(A Story)
BY NAVARATNA RAMA RAO
I
Sivapura is like any one of a hundred villages in the south-west of Mysore. It is situated in a flat expanse of cotton soil, very black and dry in summer, very green and miry during the monsoon, with a narrow cart-track leading from the Taluk road to a clump of trees which shelter the village, and relieves the blackness of the summer landscape. The track, after running on the boundary of the village pond, skirts the temple grove and becomes the main street. The approach to Sivapura is not without a simple charm, which went to the heart of Rudrappa, student of the Bombay College of Medicine, returning home for the holidays after a year’s absence. As Rudrappa walked on the bund of the pond, young women who had come for water smiled welcome at him, shy or frank according to age and temperament and gave him a thrill of home feeling. It was the hour of worship in the Basavesvara temple, and the bells pealed out as he passed the grove, seeming to greet him with augury of good. He saw the old jangam Sidda Devaru tending his little flower garden where, with great care, he could hardly save a handful of blossoms for worship from the flower-loving little girls of Sivapura. Rudra touched the hermit’s feet, for his twelve months’ life in Bombay had not quite obliterated his long habit of reverence for the sanyasi.
“Saranu, to the guru’s feet”, he said, and then
smiling, “do the girls leave you any flowers for Siva at all, father?”
The jangam showed his toothless gums in a
child-like laugh.
“All–all the flowers go to Siva. He is a great
family man you know, father of the world and of all the little people in it,
and when the laughing little ones take the flowers, Siva takes their laughter
and is pleased. You must now, go home to your parents who, I know, await you
eagerly; but come some evening, and tell me about Bombay and the sea.”
Rudra was perhaps too young to understand the first
part of the speech, but he said he would gladly spend an evening talking to the
guru about Bombay, though he did not think he could adequately describe
the sea to one had not seen it.
The sanyasi laughed again. “You are more
modest than Gopalayya, the Shanbhog’s son, who is reading to become a lawyer.
You know he is conceited like most Brahmins. When I asked him about the sea, he
repeated some mantra,l which he said was the Ramayana,
and meant ‘the sea is like the sea; the sky is like the sky’, which, though no
doubt quite correct, did not seem to improve one’s knowledge very much. If he had
said ‘the sea is like the sky’, I might not have believed him, but still, it
would have been something to go upon.”
Rudra laughed.
“That is not such a bad description of the sea”, he
said, “you are a bit of a Valmiki yourself, I really think.”
And he passed on.
The next man he met was old Linga, the
‘untouchable’ jeeta 2 man. When Linga saw his master’s son in
Bombay-cut clothes, with up-to-date neck-wear, he held up his hands in
delighted wonder.
“O my master’s son–my own little god, my gold, don’t
look so entire like a little Feringhee Saheb. The evil eyes of admiring people
will fall on you, and you will become thin.” And as a prophylactic against such
a calamity, he cracked the joints of his fingers repeatedly round his own head.
Rudra laughed, but the tears rose to his eyes. He said in gentle raillery, “Now
that you have cracked your finger joints and I am once more safe, let me get
on”–and he was at the gate of his father’s house.
Sivabasava Devaru, Rudra’s father, was the most
considerable man in Sivapura, and its twelve hundred inhabitants looked up to
him as the leader and representative. He was always referred to as the Sahukar
(the rich man); calling him by name would have been unseemly familiarity. His
house was a big square building, solidly timbered, and finished with glistening
lime, till the walls shone like marble. There was a great open yard, in front,
lined with outhouses for cattle and carts, and a garage where a Ford car
carefully covered up with a tarpaulin was the wonder of the village, and its
pride. On the rare occasions when it was used, the starting of the engine by
pushing was an event of the first magnitude, which afforded the village as much
perspiring exhilaration as a car-festival. In the outhouses, reposing after a
life of decrepitude and decay, were palanquins, bullock coaches, victorias, and
dog-carts, which indicated that the family had been wealthy for generations and
Sivabasava Devaru was reckoned very wealthy, though there were people who shook
their heads and talked of speculations and mortgages.
Sivabasava Devaru was on the jagali 3
looking into some papers when Rudra entered the yard. His eyes gleamed with
pleasure behind his glasses, but his face retained dignified composure when his
son touched his feet and asked for his blessing.
“Siva’s blessing be on you. Go in. Your mother is
expecting you.”
It cost him an effort to keep himself from getting
up and following his son inside, but he successfully maintained the pompous
dignity which the village expected of its magnate.
Rudra found his mother and his cousin waiting
eagerly for him in the hazara or hall; and lined up, at a distance
behind them, the domestics and one or two poor relatives who happened to be
there. Parvatamma, Rudra’s mother, was a woman of forty-five inclining to
stoutness in her middle age, still handsome, but with large eyes, full lips,
and a look of lazy, condescending good nature. She wore a fine silk sari of
the best, and her face softened into real beauty as her son prostrated himself
at her feet, and she put her hand on his head in blessing. The other member of
the family greeted Rudra with a shy smile.
“Why, mother, Shanta has become quite a big woman!
And she gives herself airs, and won’t speak to me!”
Parvatamma glanced at Shanta with a smile, then
glanced quickly a second time, still with a smile, but with a curious look of
doubt in her eyes. Shanta flushed and she laughed a little unsteadily as she
said–
“You always laugh at me, and now that you have
become a Bombay doctor, it is natural that you should find our rustic ways
somewhat entertaining.”
