When sympathetic neighbors went back to their own lives, when curiosity was buried under sizzling sounds from kitchens, when the buzz around these sensational events had almost been reduced to the level of daily mundanity, this was when a door in the house opened and a girl emerged — the same girl whose fluttering sari on the next-door veranda had once so touched the thick-skinned Makhanlal. He hadn’t set eyes on her for a long time now, but that day, sitting in his room, Makhanlal saw her, seemed to recognize her, definitely recognized her. He leaned on the railing for a bit, raised his hand to sweep his hair off his forehead, and then suddenly returned to his room, the door shut again. What he did then was a little strange, perhaps you will laugh at it. Why he did what he did was something even he didn’t grasp, but at that moment, he told me later, it “came upon him,” everything seemed to happen on its own.
Makhanlal refused to delay any longer, slipping his feet hurriedly into his sandals. His ungainly frame emerged onto the street. The heap of furniture on the pavement had almost reached their own home, and the varnish on it was glittering in the eleven o’clock sun. He wended his way through all of it and stood before the house next door. The wide-open door posed no obstacle before him, and discovering the staircase — without hesitation or doubt — he went directly upstairs. The drawing room was like a new widow, only a picture hung on the wall, like a blood-red memory of a long life. In the next room a few blackened, perspiring laborers were tugging at the family’s belongings; Makhanlal went past them in long strides. There was just one more room, in the corner, its door closed. Was the family in there? He knocked on the door — no response. Another knock, and then a light push on the door got it to swing open; the scene inside no longer remained hidden from his eyes.
It was a small room. There was nothing in it except the four white walls, though the marks on the floor where the furniture had stood had not yet been erased. Huddled on the floor were the inhabitants of the house: the professor, his wife and daughter, and the other two children curled up on the floor, asleep, one’s legs on the other’s body. Having seen these people only from a distance, suddenly seeing them up close in these unusual conditions jolted Makhanlal into realizing how distant, how remote they actually were. Why was he here? What could he do?
They were silent, too. The professor raised his eyes only to lower them immediately, and his wife didn’t raise hers at all. The only one who stood up, briskly, was Malati — of course Makhanlal hadn’t forgotten her name in all these months.
She came to the door quickly and said, “You? Why are you here?”
Her tone was rough, without a trace of welcome in it, and yet Makhanlal heard music. “You? Why are you here?” could only mean that she had recognized him, that she knew who he was. His uncertainty fell away, boldness suffused his soul. He spoke without effort, “I had to come. Something needs to be done.”
Malati was probably about to say something, to utter some protest born of strong self-respect, but Makhanlal left immediately. The landlord’s people were on hand, and he spoke to them and resolved everything within the hour. The professor joined them, speaking in a feeble voice, even objecting as much as he could in the circumstances to Makhanlal’s intervention. Eventually, when everything was settled, when those same perspiring laborers returned everything to its place and proceeded to arrange things properly, then — by then — the professor was so exhausted he couldn’t even utter conventional words of gratitude, for which Makhanlal was extremely thankful.
The rest of the day passed in flight for him. How lovely the day seemed, his work, the people, Calcutta — possibly he loved the entire world that day. And the kindness of the world too seemed limitless; whatever he asked for was being granted with one word, there seemed to be no obstacles at all, anything he wished for seemed to materialize before him instantly. His journey back home after his day’s work was different too. Every day, he returned because he had to, because even exhaustion set its limit — but that day it felt as though someone or something was awaiting his return. The night and the breeze seemed to suggest as much.
His feet slowed down naturally before the professor’s house. The rooms were lit up, the shadows of the fan blades were whirling as usual on the first floor wall. Surely everything was fine, there could not have been any other problems, but still, he thought, let me check. Was it pure philanthropy? Didn’t he have an ulterior motive? Just as this question occurs to you now, it occurred to someone else too. And that is where this story ended.
As soon as he knocked softly, the downstairs door opened, and it was Malati who Makhanlal saw standing before him. He would have been happier had it been someone else, but it was too late to retreat now.
“I just came. .”
A completely unnecessary announcement, and when the person he’d addressed said nothing in response, even the dim-witted Makhanlal realized its redundancy.
“. . find out if everything’s all right. .”
“Please come in.” She spoke like a doctor inviting a patient in. “Yes, everything’s all right.”
Makhanlal entered. When he looked around everything seemed fine: the pictures on the walls, the books on the shelves, the radio in the corner, all just as he had seen on his way to and fro past the house. Once upon a time he had imagined a lot of joy in this room, but now, finally here in this beautifully arranged setting, his daylong happiness seemed to fizzle out, to have no basis, no meaning.
“Please take a seat.”
He didn’t want to at all, but something seemed to compel Makhanlal.
Malati sat at a distance and said, “I knew you’d come. I was waiting for you.”
Makhanlal felt a tremor run across his stout body at these words.
“There’s something I want to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you do this? Don’t be silent, answer my question.”
Makhanlal looked into his interrogator’s eyes and realized he had erred.
“Why did I do this? I have no idea.”
“You have no idea? Then let me tell you. The self-satisfaction of philanthropy is no mean thing. It feels wonderful to be given a chance to help the poor. The gratitude of other people is delicious, isn’t it?”
Every word tumbled out of this modern, educated woman’s shapely lips with lucid articulation. On hearing so many obscure words all at once, thickheaded Makhanlal became even more stupid. He could say nothing in response.
“And besides, you have your own motive too. You decided that you would bring us under your control and take revenge on us.”
Makhanlal could hear nothing but meaningless sounds in words like motive and revenge. He groped for words, just as a person gropes in the darkness, but could find nothing to say, nothing that he could say.
“But what you think will not happen, it can never happen.”
Now Makhanlal stood up and said, “I thought nothing, maybe I have created difficulties for you, those difficulties. . please forget them.”
“Only after your money’s returned can we forget. But get it back you will. Maybe it will take time, but we will definitely return it.”