Kadampur is a country village which is destitute of natural or artificial attractions and quite unknown to fame. Its census population is barely 1,500, four-fifths of whom are low-caste Hindus, engaged in cultivation and river-fishing; the rest Mohammadans, who follow the same avocations but dwell in a PÁrÁ (quarter) of their own. The Bhadralok, or Upper Crust, consists of two Brahman and ten Kayastha (writer-caste) families. Among the latter group Kumodini Kanta Basu’s took an unquestioned lead. He had amassed a modest competence as sub-contractor in the Commissariat during the second Afghan War, and retired to enjoy it in his ancestral village. His first care was to rebuild the family residence, a congenial task which occupied five years and made a large hole in his savings. It slowly grew into a masonry structure divided into two distinct MahÁls (wings)—the first inhabited by men-folk; the second sacred to the ladies and their attendants. Behind it stood the kitchen; and the PujardÁlÁn (family temple) occupied a conspicuous place in front, facing south. The usual range of brick cattle-sheds and servants’ quarters made up quite an imposing group of buildings.

Villagers classed amongst the gentry are wont to gather daily at some Chandimandap (a rustic temple dedicated to the goddess Durga, attached to most better-class houses). Kumodini Babu’s was a favourite rendezvous, and much time was killed there in conversation, card-playing, and chess. Among the group assembled, one crisp afternoon in February, was an old gentleman, called ShÁmsundar Ghosh, and known to hosts of friends as “ShÁm Babu”. He was head clerk in a Calcutta merchant’s office, drawing Rs. 60 a month (£48 a year at par), which sufficed for the support of his wife and a son and daughter, respectively named Susil and Shaibalini. After a vain attempt to make two ends meet in expensive Calcutta, he had settled down at the outskirts of Kadampur, which has a railway station within half an hour’s run of the Metropolis. ShÁm Babu’s position and character were generally respected by neighbours, who flocked to his house for Calcutta gossip.

On this particular occasion talk ran on Kadampur requirements, and somebody opined that another tank for bathing and drinking purposes ought to be excavated at once; he did not say by whom.

“True,” observed Sham Babu, “but a market is still more necessary. We have to trudge four miles for our vegetables and fish, which are obtainable in a more or less stale condition only twice a week. If one were started here, it would be a great boon to ten villages at least.” Kumodini Babu assented, without further remark, and the subject dropped.

It came up again on the following Sunday, when Kumodini Babu said to his friend:—

“I have been thinking about your idea of a market in this village, and should like, if possible, to establish one myself. How much would it cost me? As an old commissariat contractor, I am well up in the price of grain, fodder and ghi (clarified butter used in cooking), but I really know very little about other things.”

The confession elicited a general laugh, and ShÁm Babu replied, “It will be a matter of Rs. 200”.

“Two hundred rupees! Surely that is far too much for a range of huts.”

“True enough. Your own bamboo clumps, straw-stacks and stores of cordage would provide raw material; and as for labour, all you have to do is to order some of your ryots (tenants) who are behindhand with their rent to work for you gratis.”

“That would be contrary to my principles. How are these poor people to live while engaged in begÁr (forced labour) on my behalf? They must be paid.”

“Very well, then, let us set apart Rs. 20 to meet the cost of market buildings. But, for the first few weeks, you will have to buy up the unsold stock of perishable goods brought by Farias (hucksters); you must patronise the shopkeepers who open stalls for selling grain, cloth, confectionery, tobacco and trinkets. Once these people find that they are making fair profits they will gladly pay you rent for space allotted, besides tolls on the usual scale. At least Rs. 180 must be set apart for these preliminary expenses.”