Shanta was the daughter of the Sahukar’s only
sister, now dead some years, who after a brief married life with a poor
relation in a neighbouring village had been widowed, and had come with her only
child to live with her brother. Parvatamma, who had never approved of the
marriage, was not surprised at this termination of it. She received her
bereaved sister-in-law kindly enough, but with a degree of condescension that
must have been very oppressive to the poor lady. When a woman enters her
paternal or fraternal roof under circumstances of this kind, unless she is
possessed of superior wealth or influential connections, she soon becomes a
household drudge. Such was the position of Shanta’s mother when she died a few
years later, leaving Shanta a child of eight behind her in a world in which
herself had found so little happiness. Parvatamma, for all her superiority, had
a kind heart and she was far kinder to little Shanta than she had ever been to
her mother. It is said–whether truly or not, only women can say–that
mother-love, to attain perfection, requires a daughter, and Siva had denied her
that blessing.
Perhaps the wistful timid ways of the helpless
orphan touched some responsive chord in her being. She mothered little Shanta,
and brought her up like her own child.
But one thing she had quite made up her mind
about,–that there should be no nonsense about Shanta ever becoming Rudra’s
wife. No doubt Shanta was a good girl, quite a pretty girl,–anybody could see
that,–and deserved a good husband; the Sahukar would see to it that one was
found for her whatever it cost. But Rudra–no. The boy belonged to a bigger
brighter world. He should take a wife from the greatest of his caste in the
world for which he was destined,–a princess would not be too good for him.
There were merchant princes among the Lingayats in Bombay and Madras. Rudra
would be carefully brought up and educated for a sphere very different from the
little village round.
So, when her visitors talked, as is their wont, of
Rudra and Shanta making a fine pair, Parvatamma frowned, said it was
inconceivable, bade them not talk nonsense likely to put ideas into a poor
girl’s head, and so on. The Sahukar said nothing but he was clearly of his
wife’s mind.
Shanta was now a girl of fifteen, tall for her age,
slender and graceful, with delicate features, pleasing rather than regular.
The most striking thing in her face was large
expressive eyes. Their habitual expression was plaintive. The result perhaps of
the circumstances of her life working on a sensitive nature, but they could at
a change of mood brim over with laughter or flash in anger. She had grown up
side by side with Rudra who was come five years her senior in age, and it was
no wonder if the prince of the household, so brave, so strong, so clever, and
born to such a high destiny, became her hero. She never dared to think that
such as she could be a wife to him; she longed to be his humble foot-maid. She
entirely agreed with her aunt in her suppression of match-making gossip–but
latterly, she was, she knew not they, rather prone to burst into tears when she
was alone.
“Don’t you think, my dear, it is time we found a
husband for our Shanta? She is quite grown up, and you don’t want people to say
that we have neglected our duty by her. I wish to celebrate the marriage while
yet Rudrasami is here, for, of course, there cannot be a family festival
without him.”
“You are always wise, and I have never differed
from you”, replied Parvatamma to her lord, with a fond smile, in apparent
forgetfulness of the fact that it had taken about a dozen curtain lectures,
each terminated by the snores of the audience, to bring the masculine mind to a
due appreciation of the urgency of the marriage. Shanta was certainly beautiful
and an undesirable attachment might spring up between the cousins, or people
might talk,–they would be sure to, unless Shanta was married,–Rudrasami bad
been looking a little too frequently and a little too intently at Shanta; apart
from all things else, an attractive girl of marriageable age should, in her own
interests, not remain unwed. What would people say if the Sahukar, who should
be an exemplar, neglected the marriage of his own niece, etc., etc?
So it was settled. The Sahukar sent round letters
of enquiry to his relatives and correspondents for a proper groom, very much as
he might have done for a good horse or a proper bull, and these in turn busied
themselves and furnished the Sahukar with particulars of eligible men, young,
rich, poor, educated, illiterate. Finally the choice was made. It fell on a
widower of thirty, a man of some property and no children, and with a
reputation for piety and uprightness. He lived in Mysore, where he owned house
property which brought him an income of a hundred or a hundred and fifty rupees
a month.
In due course, this worthy man whose name was
Basappa paid a formal visit to Sivapura to see his intended bride. He was a
portly fellow with an honest face, and won golden opinions all round. Of
course, it was impossible to discover what Shanta thought, for she always
turned away and some times burst into tears when questioned, as modest maidens
often do; but the Sahukar, and his wife, and Rudra himself approved of him.
Basappa himself approved of the girl, and fell in love with her, and spoke to
Rudra of his feelings in a way which amused that superior young man, and
furnished him with matter for a sly joke or two at his cousin.
So the marriage was arranged and came off, and in
due course Shanta was sent off to Mysore to live with her husband.
“Shanta has been well disposed of. What I mean is
that she has a good husband, reasonably well to do, honourable, not too old,
who will always cherish her. She will never, in any event, be like her mother.”
Thus said Parvatamma to her husband as the taxi
which bore away Shanta and her husband to Mysore disappeared in distance and
dust.
On his way back to Bombay, Rudra spent a day with
Shanta and her husband at Mysore. He was glad to see how happy Shanta was in
her new home, and how devoted her husband seemed to be to her. It perhaps hurt
him a little to feel that he no longer was the centre of her life, that she had
ceased to belong to the system of which he was the Sun. Basappa was an
admirable host, and obviously was very proud of his brilliant relation.
Rudra went back to Bombay to his studies, which had
then entered on a stage, which required his most strenuous application. He was
a good student, and as he was also an open-hearted and generous fellow with
great social gifts, he had a large circle of friends. His most intimate friend
was one Lingappa Halabhavi, the eldest son of Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi, a
well-known figure in Bombay commercial circles and in the share market. Young
Halabhavi was a brilliant student, and with his prospects and social position,
a leader in college society. The young men were much together and Rudra, was a
frequent and welcome guest at the Halabhavis’ mansion on Malabar Hill, where he
made the acquaintance of his friend’s sister Sarojini, an undergraduate who was
studying for her degree. She was an accomplished young lady, and could not only
sing sweetly and play divinely on the violin, but had considerable taste and
knowledge in English and Sanskrit literature. She had that rare and fascinating
blend of Indian and European culture which seems to retain the best in each and
manifests itself in a combination of the delicacy of the East with the joyous
freedom of the West. She received Rudra with the frank kindness of a sister,
and he for his part fell deeply in love with her. He was so full of thoughts of
her that he could not keep from mentioning her in his letters to his father, a
circumstance which made the old gentleman wonder uneasily whether he ought not
to have attended to Rudra’s marriage before sending him to Bombay.
