Preetam

By KISHAN SINGH CHAVDA

(English rendering by C. M. Shukla)

[Sri Krishna Singh Chavda, an eminent short story writer of Gujerat, stands in a class by himself. Each one of his stories is a lyric in prose, perfect, impassioned. He goes out of the beaten path for subject matter, while his grasp of character is admirable. Still in his early forties, Mr. Chavda holds out a promise of glorious achievement in the domain of the short story. –Tr.]

“She is Bhavabhuti’s Sita!”

“No, no, she is Kalidas’s Shakuntala!”

“Eh! she is Jayadeva’s Radha!”

“She seems to me Abhimanyu’s irate Uttara!”

“I call her Padmini to tease her.”

“And how she breaks into a laugh when I call her Layala, burning like a candle?”

“Once when I asked her, ‘Where do you go decked as Menaka?’ she flung a champak flower at me.”

“And when the other day, seeing her in a saffron saree with untied hair, I said, ‘Today you look like Yashodhara, ailing in separation from Siddhartha,’ she shied her colour-filled brush on me.”

“Yes, what else could happen when you vexed her with my name?” spoke out one of the young women whose name was Yashodhara.

“Listen, now speaks love-lorn Yashodhara,” two, three voices came forth simultaneously, and all burst into a clear ringing laughter.

Meanwhile, a beautiful young lady arrived in a nice little white car. The scattered beams of laughter settled down at sight of her. Eyes began to converse instead of tongues, and the bloom and buoyancy of the atmosphere lay hid under a cover of silence.

As she descended from the car her friends encircled her all around. Some one gave her a smile of eyes, some one placed a champak flower in the braid. One of them tied bracelets of juee flowers and another offered a garland of parijats. Playful Mena broke a cocoanut with a thud and, while Yashodhara touched her forehead with kumkum, they all spoke out in a chorus, “Greetings on your twenty-fourth birthday.”

These dumb rites had perplexed Preetam at first, but with the sound of the cocoanut her perplexity ebbed away. Then she, too, laughed with the others, and said jovially:

“You seem to have joined in a plot against me today, otherwise this strangely original form of greeting would not spring up so suddenly.”

“There’s no plot in this. You dislike commonness, so we searched out an innovation,” replied Nirupama.

“You demand beauty even in behaviour and manners,” Prabha unburdened herself.

“And charm as well as tenderness in every expression.” As Sunayana uttered this, perfectly imitating Preetam’s purity of accents, peals of laughter rang out again.

“Then why don’t you say you have seized this opportunity to poke fun at me?” said Preetam smiling gently.

“The occasion isn’t improper?”

“Birthday and the prize of that Paris Exhibition.”

“ Oh! two auspicious events.”

“And there is a third also, but I shan't disclose it.” Nirupama murmured in a sly tone.

“Mysteries must be revealed, Nirupama! Yon won’t have a like happy chance afterwards,” Prabha winked.

“No, no; it’s Preetam’s opinion that a secret laid open loses half its beauty. I won’t tell you.” Nirupama responded to Prabha’s twinkle with a dance of her eyes.

“If so, why do people reveal their mysterious love by marriage?” Sunayana asked.

“Love does not exist in all marriages.” Prabha told the common tale of life.

“Are you here to debate on love and marriage.” Come on. Discuss as long as you please at leisure after lunch.” Preetam conducted them to the dining-room.

Seeing the dishes not yet ready, hungry Nirupama couldn’t contain herself. “Sunayana, let us hear about your different types of marriages. Preetam may get a clue from them.”

“Sunayana’s types of marriages?” Prabha said in jest.

“No, no, determined by Sunayana,” Nirupama made a clarification.

“Do tell us please, Sunayana,” Preetam insisted.

“They are well-known. However, if you desire to hear again I’II recount them:

Marriage: Result of accident.

” ” lust.

” ” infatuation.

” ” necessity.

” ” rashness.

” ” obedience.

” ” promise.

” ” error.

” ” sin.

” ” helplessness.

” ” curiosity.

” ” folly.

” ” madness.

” ” humanity.

” ” love.

