Swarnakumari Devi

Translated from Bengali ’Kshama’, 1893

‘Conquer anger with patience, evil with goodness,

the miserly through generosity, and falsehood through truth.’

Everyone in this world hopes to be forgiven. Whether intentionally or unintentionally, people are bound to wrong one another at some time or another. But if everyone were to take revenge for every offence committed against them, would not the world become a dwelling place of unrest? In truth, the world is peaceful because forgiveness is possible.

Forgiving comes naturally when there is love. Because we cherish our own kin, we are ever ready to pardon their faults. The truly noble-hearted extend this same love to the entire world, viewing others as they view themselves; thus, they readily forgive even their adversaries. If you wish to be forgiven by others, learn to forgive them. If you wish to turn even an enemy into a friend, repay the harm done to you by doing good.

The Raipur garden had blossomed into a place of exquisite beauty. Creepers wound gracefully around the trees, and the golden rays of the setting sun danced upon the leaves. Beneath the bakul and kamini trees, flowers were beginning to bloom like little stars. Here and there, thick patches of grass lay like beds spread out for the little boys and girls. All the girls of Raipur had come to play there that afternoon. Some were gathering flowers, some were playing goti, and others were running about beneath the trees.

Under a bakul tree, Amala and Bimala were busy gathering flowers. Plop! Plop! The flowers showered down, landing softly on their heads. In their eager haste, they accidentally crushed some buds beneath their fingers, and as they tried to bundle the harvest securely into the folds of their saris they dropped others.

As they gathered flowers, Bimala suddenly straightened up and cried anxiously, ‘Amala, come this way, quickly! There she comes.’

Amala looked up, and at the mere sight of Lakshmi approaching, the flowers dropped from her sari in sheer terror. Frozen with fear, her feet felt rooted to the ground.

In a moment Lakshmi arrived. She was cruel to the other girls, and everyone feared her, looking upon her almost as they would upon Yama, the god of death. Lakshmi’s father, however, was one of the wealthiest men in the village. Whatever she did, no one dared to challenge her. Lakshmi had noticed that she was never punished, and so she did whatever she pleased without fear.

Twisting her face angrily and glaring, Lakshmi seized Amala by the hand and dragged her roughly along. Turning to Bimala, she said, ‘Well, Bimala, where do you get the nerve? Didn’t I tell you the other day that none of you was to gather flowers beneath this tree? And here you are again! If I catch you here once more, I’ll break your bones.’

Amala burst into tears. Bimala gently took her hand and led her away. Lakshmi gathered the flowers from their sari-ends into her own and scattered them about as she walked. A little farther on, she came upon several girls playing goti. At the sight of Lakshmi, the girls continued their game nervously.

‘I’m going to play,’ Lakshmi announced.

One of the girls said quietly, ‘Let this round be finished first.’

Lakshmi grew furious. ‘What? You won’t let me play? Let’s see who dares to let you continue this round!’ She flung all the playing pieces in every direction and stormed away, seething with anger. As soon as she turned her back, the girls raised their hands as though to strike her and muttered insults under their breath. They were too frightened to say anything to her face, so they took their revenge in this way behind her back.

Walking away, Lakshmi spotted Kusum plucking blossoms from a screw-pine bush near the edge of the pond. Already irritated, the sight of Kusum taking the flowers drove her over the edge. In her mind, no one but she had any right to the treasures of the garden. Without a word of warning, she strode over and struck Kusum across the face. But as she pulled her hand back, a sharp, jagged thorn from the bush caught her skin, slicing it open. Crimson blood immediately began to flow from the wound.

Kusum was deeply distressed. She forgot that Lakshmi had struck her and that Lakshmi had often treated her cruelly. With tears in her eyes, Kusum took Lakshmi to the edge of the pond and seated her there. Then she wet the end of her own sari and repeatedly bathed Lakshmi’s injured hand with water.

Lakshmi had never experienced such grace in her entire life. She was utterly paralyzed with shame and deep remorse. Kusum’s pure kindness struck a hidden, silent chord within her soul—a place no human hand had ever managed to touch before. It was a moment of sudden, divine awakening.

After a quiet interlude, she spoke softly, ‘Kusum, no one has ever granted me the lesson you gave me today. I shall never forget your goodness. In remembrance of this day, I will spend the rest of my life trying to be just like you.’

From that day onward, Lakshmi’s nature truly changed. She was never again seen ill-treating anyone. Whenever, out of old habit, she was about to strike someone, she would remember what had happened that day. Remorse would rise within her, and she would immediately stop herself from doing wrong, resolving to become as good as Kusum.

Thus, little by little, Lakshmi truly became worthy of her name.

* * *

Many years drifted by, and Lakshmi was now married. After a long absence, she returned from her husband’s home to her parents’ house. Having learned the art of loving others, she found herself deeply loved by the entire village in return. All her childhood playmates rushed to greet her—all except Kusum Where was Kusum? Perhaps Kusum was no longer a daughter of this earth; perhaps she had gone to bloom in heaven.

That afternoon, Lakshmi walked down to the old childhood garden. She wandered through the grounds with a heavy, melancholic heart. The familiar trees, the soft patches of green grass, and the radiant beauty of the flowers all whispered sweet, nostalgic memories of her youth.

Slowly, her steps guided her to the screw-pine bush right by the quiet pond. She stood there silently. It was on this very spot that she had received the defining lesson of her existence. How beautifully Kusum had cleansed her bleeding wound with the cool waters of the pond! What a magnificent, divine way Kusum had chosen to conquer her enemy and elevate her soul!

As the memories flooded back, Lakshmi’s heart wept silently. She whispered to the empty air, ‘Kusum, where have you gone? My eyes can no longer find you in this weary world. You walk now as a goddess in the heavens; yet here, within Lakshmi’s heart, you shall bloom changeless and forever.’

Swarnakumari Devi (1855/1856–1932) was a pioneering Bengali writer, poet, novelist, playwright, composer, editor, and social reformer. Born into the illustrious Tagore family of Jorasanko, Kolkata, she was the daughter of Debendranath Tagore and the elder sister of Rabindranath Tagore. Despite receiving no formal schooling, she acquired proficiency in Sanskrit and English through private tutoring. She authored around 25 books, including novels, plays, poetry, and essays, and composed more than 300 songs. Her novel Dipnirban (1870) established her reputation as a significant literary figure. She also wrote pioneering science essays in Bengali, promoting scientific knowledge among general readers and expanding the language’s scientific vocabulary. As editor of the literary journal Bharati for over three decades, she made a lasting contribution to Bengali literature. In 1886, she founded Sakhi-Samiti to support impoverished women and became an early woman delegate to the Indian National Congress. In 1927, she became the first woman to receive the University of Calcutta’s Jagattarini Gold Medal.