Meanwhile, the old home at Sivapura seemed to have
lost all its brightness, now that even Shanta had gone away. Sivabasava Devaru,
never, very communicative or gay, seemed to get more taciturn every day, and
poor Parvatamma was none too cheerful herself to have any cheerfulness to spare
for others. Then came bad news from Mysore. Shanta’s husband Basappa took his
bed with a carbuncle, and the doctors declared that he had been ill for a long
time without knowing it. Sivabasava Devaru hastened to Mysore but was only in
time to see Basappa die, and to administer his affairs. His houses went to his
brothers, and poor Shanta was left with her jewels and about ten thousand
rupees. She felt crushed by the blow, but resolute refused to return to
Sivapura, preferring to live in a small rented house in Mysore, in the front
part of which she set up a modest grocery store.
In the loneliness of the old house in Sivapura the
thoughts of Sivabasava Devaru and his wife turned to the urgent need of seeing
Rudra married The marriage of a son is, to a Hindu, next only in importance to
the birth a son, and all his hopes of happiness both in this world and
hereafter centre round this event. Not to provide for the continuance of one’s
race is to leave unpaid a sacred debt to one’s ancestors, and the feelings of a
childless man are well Rut by Kalidasa in the words of the childless Dilipa: -
“Knowing well that after me there will be no more
libations of water, my ancestors drink my offerings hot and bitter with their
reproachful tears.”
How lonely the old house was, and how long it
seemed since last it had heard the prattle and laughter of children! Looking at
children going to school, making the narrow street ring with their joyous
noise, or seeing them at their boisterous games in the temple tope, the
elderly couple felt the gloom of their joyless house grip their very hearts,
and realised that they were getting old.
So Sivabasava Devaru set about finding a maiden who
should be worthy his son. Not wholly worthy, for perfection was not to be found
except in that paragon, his son, but as nearly worthy as possible. He made many
journeys, saw many girls and their parents, and was in his turn visited and
interviewed by parents with marriageable daughters. Shanta in Mysore was very
useful to him in his quest, and it was chiefly through her assistance that he
fixed upon the fair daughter of a distinguished judge, whose high official
position and influence promised to be of service to Rudra’s prospects in life.
A Hindu marriage is usually settled by the parents
of the parties, less usually now than formerly, but even now, very frequently
the first open intimation a young man gets of his own wedding is the parental
command to present himself for the ceremony. Sivabasava Devaru very nearly
committed the mistake of accepting the judge’s daughter for his son,–but the
Judge himself, more worldly wise, and better acquainted which the change in
youthful outlook, counseled consulting the intended bridegroom and hinted that
his own daughter would like to see him before the final decision.
So, Sivabasava Devaru wrote to Rudra, and asked him
to run back home for a couple of days to fix up the engagement. The marriage
itself might take place during the next long vacation.
Rudra’s reply surprised and hurt him infinitely: -
“While I am deeply grateful for your anxiety to see
me happily married, I am sorry I cannot consent to marry Judge Isvarappa’s
daughter, though, I have no doubt, she is in every way a most excellent young
lady. The reason is that my heart has been set on another. She is the sister of
a class-mate of mine, and the daughter of Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi, one of
Bombay’s foremost citizens. Her name is Sarojini. She is highly educated, and
qualified in every way to be the help-mate of a man of culture, who wishes also
to get on in life. The influence of her father will be of the highest value to
me, for my ambition is to settle in Bombay, and make a name for myself. I may
say that the Halabhavis are Lingayats who originally came from Durg, and are
disciples of the Suragi Mutt.
“I have hopes that
Sarojini is not indifferent to now. I would be grateful if you would write to
Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi or, better, come here yourself. They live in style, and
move in the highest circles; so, one has to be careful and avoid appearing too
provincial. Give my affectionate namaskaram to mother. This letter is as
much for her as for you
P. S. By the way, how is poor Shanta?”
Rudra had a perfect right to be ambitious, but why
forsake his parents and Mysore? Could the Halabhavis possibly love him a
thousandth part as much as his parents? What would the parents’ life be worth
if once Rudra stepped out of it? Well, if Rudra left Mysore, they too would go
and live with him, and be soothed to their last sleep by his affection,–but it
was so hard to be torn from house and home and the occupations going back to
generations! And then, who could say what difference a rich and educated wife
would make in Rudra’s heart? How would they, provincials, be regarded in the
glittering world of Bombay?
Long and anxious and, on Parvatamma’s part,
tearful, were the talks and consultations they had, and finally Sivabasava
Devaru decided to go to Bombay.
Rudra received his father on the Victoria Terminus
platform and took him to his room in the Empire Hotel. The day of arrival at
Bombay was spent in purchasing equipment to mask the rusticity of Sivabasava
Devaru; such as dhotis, silk shirts, and a Kashmir shawl. They refrained, by
mutual consent, from discussing the match, but that evening young Halabhavi was
introduced to the old gentleman, and they went round seeing the sights of the
city. The next day Sivabasava Devaru called on the elder Halabhavi, and was
received with great cordiality and distinction. It was obvious that stories,
probably overcharged, had reached Halabhavi about the Mysore man’s affluence;
he must have made enquiries of his own correspondents and Sivabasava Devaru had
the reputation of being rich.