Of these fifteen types of wedlock, in some love begins after marriage, whereas in certain others grief arises. In some cases unhappiness diminishes or ends altogether. Some men grow insane after marriage while madness diminishes in others. In some marriages foolishness increases after wedlock, in others wisdom grows. Some become true men after their marriage whereas others cease to be so. Thus marriage is a tangled and unsolved enigma coming down from times immemorial.” As Sunayana finished her small speech they clapped.

But the claps created gloom instead of joy on Sunayana’s face. So Nirupama changed the topic. “How many countries sent pictures to the Paris Exhibition, Preetam?”

“Thirty-four co-operated on the whole,” Preetam replied.

“Oh! it’s not a small victory that, of the thirty-four countries, India wins the first prize,” said Prabha.

There was a general laughter again as Sunayana inquired: “But what’s that picture, Preetam?”

“That one, ‘Life’s Agony’.”

^* “Will you have some cakes?” the server drew Sunayana’s attention.

“No, cook. Shut that Nirupama in, that she may hold her tongue,” Sunayana ventilated her wrath.

After lunch, as pan and nuts were offered, Nirupama spoke: “Preetam, show us your new pictures.”

“I could complete only one yesterday. The remaining two are still incomplete,” Preetam replied.

“Then let us have a look at the finished one,” Prabha said.

“And the unfinished too,” Sunayana poked in once more.

“I’ll show you the finished piece. I do not show my incomplete pictures.” Preetam took her friends to her studio.

There were curtains over the unfinished drawings. Some pictures were stuck upon the wall, others rested on supports. The make-up of the room was artistic, the arrangement neat and the atmosphere attractive.

Preetam showed them all her pictures. Nirupama perceiving the newness asked: “Preetam, did you arrange the pictures afresh?”

“Yes, I finished putting them in order just yesterday. When I get bored by the same sight or arrangement I change it.”

“Come, please show this unfinished production,” implored Nirupama, although aware that Preetam wouldn’t.

“Didn’t I tell you, Niru, that I never let anyone see my incomplete pictures?” Preetam spoke in a decisive voice.

“None?” Nirupama smiled meaningly.

“None,” Preetam firmly answered.

“If Padmanabh were here?” Nirupama released her last arrow.

“No, not even him,” Preetam’s firm voice grew firmer. They knew that Padmanabh was her intimate friend, and felt also that if Preetam-kumari ever married she would choose Padmanabh.

“Why are you so touchy about disclosing the half-done pictures?” Sunayana couldn’t curb herself.

“I simply can't do so.” Preetam did not want to speak more. The subject had been discussed often before. Her friends knew this side of her nature, yet Nirupama could not withhold her rejoinder: “It doesn’t much matter your refusing us, but don’t you behave thus with Padmanabh. It won’t do.”

“It won’t do? What does it mean?” Preetam’s smile left her.

“Well, what else can it mean? He won’t marry you,” the guileless Sunayana dropped in.

“But who the dickens wants to marry? And even if I do I shall never marry a man who insists on seeing my incomplete pictures.” Preetam smiled once more. But there was a meaning in her smile, almost a mystery.

After a look at the pictures the company greeted her once again and parted.

II

Preetamkumari, who belonged to a higher middle-class family, was graceful and the only loved child of her parents. To Surendraray and Subhadra she was both a son and a daughter. That is why the parents fondly named her Preetam. The parents on either side were noble and cultured. The mother’s beauty and the father’s tenderness commingled in Preetam. Surendra inspired love even in an enemy by the gentleness of his disposition. He had not a large income, but he never grudged to fulfill his only daughter’s wishes. Preetam was sent to an Art school, as she desired, after her college career ended. She had also lived for two years in a painting school in Paris. She ascribed the honour and glory of her achievement to her loving parents.

It is impossible to define Beauty. Descriptions of the contours of beauty give a shadowy glimpse of it. But what quality, what part or line of a man or woman, of Nature or an object may be called beauty is a riddle. The quintessence of beauty is hitherto unknown. One may have experienced it, 'but no one has revealed it. There is a reason for it also. The fullest consummation of the experience of beauty is in its all-sided visualization more than in its sight, thought or description.

