BY M. KRISHNAMURTI

The little village of Rajagarh, standing dreamily on the river-bank, was used to its flaming sunsets. Occasionally, as on this evening, there would be an extra dash of colour and the peacock-blues and flamingo-reds would take on a brighter tinge. Such changes, however, occasioned no comment among the village-folk, except for a chance prediction about the weather.

It was not as if these sons of the soil had no eyes for the beauty of Nature, but their faith had taught them a quiet acceptance of God’s bounty; and, while their hearts might not leap at the sight of a rainbow, they certainly would have wilted in the sordid atmosphere of a town. Nor can we fail to understand why their thoughts should so constantly turn on the weather, for life to these simple-minded garassias meant their little homesteads, their herds and fields, and the prosperity of all three depended on how this variable quantity would behave. Either too much or too little rain was sufficient to leave them resigned to the privations of a lean year ahead.

On this particular evening, several anxious eyes were raised towards the horizon, for the unusual glory of the sunset carrying with it the threat of impending hail, augured ill for the safety of the standing crops. It was, however, not the general anxiety felt in the village that had brought forth the young wife of. Rana Meran Singh on the terrace of the little two- storied house overlooking the landscape. Long and earnestly she gazed at the distance where the road ran out of sight, now and again screening her eyes with her hand from the blaze of the setting sun. Leaning against the balustrade, she looked, in her silken skirt of green and gold and the mauve scarf flung loosely round her, like a gorgeous butterfly that had come challenging the colours of the sunset. The labourers working in the countryside had long since grown accustomed to this spot of colour on the white terrace as the shades of evening fell. When, at last, a puff of dust could be seen at the far end of the road, the fair watcher gave a start, and presently a man on horseback emerged into view.

Gaily down the road cantered Rana Meran Singh, son of the chief garassia of Rajagarh. As usual he had been on the track of dacoits; but such was the terror he inspired in the hearts of the outlaws that not the most desperate would care to cross his path. He had, already, accounted for several of the most notorious bandits and it was rumoured that the young Rana bore a charmed life.

Recently there had swept over Kathiawar a fresh wave of brigandage, and for a time the Rajput landholders were forced to fall back on their own swords for the protection of their homes and property. But while many were content to chase the dacoits away, Rana Meran Singh could not bring himself to rest till he had either captured or killed his quarry. With the musket swung across his back, and the trusty sword dangling at the girdle, he made a brave show, riding his horse with the rare grace of a Rajput born to the saddle.

Rupaliba turned away with a sigh of relief. Another day of anxious waiting had passed, and her husband was returning home safe. She did not wait to see him dismount, but harried indoors…..However dearly she loved him, it would not do to let him see that she had been frightened for his safety, That would be unlike a Rajput wife; and Rupaliba was Rajput to her henna-stained finger-tips.

She suddenly remembered that she had not watered the pot of basil, set in the middle of the courtyard below. She was feeling strangely happy–almost gay–and, at all times a creature of moods, she now overflowed with high spirits. Flying down the steps, lightly as a gazelle, she came to a standstill before the pot of basil. The pampered little plant was already showing signs of neglect, and the leaves had dropped. A twinge of girlish remorse shot through Rupaliba, and also a vague sense of premonition, for this little pot of basil had been the sole companion of her leisure hours, ever since she came to live in her husband’s house two years ago. She had tended it with the loving care of a sister, watered it at all odd hours of the day, and given it her tender confidences. The pail of water was standing close by, still brimful, looking, as it seemed, reproachfully at her forgetfulness. She hurriedly emptied the water over the parched roots, and, laying the vessel by, gently caressed the leaves, coaxing the colour back into them with sweet names. When she saw the plant slowly revive under her touch, her spirits again overflowed, and, flinging her arms round the pot, she exclaimed: "Tulsi, sweet Tulsi, keep me, like thyself, ever an auspicious wife."

"Daughter," said a voice, and there was the faintest touch of mockery in the tone, "a true Rajputani is never without her husband, for she dies with him."

Rupaliba looked round, startled. Absorbed in her tender ministrations for the wilted plant, she had not noticed the seated figure of a ‘Sadhu’ in the far corner of the courtyard. For a moment the blush of shame mantled her cheek; but it soon died away at the thought that it was only a ‘Bairagi’ that had seen and overheard her. These wandering ascetics, she knew, enjoyed special privileges and their presence was never challenged in the house of a pious grihastha (householder).

Moving up to the ‘Sadhu,’ who was squatting in the familiar pose of the Buddha, Rupaliba made her obeisance by bending to the ground and touching the holy man’s feet.

"Father," she said, "yours is a hard saying; but give me the boon to die before my husband."

She waited for the blessing, but, looking up, observed that she might, as well, have been addressing a stone idol, for the ascetic was back in his silence as abruptly as he had broken it; and on his features had crept back the impassivity of a mask.