When Sivabasava Devaru explained the object of his
visit, Halabhav was not surprised, but careful. He received the proposal
courteously; he knew Rudra well and liked him very much, nay, loved him as a
son; but a marriage was a matter which required consideration. Sivabasava
Devaru, he knew, was a rich man and was of a highly respected family; but he
wanted to be sure that Rudra would be able to maintain his wife in the way to
which she was accustomed. For one thing, life in a village was out of the question.
As for city life, a doctor without European qualifications was no likely to
have much of a chance. He had made up his mind to send his own son to England
for training. Would Sivabasava Devaru do the same with Rudra? If that was
possible, and if Sivabasava Devaru could satisfy Halabhavi that the young
people could start life with adequate capital, he for his part would be only
too happy to form the connection. Of course, it was essential that the young
people should love one another, but this need be considered only after the
other conditions were satisfied. He did not press for an answer; he knew that
an answer required thought and a scrutiny of worldly affairs to assure oneself
of financial ability. Halabhavi was a man of the world,–polished, kind, but extremely
careful and prudent.
Sivabasava Devaru saw Sarojini and was charmed by
her. Modest, respectful, but perfectly at her ease and very graceful in speech
and manner, she seemed to him worthy to be Rudra’s wife. But he wondered if his
own wife would be very comfortable with her: he felt rather abashed and gross
in her presence himself. He unconsciously contrasted her with poor Shanta, so
shy, so timid and loving, and so solicitous of pleasing everyone at home; and
he sighed.
Sivabasava Devaru found that his son had set his
heart on going to England for completing his medical studies almost as
passionately as on making Sarojini his wife; in fact, it was to him the only
way of winning her. At Rudra’s age, and to one in his condition, making up one’s
mind seems the one thing necessary for achievement,–such small matters as
money, and the incidence of the proposed action on others, being mere
negligible details. Sivabasava Devaru was so wrapped up in his son that it is
to be feared that his own perspective was not dissimilar. Mr. Halabhavi was
very clear that though, of course, he recognised a moral engagement, he could
not agree to a marriage taking place before Rudra returned fully qualified and
was in a position to set up practice in suitable style. That would also give
Sarojini time to complete her studies.
Sivabasava Devaru returned from Bombay in pensive
mood. The arrangement meant a good deal of money. Halabhavi had suggested the
desirability of at once setting apart a reserve of twenty thousand rupees,
invested in Government Bonds, as Rudra’s starting capital in life. The English
post-graduate course was three years at the least and would cost, all told,
about five thousand rupees a year. And then one had to provide also for
passage, equipment, and such contingencies (God forfend!) as ill-health.
The scale wherewith the village measures opulence
is very different from that employed in towns and cities. And what seems very
large in the estimation of simple folk accustomed to penury may be nothing
considerable in a world of wants and ambitions. Sivabasava Devaru had land and
some money, which he was willing to lend cautiously on good security, and his
income, though large on the Sivapura scale, was inadequate to the requirements
of grandeur and foreign travel. He had had to borrow to find money for the
shares he had taken in the new mill, and again and again he felt the strain of
the premia he had to pay on a heavy life policy that the eloquence of an
enterprising agent had over persuaded him to take. The regular remittances to
Rudra at Bombay during the past five years were a drain which his finances felt
in more than one direction. The recent agricultural depression and the drop in
the prices of silk (Sivapura was in the heart of the mulberry country) had made
his collections scanty, and some of his investments doubtful.
He studied his affairs anxiously. He could send
Rudra to England only with great effort, and at considerable sacrifice. He
would have to realise his shares in the mill and sell some land to find money
for the Bonds. The suggestion about the Bonds had come from Halabhavi, and
Sivabasava Devaru felt that it was a considered test of his financial ability,
which had to be satisfied. He had many an anxious consultation with his wife. She
saw all the difficulties but had no helpful suggestion to make, and invariably
ended with tears and saying that they had but one son, and his happiness had to
be assured. As a matter of fact, there was nothing to consider, as was a
foregone conclusion that Rudra must go abroad.
Then, Rudra came back from Bombay to await the
result of the M.B.B.S. Degree examination. He was conscious of having done
creditably; he had put forth his best, feeling that not merely professional
success but happiness in life depended on his efforts. His father for the first
time discussed family finances with him. Hitherto Rudra had been permitted to
take the wherewithal of his education for granted. For the first time also,
Sivabasava Devaru felt a vague antagonism arising from a difference in points
of view, and relative values. The mother invariably took Rudra’s part.
Matters were clinched by a telegram from Halabhavi
announcing Rudra’s brilliant success in the examination. This, by some unknown
law of thought, seemed to dissolve all doubts based on arithmetic and prudent
considerations, and it was decided that Rudra should proceed to England. Then
followed a few weeks of busy correspondence, with British Academy and Medical
authorities, the High Commissioner for India, and other high functionaries
whose existence had never before been heard of in Sivapura. Rudra went to
Mysore, saw foreign-educated doctors of the medical service received
suggestions, hints, advice galore, and felt himself daily growing in interest
and importance. At Mysore, he called on Shanta and discussed prospects with
her. She was very glad–she repeated it several times–but tearful and rather
alarmed at Rudra’s having to reside in a far land for years. When he called on
her a second time, she was not to be found.
“I was put up with Gopalu, you know”, he said,
relating to his father what happened at this second visit. “You know Gopalu,
the Shanbhog’s son who has started lawyering in Mysore. He has a nice office,
lined with swanky looking books, which might be carpenter- book-inder’s for all
the use he makes of them. Nice, retired, restful kind of place, that office,
for never a client comes there; Gopalu uses it mostly for smoking cigarettes
which he dare not do at home. I was put up in the office, when I called on
Shanta. I was told she was not at home but I was made welcome by that solemn
old sister-in-law of hers, who gave me cakes and sweetmeats and coffee, all
made in orthodox style,–that is, uneatable cakes, sticky sweets, and smoke
flavoured coffee. She did not know when Shanta would be returning; so after
waiting for half an hour, enlivened by authentic histories of Saivite saints, I
took my leave. Would you believe it, Shanta was in the backyard all the time,
for I am sure I caught a glimpse of her head over the wall as I was turning the
corner. Now, why should she do a thing like that? If she is too good to talk to
me, well, I don’t think I care.”
