1

When the girl was christened as Subhashini, who knew that she would be dumb? Her two elder sisters were named as Sukeshini and Suhashini. When the request to rhyme the name of his youngest daughter came to his elder ones, the father named her as Subhashini. Thereafter, in was shortened into Subha.

After a lot of research and spending quite a lot of money, his two elder daughters were married off; the youngest one, now, was like a burden, filling the hearts of her parents.

Not many realized the fact, that although she could hardly communicate, she had deep feelings. Not understanding this, people spoke about her misfortune, in her presence, expressing concern about her future. At a very tender age, it dawned upon her that her birth in her father’s house, was nothing but a curse. Therefore, she always hid herself away from the sight of the commoners, staying in the sidelines. In her mind, the words reverberated, I wish they forgot me! But alas! like a persistent pain in their heart, her presence was never forgotten by her parents.  It was her mother, who especially, looked upon her as an aberration of herself: a mother always viewed her daughter as being an extension of her own self. If the daughter was found to be lacking in any area, it became a cause of shame for her. Subha’s father, Banikantha, however, loved Subha a tiny bit more than his other daughters; but in her mother’s eyes, she was a shameful reminder of her womb. As such, she had little love lost for Subha.
           

Subha lacked words, she could not talk, but she had a pair of dark, large, deep-pooled eyes and her lips trembled like fragile leaves, whenever a thought arose in her mind.

When we express ourselves with words, the expressions bear our own stamp; it is quite similar to translation, in a way. Not always is it accurate and with our inability to express, at times, we err. But no words are needed to translate a pair of dark eyes— mind itself lends them a meaning of its own. In their depths, thoughts rise and fall, at times shining brightly or shrinking in light, holding a steadfast gaze, like the setting moon or like the restless scattering away of the strains of lightening. The one for whom there existed no other expression, other than the ones that flitted across her face; it was a wonder to know that the language of her eyes was abysmally deep. Much like the clear sky, where light and shadow, played eternally. There exists a grandeur, as deep as nature, in these silent, mute personas. Normal children, therefore, were afraid of her silence, and refused to play with her. Subha was alone and speechless, very much like the lonely afternoons.  

                                   
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Chandipur— that was the name of the village, where Subha lived. A river flew by the village, a small river of Bengal, respecting its boundary, much like the daughters of the middleclass families. The not so broad, svelte river flew industriously, protecting its banks; it was, as if, she shared a relation with the villagers residing on both sides of her shaded shores. A little below the village, the river trotted happily, like a village goddess, gracefully carrying forth her numerous works of goodwill.

Right there, looking out at the river, was Banikantha’s home. No boatmen, passing that way, could miss his small hut, stacked with hay, encircled by the tamarind grove, and the orchard of mango, jackfruit and banana. I don’t know if, amidst this material richness, anyone had any eye for the dumb girl, but in her free time, having finished her chores, she often would come and sit by the river shore.

It was as if the loving nature spoke on behalf of her, compensating her lack of speech. The babbling of the brook, the noise of people, the song of the boatmen, rustling of leaves, all came together, mingling with the back and forth of our entire existence. Like a wave, it splashed across the shore of her heart. Like the various sound and movement in nature, this too, was the language of silence. And it was also the language of Subha, Subha with her deep-pooled, dark eyes, shaded by long lashes. From the chirping crickets in the grassland to the silent, sprawling space between the constellations, there existed only allusions, signs, music, moans and whispers, for her.

And in the midday, when the boatmen and the fishermen, went away for their meal, the householders enjoyed their siesta, when the birds fell silent for a while and the ferry boats stopped their service, when the entire world seemed to suddenly pause in the midst of all works, and fell quiet, like a lonesome giant, then under that vast heavenly sky, there sat in silence a mute girl facing a dumb nature- one resting under the boundless sunlight and the other, under the shade of a small tree.
           