It was difficult to tell which exactly was the spot of beauty in Preetam. Her friend, Padmanabh, always said that he could not decide what limb or quality or Contour of Preetam’s form he would point to as beautiful. Her two lovely minaret like arms, or fine forehead, her intoxicating youth or white body? He had, therefore, left off discussing the subject. However, it was a truth that Preetam was a thing of beauty, puzzling as a symbol of the mighty imagination of a superb creator. So Padmanabh frequently said: “If I were a sculptor I should select Preetam as a model for my peerless image of Beauty.” Her friends did not envy her, since she was beyond emulation. Male friends felt no surfeit in gazing at her as there was some inexplicable unearthliness in her beauty. Those relations who saw and loved her everyday, nay even the parents who gave her birth, were enthralled by her beauty. Preetam like a triple stream of beauty, culture and personality, was a painter to boot!

Today was her birthday Having completed twenty-three she was commencing the twenty-fourth. Glamorous as a virgin, Preetam On the Threshold of her twenty-fourth looked just a maiden. She was in youth and yet had not ceased to be naive. She had a philosophy of love that would baffle even the God of Love.

After dinner, she stood up and walked towards her studio looking up a quarterly of art, a recent arrival from Paris. Unveiling an incomplete picture she took up her brush.

III

The afternoon had not declined, there was time yet. Three or four friends of Preetam came up to give her birthday wishes.

As the bell rang the maid servant appeared and said: “Please sit down; I’ll inform my young mistress.” The people in the house strictly obeyed Preetam’s desire not to conduct any one straight to the studio.

“Trilok, this is Preetam’s splendid victory,” said Aruna.

“And of India also,” Niranjan added.

“Paris artists and art critics would not have assigned the first place to this picture, had there been another with such harmonious, living and powerful delineation of life’s sentiments,” spoke Pruthvish from behind.

“You, Pruthvish, are both painter and sculptor. You can judge its true worth,” Aruna replied.

“To my mind the texture dripping from her brush is astonishing,” Pruthvish expressed his feeling.

In the meanwhile Preetam arrived. The friends exchanged good wishes and greetings. After tea, which Preetam offered them much against their refusal, she took them to her studio at Pruthvish’s request.

“I immensely like this ‘Life and Death’. The advent of Aurora and the departure of Night are most significantly depicted herein,” Aruna remarked.

“But my favourite is this ‘Beginning and End’. There is no human form. Only a suggestion of color; yet the colours speak. ‘The old order changeth yielding place to new’,” observed Trilok.

“Pruthvish, which do you like?” asked Niranjan.

“I love all her pictures, for in each her personality conveys a message of newness and originality,” Pruthvish declared his frank opinion.

“Why is there a blind on this picture?” Pruthvish asked with curiosity. “It is unfinished,” Preetam replied. Pruthvish kept quiet but Niranjan asked: “Won’t you show us that”

“ I don’t let any one see my unfinished paintings,” Preetam replied naturally.

“ What’s the reason?”

“Reason? I get strangely upset. I experience such an excruciating agony that I never show my unfinished pictures.” Preetam was still talking naturally.

“It’s strange!” exclaimed Trilok.

“It may be strange or surprising. Ask Pruthvish if he would show his incomplete portraits,” Preetam glanced at him.

“No. Artists don’t like to throw open their half done creation,” Pruthvish answered.

“That’s what makes me ask for the reason,” said Trilok in a tone of banter.

“You want a reason! The reason is that the artist’s experiences and feelings, imagination and meditation, lie in a state of embryo prior to birth. The artist, therefore, doesn’t like to reveal it. I don't know a better argument.” With these words Pruthvish fixed his gaze on a picture.

Preetam did not like the topic, so she asked: “Have you seen Pruthvish’s portrait, ‘Agony’? I like it enormously.”

“Oh yes, every one has seen it. Pruthvish intends to send it next year to the Exhibition,” Niranjan replied.

“Any news about Padmanabh?” Aruna made a digression appropriate to the occasion.

“Yes. He is now a professor of English in the Baroda College. I had a wire from him today. He may come down in the evening.” There was not a shade of difference in the naturalness of her attitude now.

“The seven years of his foreign sojourn bore fruit at last; otherwise no one cares even for a Ph.D. these days,” said Aruna.

“But he had a brilliant career. First class at the B. A. in Oxford and first class in Ph.D. He stood first in the university at Matric here also,” Niranjan displayed his feeling.