Rupaliba was at a loss to understand this mysterious creature who only spoke in the wrong places, and never vouchsafed you an answer. There was the suspicion of a leer at the outer corners of his half-closed eyes, which gave her a feeling of strange revulsion. Only once before had she experienced a similar feeling when, watching from the terrace of her house, she had seen a stray ‘shikari’ bring down a winging bird. Its mate had flown away with a piteous wail, and all that evening the poor girl had wept her eyes out, with her face buried in the pillow of her bed. Then, too, she had felt the same inability to understand: she could not suggest to herself any reason why the ‘shikari’ should have killed that innocent bird. That it might have been for the sake of its flesh, she could not even dream, for she had the natural horror for flesh-eating of one who has never tasted blood. In the corridor, leading to the courtyard, sounded footsteps. She could easily tell the halting gait of her aged father-in-law. Gathering her skirt, Rupaliba fled upstairs to her apartment.

Custom demanded that she should not be discovered in the presence of her husband’s father. Even before her mother-in-law she had never, of her own accord, unveiled her face. On the day she came to live in her husband’s house, her mother-in-law had, with infinite tenderness, lifted the heavy bridal veil and seen the frightened face of a child. That was how the old lady still remembered her daughter-in-law’s features: a pair of enormous eyes set in the most exquisitely shaped face. She was to know, some months later, what an indomitable spirit lived in that frail, child-like body. Coming suddenly into the kitchen, she had surprised her daughter-in-law busy with the cooking, and the little girl in her hurry to slip the ‘sari’ over her face had let the sleeve edges catch fire; and rather than fail in her respect to the elder woman, she had let her whole arm be severely seared. From the beginning, Rupaliba had won the love of her husband’s family, and this incident now evoked their respect. The old lady, to be sure, gently reproved her daughter-in-law’s excessive zeal for propriety, but from that day she conceived a deep tenderness for this slip of a girl with the heart of a heroine.

It was dark in the little room with the latticed windows. She reached for the earthen lamp, and having taken it down from its niche in the wall, she trimmed the wick with listless fingers. Already her exuberant high spirits had ebbed away, leaving in their wake a feeling of utter weariness. She lighted the wick, and mechanically swung the flame round her household gods. This business of lighting the lamp was one of Rupaliba’s treasured little acts. She had always felt a secret sense of security as each little icon on the wall stood out for a moment with the light of the moving lamp. It gave her a feeling that all her little deities were there, though unseen, protecting her and hers from harm. This evening she was surprised to find that the ceremony had lost its meaning; she noticed, too, for the first time, that several of the pictures were faded and required to be replaced.

This strange disillusionment added to her depression. It came to her that all her life she had been playing with toys, that she had not really grown out of her childhood. She replaced the earthen lamp in its niche, and observed that, in spite of the closeness in the air, the flame continually flickered. Normally, this would have perturbed her greatly–for a flickering lamp is portentous of evil. But everything seemed to have lost its significance this evening. There was only a sense of unreality left–and of helplessness. Suddenly she had a craving for air; the room felt insufferably warm and suffocating. Throwing open the side door, she stepped into the covered balcony. A gust of wind blew, bringing with it the sound of a voice–his voice! Peering through the lattice-work, she could make out by the afterglow a little knot of men grouped before the front doorstep. Yes, there he was, facing the group–her husband, the adored idol of her heart.

Idol! Yes, the greatest idol in her pantheon–and the most abiding. What did it matter if the lesser divinities should forsake her at moments? He would always be there to receive her loving homage. To him she would swing the lights of her devotion–and they would never flicker….Ah! But when would the night come? The night which made him so exclusively hers: she longed for the moment of reunion, and in great tides of well-being her sense of reality was restored.

She strained her ears to listen, for she heard the gay lilt of his voice break out again, like a merry ripple, and again she felt the same exquisite longing for the night.

"And whom do you think I met at the Durbar today? Why, none other than the famous Captain Bhim Singh, the new Superintendent of Police." And a smile of amused contempt flit across the young Rana’s features.

"The conquering hero, who always arrives on the scene when the dacoits have safely made away with their booty?" jeered the crowd.

"The very man," laughed back Rana Meran Singh, "and he invited me to one of his orgies. He promised me rare viands–game that he had shot–and the latest gossip. I declined the generous offer, saying that I had no ears for the last, and as for the first I told him my objections. At this the gallant captain seemed to be piqued, and turning to his cronies, who were all men from Marwar, shouted: ‘Boys, here is your true khichadi eating Kathiawari!’ I didn’t mind his little joke, but he would not rest on his laurels. He returned to the assault with another of his gay quips,–‘Say, Meruba, so you catch and kill nothing?’ I did not let him get away with it this time, and, seeing my advantage, parried home. ‘Oh, yes, but we do,’ 1 replied, ‘we catch–and kill–dacoits.’"

"Well done, Meruba," chorused the little group of admiring listeners, "you are as skilful with your tongue as with the sword. But, say, have you seen more of Ali Khan, the outlaw, who has sworn to kill you?"

"Sorry to disappoint you," replied the Rana, "but the fellow seems to have bequeathed to me for good the big toe which I shore away from his foot in the melee the other day. I should like to return it to him if he comes to re-claim it. But I rather fancy," added the young hero, laughing, "he values his head more than the little relic he left behind him."

