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Updated: May 13, 2025
It is no use trying to check their extravagance; one is glad enough if they stop short of ruin. If my Nikhil had not been busy dressing up his wife there is no knowing whom else he might have spent his money on!" So whenever any new dress of mine arrived she used to send for my husband and make merry over it. Thus it came about that it was her taste which changed.
On inquiry, I learnt that he had been sent off to some other part of the estates, and that his wages had not suffered by such transfer. I could catch glimpses of the ravages of the storm raging over this, behind the scenes. All I can say is, that Nikhil is a curious creature, quite out of the common.
So, as I was saying, illusion alone is real it is the flute itself; while truth is but its empty hollow. Nikhil has of late got a taste of that pure emptiness one can see it in his face, which pains even me. But it was Nikhil's boast that he wanted the Truth, while mine was that I would never let go illusion from my grasp. Each has been suited to his taste, so why complain?
He took out at the same time the jewel-casket from under his tunic and put it down, and then left us with hasty steps. "Listen to me, Sandip," my husband called after him. "I have not the time, Nikhil," said Sandip as he paused near the door. "The Mussulmans, I am told, have taken me for an invaluable gem, and are conspiring to loot me and hide me away in their graveyard.
"The intrusion of strength," said Nikhil impatiently, "where strength is out of place, does not help you in your work ... But why are we arguing about these things? Vain arguments only brush off the fresh bloom of truth." I wanted Bee to join in the discussion, but she had not said a word up to now.
In the beginning it lies, a little thing, in some dark under-vault, and ends by overthrowing the whole superstructure. The real tragedy is, that man does not know himself for what he really is. Then again there is Nikhil. Crank though he be, laugh at him as I may, I cannot get rid of the idea that he is my friend.
"It is Nikhil himself who has to buy up that Indian mill yarn; he has had to start a weaving school to get it woven; and to judge by his past brilliant business exploits, by the time his cotton fabrics leave the loom their cost will be that of cloth-of-gold; so they will only find a use, perhaps, as curtains for his drawing-room, even though their flimsiness may fail to screen him.
Even an outrageously good man fails in keeping up his pride of truthfulness before his wife if she be the proper kind of woman. "He insolently stood in the way when Sandip Babu was coming in here," continued Bee. "He said he had orders ..." "Whose orders?" asked Nikhil. "How am I to know?" exclaimed Bee impatiently, her eyes brimming over with mortification.
In the present chapter of my life, which is growing in interest every day round Bimala and Nikhil, there is also much that remains hidden underneath.
I will just take a book I left here, and run away." With which I took up my book from the table. "Lucky you did not think of glancing over its pages," I continued, "or you would have wanted to chastise me." "Indeed! Why?" asked Bee. "Because it is not poetry," said I. "Only blunt things, bluntly put, without any finicking niceness. I wish Nikhil would read it."
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