All arrangements at London,–boarding, lodging,
admission to college and hospitals,–had been fixed up by Dewan Bahadur
Halabhavi on behalf of his son and Rudra. The great man’s influence, and
knowledge of the right methods of exercising it, smoothed all difficulties and
overcame all obstacles. Sivabasava Devaru raised money by selling his shares in
the mill, a house in Mysore and several acres of land, and invested a part of
the proceeds in Government Bonds, and deposited the rest in the Mysore Bank,
with instructions to make regular remittances to Rudra at London. The Bonds
were also deposited in the Bank to be held till Rudra’s return.
Then came the day when Sivabasava Devaru and his
wife accompanied Rudra to Mysore, where Rudra was to take train for Bombay.
They spent a couple of days at Mysore, days which to the parents were dark with
the shadow of a great parting. They were the guests of Shanta, who tried to
comfort them, with pitiful bravery and tearful hopefulness. Rudra was busy
seeing friends and ‘big people’ and securing letters of introduction to useful
people in London.
Sivabasava Devaru left his wife at Mysore with Shanta, and went to Bombay with his son to see him sail. The bustle of preparations and embarkation left Rudra very little time to attend to his father, and when, after a hurried adieu, he went up the gangway with Lingappa Halabhavi, and the good ship glided off and diminished and disappeared, poor Sivabasava Devaru stood on the pier staring into space with unseeing eyes and feeling all at once very old and lonely. He was awakened to the world by a touch on his arm, and found Halabhavi and Sarojini who had come to see Lingappa off. For moment a hot rage surged in Sivabasava Devaru as the thought came to him that there were the authors of his sorrow, but when he saw that Halabhavi’s face was wet with tears, and that Sarojini was weeping unashamed with the corner of her sari to her eyes, a great sob burst from him.
Day succeeded day in dull procession at Sivapura.
To Sivabasava Devaru it looked as though some inner light, which had brightened
the slow routine of village life and made it vital, had gone out, leaving the
daily round a joyless grind. The silence of the big old house, in which poor
Parvatamma flitted disconsolately thinking of her absent son; oppressed him.
They made more than one attempt to induce Shanta to live with them, but the
most they could get from her was a brief occasional visit, which seemed but to
render visible the gloom of their daily life. The old jangam became a
frequent and welcome visitor and his simple philosophy of life, and child like
trust in God, were inexpressibly comforting. He had known Rudri from childhood,
and could share in cherished memories.
Once a week came letters from Rudra, bearing
strange stamps and post-marks, and full of cheerful prattle about his new life
in the great city, the interesting people he met, his work and his amusements,
and full also of hi love for his parents and friends. Those letters were read
and re-read, in private and before interested friends who gathered for a
glimpse of the great world beyond the waters, till not only the parents but
most of their friends knew the contents by heart. In some respects a village is
one big family and Rudra was in a sense the young hopeful of the whole village.
Sometimes there was a wistful homesickness in the letters which brought tears to
the eyes and a lump in the throat of the kind villagers. And sometimes a mail
was missed, leaving the parents a prey to baseless forebodings till the arrival
of the next letter. Every outgoing mail bore Sivabasava Devaru’s letters to
England, in which the infinite love and longing and hope of the old man
struggled with varying fortune against the stiffness of traditional epistolary
forms, and the pains of unaccustomed composition.
It was about the middle of the second year of
Rudra’s absence that the strain of remittances to England began to be seriously
felt. Some of Sivabasava Devaru’s investments had gone wrong. His debtors could
not meet their liabilities as they fell due, and a few broke and went under in
the trade depression. His creditors became pressing, and in the midst of it all
he has to face the steady and relentless need for remittance to England. He
raised money on mortgages, and he also sold some more land. The gold ornaments
of Parvatamma had first disappeared: she had insisted on offering them with the
Indian woman’s immute joy in self-sacrifice for her beloved. Then, through
sheer inability to meet the premium, Sivabasava Devaru surrender his
life-policy for a few hundreds of rupees of immediate payment. He even thought
of borrowing from Shanta, but refrained for very shame.
About this time Rudra’s letters became irregular in
coming, and bore the impress of haste and pre-occupation. He was preparing for
his first examination.
Then came a time which has burnt itself indelibly
in the memories of people in the whole country. An epidemic of influenza of
unprecedented severity, commencing first at a crowded national festival in
Mysore, soon spread till it enveloped the whole country in a mist of terror and
death. In the cities and towns not a house was spared, civic life was
disorganized, the streets were deserted, and the grass grew on some of them.
Business was at a stand-still, save for the crowds that struggled round
hospitals and drug stores, shouting, bullying, begging for thymol and other drugs
which had come to be regarded as specifics. Entire villages were stricken, till
there were none to tend the sick or bury the dead, and the ripe corn, which
there were no reapers to harvest, was trampled under the hooves of masterless
cattle. It was an awful time, and people grown grey in piety railed against God
by the death-bed of wife or child.
In Mysore, Shanta took the disease and at one time
looked likely to die, but her young strength, and the devoted nursing of her
sister-in-law slowly brought her back to life and health. Then the
sister-in-law took ill in her turn, and as she lacked the will to live, no care
or treatment could avail her and she died.
