Subha

By Rabindranath Tagore

When the girl was given the name of Subhashini, who could have
guessed that she would prove dumb? Her two elder sisters were
Sukeshini and Suhasini, and for the sake of uniformity her father
named his youngest girl Subhashini. She was called Subha for short.

Her two elder sisters had been married with the usual cost and
difficulty, and now the youngest daughter lay like a silent weight upon
the heart of her parents. All the world seemed to think that, because
she did not speak, therefore she did not feel; it discussed her future
and its own anxiety freely in her presence. She had understood from
her earliest childhood that God had sent her like a curse to her father's
house, so she withdrew herself from ordinary people and tried to live
apart. If only they would all forget her she felt she could endure it. But
who can forget pain? Night and day her parents' minds were aching on
her account. Especially her mother looked upon her as a deformity in
herself. To a mother a daughter is a more closely intimate part of
herself than a son can be; and a fault in her is a source of personal
shame. Banikantha, Subha's father, loved her rather better than his
other daughters; her mother regarded her with aversion as a stain upon
her own body.

If Subha lacked speech, she did not lack a pair of large dark eyes,
shaded with long lashes; and her lips trembled like a leaf in response
to any thought that rose in her mind.

When we express our thought in words, the medium is not found

easily. There must be a process of translation, which is often inexact,
and then we fall into error. But black eyes need no translating; the
mind itself throws a shadow upon them. In them thought opens or
shuts, shines forth or goes out in darkness, hangs steadfast like the
setting moon or like the swift and restless lightning illumines all
quarters of the sky. They who from birth have had no other speech
than the trembling of their lips learn a language of the eyes, endless in
expression, deep as the sea, clear as the heavens, wherein play dawn
and sunset, light and shadow. The dumb have a lonely grandeur like
Nature's own. Wherefore the other children almost dreaded Subha and
never played with her. She was silent and companionless as noontide.
The hamlet where she lived was Chandipur. Its river, small for a river
of Bengal, kept to its narrow bounds like a daughter of the middle
class. This busy streak of water never overflowed its banks, but went
about its duties as though it were a member of every family in the
villages beside it. On either side were houses and banks shaded with
trees. So stepping from her queenly throne, the river-goddess became
a garden deity of each home, and forgetful of herself performed her
task of endless benediction with swift and cheerful foot.

Banikantha's house looked out upon the stream. Every hut and stack in
the place could be seen by the passing boatmen. I know not if amid
these signs of worldly wealth any one noticed the little girl who, when
her work was done, stole away to the waterside and sat there. But here
Nature fulfilled her want of speech and spoke for her. The murmur of
the brook, the voice of the village folk, the songs of the boatmen, the
crying of the birds and rustle of trees mingled and were one with the
trembling of her heart. They became one vast wave of sound which
beat upon her restless soul. This murmur and movement of Nature
were the dumb girl's language; that speech of the dark eyes, which the
long lashes shaded, was the language of the world about her. From the
trees, where the cicalas chirped, to the quiet stars there was nothing
but signs and gestures, weeping and sighing. And in the deep mid-
noon, when the boatmen and fisher-folk had gone to their dinner,
when the villagers slept and birds were still, when the ferry-boats
were idle, when the great busy world paused in its toil and became
suddenly a lonely, awful giant, then beneath the vast impressive
heavens there were only dumb Nature and a dumb girl, sitting very
silent,--one under the spreading sunlight, the other where a small tree
cast its shadow.

But Subha was not altogether without friends. In the stall were two
cows, Sarbbashi and Panguli. They had never heard their names from
her lips, but they knew her footfall. Though she had no words, she
murmured lovingly and they understood her gentle murmuring better
than all speech. When she fondled them or scolded or coaxed them,
they understood her better than men could do. Subha would come to
the shed and throw her arms round Sarbbashi's neck; she would rub
her cheek against her friend's, and Panguli would turn her great kind
eyes and lick her face. The girl paid them three regular visits every
day and others that were irregular. Whenever she heard any words that
hurt her, she would come to these dumb friends out of due time. It was
as though they guessed her anguish of spirit from her quiet look of
sadness. Coming close to her, they would rub their horns softly
against her arms, and in dumb, puzzled fashion try to comfort her.
Besides these two, there were goats and a kitten; but Subha had not
the same equality of friendship with them, though they showed the
same attachment. Every time it got a chance, night or day, the kitten
would jump into her lap, and settle down to slumber, and show its
appreciation of an aid to sleep as Subha drew her soft fingers over its
neck and back.

