice for myself.”
Chandramukhi said, “I won’t cook today, Bhairav; you get ready.”
Bhairav went home, wrapped up some puffed rice and sweet molasses in a cloth, slung it over his shoulder, picked up a walking stick and returned in two minutes. He asked Chandramukhi, “Won’t you eat something, Mother?”
Chandramukhi said “No, Bhairav, I haven’t yet finished my daily puja. If there is time, I’ll do that once we reach.”
Bhairav led the way. Chandramukhi toiled away behind him, walking the narrow ridges between the rice fields. Her tender feet, unused to such hardship, were soon lacerated and bleeding; her face grew hot and flushed in the blazing sun. She hadn’t bathed or eaten. But she went on and on, walking across the endless fields. The farmers working the fields stared at her speechless wonder. She wore a red-bordered white sari and two bangles on her wrists; half her face was veiled with her anchal. When the sun was a few minutes from setting the two of them arrived at the village. Chandramukhi smiled and asked, “Bhairav, have the two meadows ended at last?’
The sarcasm was lost on Bhairav as he spoke with simple candour, “Mother, we are here. But do you think your delicate disposition will allow us to go back tonight?”
Chandramukhi thought, “Forget tonight, I doubt if I’ll be able to walk back even tomorrow.” She said aloud, Bhairav, can’t we hire a cart?”
Bhairav said, “But of course, Mother, should I get a bullock cart?”
Chandramukhi ordered him to do just that and entered the zamindar’s mansion. Bhairav went the other way, to arrange for a cart.