Subha did have a handful of intimate friends. Sorboshi and Panguli, the two cows at the stable, recognized her by her footsteps, even though they never heard her call out their names. In her murmurings, there was a gentleness, which they felt and understood, much better than any language. When she petted them, or scolded them, or even pleaded with them, those cows understood her feelings better than humans.
           

Inside the stable, Subha would put her arms around Sorboshi’s neck, rub her cheek against the cow’s ears and Panguli would look at them, with her kind eyes, licking her fondly. Thrice a day, Subha would visit the stable regularly; and then, there were those irregular visits. She would most surely come visiting these two mute friends, whenever she was rebuked harshly at home. By some unusual sense of inference, they could fathom the pains of the girl’s heart from the look of anguish on her face. Coming closer to Subha, they’d rub their horns against her arms, trying to bring comfort to her silent distress.
           

Other than them, there was also a goat and a kitten, but with them, Subha did not share the same level of friendship, although that did not stop them from showing their allegiance to her. The kitten occupied her warm lap, irrespective of day or night, and there it slept soundly; and, when Subha ran her soft fingers on its neck and back, it did not forget to indicate that her soothing massage especially helped him in courting sleep.

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Among the higher species, Subha also acquired another mate, but the nature of the relation that she shared with him, was difficult to surmise. The reason was because, he could speak. As a result, there was no common language among them.
           

His name was Pratap, he was the youngest son of the Gosain family. Lazy that he was, his parents had given up all hopes that he’d be ever be employed for any work. Such idle people had a huge advantage. Although they would earn the irk of their relatives, they would, often, be loved by others. They became almost like public property, as no work bound them strictly. Just as a city must have a few open, public gardens, where people would come together, for a breathing space, in the same way, every village must also have a few people of leisure. In times of need, be it for work or for entertainment, they always came in handy.

Pratap loved fishing, as it helped him idle away a lot of his time. Most of the afternoons, he’d be seen engaged in this activity. Due to this, his meetings with Subha were most frequent. Pratap always felt good when he had her company, no matter which task he’d be engaged with. A silent, mute companion was indeed the best one to have while fishing. Pratap understood that and hence he respected Subha for that. And so, while everyone called her Subha, Pratap showered added affection on her, by calling her “Su”.
           

While Subha would sit under the tamarind tree, a bit further away, Pratap would sit on the ground and stare at the water, angling for the fish with his fishing line. While fishing, Pratap chewed paan (betel leaf),which Subha prepared for him. And, by doing so, perhaps she wished to make it clear to him, by her long gaze, that she, too was a useful person in this world, who might be of some help to him. But she could hardly do anything. Then, in her mind, she turned to the divine, chanting silently for a miraculous power, that would enable her to perform something so extraordinary that might surprise Pratap. And, he would say, “Goodness! I’d no inkling that our Suvi possessed such abilities!”
           

Imagine, if Subha was a mermaid; slowly, rising out of the water, she would place the jewel of the snake’s crown beside the bank and Pratap, dismissing away his miserable fishing, would dive into the river, along with the jewel. Reaching the netherworld, he would discover the princess, sitting on the golden cradle in the silvery palace. Who else could it be, but the mute daughter of Banikantha— our Subha? Could our “Su” not be the sole princess of that deep, quiet, brightly jeweled city? Was it so impossible to be true? Nothing is, in fact, impossible, and yet instead of being born in the royal family of the netherworld, Su was born in Banikantha’s family, thereby having no means to amaze Pratap, the son of the Gosain’s.

4

Subha grew up as time passed. Slowly, she was perhaps able to discover her own self. It was as if, that a wave of tide from the depth of some unknown sea, on a full-moon night, splashed her inner being. Her soul brimmed over with a nameless consciousness. It was time to think and discover herself, question herself; but she found no answers.
           

On a deep full-moon night, at times, she would open the doors of her bedroom, looking out, with fearful eyes. Nature, bathed in the light of full moon, as lonely as Subha, sat awake, looking down at the sleeping earth below. Ecstasy and misery ran through her, saturating her, in her loneliness, and coursed even beyond, unspoken, unspeakable. The mute girl stood quietly at the fringes of nature’s world and she felt troubled.
           