Kumodini Babu never did anything in haste. A fortnight elapsed ere he announced to the neighbours gathered in his Chandimandap that he intended starting a bi-weekly market on a vacant plot measuring one Bigha (one-third of an acre), known as the KamÁrbÁri (Anglice, “Abode of Blacksmiths”). On an auspicious day towards the end of April, he inaugurated the new enterprise with some ceremony. His own ryots were enjoined to attend; shopkeepers, hucksters, and fishermen who had hitherto gone much further afield, came in considerable numbers; and business was amazingly brisk. Zemindars (landed proprietors) generally have to wait for months and spend money like water before they gain a pice (a bronze coin worth a farthing) from a new market. Kumodini Babu, however, began to reap where he had sown in less than a fortnight. Not an inch of space in the KarmÁrbÁri remained unoccupied; his HÁt-Gomastha, or bailiff, levied rent and tolls for vendors, at whose request the market was proclaimed a tri-weekly one. His fame as a man of energy and public spirit spread over ten villages, whose people felt that he was one who would give them good counsel in times of difficulty.

There is some truth in the notion that fortune’s gifts seldom come singly. Kumodini Babu’s success in a business venture was immediately followed by one in his domestic affairs. It fell out in this wise. ShÁm Babu’s daughter, Shaibalini, was still unmarried, though nearly thirteen and beautiful enough to be the pride of Kadampur. Money was, indeed, the only qualification she lacked, and Sham Babu’s comparative poverty kept eligible suitors at a distance. For three years he had sought far and wide for a son-in-law and was beginning to fear that he might, after all, be unable to fulfil the chief duty of a Hindu parent. One evening his wife unexpectedly entered the parlour where he was resting after a heavy day at office.

“Why has the moon risen so early?” he asked.

“Because the moon can’t do otherwise,” she answered, with a faint smile. “But, joking apart, I want to consult you about Saili. Our neighbour Kanto Babu’s wife called on me just before you returned from Calcutta, and, after beating about the bush, suggested Kumodini Babu’s younger son, Nalini, as a suitable match for her.”

ShÁm Babu’s face wore a worried look.

“Surely that would be flying too high for such as us,” he rejoined. “The Basus are comparatively rich, and very proud of their family which settled here during the Mughal days (i.e., before British rule, which in Bengal date from 1765). Young Nalini is reading for his B.A. examination and wants to be a pleader (advocate). Kumodini Babu would hardly allow his son to marry the daughter of a poor clerk.”

“Still, there is no harm in trying,” remarked the wife. “If you don’t feel equal to approaching him, there’s Kanto Babu who would do so. It was his wife who broached the subject to me, which makes me think that they have been discussing it together.”

“An excellent idea,” exclaimed ShÁm Babu. “I’ll go to him at once.” And taking his stick, he set out for Kanto Babu’s house, which was barely fifty yards off. In half an hour he returned to gladden his wife with the news that their neighbour had consented to act as a go-between.

Kanto Babu was as good as his word. That very evening he called on Kumodini Babu, whom he found reading the MahÁbhÁrata (an epic poem). After dwelling now on this matter, now on that, he asked casually:—

“Have you never thought of getting Nalini married? He is over twenty, I believe.”

“My wife has been urging me to look out for a wife for him, but in my opinion he is too young for such responsibilities. Better wait till he has passed the B.A. examination.”

“Your wife’s idea is sounder than yours, if I may be permitted to say so. Just think of the awful temptations to which unmarried students are exposed in that sink of profligacy, Calcutta! How many promising lads have succumbed to them, wrecking their own lives and causing bitter grief to their parents!”

Kumodini Babu started. “You surprise me! I had no idea that Calcutta was as bad as you paint it. We must certainly get Nalini married at once. I wonder whether you know of a likely match for him. I don’t care about money, but—”

“That I do,” interrupted Kanto Babu, “There’s ShÁm Babu’s daughter, Shaibalini. What a pretty creature she is; modest, loving and kind-hearted! You won’t find her equal in this elÁqa (lit. jurisdiction). If you approve, I will gladly be your spokesman with her family.”

Kumodini Babu mused awhile before answering. “I know Shaibalini well by reputation, and she is all you describe her. ShÁm Babu, too, comes of excellent lineage, though he is not a Zemindar, and depends on service. I should not object to marrying Nalini with his daughter. But wait a bit: what gotra (clan) does he belong to?”