One morning, as Shanta was sunning herself on the
verandah, for she was still weak after her illness, the Kulvadi 4
of Sivapura brought her a letter. It was in the clumsy hand-writing of the
barely literate jangam, and Shanta had some difficulty in deciphering
it: -
“These to my beloved disciple-daughter, with Siva’s
blessings. The Sahukar and his wife have been both attacked with this new
disease. The wife has been unconscious these two days. As all the jeetagaras
are also down, I have been attending to my beloved disciples myself, but
alas, I am weak and unskillful. Siva’s hand is heavy on this village. If you
could come, dear daughter, being a good girl you might win the lives of your
uncle and aunt from Siva.”
The world seemed to Shanta to reel out of sight in
fold on fold of darkness as she read this letter. She must have fainted for a
moment. She was still weak from her recent illness, and the shock of this news
was too much for her strength. When she was sufficiently recovered to think,
she saw her duty clearly and braved herself to it. She went to Mr. Gopalayya,
the Advocate, who was of Sivapura, and was known to her from childhood, and
with his help started for Sivapura in a taxi, taking with her a few hundred
rupees, and a stock of the popular remedies against influenza.
Sivapura lay sick almost to death under the
afternoon sun as, still passing over the bund of the pond, now deserted, and
crossing the weed-grown grove of the unlit temple, she entered the silent
street. Inside the house of her uncle it was so dark to eyes coming from the
glare of the white high-road, that she could see nothing for a while, and the
silence struck a chill at her heart with the thought she might be too late.
Then, as her eyes got accustomed to the gloom, she saw her uncle and her aunt
lying on their beds. So silent and still were they that not till she approached
and noted the rise and fall of their breathing was she sure they were alive.
While she stood there taking in the scene, and divesting herself of her bundle
and little carpetbag, the jangam came in, and uttered a glad exclamation
on seeing her. Unable to contain her feelings,–for memories came to her of her
childhood and early youth, and of all that these two, who lay so still and
helpless, had been to her,–she threw herself on the old priest’s feet and
sobbed aloud.
The sound of her sobbing and the voice of the jangam,
raised in kindly words of comfort, woke up Sivabasava Devaru from
dream-infested sleep.
“It was not a dream then,” he said in a weak and
broken voice, “it is really my little Shanta who was begging Yama for my life,
as Savitri begged for Satyavan’s. Come, come close and sit near me, and hold me
so that they might not get me again. If Rudra had been here,”–his voice
broke–“but he is not here, and we are helpless in our old age. Don’t you, for
Siva’s sake, go away also.” And the old man weak with suffering, broke down
completely and hid his face in his hands.
Shanta took her uncle’s hand and laid it on her
head, too overcome to speak. It was some time before her strength came back to
her and she was able to subdue all the wild emotions of her heart to the
control of her practical good sense. She spoke tenderly, but her voice was
steady and purposeful.
“Oh, my more than father and mother, I will never,
never, leave you, so long as I serve you. I can never repay my debt to you even
if I spend myself in your service. I have been proud and wicked not to come
earlier. Oh, pardon me.”
Sivabasava Devaru recovered after lying long
between life and death but Parvatamma passed away, her last hours tended with
loving care by Shanta. Parvatamma had first seemed unable to recognise Shanta,
but a little before the end she called her by name, and blessed her, and then
in low broken voice begged her pardon. “I have loved you like a daughter, but I
have been unjust to you in one thing. Siva knows, and may He pardon me! It
might have been better for all if you had been Rudra’s wife.”
Shanta wept silently, and closed the old lady’s
eyes reverently when her sufferings ceased.
In due course, the epidemic passed, and the village
resumed its normal life. Nothing, but a ruined house here and there which no
one was left to tenant or repair, and the premature responsibility on young
faces lately care-free, recalled the agony through which the village had
passed.
A great responsibility devolved on Shanta. During
her uncle’s long illness all his affairs had been neglected, and there was a
great accumulation of work and correspondence. Letters lay piled up on the
Sahukar’s desk, letters from England, letters from banks and bankers, letters
from lawyers and tradesmen.
When she tried to draw Sivabasava Devaru back to
the business of his former life, she encountered a strange inertness and lack
of comprehension. It was as though his mind and memory had suffered from his
illness, and were more slow to recover than his body.
She tried to cope with the correspondence, and
naturally started with Rudra’s letters from London. He was getting on well in
health and in his studies, but had not received his remittances for the
quarter. He had been maintaining himself on loans from friends,–he mentioned
young Halabhavi. Shanta realised that her cousin must be in great difficulties
for want of money. Why had the remittances failed? The Mysore Bank’s letters
might perhaps explain, but they were in English, and she had not even her uncle’s
scanty knowledge of it. And the great mass of correspondence also needed
attention.
In her trouble, she sent for the Shanbhog and
requested him to write to son, Mr. Gopalayya, to help her. Gopalayya took
advantage of a week-end to visit Sivapura, and at Shanta’s request opened all
the letters, and read explained them to her. When, at the end of the recital,
he looked up at face, she was sallow as death, her lips were open and dry, and
there drops of perspiration on her brow, Even to her, it was clear that her
uncle was a ruined man. The remittances to London had stopped, because Bank
held no money of his to make them. Death had been busy with debtors, and there
was no prospect of his collecting any of his dues. His creditors had obtained
decrees, and were proceeding to execution.
Gopalayya regarded her with a great pity in his
eyes.
“There is no need to tell you, for you know the
state of things as well as I. What do you propose to do? Shortly, your uncle
may not have so much as this house to live in. As for Rudra, poor fellow, I am
very sorry for him, for we have been as brothers,–but it is out of the question
for him to continue his studies in London. Thank goodness, he has a medical
degree on which he can fall back for a living.”
She was silent for a while in thought, and when she
spoke it was in a voice and manner which made Gopalayya look at her with a new
respect.