Talking they approached the door. Preetam thanked them and said: “Pruthvish, will you kindly send me a photograph of your portrait?”

Pruthvish acquiesced with his eyes.

It was evening. The time for the evening train to arrive drew near. Preetam had spent the whole day delightfully in a bright atmosphere. She had also worked two, three hours on her beloved picture. Now she had only one desire, which was to meet Padmanabh. She was waiting for him, but before she waited long the car brought him. Preetam felt as though the occasion and the day reached their fulfillment. Surendraray and Subhadra also came out to receive Padmanabh. He did not feel a stranger in their house. The dusk disappeared and the night came. They dined together. After dinner Padmanabh accompanied Preetam to her studio.

Both sat on the same sofa, and Padmanabh lighted a cigarette. Preetam did not like it. Often before had she indicated her dislike of it by waving her kerchief to scatter away the smoke. Sometimes, to irritate her, Padmanabh smoked four or five cigarettes one after another. Preetam laughed the gesture away.

“Today you enter the twenty fourth, do you not?”

“ Yes.”

“What shall I give you?”

“Why should you at all?”

“Shan’t I give you anything?”

“If you want, give me your good wishes.”

“I have already given ‘em.” Padmanabh got up to see the pictures. He wished to say something but could not. Moving slowly he went near a veiled painting, but before he lifted up the blind, Preetam ran and stood between him and the picture.

“ It’s incomplete.”

“But let me see.”

“I don’t show incomplete pictures.”

“Not even me?”

“Why?”

“Why? I don’t like to show an unfinished creation.”

“But why?”

“Sentiment knows no reason.”

“Can there be such foolish sentiment?” So saying Padmanabh sucked in and blew out the smoke. Preetam dispersed the clouds with her hand-kerchief.

“My feeling may be insane; but the feelings of others should not be pinched,” Preetam spoke.

“But can there be any such feeling? You are queer, Preetam!”

“Let me be so.”

“There cannot be any feeling superior to love,” Padmanabh said.

“ Love too is a feeling,” Preetam retorted.

“ I have seen the feeling of love but never the love of feeling as yours.” Padmanabh outlined the philosophy of love.

“He alone understands the love of feeling who has the feeling of love,”

“Don’t confuse the two,”

“I don’t. Love is life’s art. It gives shape and taste to life. Deny that love is life’s art and take it as a spate of sentiment or aggregate of inclinations, and you will crush its subtle beauty and absolute grandeur.”

“Let all that remain with you. I will see this picture,” Padmanabh insisted.

“I will not allow you.” Preetam was equally stubborn.

“Then give me a clear reason. Tell me what it is about,” Padmanabh questioned.

“I can tell you, only after it is finished, how and what it will be, I am not clear-headed about it myself. That’s why I don’t show it.”

“Is this a reason?”

“Padmanabh, you are learned and have seen the wide world; yet why didn’t you learn to appreciate other people’s tender and subtle sentiments?”

“But what significant and tender sentiment is here?”

“The artist in displaying his incomplete creation feels as acutely as a mother would if others saw her premature child. Life is asleep in it and the: mother–creator–alone has a right to watch sleeping life,” Preetam’s feeling became vocal.

Padmanabh disregarded her, and raised the curtain. In the picture there was a sky-blue fore-ground and, at a distance in the back, a red streak indicating as though the first ray of the sun had just peeped out.

“Eh, what’s here that made you prevent me?” He looked at Preetam as he spoke.

Her eyes were wet. Tears could not appear for shame.

“Preetam, why do you refuse to marry?” Subhadra asked on behalf of herself and Surendranath.

“I don’t wish to marry.”

“Child, you won’t find another partner like Padmanabh,” Suredraray’s heart spoke.

“Brother,”–Preetam addressed her father as ‘Brother,’–“after the experience that love is life’s art, I have determined to dedicate my love to my art. I don’t want a partner in it.”

The loving parents could not question their beloved daughter further when they saw her weeping with her head drooping down.

^* Here in the original there is a play Upon the words, “Puri Muku?” which have a double meaning: (a) Will you .have some cakes.?, and (b) Shall I shut you in? Sunayana’s reply is, therefore, natural. Evidently, the pun is lost in the translauon.- Tr.

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