As she grew up, the thoughts of her marriage, started preying hard on the minds of her parents. People around criticized her parents, threatening them to make them an outcast in the village. Banikantha was an affluent man, he could afford to have a meal of rice and fish every day, and hence he also had enemies.
           

After a prolonged discussion with his wife, Bani decided to leave the village for a while. After a while, he returned and said, “Let’s go to Calcutta.”
           

As the preparation began for their departure, Subha’s heart filled with wisps of tears, like a morning breathing in fog. An unknown fear made itself known in her bosom and like a dumb animal, she skirted around her parents; her large eyes scanned their faces, trying hard to comprehend something, but they’d not be forthcoming.
           

One afternoon, while casting the fishing line in water, laughingly Pratap said, “Why, Su, they’ve found a bridegroom for you, you’re going to get married. Don’t forget us, mind you!” And saying that, he concentrated on fishing.
           

Just as a heart-struck doe stares at the hunter and in silences implores, ‘How did I wrong you,’, with such an expression in her eyes, Subha stared at Pratap. That day, she didn’t sit under the tree. His afternoon siesta over, Banikantha was enjoying a drag of tobacco in his bedroom. Sitting next to his feet, Subha broke down into tears, her eyes fixed upon his face. And, trying to console her, Banikantha’s eyes too teared up, wetting his cheeks.
           

On the morrow, it was decided that they would leave for Calcutta. Subha visited the stable to bid adieu to her childhood friends. Feeding them with her own hands, she put her hands around their neck, gazing at them and with her eyes, brimming with tears, spoke to them. Tears, then, coursed down her two eyes.
           

That night, when the moon was on its twelfth day of the fortnight, walking out of her room, Subha reached the riverside, her favorite place. There, under the glorious moon, she threw herself on the soft grassy bed. It was as if, with her two arms, she wished to hold her mute, Mother Earth, imploring to her, “Oh, don’t let me leave, Mother. Hold me tight, Ma, as I’m trying to hold you, and keep me here.”
           

One fine day, Subha’s mother dressed her up, in their Calcutta home. Her hair was tightly pulled back, tied with ribbons and she was heavily decked up with ornaments. With this, her mother managed to kill her natural loveliness. As tears ran down Subha’s eyes, her mother, afraid that it might give her eyes a swollen look, scolded her. But alas! the tears had no ears for her rebuke.
           

With a friend in tow, the bridegroom himself came for bride-viewing. Subha’s parents, worried and alarmed, they fussed and bustled, as if God himself had arrived to select the beast of sacrifice. From the backstage, her mother volleyed out numerous instructions, which only increased the flow of Subha’s tears, as she came and stood before the prober.
           

After examining her for long, the bridegroom declared, “Well, not so bad.”
           

Observing carefully the girl’s tears, he deduced that she was of a tender heart and came to the conclusion that if the heart was saddened today, at the thought of bidding farewell to her parents, why, it must then surely be a possession worthy for him in future. Like the pearl in the oyster, her teardrops increased her worth, but further argued nothing more on her behalf.
           

The marriage took place on an auspicious moment as decreed by the almanac.
           

Having delivered the dumb girl into someone else’s hands, her parents left for their village. And thankfully, it saved them from being an outcast in their village community.
           

The groom took Subha to the place where he worked, in the west part of the country.
           

Within a week, everyone understood that the new bride could not speak, that she was dumb. But if anyone had trouble understanding the obvious, she couldn’t be blamed for that. For she hadn’t deceived anyone, her eyes had spoken everything; but none had comprehended her truth. Around herself, she found no words, her eyes searched for the familiar faces, those who understood her mute language, ever since her birth and breath. In her silent heart, there arose an inexpressible, unending wail. Nobody heard it but her God.
           

Later, her husband, after duly inspecting with his eyes and ears, brought a new bride home- one who had the gift of the language and could talk.

Magh, 1299