“I am a mere girl, and do not understand many
things, but I know my own mind and I know that you are our true friend. And
that is enough. Two things, if it is Siva’s will, I am determined about. Rudra
shall not give up his studies, and uncle shall not be turned out of his house.
Oh, death would be better than that these things should happen to them. You are
a clever man, and you know how to manage things. Suppose we put together all
that remains to uncle, could we not payoff all that he owes and save the house
and the twenty-thousand-rupee Bonds?”
“I have thought of that,” said Gopalayya. “We might
meet the creditors and get a substantial reduction of claims by appealing to
their good feelings, but they would expect to be paid. We would have to realise
the Bonds, since we could not possibly sell our immovable properties in a
hurry. Of course, some mortgagees might consent to accept sale deeds and even
pay something for the right of redemption–but I expect it would be unwise to
force sales. I am afraid the Bonds will have to go. But how on earth are we
going to scrape means to maintain Rudra in London? If I had been rich man, I
would have advanced him money, but”–with an embarrassed laugh–“I am just now
one of the tribe of borrowers, not of lenders.”
“If with all that we could scrape together out of
uncle’s estate, including the Bonds, we could satisfy uncle’s creditors and
retain the old house, I–now what I am going to say is a sacred confidence, as
you are a man honour–I shall find means to send remittances to Rudra during the
year or so that he has to continue at London. I have about twelve thousand
rupees lying idle with me. No, I am not going to trade; I have promised my
uncle to live here and take care of him. I shall give you this money,–it is now
mostly in Bonds and currency notes. Deposit it in the Mysore Bank in uncle’s
name, with instructions to re-start remittances as before, commencing with
payment of the ones in arrears. Rudra must still think his father is sending
the money. Why do you look at me like that? You think me a fool. Remember that
a minute back you yourself said you would have send the money, if you had had
it. Shall I not feel as much for a family whose blood I share, and who have
cared for me when I was an orphan?”
Gopalayya rose, coughed, and furtively wiped his
eyes.
“Fool? Why, young lady, you are, I think, a
Goddess! I did not know that there were people like you these days. I shall
devote myself to carrying out your wishes, and feel better for having known
you.”
She laughed, but tears were not very far. “Now, I
do think you are not so wise as I thought. Are Goddesses orphans and widows
like me?”
So they parted.
A few days later came a pompous, crested envelope
from Bombay. It contained a letter from Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi, and when she
received it, translated into Kannada, from Gopalayya, she read (the opening
complimentary flourishes are omitted):
“I regret to convey news which must be disagreeable
to you. My daughter Sarojini, who was never very warmly attached to your son,
excellent young man as he is, has recently told me quite definitely that she
cannot be his wife, for she does not love him except in a sisterly way. She
has, with my approval, become engaged to Mr. Mallanna I.C.S., who is
Sub-Collector of Sea Customs. I have asked my son at London to break the news
gently to Mr. Rudra.”
Mr. Halabhavi went on to prove that there was
really no ground for complaint, as Sarojini had not been formally engaged to
Rudra, that the latter’s proceeding to London was in his own independent
interest, etc. etc. Gopalayya had scrawled in pencil in the margin ‘Good
Riddance’.
Shantha smiled cynically as she said to herself
that Halabhavi had, no doubt information about Sivabasava Devaru’s fortunes.
Rudra’s studies in London proceeded satisfactorily. He took his work seriously, and the favourable environment brought out in him an unsuspected capacity for original research. One or two papers contributed by him to medical journals met with a fovourable reception in professional circles, and he was regarded as a man who was destined to great things. Even doctors of European fame did not disdain to discuss professional matters with him.
During this period of intense work and intellectual blossoming, so to speak, thoughts of home and India came to him but rarely. This weekly letters from his father, which for lack of incident were merely replicas of one another, and an occasional letter from Gopalayya constituted practically all his correspondence. Sarojini never wrote to him, but made enquiries and sent kind wishes in her letters to her brother.
The remittance from home came with regularity, and there was nothing to prevent him from giving all his mind and heart to his work.
Then, for several months, the remittances ceased, and Rudra was saved from privation only by the kindness of friends who helped him, out of their slender resources. The letters from home ceased also. When he cable to the Mysore Bank for the reason of the stoppage of remittances, he received the reply that the Bank had not been placed in funds. This caused him serious alarm, because he felt that only some great calamity at home could have left him stranded in a far country. Then came a cable from Gopalayya, announcing his mother’s death and his father’s difficult recovery and this was followed by a remittance that put him out of his immediate difficulties. The remittances were resumed with their former regularity.
Rudra’s heart ached for his father, and he became
more than ever anxious to complete his training with credit, and return to
build up for his father a home where loving care would tend his declining
years. His father’s letters, which had discontinued for several months, began
to come again. They were in Shanta’s hand, and were signed by Sivabasava Devaru
in a vague shaky scrawl that smote Rudra’s heart. The letters were cheerful,
and indicated that his father was comfortable and well looked after. Rudra
blessed Shanta in his heart.
A little before the final examination, he received
from young Halabhavi the news of Sarojini’s defection. It hurt him, but not so deeply as he thought it would. Perhaps he had
moved on some little way in mind and outlook during the years of strenuous work
in London. Perhaps the thought of his mother’s death and of his father left
desolate in his old age, with doubts as to whether Sarojini would provide a
happy home for him, had reacted on his scale of values. He was disappointed and
hurt, but not as utterly unhappy as he expected. He however acted the
broken-hearted part expected of him by Halabhavi, and sent off a magnanimous
letter to Sarojini wishing her and her future husband all happiness. This episode
closed, he applied himself with redoubled vigour to his studies.