Subha had a comrade also among the higher animals, and it is hard to
say what were the girl's relations with him; for he could speak, and his
gift of speech left them without any common language. He was the
youngest boy of the Gosains, Pratap by name, an idle fellow. After
long effort, his parents had abandoned the hope that he would ever
make his living. Now losels have this advantage, that, though their
own folk disapprove of them, they are generally popular with every
one else. Having no work to chain them, they become public property.
Just as every town needs an open space where all may breathe, so a
village needs two or three gentlemen of leisure, who can give time to
all; then, if we are lazy and want a companion, one is to hand.

Pratap's chief ambition was to catch fish. He managed to waste a lot of

time this way, and might be seen almost any afternoon so employed. It
was thus most often that he met Subha. Whatever he was about, he
liked a companion; and, when one is catching fish, a silent companion
is best of all. Pratap respected Subha for her taciturnity, and, as every
one called her Subha, he showed his affection by calling her Su.
Subha used to sit beneath a tamarind, and Pratap, a little distance off,
would cast his line. Pratap took with him a small allowance of betel,
and Subha prepared it for him. And I think that, sitting and gazing a
long while, she desired ardently to bring some great help to Pratap, to
be of real aid, to prove by any means that she was not a useless burden
to the world. But there was nothing to do. Then she turned to the
Creator in prayer for some rare power, that by an astonishing miracle
she might startle Pratap into exclaiming: "My! I never dreamt our Su
could have done this!"

Only think, if Subha had been a water nymph, she might have risen
slowly from the river, bringing the gem of a snake's crown to the
landing-place. Then Pratap, leaving his paltry fishing, might dive into
the lower world, and see there, on a golden bed in a palace of silver,
whom else but dumb little Su, Banikantha's child? Yes, our Su, the
only daughter of the king of that shining city of jewels! But that might
not be, it was impossible. Not that anything is really impossible, but
Su had been born, not into the royal house of Patalpur, but into
Banikantha's family, and she knew no means of astonishing the
Gosains' boy.

Gradually she grew up. Gradually she began to find herself. A new
inexpressible consciousness like a tide from the central places of the
sea, when the moon is full, swept through her. She saw herself,
questioned herself, but no answer came that she could understand.

Once upon a time, late on a night of full moon, she slowly opened her
door and peeped out timidly. Nature, herself at full moon, like lonely
Subha, was looking down on the sleeping earth. Her strong young life
beat within her; joy and sadness filled her being to its brim; she
reached the limits even of her own illimitable loneliness, nay, passed
beyond them. Her heart was heavy, and she could not speak. At the
skirts of this silent troubled Mother there stood a silent troubled girl.

The thought of her marriage filled her parents with an anxious care.
People blamed them, and even talked of making them outcasts.
Banikantha was well off; they had fish-curry twice daily; and
consequently he did not lack enemies. Then the women interfered, and
Bani went away for a few days. Presently he returned and said: "We
must go to Calcutta."

They got ready to go to this strange country. Subha's heart was heavy
with tears, like a mist-wrapt dawn. With a vague fear that had been
gathering for days, she dogged her father and mother like a dumb
animal. With her large eyes wide open, she scanned their faces as
though she wished to learn something. But not a word did they
vouchsafe. One afternoon in the midst of all this, as Pratap was
fishing, he laughed: "So then, Su, they have caught your bridegroom,
and you are going to be married! Mind you don't forget me
altogether!" Then he turned his mind again to his fish. As a stricken
doe looks in the hunter's face, asking in silent agony: "What have I
done to you?" so Subha looked at Pratap. That day she sat no longer
beneath her tree. Banikantha, having finished his nap, was smoking in
his bedroom when Subha dropped down at his feet and burst out
weeping as she gazed towards him. Banikantha tried to comfort her,
and his cheek grew wet with tears.
It was settled that on the morrow they should go to Calcutta. Subha
went to the cow-shed to bid farewell to her childhood's comrades. She
fed them with her hand; she clasped their necks; she looked into their
faces, and tears fell fast from the eyes which spoke for her. That night
was the tenth of the moon. Subha left her room, and flung herself
down on her grassy couch beside her dear river. It was as if she threw
her arms about Earth, her strong silent mother, and tried to say: "Do
not let me leave you, mother. Put your arms about me, as I have put
mine about you, and hold me fast."

