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 same day the doctor came and examined Devdas for a long time. He was most concerned. He prescribed some medicines and advised that the utmost care was needed. Or things could come to a fatal pass. They both understood the upshot of this advice. Word was sent home and Dharma arrived some money was drawn from the bank for the treatment. Two days passed smoothly after this. But on the third day Devdas had fever.
He sent for Chandramukhi and said, “You came at the right moment, or you may have never set eyes on me again.”
Chandramukhi wiped her tears and began to tend to him in right earnest. She prayed with folded hands, “God, never in my dreams did I imagine I would come in so handy at such a crucial hour. But please let Devdas get well.”
Devdas was bedridden for nearly a month. Then he slowly began to recover. The malady was contained.
One day Devdas said, “Chandramkhi, your name is really long—I can’t say it all the time. Shall I shorten it?”
Chandramukhisaid , “Sure.”
Devdas said, “So from now on I’ll call you Bou.”
Chandramukhi laughed, “Bou? You mean “wife”? But why?”
“Does everything have to have a reason?”
“No… if that’s what you want, go ahead. But won’t you tell me why you have this wish?”
“No. Don’t ask me the reason.”
Chandramukhinooded, “All right.”
Devdas was silent for several minutes. Then he asked gravely, “Tell me, Bou, what am I to you that you are caring for me like this?”
Chandramukhi was neither a bashful, blushing bride, nor a gauche, naïve girl; she looked at Devdas serenely and her voice dripped compassion, “You are my everything—don’t you know that yet?”
Devdas was staring at the wall. He didn’t take his eyes off it as he spoke slowly, “I do, but it doesn’t bring much joy. I loved Paro so much she love me so much—and yet, there was such pain. After that moment I vowed never to set foot in this trap again; and I didn’t, at least not by choice. But why did you do this? Why did you get me involved like this?” After a while he said, “Bou, perhaps you will suffer like Paro.”
Chandramukhi covered her face and sat down on the edge of the bed.
Devdas continued, “You two are so much unlike each other, but still similar. One proud and haughty, the other gentle and restrained. She has little patience and you are so forebearing. She has a good name, respect, and you live in shame. Everyone loves her, but nobody loves you. But I love you yes, of course I love you.” He heaved a great sigh and spoke again, “I do not know what the judge of sin and virtue up above is going to make of you, but if we ever meet after death, I will never be to part from you.”
Chandramukhi wept in silence and prayed fervently, “Dear God, if ever in a future life, this sinner is granted pardon, let that be my reward.”
A couple of months passed. Devdas was healed, but he wasn’t fully recovered. He needed a change of air. The following day he was headed westwards, accompanied by Dharmadas.
Chandramukhi begged, “You will need a maid too, let me come with you.”
Devdas said, “Imposible. Whatever I may do, I cannot be so shameless.”
Chandramukhi was robbed of speech. She wasn’t stupid and she understood him well. Come what may, she could not have a place of pride in the world. She could help Devdas regain his health, she could give him pleasure, but she could never give him respectability. She wiped her tears and asked, “When will I see you again?”
“can’t say. But as long as there’s life in me, I will not forget you, I’ll always yearn for a sight of you.”
Chandramukhi touched his feet and stood aside. Quietly, she said, “That’s enough for me; I never wanted more than that.”
Before leaving, Devdas gave two thousand rupees to Chandramukhi and said, “Keep this money. You can’t trust life and death. I don’t want you to be helpless and destitute.”
Once again, Chandramukhi got the message. So she held out her hand and took the money. “Just tell me one thing before you go…” she said.
Devdas glanced at her, “What is it?”
Chandramukhi said, “Your sister-in-law told me that you have contracted unmentionable diseases. Is that true?”
Devdas was hurt at that. “I must say that woman is capable of a lot,” he said. “If had such a disease, wouldn’t you know? Is there anything about me that you aren’t aware of? In this respect you know me better than even Paro.”
Chandramukhi dashed away her tears and said, “Thank goodness. But still, be careful. You are not in the best of health; don’t make any more mistakes and make it worse.”
In response Devdas merely smiled.
Chandramukhi said, “Another request—if you feel even a bit unwell, send for me.”
Devdas looked into her eyes and said, “I’ll do that, Bou.”
She touched his feet once more and ran away into the next room.
After leaving Calcutta, Devdas lived in Allahabad for some time. From there he wrote to Chandramukhi, “Bou, I had decided never to love again. For one thing, it is very painful to love and lose, and on top of that, falling in love again would be biggest folly, I think.”
But as the days passed, Devdas often wished that Chandramukhi could have been with him. The very next moment he’d back off apprehensively, “Oh no, that won’t be good- if Paro ever came to know of it…”
Thus it was Paro one day and Chandramukhi’s turn the next, presiding over his heart. Sometimes he had visions of both, side by side, as if he were the closest of friends. In his mind the two had become linked in the strangest of ways. Sometimes, late at night, the thought would come to him that both of them must have fallen asleep. At the very thought that they were unreachable, his heart felt bereft a lifeless discontentment echoed around it in vain.
Thereafter, Devdas traveled to Lahore. Chunilal was working there; he heard of his old friend’s arrival and came to meet him. After a long time, Devdas drank again. He thought of Chandramukhi, who had forbidden him to drink. He could see her –ever so bright, so calm and collected; she had so much love for him. Parvati had gone to sleep where he was concerned. She only flared up from time to time, like the wick of a lamp about to go out.
The climate here didn’t suit Devdas. He fell ill often and his stomach ached frequently. One day Dharmadas was almost in tears, “Deva, you are falling sick again. Let’s go somewhere else.”
Devdas answered distractedly, “Let’s go.”
Usually Devdas didn’t drink at home. He did if Chunilal came over, but usually he went out of the house and drank. He came home late at night—and some nights he