It surprised no one when Rudra came out brilliantly
successful in his final examination, and was admitted to the Fellowship of the
Royal College of Surgeons. Halabhavi was also successful and, in due course,
the two friends returned to India. Rudra spent a day at Bombay, and called on
to Halabhavis where he was introduced to Mr. Mallanna, I.C.S., whom he rather
liked. Then he took train for Mysore and arrived there late in the evening. His
heart leaped into his mouth as he saw the beautiful city bejeweled with its
myriad lights, and watched over by its Guardian Deity from Her light-crowned
hill, and felt his cheeks fanned by the breeze laden with the scent of a
hundred gardens. When the train drew up at the platform, he gripped Gopalayya’s
hand in silence,–he could not trust his voice,–and they drove to Gopalayya’s
house in the perfumed half-light of Mysore streets.
From Gopalayya Rudra learnt for the first time the
story of the misfortunes of his family, the crisis in his own life which,
unknown to himself, had threatened to blast all his hopes, and the way in which
a simple loving girl had saved the situation by finding in herself the strength
and nobility of a Sita or Damayanti. As Gopalayya warmed to his theme, his
voice broke, and tears of honest admiration flowed down his cheeks.
“This poor girl, this lady of sorrows, does not
even suspect she is doing anything remarkable, she has no thought for herself
at all. She is happy if the old man is comfortable and happy. She expects and
indeed thinks of no reward from man or God. One feels a better man for
breathing the same air with her.”
Rudra heard him silently. The tears rose to his
eyes as he heard of the sufferings of his parents, and of how Shanta, herself
but newly risen from sick-bed, had nursed them. Then a look of great
seriousness came into his face. When Gopalayya had done speaking, Rudra was
silent for a while, thinking very hard. At last he spoke very slowly, as though
considering every word:
“I am afraid I cannot at once realise the full
significance of what you have told me. I am overcome with admiration and
gratitude–but don’t you see I am placed under a debt I can never repay? It
humiliates me to think that I owe my professional education, which means
everything in life to me, to a poor girl on whom I have no claim. If I had
known about it in time, I might have refused to lay myself under such a
life-long obligation. It would have been kinder, Gopalu, if you had written to
me. There were some things I did not then quite understand and only understand
now, the cessation of remittances, and their resumption, for instance–but I did
not know–”
Gopalayya interrupted him impatiently.
“You ass, you perfect prig, have you no thought except
for yourself? Can you not see that Shanta was acting true to her own nature in
spending her all and herself for her uncle and you? That she considers herself
the obliged party through your High Mightiness deigning to accept her
worship and offering? O Lord, that such an eminent doctor should be such a
fool! Can’t you see, man, that the girl loves you and has always loved you, and
would think her life well-spent dying at your feet? What she sees in you, I
cannot understand, but what I see in her I’ll tell you. Love, truth, courage,
self-sacrifice,–Oh, I haven’t seen the man worthy of her.”
Rudra smiled wryly.
“You seem in love with her yourself.”
“Oh yes–but that I have a wife whom I adore, and
three children whom I worship, and a fourth in expectation, whose welcome we
are preparing, I should have offered my heart and hand to Shanta. Don’t you
see, you silly scientist, that the only return you can make to Shanta is to
devote your life to making her happy, and trying to emulate her example in
dealing with your fellowmen? Any other return is an offence, and repayment of
money, in full discharge of your debt to her, would be a vulgar insult. You can
only repay her by giving her your life, your work, and your utmost love.”
“But surely, you cannot make a gift of her
hand to me! She is entitled to a say in the matter, isn’t she? What makes
you think she would consent to marry me? And she is a widow, and remarriages
are not looked upon with favour in our community. You must remember that women
are by nature conservative, and my father also is a gentleman of the old
school.”
“Oh, I have thought of all that. Your father would
die if deprived at the sight of his Shanta. While you were away doctoring in
London and your poor mother was moldering in her grave, Shanta wrapped up the
lonely old man in the warmth of her love, and brought to him what joy and hope
his battered life was capable of. As for widow remarriages–I have taken the
opinion of your Mutt authorities and social leaders. Such marriages are quite lawful,
only your people sought distinction in imitating the bad conventions of
Brahmins, and discouraged such marriages. Even now, in the villages, such
unions are by no means uncommon. But why need you bother about that? A marriage
under the Civil Act is a perfect equivalent in all its legal incidents to an
orthodox marriage with chanting priests, etc. etc. And then about Shanta’s
willingness, I know she has loved you from her childhood. I had suspected it
all along, and when I went to see her during her attack of influenza, she said
things in her delirium which made all clear to me. Her sister-in-law must have
known it too, for she raises her tearful face to me as though to implore me to
forget it. Well, I know she loves you; it is for you to find out. All I can say
is that you don’t deserve your good fortune.”
“I fully agree with you”, said Rudra very humbly.
It was on a moon-lit night, some years after the
events narrated in the last section, that Dr. Rudra, M.A., M.B.B.S., F.R.C.S.,
was sitting on the terrace of his house fronting the Marina at Madras. The
moon’s soft radiance silvered the sands of the beach, and wove a coverlet of
light love the bosom of the sea. Shanta brought him his after-dinner cup of
milk on a silver plate, and sat down beside him. Jangam Siddappa, now very old
and infirm, was also there looking pensively at the sea.
For a while they were silent, drinking in the
beauty of the night. Then the jangam said suddenly: -
“Do you remember, son, that I could not understand
the Ramayana couplet that the sky is like the sky and the sea is like
the sea? Now I do, and I can add a line of my own–
And the
heart of a good woman is like the heart of a good woman.”
1 Incantation
2 A jeetha man
was a serf when slavery was allowed; he is now legally a free man. He is born,
brought up and lives in his master’s family, and works for him.
3 Covered verandah,
generally raised on a basement.
4 Village servant of
all work, usually an ‘untouchable’.