“I believe he is a Dakhin RÁrhi,” answered Kanto Babu.

“But I am an Uttar RÁrhi,” remarked Kumodini Babu. “Is not that a fatal objection?”

For the benefit of non-Hindu readers I may explain that Kayasthas are split into clans—probably a survival of the tribal organisation which preceded the family almost everywhere. According to tradition, a King of Bengal named Ádisur imported five Brahmans, and as many Kayastha servants from Kanauj in Upper India. From the latter are descended the Ghosh, Basu, Mitra, Guha, and Datta families. The first four are generally recognised as KÚlin (Angl., “aristocratic”) Kayasthas, while the Dattas and seven other families are known as Sindhu Maulik—“coming of a good stock”. Ádisur and his companions found 700 Brahmans and the same number of Kayasthas already established in Bengal. These are the supposed ancestors of a large number of Kayastha families still termed Saptasati, “the Seven Hundred”. The ancient Greeks reckoned their neighbours beyond the Hellenic pale as “barbarians”. So Brahmans and Kayasthas of Central Bengal styled their congeners north of the Ganges RÁrh, or “uncivilised”. The epithet survives in Uttar (north) and Dakhin (south) RÁrhi, but has lost its offensive meaning. BÁrendra is another phrase for the inhabitants of a tract north of the Ganges, which answers to the modern districts of Rajshahi, Pabna, and Bogra.

Kanto Babu was evidently perplexed; but after reflecting for a short time he asked, “Now why should such a trifling matter cause any trouble whatever? The time has long since passed away when arbitrary difference of clan was considered a bar to marriage among Kayasthas.”

“You are quite right,” was Kumodini Babu’s reply, “and personally I am above these old-fashioned prejudices. My daughter-in-law may be Dakhin RÁrhi, Banga-ja, or BÁrendri for all I care, provided she be comely, well-mannered and come of good stock. But will ShÁm Babu be equally tolerant?”

“That I can’t say until I have consulted him,” answered Kanto Babu. “One thing more I must know. What is your idea of DenÁ PÁona (a word answering to our ‘settlements’)?”

“RÁm, RÁm!” exclaimed Kumodini Babu. “Am I the man to sell my son for filthy lucre? I hear that Calcutta folks occasionally do so, but I am quite opposed to the custom. Should ShÁm Babu agree to this match, I will make no stipulations whatever as to a money payment. He is in very moderate circumstances, and may give whatever he chooses. Please see him at once and let me have his decision.”

Kanto Babu promised to do so and withdrew, inwardly chuckling over his diplomacy.

ShÁm Babu called on him the same evening to learn its issue. He was delighted to find that Kumodini Babu was not averse to the match, but his face fell on hearing of the difference of clan. Observing his agitation, Kanto Babu observed gently, “I don’t see why a matter, which is not even mentioned in our ShÁstras (holy books), should cause one moment’s hesitation. Pluck up your courage, man, and all will go well.”

“Perhaps so,” murmured ShÁm Babu. “But I do stand in awe of the SamÁj” (a caste-assembly which pronounces excommunication for breaches of custom).

“That’s all nonsense! Look at our friend KunjalÁl Babu who has just married his son to a BÁrendri girl. Is he an outcast? Certainly not. It is true that the ultra-orthodox kicked a bit at first; but they all came round, and joined in the ceremony with zest. I can quote scores of similar instances to prove that this prejudice against marrying into a different clan is quite out of date.”