Rupaliba was listening…..At these words a vague memory disturbed her. She could not tell what it was, but a dark shadow kept moving in the recesses of her mind and for the present eluded her attempts at definition.

The little group had melted away by now; but Rana Meran Singh cast an eager glance at the latticed windows of the upper story and turned to go indoors…..He, too, was thinking of the hour, when in the arms of his beloved he should forget the cares of the day…..He lingered; once more he glanced upwards.

The voice of his mother calling to him from indoors disturbed his reverie. He heard her say: "Come, my son, and pay your respects to the ‘Sadhu’ who is passing the night under our roof. May he bless you with a son to gladden my old age!" With another hurried glance at his wife’s apartment, Rana Meran Singh turned to obey the summons.

Rupaliba, too, heard the words. The girl in her blushed at the reference to a son; but all her woman’s body ached with a secret, unfulfilled desire………Suddenly her features grew livid with fear. The vague uneasiness at the back of her mind had resolved itself into a definite threat. She must run…..She must warn him–he must be apprised of the danger….She, now, remembered clearly that one of the ‘Sadhu’s’ feet was short of a toe. At the moment when she had bent down to touch them, she had paid no thought to the fact….but now….Just as she started to run through the room, she heard a brief cry of pain, and her mother-in-law’s scream, "Oh my son, oh my son!" With a dull moan, Rupaliba fell unconscious on the floor.

When the morning broke, the little village was in mourning. The brave Rana Meran Singh had passed away in the pride of his youth–stabbed in the back, as he knelt, by the treacherous hand of an outlaw. The villagers, all kinsmen, vowed vengeance on the evil-doer, but first they must hasten with the obsequies. Already the Brahmins had taken charge of the dead. They had bathed him and laid him out in the dress of his clan: On the open Palms they had drawn with the red kumkum Powder ‘swastikas’; and with the same powder smeared his forehead. Around his neck they had hung garlands of rose and jasmine. Arrayed thus, the dead hero was ready to set out on his last venture; only one thing was missing, and the Brahmins sent for it: the bangles of his wife, which every Rajput carries with him to the cremation ground: emblem of the wifehood that awaited his pleasure, if his wife be true, in every future birth.

All night long Rupaliba had Sat in a corner of her room staring vacantly before her. She had not changed her position once: with her arms thrown limply round one knee, she looked like an image of sorrow carved in stone. The very gaiety of her dress, which she had Worn for her husband’s delight the previous evening, now served only to heighten the cruel suddenness of the tragedy that had overtaken her. She had wept no tears: she did not even seem to realise the full extent of her misfortune: the shock had left her senses dazed, and all that the Poor widowed girl could do was to sit huddled in a corner, and stare straight before her like one in a dream.

She had lost all count of time: all through the night she heard the wails of the mourning women and her mother-in-law’s laments, but her brain registered no meaning into these idle sounds….Now, one by one, the troup of mourning women stepped into her room, but she observed them only like phantoms in a dream. Presently she was aware of someone addressing her; she tried to collect her wits and understand what they wanted of her. "Little thing," said a woman’s voice in deep sorrow, "Poor little thing, the sun is risen, and the men in the village are ready. I have come for your bangles."

Rupaliba made no answer….Without further words, the speaker took the little limp hands into her own, and with deft fingers broke the pretty red glass bangles from the slender wrists, first from the left and then from the right, carefully collecting the bits. Custom holds sway even under the shadow of death; and Rupaliba made a forlorn gesture, by force of habit, to pull down the ‘sari’ shielding her face from the curious looks of the women. Her hands moved in sepulchral silence: the auspicious jingle of her bangles, to which her ears had been attuned from childhood, was suddenly absent; and with a start the un-happy girl was jerked out of her apathy. In wide-eyed horror, she stared at her bare wrists–pretty little wrists that had never been without their red glass bangles. God of gods! What did it mean?……Only that moment, the full force of the tragedy came home to her. Had they, then, really broken her bangles–the sign of her auspiciousness, the sign of her wedded state, the sign which a Hindu woman prized most in this life?

…….With a terrific shriek, she fled from the room, up the little narrow staircase, on to the terrace from which she had so often watched for her husband’s home-coming. Her husband? Bending over the balustrade she looked down into the court-yard below and-saw. What did she see?

The white-clad figure of her husband lay on the bier, with the face uncovered, for the brave and fair of India pass through its streets uncovered for the darshan so coveted by the simple people. She saw the face that she loved set in the cold dignity of death, the eyes closed, the lips set in a smile, so familiar, and yet wholly unfamiliar

She uttered a cry so loud, so passionate, that all below looked up and saw the wild distraught figure of a Rajput wife -wife no more-who had at last broken the purdah. With another heart-rending shriek, she leapt from the terrace, coming down with a sickening crash beside the body of her lord.

For a few seconds of consciousness she saw his face close to hers: with almost superhuman effort, she lifted her broken body and placed her bleeding lips to his, and whispered: ‘My lord!'

The blaze of the funeral pyre had long since died out, when, at sunset, the Brahmins of the village collected the ashes of a Rajput hero and his wife, and scattered them over the river.

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