One day in a house in Calcutta, Subha's mother dressed her up with

great care. She imprisoned her hair, knotting it up in laces, she hung
her about with ornaments, and did her best to kill her natural beauty.
Subha's eyes filled with tears. Her mother, fearing they would grow
swollen with weeping, scolded her harshly, but the tears disregarded
the scolding. The bridegroom came with a friend to inspect the bride.
Her parents were dizzy with anxiety and fear when they saw the god
arrive to select the beast for his sacrifice. Behind the stage, the mother
called her instructions aloud, and increased her daughter's weeping
twofold, before she sent her into the examiner's presence. The great
man, after scanning her a long time, observed: "Not so bad."

He took special note of her tears, and thought she must have a tender
heart. He put it to her credit in the account, arguing that the heart,
which to-day was distressed at leaving her parents, would presently
prove a useful possession. Like the oyster's pearls, the child's tears
only increased her value, and he made no other comment.

The almanac was consulted, and the marriage took place on an

auspicious day. Having delivered over their dumb girl into another's
hands, Subha's parents returned home. Thank God! Their caste in this
and their safety in the next world were assured! The bridegroom's
work lay in the west, and shortly after the marriage he took his wife
thither.

In less than ten days every one knew that the bride was dumb! At
least, if any one did not, it was not her fault, for she deceived no one.
Her eyes told them everything, though no one understood her. She
looked on every hand, she found no speech, she missed the faces,
familiar from birth, of those who had understood a dumb girl's
language. In her silent heart there sounded an endless, voiceless
weeping, which only the Searcher of Hearts could hear.
WORDS TO BE STUDIED

=uniformity.= From the Latin "unus," meaning "one" and "forma"

meaning "form." Compare _universe_, _unison_, _unite_,
_formalism_, _formation_, _reform_, _deformed_, _deformity_ (the
last word occurs in the next paragraph of the story).

=translation.= The Latin word meaning "to bring" has two roots, viz.
"fer" and "lat." This word is taken from the second root. We have the
two parallel series of words in English:

transfer, refer, confer, differ, etc. translate, relate, collate, dilate, etc.

=puzzled.= This is one of the few words in the English language

whose origin is doubtful. It probably comes from the word to "pose"
(which itself is a shortened form of "oppose") meaning to set forward
a difficult problem.

=losels.= An uncommon English word meaning a person who is good

for nothing. The word is derived from the verb to "lose."

=taciturnity.= The Latin word "tacitus," means "quiet" or "silent."

Compare _tacit_, _tacitly_, _reticence_, _reticent_.

=My!= This is used by common people in England. It is probably the

short form of "My eye!"

=dogged.= The word in this sense means to follow like a dog; to

follow closely. From this we have the adjective "dogged" pronounced
as two syllables dog-géd, meaning persevering, persistent, never
giving in, e.g. doggéd courage.

=disregarded.= From the French "garder" or "guarder," meaning "to

keep." This French word appears in many English forms. Compare
_reward_, _guard_, _guerdon_, _guardian_, _ward_, _warder_,
_regard_.

=dizzy.= This word comes from an old Saxon root, which has left
many words in modern English. Compare _daze_, _dazed_, _dazzle_,
_doze_, _drowse_, _drowsy_.
=deceived.= From the Latin word "capere," meaning to take. The
English verbs such as "receive," "conceive," "perceive" have come
into English from the French. The Latin root is more clearly seen in
the nouns such as "deception," "reception," "perception," etc. It should
be carefully noticed that these "French" forms are spelt _eive_ instead
of _ieve_. A simple rule is this, that after _c_ write _ei_ not _ie_, but
after other consonants write _ie_. Compare the spelling of _believe_,
_grieve_, _relieve_ with that of _receive_, _deceive_.