ShÁm Babu had nothing to urge in opposition to these weighty arguments. He promised to let Kanto Babu have a definite reply on the morrow and kept his word. Having endured a curtain lecture from his wife, who proved to him that an alliance with the Basu family offered advantages far outweighing the slight risk there was of excommunication, he authorised Kanto Babu to assure Kumodini Babu that the proposed match had his hearty approval. Once preliminaries were satisfactorily settled, all other arrangements proceeded apace. The PÁkÁ DekhÁ is a solemn visit paid by males of the future bridegroom’s family to that of his betrothed, during which they are feasted and decide all details regarding the marriage ceremonies. It passed off without a hitch, and the purohit (family priest) fixed SravÁn 17th as an auspicious day for consummating the union. Thenceforward preparations were made for celebrating it in a manner worthy of the esteem in which both families were held.

Kumodini Babu issued invitations to all his relatives. Chief amongst these was a younger brother, GhaneshyÁm Basu by name, who practised as a pleader (advocate) at Ghoria, where he had built a house after disposing of his interest in the family estate to Kumodini Babu. This important person was asked to supervise the ceremonies, inasmuch as Kumodini Babu’s increasing age and infirmities rendered him unfit to do so efficiently, while his eldest son, yclept Jadu Babu, had barely reached man’s estate. The letter of invitation referred incidentally to the difference of clan as a matter of no importance. Kumodini Babu’s disappointment may be conceived when he got an answer from his younger brother, expressing strong disapproval of the match and ending with a threat to sever all connection with the family if it were persisted in! The recipient at first thought of running up to Ghoria, in view of softening GhaneshyÁm Babu’s heart by a personal appeal, but the anger caused by his want of brotherly feeling prevailed. Kumodini Babu and his wife agreed that matters had gone too far to admit of the marriage being broken off. If GhaneshyÁm did not choose to take part in it, so much the worse for him!

Soon after dusk on SravÁn 17th, Nalini entered his palanquin, arrayed in a beautiful costume of Benares silk. The wedding procession set out forthwith, amid a mighty blowing of conch-shells and beating of drums. At 8 P.M. it reached the bride’s abode, where her family, with ShÁm Babu at the head, were ready to receive them. An hour later Nalini was conducted to the inner apartments, where the marriage ceremony began. It lasted until nearly eleven o’clock, when the young couple were taken to the BÁsÁrghar, or nuptial apartment. During these rites the men-folk were perhaps more pleasantly engaged in doing ample justice to a repast provided for them in the outer rooms. Then they chewed betels in blissful rumination, before separating with emphatic acknowledgments of the hospitality they had enjoyed.

On the following afternoon both bridegroom and bride were taken in palanquins to Kumodini Babu’s house, where she instantaneously won every heart by her grace and beauty. Two days later the Bau-BhÁt ceremony was held. This is a feast in the course of which the bride (bau) distributes cooked rice (bhÁt) with her own hands to bidden guests, in token of her reception into her husband’s family and clan. Kumodini Babu had requisitioned an immense supply of dainties from local goÁlas (dairymen) and moiras (confectioners) with a view to eclipsing all previous festivals of the kind.

Early in the morning of the Bau-BhÁt day a palanquin was carried into Kumodini Babu’s courtyard; and who should emerge from it but GhaneshyÁm Babu! He ran up to his brother, who was sitting with some neighbours in the parlour, and, clasping his feet, implored forgiveness. Kumodini Babu’s heart leaped for joy. Tenderly did he embrace the penitent, who admitted that his peace of mind had fled from the moment he penned that cruel letter. He now saw the absurdity of his prejudices, and begged Kumodini Babu to forget his unbrotherly conduct. It is needless to add that the prayer was cordially granted and that GhaneshyÁm Babu received a blessing from his elder brother. Thanks to his supervision the Bau-BhÁt feast passed off at night without the slightest contretemps. Ten years later people still dwelt on the magnificent hospitality they had received, and held Kumodini Babu up as a model to fathers-in-law. In order that all classes might rejoice with him, he remitted a year’s rent to every ryot, besides lavishing considerable sums on Brahmans and poor folk. The more enlightened section of Kayasthas were unanimous in pronouncing him to be a true Hindu, on whose descendants the gods on high would pour down their choicest blessings. There were others, however, whose malignity found material to work on in his disregard of caste prejudices.